Alan Moore’s Watchmen is still one of my favorite reading experiences from pre-Internet times. I had picked this up in the Bermondsey Library in 2003, not knowing anything about the masterpiece, and was blown away. So, I’m biased when I write about the movie Watchmen.
Watchmen is not a movie I’d recommend to the average viewer who isn’t already a fan of the comic. The movie is like an appendix to a hefty tome on an obscure subject, for those who want to delve into the footnotes and chase rabbit holes.
Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ Watchmen (1986-1987) is a groundbreaking graphic novel that redefined superhero storytelling. Set in an alternate 1985 where flawed vigilantes navigate a Cold War on the brink of apocalypse, it deconstructs heroism through complex characters like Rorschach, Dr. Manhattan, and Ozymandias. Moore’s dense, morally ambiguous narrative explores power, morality, and sacrifice, while Gibbons’ meticulous art and innovative layouts deepen its impact. Packed with subtext and ethical dilemmas, Watchmen transcends its genre, offering a haunting meditation on humanity’s flaws and the cost of salvation, cementing its status as a literary and cultural milestone.
Zack Snyder’s Watchmen (2009) is a cinematic gut-punch, a film that swings for the fences and lands in a murky swamp of brilliance and excess. Adapted from Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ seminal graphic novel, it’s a superhero movie that despises capes, a noir-drenched epic that wrestles with morality, power, and the human cost of playing god. At its best, it’s a raw, unflinching dissection of heroism; at its worst, it’s a bloated spectacle that stumbles under its own ambition. Clocking in at 162 minutes (or longer in extended cuts), Watchmen demands patience, and whether it earns it depends on your tolerance for Snyder’s polarizing style.
Set in an alternate 1985 where Nixon still rules and the Cold War teeters on apocalypse, Watchmen follows a band of retired vigilantes—flawed, broken, and all too human. The Comedian (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), a nihilistic mercenary, is murdered, sparking an investigation by Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley), a trench-coated sociopath with an inkblot mask and a voice like gravel scraped on concrete. As Rorschach digs, he reconnects with his former teammates: Dr. Manhattan (Billy Crudup), a glowing blue deity detached from humanity; Nite Owl (Patrick Wilson), a paunchy everyman clinging to nostalgia; Silk Spectre (Malin Akerman), a reluctant hero grappling with her legacy; and Ozymandias (Matthew Goode), a golden boy with a messiah complex. Their world is gritty, rain-soaked, and morally bankrupt, a place where heroes are as likely to brutalize as to save.
Snyder’s fidelity to the source material is both a strength and a shackle. The graphic novel’s dense, layered narrative is a sacred text for comic fans like me, and Snyder treats it like gospel, cramming in every major beat, from Rorschach’s prison breakout to Dr. Manhattan’s Mars-bound existential crisis. Visually, it’s stunning—Snyder’s slo-mo fetishism and neon-soaked aesthetic make every frame pop, whether it’s the Comedian’s blood-splattered smile pin or the apocalyptic chaos of the climax. The opening montage, set to Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” is a masterclass in world-building, compressing decades of alternate history into a haunting, kinetic prelude.
But fidelity comes at a cost. The film feels overstuffed, lurching between plotlines and philosophical tangents. Moore’s novel thrived on ambiguity and subtext, letting readers wrestle with its ethical quagmires. Snyder, ever the maximalist, spells it all out, hammering themes of power and sacrifice with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The altered ending—swapping Moore’s alien squid for a more grounded catastrophe—works narratively but lacks the novel’s audacious weirdness, a choice that feels like pandering to mainstream tastes. Pacing suffers, too; the middle act sags under endless flashbacks and exposition, and at nearly three hours, even diehards may squirm.
The casting is inch-perfect. Haley’s Rorschach steals the show, his guttural monologues and uncompromising worldview chillingly authentic. He’s the film’s blackened heart, a vigilante who’d rather burn the world than compromise. Morgan’s Comedian, though underused, is magnetic, his cynicism masking a flicker of regret. Crudup’s Dr. Manhattan, a CGI marvel, captures the tragedy of a man untethered from time, though his monotone delivery can feel one-note. Wilson and Akerman are serviceable but overshadowed, their romance subplot a weak link that never sparks. Goode’s Ozymandias, meanwhile, feels miscast—too smarmy, too obvious, undermining the character’s calculated enigma.
Where Watchmen excels is in its refusal to coddle. This isn’t Marvel’s quippy heroism or DC’s brooding stoicism; it’s a world where heroes rape, murder, and manipulate, where saving the world might mean destroying it. The film’s violence is brutal—bones snap, blood sprays—and its moral questions linger like smoke. Is peace worth genocide? Can power ever be trusted? Snyder doesn’t answer, and that raw ambiguity is the film’s greatest gift.
Yet, for all its grit, Watchmen can’t escape Snyder’s excesses. The soundtrack, packed with on-the-nose needle drops like Simon & Garfunkel and Hendrix, feels like a mixtape screaming for attention. The sex scene, set to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” is unintentionally hilarious, a tonal misstep that undercuts the film’s gravitas. And while the visuals dazzle, they sometimes overwhelm the human stakes, turning tragedy into spectacle.
Watchmen is a flawed masterpiece, a film that dares to be ugly, complex, and unapologetic. It’s not for casual viewers—it’s too long, too dark, too dense. But for those willing to wade through its mire, it’s a haunting reflection on what it means to be a hero in a world that doesn’t deserve saving. Snyder’s vision may not match Moore’s, but it’s bold, brutal, and unforgettable.
The Reluctant Book Worm 