Dan Meth posted his Trilogy Meter and because I’m a pedant and a geek I thought I’d raise a little umbrage over a couple of points.

First off, a lot of these aren’t trilogies. Trilogies need to have a consistent narrative and at least some semblance of progressive story. If the next Batman movie isn’t by Christopher Nolan then those three movies put together are not a trilogy; at least, not necessarily. Back to the Future is a trilogy because the story is consistent throughout and each movie sets up the next. Going back to my point about films changing hands mid-trilogy belying the term, the X-Men films switch from Bryan Singer to Brett Ratner for the final film. But, and here’s where it gets tricky, they are still a trilogy because the second one sets up the Dark Phoenix storyline that the third one carries out, however poorly.

I honestly can’t say much about Rambo, because I haven’t seen any of them, but at the same time my intuition regarding Rambo is that the films merely follow the same character. Are any three consecutive Bond films a trilogy simply because the same character heads the film? I give the Die Hard movies a pass because the third one involved Hans Gruber’s brother, but it was different from the previous two in almost every other way. Similarly, I have trouble considering the Indiana Jones movies a trilogy; but there is a tenuous theme that runs throughout the movies regarding the growth and development of Indiana Jones that qualifies them, but I flip-flop on this subject.

We tend to have this desire to collect films into sets of three, even when they’re not a set of three. Which brings me to my biggest question about this chart. Which trilogy does it mean when it rates Planet of the Apes? Does it mean the first three Planet of the Apes movies? Because I don’t see how you could interpret those as a cohesive trilogy. The second one ends with the world being incinerated by a doomsday bomb. The third, fourth, and fifth movies are a wholy different animal and are in fact a consistent trilogy with an overarching storyline threading through the three films.

Not everything is a trilogy, but our pattern matching monkey-brains still have a fascination with the number three. The same circumstances don’t make movies a part of a trilogy. The same actors don’t make a movie a part of a trilogy. The same characters don’t make a movie a part of a trilogy. A consistent theme or ongoing story does. I know I’m being finicky about this, but people throw the term trilogy around for any set of three films and they’re not all trilogies.

The cool thing to do now in TV and film is to go “dark.” That is, to take a character down a turbulent, depressing, and possibly disturbing path to bring greater depth to them. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but there is something wrong with the idea that merely having “dark” stories brings character development or that it improves the quality of your stories. (There is also the implied assumption that to bring depth to your character you need to take this darker path; if you need an example of excellent character growth without the trappings of “dark” storytelling just watch The Office.)

Of course, dark stories come in different shapes and sizes. The Dark Knight was a much grimmer and darker look into both Batman and Joker’s psyches, and it delved into their interdependence on each other. That’s good dark. In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, the characters endure a crushing war which drastically changed many of the characters and it explored the complex relationship between politics and religion and science. That’s good dark. Oldboy is the story of a man imprisoned for 15 years for reasons unknown who is given a week to discover why; Oldboy examines solitude, the influence others have on you, the monsters inside everyone, and many other disturbing and difficult questions. That is good dark.

But there’s a very bad trend, which seems most pronounced among sequels and spin-off shows, with a very different, and lazy, technique of telling darker stories: the deal with the devil. In Stargate Atlantis, the Atlantis expedition will on occasion tentatively join forces with the Wraith, the enemy du jour of the Pegasus Galaxy. On Star Trek Voyager, the crew reluctantly joins forces with the Borg to stop a common enemy more powerful than both.

The deal with the devil isn’t necessarily bad, but it needs to make sense. Team Atlantis wouldn’t join forces with the Wraith, or at least they shouldn’t because it doesn’t make sense; the Wraith are not a morally ambiguous group, they were designed to be essentially pure evil. The Atlantis team, and similarly the crew of Voyager, are bastions of sanctimonious self-righteousness and to have them coordinate with these evil groups reeks of story superseding character.

The point of dark stories is not to be cool. It’s not to be dangerous. It’s certainly not to tell dark stories. As always, it’s all about the characters. If your characters have inner demons requiring exploration of inseemly qualities, or they aren’t portrayed as a paragon of propriety, then their story can naturally progress toward those darker stories and possibly come back from it a stronger person and a richer character. But TV shows, and obviously movies as well, shouldn’t use it as a crutch to sustain their weak plots by sacrificing their characters, and viewers shouldn’t accept it.

This post is a movie review for The Dark Knight, so be forewarned: spoilers be here.

I’m not calling it “The Dark Knight Returns” because The Dark Knight Returns is a comic about an aging Batman coming out of retirement, and Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight is about a young batman whose still establishing his role in Gotham. Also, because I try to avoid lame puns whenever possible, but primarily it’s my pedantic comic geek nature.

