In a world where Howard The Duck and The Punisher films exist, it takes considerable effort to be the worst comic book movie of all time, but Frank Miller's sloppy, silly adaptation of The Spirit makes a good (ham-)fist of it. Without even so much as a morsel of restraint, and an incredible lack of intellect in the writing, The Spirit is the walking definition of a turkey, still strutting proudly and imagining that its stylised feathers and frilly bits (Miller's infamous aesthetic that worked so well in Sin City) mean you won't notice the limp or the cross-eyes, or the fact that just about every part of it is a little bit mangey under the manufactured gloss. There's not one figure who emerges with an unblemished reputation after the dispiriting, awful mess, including Miller, who clearly thought an over-riding love of pulpiness would make up for how nasty the film is, and the acting team, including Johansson as Silken Floss, who sounds very much like a dainty West Yorkshire pole-dancer. Sometimes you can forgive actors for their missteps, but it is remarkably hard not to judge Johansson and her co-stars for not recognising the legitimate insanity of the film and just bailing immediately. But then at least the film proved once and for all that you can't buy success on the back of dressing Johansson up in a succession of sexy (and often inappropriate) cosplay outfits.
