Although Will Smith plays an emotionally fragile superhero in Hancock, as a movie star he's practically invincible. By industry standards, the last genuine Smith dud was The Legend of Bagger Vance, but the actor's standing among many audiences has remained decidedly rocky. As a result, he occupies a unique corner of the Hollywood marketplace where quality and taste don't necessarily match up. Unlike, say, The Dark Knight, not many people eagerly await the latest Smith offering -- which currently has a 32% rating on Rotten Tomatoes -- but they'll see it anyway. Hancock is tracking well, thanks to a poster exclusively dominated by Smith's unshaven mug, and that pretty much seals its potent box office fate. Just as Smith's slapdash onscreen persona is bullet-proof, Smith himself is steadfastly critic-proof.

Which places movie in an interesting quagmire: After pulling in waves of cash, it will probably get relegated to the void of forgettable Smith fare, where spectacles offer passing amusement before scampering off forever. Hancock, however, deserves better than a fleeting moment in the limelight and a crash landing in the bargain bin. It's part of a genre that speaks directly to the modern state of blockbuster cinema: The superhero satire.

Well, darlings, tomorrow marks the one month anniversary of this column, and to celebrate the occasion, I've put together a bit of a grab bag for you. Because there's nothing I find more celebratory than a good argument, this first milestone seemed like as good a time as any to go through my hate mails and answer trackbacks and post a few thoughts and responses. If you're dying for new(er) content, come back next week, when I'll have some thoughts on how the success of V for Vendetta breaks every rule in modern Hollywood.

On to the brawls...

Andre Soares was kind enough to link to my last column, in which I connected a few tidbits from SXSW to the ever-evolving relationship between consumers and critics, over at the Alternative Film Guide. But, taking exceptions with a few points, he went on to file what looks a lot like a counter-argument. The thing is, I think Soares and I actually agree on most every aspect of the issue. Soares starts off by pointing out that Hollywood makes the lion's share of its profits off of a consumer roughly 30 years younger than the average critic: "film critics can't be expected to represent the tastes of a film audience composed mostly of teenagers and very young adults -- unless, of course, The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Nation were to hire fourteen-year-olds to write film reviews." That's a valid point, but it's also just a little fatalistic -- he's essentially saying that any hope for a connection between the people who write about movies and the people who pay to see them is doomed.

In a shocking show of faith in the intellectual curiosity of movie audiences, Sony Pictures is promoting Capote with an online archive of New York Times articles related to the author. Among the linked articles (Sony paid for the virtual reprints) are reviews of Capote's work and a series of news stories from 1964, detailing the murders that became his most famous novel, In Cold Blood. In addition, there is a sidebar offering biographical information about the major characters in the film, from Harper Lee to long-time New Yorker editor William Shawn.

People, these are not bullet-pointed summaries of the articles - the whole, usually lengthy, articles are here, chock-full of Capote-y goodness for curious readers. I don't know what prompted this outlandish assumption by Sony that movie viewers can read and have adult-sized attention spans (Who, us?), but I'm sure not going to complain.