They get repetitive. Monumentally repetitive.
Take, for instance, “Star Wars”. I saw the original picture the day it opened in 1977, plunking down in my theater seat knowing diddly-squat about it.
Then (of course) I sat with mouth agape when the gargantuan space ship materialized and the audience started cheering and clapping. I quickly got swept away by the music, the visuals, the derring do. The thundering Dolby stereophonic sound. By the time the Death Star blew up, I was a rabid fan like everybody else in that theater audience.
Time passed. When I saw The Empire Strikes Back, I was jazzed all over again. Bigger, faster, with new characters, new worlds. New plot complications. But when I read Variety’s favorable review of what was then Star Wars 2, I had a small tweak of recognition … and agreement.
“Empire” is only three minutes longer than its predecessor, but seems to be longer than that, probably because of the overfamiliarity with some of the space sequences and excessive saber duels.
Then came The Return of the Jedi, and I found my ardor for Star Wars beginning to sag. Amid the flick’s technical perfection there were only so many razor-thin escapes, chases, and light saber duels I could endure. And the Death Star gets destroyed again? Really?! (However, Carrie Fisher’s metal bikini was alluring.)
And that, that right there, is my problem with blockbusters. Because blockbusters almost always have sequels. And with sequels, it’s the same thing over and over again. I can observe dinosaurs on the attack or Tom Cruise slugging it out atop a runaway train only so many times. Or watch Marvel avengers or guardians fight endless battles with soundtracks at the threshold of pain.
So “Star Wars, a New Hope”? “Iron Man” (2008)? “Guardians of the Galaxy” (2014)? Count me in, I’ll be down in the front row at the local AMC with my popcorn. But deliver me from blockbuster #3, #4, and #5. If I want a two-hour session of root canal work, I’ll go to the fucking dentist.