When Batman first morphed from daytime burglar chaser (”holy smokes Batman, climbing up this rope makes me strangely erect”)   to dark leather legend sometime in the early nineties I remember feeling a tiny tingle of male attraction very different from the stolen  showerroom glances that  up until that point constituted my homoerotic fantasy arsenal. In retrospect, Michael Keaton did a good enough job of rectifying the most interesting and human of all superheroes; especially if you consider what constituted the sequels (George Clooney – very amazing man but clearly not Batman).

It wasn´t until Christan Bale starred a giant chinese prison thug in the eyes and scornfully declared: ”You´re not the devil. You´re practice” that I fully realized how much Batman meant to me. At that moment I uttered silently the words I had for so long barricated within my soul; Fuck you Spidey.

No more shannanignans. No more Balley-hoo. Just darkness, strong silent type whispers and violence. When I learned that London crack addict pretty boy Tom Hardy was going to star in the final movie as arch villan Bane (not to be confused with arch villain number two, presidential hopeful Mitt Romneys old company Bain Capital) alongside madmoiselle supreme Marion Coutillard I was thrilled.

Admittedly, the sceptical, analytical and diatribe gaze that I usually reserve for block buster films and greek cuisine, was purposely stored away at home when I ventured to my local Palais de cinema to indulge in the guilty pleasure of the ”Dark knight rises” , the third and final piece in director Christopher Nolans modern triptych.