As superheroes go—and go they do, with alarming frequency, at the cape-wearers’ convention that the multiplex has become in recent years—Thor, or at least the Marvel-authored Artist Formerly Known As Norse God Thor, is more super than most. Where most beloved superheroes are humans (at least ostensibly so) who grow into their superhuman powers as a kind of parallel puberty, Thor needn’t waste time on any such learning curve.
He is, to reappropriate a quote from “Almost Famous,” a Golden God—quite literally golden as played by aggressively blond Australian up-and-comer Chris Hemsworth—and as such, preternatural strength and ability are things to which he feels entitled, not enslaved. Marvel’s Thor may be as boyish as the gangly Peter Parker or the gizmo-rapt Bruce Wayne, but it’s a boyishness of lifelong petulance rather than golly-gee self-awe; he may be better than his superhero brethren, but he’s also harder to know.
That obstacle of relatability is both a debit and a distinguishing asset in Kenneth Branagh’s poppy, spirited addition to the Marvel adaptation gallery, and something that ultimately cleaves the film in two. An odd couple of films jostles for space in Branagh’s surprisingly trim 114-minute package: one a dourly earnest celestial battle epic set in Thor’s mythical, CGI-built home realm of Asgard, the other a sweetly goofy alien comedy set in the decidedly unmagical realm of New Mexico.