Wrestling with the Spider Man in the Dark

I love noir. That is established.

But I didn’t realize there were different species of noir, see?

I knew urban decay noir.
Rainwater in potholes.
Cigarette burns.
Exhaustion.
The rotten apple version of the city.

So when Spider-Noir opened in silver-toned Art Deco modernism, I resisted it a little.

And Nicolas Cage as Ben—
mmm.

At first he felt too much like Nicolas Cage.
Not worn enough.
Not absorbed enough into the role.

Was Cage tired?
Or was Ben tired?

It takes time sometimes.

Then something shifted.

The angles changed.
The upshots of his face.
The silhouettes.
The framing.

Ben started becoming more of the guy.

And the city revealed itself too.

Not decayed.
Not morally exhausted.

Young still.

Lovely in places.

Clean lines.
Cut glass.
Sconces glowing softly in dark rooms.

This wasn’t the rotten apple.
This was the promise of the big apple.

And somewhere in the middle of the evening, you realize it has happened:

You’ve stopped fighting the vision.

This is Art Deco modernist noir.

A tribute made with intention by people who genuinely respect the genre.

Will it become wonderful?

I don’t know yet.

But I can give it a chance.

Poor Ben.

The crackling of intuition.
Spider-sense.
The low electrical hum beneath the city.

The signal.

Something bad is afoot.

And then suddenly—
one of those impossible graphic novel shots arrives on screen, all shadow and angle and suspended tension—

and you remember why noir survives every generation that rediscovers it.

Will it be loved?

We’ll see, doll.
We’ll see.

Who loves you, baby?

Maybe no one.

We’ll see.