PicoBlog

Superhero stories can be problematic for many reasons. For one, they tend to be repetitive, following the usual templates of origin stories and great power meaning great responsibility, yada yada yada. For another, they tend to devolve into slugfests between godlike beings that are essentially brawls with special effects. What’s the fun of a being with super powers if all they do is fight against beings with equal if slightly different super powers?

That’s not to say you can’t enjoy superhero movies. I sure do. When Captain America finally said “Avengers ... assemble!” in Avengers: Endgame I may have peed myself a little in excitement, it’s true. But you often have to enjoy them with the full knowledge of their inherent flaws—affection for them, even. And you sometimes have to wade through a lot of mediocre stuff to get those shining moments of perfection.

For example, the single greatest scene to ever appear in a superhero film: The elevator fight in Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

I could spend the next paragraph setting up the scene for anyone who hasn’t seen the film or has perhaps forgotten the details of it. But that would actually go against what makes this scene so structurally perfect—because, like many great scenes in films, it doesn’t need setup. It not only fits into its narrative perfectly and supports the story, it can be viewed completely out of context and yet make perfect sense. This is because as directed by Anthony and Joe Russo it’s a visually intelligent scene. If we view it through the lens of someone unfamiliar with the film and even the larger MCU, you still find that you have all the information you need to parse and enjoy the scene.

It begins by establishing the character of Captain America. He enters the elevator in a clearly despairing mood. He’s thoughtful and contemplative. Note how he’s framed in both the exterior shot and in the first cut—alone, isolated, and trapped inside a box, which is exactly where the character is plot-wise. Visually the scene is telling you this is a trap. Walking into the theater by accident, you can watch the first ten seconds of this scene and know something terrible is about to happen. And the shot of Cap with his shield to the camera establishes that this isn’t just some mope. Even if you somehow are unaware that the character of Captain America exists, that shot of his shield tells you this is no ordinary guy, because ordinary guys don’t walk around with prominent shields on their backs.

As the doors start to close, they’re interrupted as Brock Rumlow (Frank Grillo) and two other men enter the elevator. Rumlow enters casually, finishing a conversation—but his lingering look at Captain America as he greets him and the way Cap rolls his shoulders and puts on a calm front tells us there’s something between these characters. It’s not a happy, comfortable relationship—there’s no joke, no smile, no warmth. The Russos capture the awkwardness of riding in elevators with co-workers, which brings the audience in on the tension without making a show of it.

After a perfunctory exchange of workplace conversation, the Russos explicitly switch from a more omniscient point-of-view and tie the rest of the sequence to Captain America’s POV. He begins to notice the details—the men with Rumlow nervously fingering their weapons while very very obviously not looking at The Cap, a trickle of sweat on another man’s head. And then a terrific moment when the last three thugs get onto the elevator—at this point we’re a minute and a half into the sequence and all we’ve seen is men getting on an elevator. The tension is astronomical—and you can see the penny drop on Cap’s face as he clearly realizes what’s going on.

The elevator doors are still open at this point. Cap could attempt to step off, call for assistance, any number of actions. Instead he waits the necessary few seconds for the doors to close. And then unleashes one of the most polite intimidation lines ever written: “Before we get started, does anyone want to get out?”

If you didn’t know anything about the film, the characters, or the universe, you’re still following along here. The guy with the shield is clearly the main character of the scene, he’s obviously dangerous because his enemies believe they need a dozen guys to subdue him, and he’s been set up by people he should be able to trust—co-workers of some sort.

The Russos have also accomplished something else many action films fail to do: They’ve given us a mental map of the physical space. Granted, the physical space is small, but by the time we’re at one minute fifty seconds into this scene and the fight actually starts, we have a very clear idea of the physical limitations of the space. And because the scene was old-school stunt work instead of a mess of CGI, it feels viscerally realistic and not rubbery. Sure, it’s heavily choreographed and indulges the typical trick of having several attackers apparently standing around doing nothing while the camera focuses on one or two, but the fight still feels like an actual small-space brawl, and the action makes visual sense.

The next fifty seconds are a master class of editing as Cap fights off his assailants in this small space. The use of magnetic restraints is a brilliant choice, because it cripples Cap for about thirty seconds of the fight, a crucial detail that ups the tension and temporarily solves the typical superhero problem of overpowered characters. Under normal circumstances, even a dozen assholes like these guys would be no match for a super soldier with an unbreakable shield with magical boomerang action. Pinning one of Cap’s arms to the wall makes it possible to suspend our disbelief that this fight actually lasts fifty seconds.

Creating a 2-minute fight scene that can be enjoyed in isolation is a real achievement, and part of the key here is the patience involved. More than a minute and a half of this scene is set up—establishing the relationships between the characters, the space, and the outlines of the scenario. Sure, your enjoyment of this scene is heightened if you understand its place in the story and the larger universe, but the fact that you can show this scene to just about anyone and they’ll a) understand it and b) enjoy it is truly remarkable. I don’t remember the rest of this movie all that well, but I think of this scene pretty often.

Of course, every time I think of this scene I compare myself to Chris Evans and think I really should start a workout regimen. Then I pour myself more whiskey and take a nap.

Next week: And just like the hella rich live.

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