‘Strange’ brew

Marvel’s latest is a head-trip

I never really was a comic book guy. Not the kind with neatly-ordered boxes full of carefully curated, slip-cased runs of entire masked mythologies, the cost of which could have probably paid for a semester of college. Largely, the Marvel films have been it.

With its latest, “Doctor Strange,” Marvel has taken another “Guardians of the Galaxy”-level risk on a character people who aren’t into comics probably haven’t heard of. But if Marvel’s proven anything it’s that their formula tends to please more often than not. Pair the right concept with the right talent and let them dance.

Dr. Stephen Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) is a brilliant—and arrogant—neurosurgeon, living a postmodern life high amongst the lofty towers of New York City. Hubris gets the best of him when, while hauling ass in his Lamborghini, he has a terrible accident, costing him the use of his hands.

Leaning on his ex-girlfriend, Christine (Rachel McAdams), Strange is devastated, until he learns of a paralyzed spinal patient, Jonathan (Benjamin Bratt), who can now, inexplicably, shoot hoops. Jonathan tells him about The Ancient One, who taught him how to heal himself with his mind, pointing Strange in the direction of Nepal.

Obsessed with regaining his talents as a surgeon, he travels to the East where The Ancient One (Tilda Swinton) and her adherent, Mordo (Chiwetel Ejiofor), teach their difficult student the ways of multidimensional magic, revealing a secret society of guardians protecting the world from the mad plans of Kaecilius (Mads Mikkelsen), who has stolen pages from an ancient book. If he uses them, it will open a portal to the Dark Dimension, where the evil Dormammu awaits to enslave the world in eternal suffering.

You can probably guess what happens next.

You’ve seen this before. It’s another origin story about a scientist with a chip on his shoulder, a sort of modified version of Tony Stark. Where Stark uses an arc reactor to keep himself alive and power the Iron Man suit, Strange utilizes Eastern mysticism to make his hands useful for something again. There are the introductions to characters you know will be popping up in other movies. And this film ties into the overall Avengers/Guardians arc in ways that seem pivotal, since there’s an Infinity Stone involved. But, again, I’m not the comic book guy.

Directed by Scott Derrickson (“Sinister”) and co-written with Jon Spaihts (“Prometheus”) and C. Robert Cargill (“Sinister”), “Dr. Strange” winds up rising above its formula, largely due to the pulpy narrative and visual dexterity exhibited by Derrickson. At times, “Doctor Strange” feels like “Indiana Jones” on LSD, with sumptuous shots of cities folding in on themselves and kaleidoscopic action sequences that redefine the idea of spatial cognizance, propelling the story through abstract psychedelia. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, folks.

The film unabashedly owns its inherent goofiness, a transition that is smoothed by the amiable performances from Cumberbatch, Mikkelsen, McAdams, Ejiofor, and Benedict Wong. The ace is Cumberbatch, who brings to the table the same whip-smart arrogance and gravitas that made his 21^st Century rendition of Sherlock Holmes so beloved. Everyone is clearly having a blast making this.

“Doctor Strange” is a better summer blockbuster than most of last summer’s, and the trippiest looking Marvel film yet. A surreal contrast to our totally normal, real world—where Donald Trump is the president.

Sorry. Still trying to compute.

For more from Joe, read his review of the Stooges doc “Gimme Danger.”