In the summer of 2002, Spider-Man stood out. Forget the huge, almost inexplicable numbers catapulting Spidey to the 
largest opening of all time (and still champion). What was even more astounding was that we had been delivered a spectacular summer blockbuster that actually satisfied both the heart, the intellect and whatever that other thing is that makes you happy when Kirsten Dunst smiles and a villain gets impaled by his own hover-scooter. Such dog day treats have been few and far between over the last few years.
Back when we met Peter Parker, a high school dweeb played with impressive comic gusto by Tobey Maguire, he was merely the four eyed apple of his old aunt and uncle's four eyes. We protectively watched him wrestle with puberty (and Macho Man Randy Savage), awkwardly crushing on his sweet neighbor, MJ (Dunst), fumbling in the shadow of his millionaire pal, Harry Osborn (James Franco), bumbling at his photography job under crazed J. Jonah Jameson (J.K. Simmons)