I’ve been talking about this movie with a friend of mine who’s been insanely psyched for it for months, and his level of excitement has scared me, because while I wanted to see the movie, I wasn’t salivating over every morsel of footage. I wasn’t re-watching each and every trailer growing more and more in love with the movie. And now I know why: in my mind, The Dark Knight being a great movie, and probably the best superhero movie ever, was a foregone conclusion. I left the theatre after seeing Batman Begins knowing the Christopher Nolan knew what to do with Batman. He knew where to take him and he knew how far he’d go. There wasn’t a whiff of worry about the sequel so I didn’t need to constant reassurance. And I was right.

At two and a half hours long, this movie could’ve easily been filled with extraneous action shots and unnecessary subplots, but every moment felt necessary. Beyond that, it left me guessing. Last week, when I saw Hellboy 2, I thought it was a great movie, but many of the beats were predictable. A predictable plot doesn’t mean that the movie won’t be enjoyed, because it’s all in the way a story is told, but when a story draws you in so much that you fail to notice the common threads that run through it… that’s something special.

Gordon’s fake death is something I should have seen through, mostly because killing Gordon would’ve resulted in comic fans literally killing Christopher Nolan. And yet, it felt like it could’ve been real, the film played it real so you felt it was real. Similarly, Rachel Dawes’ death felt temporary; a comic book death. But when I look back at those beats, I don’t see illusion, I see inevitability.

Of course Gordon had to fake his death. The silent partnership he founded with Batman was crucial to Batman’s belief that there were still good people in Gotham. We had to see just how far Batman would go when pushed to the brink. We had to know that while he is the Dark Knight he is still a knight; murder is never an option for him. And of course Rachel Dawes had to die. Without her, there’s no catalyst for Harvey’s fall; Gordon’s death may have been enough, but Rachel’s is much more compelling as a catalyst. And beyond that, without Dawes, Batman has a tragic lost love to add to his tragic past. Now, not only is he haunted by his fear and inaction, but also by the consequences of his courage and conflicts. In this way, we can see how Batman Begins was not the origin story, but rather part one. Both of these films work together to create the complex psyche of Batman and they don’t sugar-coat his deep-seated issues.

But as much as this movie was about further developing Batman, Harvey Dent’s downfall was the centre of it all. Aaron Eckhart’s performance sells you on the earnest DA hoping to take the city away from the mobsters; someone who hopes to one day raise a family in that city. And the scars, both mental and physical, caused by that horrific fire both realistically and tragically showed him that what the Joker espoused was in many ways the only sane way to live in a city as crazy as Gotham.

Rachel Dawes, whose life with Harvey and her inevitable death which push him over the edge, is played perfectly by Maggie Gyllenhaal, though I was not offended by Katie Holmes’ performance in the first film. She is strong and secure, and at the same time deeply and vulnerably conflicted by the two loves of her tragically short life. Michael Caine’s work is also a great boon to the film. The storied past of his Alfred give him a greater depth and allows him to provide insight which elevates him above being a mere butler to a member of the silent force behind Batman; the group who inevitably suffer yet fight on despite that certainty.

Of course a review of The Dark Knight wouldn’t be a review without discussing Heath Ledger’s Joker. It goes without saying that Heath Ledger embodied the role perfectly, but it wasn’t just his performance which solidified the Joker as a classic film villain. This was exactly what Joker should be: malevolent, violent, brilliant. The closest thing he has to a rationale is to prove to the world that anyone can be torn down. That a city can be torn apart through terror. The fact that he is so mysterious is his greatest strength. He has no name, he has no past, he has no reason. Of all the versions of the Joker that I’ve seen and read, this one was the best. The tattered clothes he made himself, the warpaint, the scarred smile, his anarchistic aims. I can’t think of a better way to portray that character, and that’s both a testament to him, and to every other person involved in the character’s creation, from the costume designers to the writers.

Some of the nice touches I liked about the movie ranged from the origin of Harvey’s “Two-Face” name which is foreshadowed in the early beats of the story to good effect, and the idea that Batman is “more than a hero” which I read as a subtle reference to Batman being a superhero. I also loved that copycat Batmen were dealt with in the film as they would inevitably arise in that world of burgeoning hope, however misguided.

My only complaint is the Batman voice. Bale’s efforts to differentiate between Batman and Bruce Wayne are admirable but troublesome. Kevin Conroy’s work in the Animated Batman stories is much better, because the difference between the two voices is noticeable but subtle. Here, the gravel in Bale’s throat distracts from what he’s saying, though only slightly and not nearly enough to detract from the major accomplishments of this film.

So based on the comment by Morgan Freeman’s Lucius Fox, another excellent performance in a film stocked with them, that Batman’s new armor will handle cats, I’m expecting Catwoman to play a role in the next Batman film, though that may have been an unintended reference. But forget about sequels and prequels and all of that junk. This movie stands on its own without any help. The stellar main cast, backed up by strong performances from the supporting cast members, make this not only one of the best superhero movies ever made, more than one of the best comic book movies ever made, but one of the best movies ever made.