My experience with the Marvel Cinematic Universe began when I was around four years old. My dad would put on the old Spider-Man cartoon in his bedroom while my sister and I nodded off to sleep. I didn’t pay much attention to the plot because my brain was too enamored by the vibrant red outfit.
As I got older, my dad started sharing his expansive comic book collection with me. Our car rides were often filled with hour-long conversations about the history of Wolverine, the logistics of Thor’s hammer and whether or not Spider-Man shoots webs out of his skin or through machines on his wrists.
After years of bonding over this discourse, my dad decided that I was finally old enough to see a Marvel movie in theaters when I was 10. Walking into PG-13 movies as a 10-year-old kid made me feel like I peaked in coolness.
From that point on, my dad and I saw nearly every Marvel film on opening weekend, adorned in matching comic book t-shirts for each excursion. We would both get overly excited during a fight scene and start punching each other’s arms.
Our tradition extended into my high school years until the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 forced everyone to forego movie theaters entirely. I had nothing but spare time on my hands, so I decided to watch movies at home. I started exploring cinema outside of Marvel, watching everything from coming-of-age movies like “The Edge of Seventeen,” to experimental dramas like “I’m Thinking of Ending Things.”
The last time my dad and I bonded over a Marvel project was in September 2021. “WandaVision” was airing weekly and we traded reviews after every new episode. But after “WandaVision” ended, it seemed like Marvel was releasing projects faster than before and neither of us could keep up. We missed one release after another until we disregarded the films entirely.
The increase in releases coincided with Marvel’s decrease in quality. The movies no longer brought excitement to my dad and I. When Marvel dropped new trailers, we scoffed at them and scolded their bad ideas and casting choices instead of clearing our schedules for opening weekend.
Since then, I started strengthening the love for film I developed during quarantine because Marvel movies were no longer filling my time. I fell in love with indie horror because it made me feel the same adrenaline Marvel did when I was younger.
Recently I decided to rewatch “Avengers: Endgame” as a nostalgic palette cleanser. I expected to get flashbacks of my dad and me sitting in the Regal theater where we first saw it together in 2019, but instead, I felt nothing. I noticed that the coloring choices were drab and the screenplay was mediocre at best.
After I watched “Endgame” again, I got caught in a spiral about why I was reacting so adversely to the film. What I once thought was a grand cinematic achievement was no longer, because I had no benchmark for what makes a satisfactory film.
The films I watched and enjoyed now as an adult had a nuanced commentary Marvel never dared to try. Everything feels legendary when there’s nothing good to compare it to. I had tried so hard to cling to the mystique of Marvel films for the sake of my childhood. But with that one viewing, my reverence for Marvel disappeared in a snap.
No matter how old I get, I’ll always want to feel the rush of a Marvel release again. I want to go back to lovingly punching at my dad’s arm out of excitement during a fight scene and to feel my head resting against his bicep in the theater during a boring shot sequence. The fondness of those memories is gone now, and I beg for them to come back in one piece.
The saccharine taste of childhood memories fades fast. I know it’s an inevitable side effect of the horrendous condition of aging, but I never anticipated it happening so soon. Nobody tells you what to do when the memories fade either. It feels like you’re supposed to watch them fly by and do no more than stare dejectedly.
The best I can do now is focus my memories on the other heartfelt moments my dad and I shared. Like the times when he taught me to throw a baseball in our front yard or when he jokingly chased my sister and me up the stairs to get us in bed faster. Glints of childhood joy can be excavated from any memory, I just have to learn how to find them.
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