Iron Man’s story is demagnetized, clad in desolate sarcasms. The problem with armed robots turns into a familiar intra-corporate hissy fit of wits, in which the good and the bad have half a point, each. The U.S. military is unprepared, on hold until lawyers and the free press show up. The government is reforming itself in Arizona, maybe. Not messing with Gwyneth Paltrow, Robert Downey’s action requires we slurp it up and merge with his pure, open, and larger character outside merely bringing animation-to-life: his art and his body, his figure and his celebrity, our viewing and his performance. Then he twists the head off Jeff Bridges, g’bye. Downey is leaving us holding the check, a synthetic notary of chintz and winsomeness stomping and cavorting giantlike across our timidity. Moral? Even his neck muscles have learned to shrug, a great veteran begins to combust.