Taikia Waititi’s Thor: Ragnarok remains one of the strongest entries in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, mainly for the way it balances reflection and silliness in its approach to what had previously been the most insipid main hero in the franchise. The film sets Thor (Chris Hemsworth) on a path to greater maturity while retaining his whimsicality. Thor: Love and Thunder erases these gains, fully leaning into his goofball attributes at the expense of narrative cohesion and the somber topics that the film broaches.
Drawn from the first stage of writer Jason Aaron’s much-revered run on the character, the film encompasses two main storylines: the rampage of a being named Gorr (Christian Bale), who’s sworn vengeance on all gods after his own deity consciously allowed his race to go extinct from famine and thirst; and the reappearance of Thor’s ex, astrophysicist Jane Foster (Natalie Portman), who’s developed stage-four breast cancer. Each of these threads present an opportunity to confront Thor with a new crisis: one cosmic and existential, the other intimate and romantic. But if the thematic and narrative freight that occasionally pervades Ragnarok’s humor feels purposeful, Love and Thunder is flippant with no undergirding focus.
Despite having one of the shortest runtimes of a Marvel movie at under two hours, the film spends almost 30 minutes laboriously setting up the elements of its rather routine narrative infrastructure. Most inexplicable of all is the protracted explanation for why Thor, after hitching a ride with the Guardians of the Galaxy at the end of Avengers: Endgame, parted ways with the motley crew of space-faring heroes. As this stretch of the film has no bearing on the main story, it’s impossible to not see it as supporting the synergy of brand extension.
But far worse is the audience’s reintroduction to Jane. In the first two Thor films, Jane is established as one of the smartest people on the planet, yet she’s prone to turning into a gibbering, blushing fool at the first glimpse of Thor’s pecs. Reflecting an attempt at a course correction from that embarrassing characterization, Jane is actually given something to do this time around when, thanks to some rather convoluted logic, she finds that she can wield Thor’s hammer, Mjolnir, and gain his superpowers, albeit at the expense of worsening her already failing health. This offers a neat twist on superhero wish fulfillment, imbuing a normal person with powers but reminding them that a hero is someone willing to die for others.
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That potentially rich theme, however, is disregarded almost as soon as Jane reunites with Thor and reverts right back to behaving like a schoolgirl experiencing her first crush. Throughout, she trips over her words, gawps at Thor’s enormous muscles, and keeps cloyingly soliciting his suggestions for cool superhero catchphrases. Hemsworth and Portman’s practically nonexistent chemistry is difficult not to notice across their scenes together, not least of which because Thor trades more enthusiastic repartee with his semi-sentient CGI axe, Stormbreaker, which expresses mute displays of jealousy toward both Jane and Mjolnir.
For a significant portion of its midsection, Love and Thunder sags under the weight of this rudderless romantic angle, even as Gorr is going about kidnapping Asgardian children in order to lure Thor into a trap. A side tour into a city of gods ruled by Zeus (a consistently amusing Russell Crowe, whose goofy Greek accent and incessant talk of orgies are this film’s only saving graces) emphasizes how deities exist in solipsistic isolation from the lowly mortal realms that they created, but it also drags out a confrontation that never feels like it has any stakes. Only Bale’s unpredictable, serpentine movements bring any menace to a character whose war against the gods feels like an afterthought to a bad rom-com.
If the increasing weight of continuity and canon that threatens to sink each new MCU entry has any innate positive, it’s in the potential to trace how characters evolve in response to their travails. But Thor would appear to be the exception. In each of his prior escapades, including his contributions to Infinity War and Endgame, he has faced loss and emerged humbled and seemingly ready to accept the responsibility of leadership and godhood, only to revert to his corny, self-absorbed self ahead of what he here blithely calls “another Thor adventure.”
More than any other MCU movie, Love and Thunder epitomizes the trap that much of modern comic book culture finds itself ensnared in: demanding to be taken seriously while also relentlessly making self-deprecating jokes about how ridiculous it is because it’s aware that it’s derived from children’s entertainment. Only in the final minutes does the film remotely attempt to treat Jane’s terminal illness or the sorrow that fuels Gorr’s rage with a modicum of seriousness, but the belated emotional pivot lacks any impact and only further emphasizes the tonal disconnect of one of Marvel’s most scattershot features to date.
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