Long lines at midnight, breathless hype, shiny sheen, the high gloss of marketing, cosplay and balletic spoiler avoidance, slammed multiplexes, overloaded ticket sites, Croesus-like CGI kissing earnest steady-cam shots, fan service, callbacks, countless punches.
Childhood idols fleshed out on the grandeur of the silver screen, writers room noodling netting billions long after all the shaggy boho creatives that originated it all were lowered into the loamy maw of anonymous grave plots.
There's a degree of validation for the pasty and hopeless, the low and lowdown in watching a distinguished professional legend pretending to be Bartoc the frickin Leaper as though it's not silly, as though all your idle moments, all your random diversions really matter in the end, as though it all ties up with a master-planned through-line of purpose,
as though it all mattered when you avidly read about Iron Man, Hercules and Giant Man punching out the red-shirt Skrulls (or was it the Krees?) on some spaceship for a few minutes back at your grandmother's house back before she was dead, before you were consumed with the caustic sting of bitterness and bile, all the accrued weight of a life generally but pleasantly wasted.