For a couple of months in my twenties, I worked in the dank bowels of an urban hospital. It was mindless, windowless work, where I essentially shuffled pink papers for eight hours a day. My female co-workers had a little more responsibility than I did (I didn't even have a computer), which led to very few conversations among us. And if I ever did start talking to one of the ladies, each feature of the supervisor's face instantly converged on one another in an attempt to stifle rage, and I would quickly stop talking and pray she didn't dragon punch me in the chest.
For those months, my only friend was the pleasantly monotone female voice periodically emitting from the loudspeaker. She didn't say much, other than page three of the (in my mind, anyway) most handsome and heroic doctors on the planet: Dr. Burns, Dr. Watts and Dr. Quick.
Paging Dr. Burns. Dr. Burns. Dr. Burns to the cafeteria.
Paging Dr. Watts. Dr. Watts. Dr. Watts to the basement, please.
Paging Dr. Quick. Dr. Quick. Dr. Quick to the third floor.
Man, I loved those guys.
Well, until I found out a little more about them, anyway...
Also aptly titled and also not very heroic, is Marvel's latest cinematic hero, Doctor Strange. Somehow, the faceless behemoth that decides what C-list comic book character is suddenly our total favorite! threw a dart made exclusively of Bald eagle talons and landed on Stephen Strange. Dr. Stephen Strange, that is, who just so happens to be the least likable character Marvel has ever rammed down our throats. Like, even worse than Terrance Howard's War Machine. Or the guy that kills an adorable sheep in Ant-Man [review].
While I would have been happy with Black Widow leaning out of a steamy shower to tell Bruce Banner something along the lines of Hey, we got a new guy on the team, an asshole who makes portals with his jazz hands! (and Bruce indifferently going oh, then returning to beakers full of green stuff), we're instead treated to yet another mostly lifeless origin story. Though this time, with more Tilda Swinton!
The short version goes like this: brilliant brain surgeon/ overwhelming douche Dr. Strange is crippled in a fairly rad car accident. When he comes to, his hands look like he put them in a wood-chipper, thereby making his entire life not worth living. He makes an shitty comment to a physical therapist, travels to Nepal, and realizes he has super powers that could save the world from inter-dimensional danger. He doesn't care about that, however. Instead opts into returning to full-time douchery. For the most part.
For those months, my only friend was the pleasantly monotone female voice periodically emitting from the loudspeaker. She didn't say much, other than page three of the (in my mind, anyway) most handsome and heroic doctors on the planet: Dr. Burns, Dr. Watts and Dr. Quick.
Paging Dr. Burns. Dr. Burns. Dr. Burns to the cafeteria.
Paging Dr. Watts. Dr. Watts. Dr. Watts to the basement, please.
Paging Dr. Quick. Dr. Quick. Dr. Quick to the third floor.
Man, I loved those guys.
Well, until I found out a little more about them, anyway...
While I would have been happy with Black Widow leaning out of a steamy shower to tell Bruce Banner something along the lines of Hey, we got a new guy on the team, an asshole who makes portals with his jazz hands! (and Bruce indifferently going oh, then returning to beakers full of green stuff), we're instead treated to yet another mostly lifeless origin story. Though this time, with more Tilda Swinton!
The short version goes like this: brilliant brain surgeon/ overwhelming douche Dr. Strange is crippled in a fairly rad car accident. When he comes to, his hands look like he put them in a wood-chipper, thereby making his entire life not worth living. He makes an shitty comment to a physical therapist, travels to Nepal, and realizes he has super powers that could save the world from inter-dimensional danger. He doesn't care about that, however. Instead opts into returning to full-time douchery. For the most part.
