Though all the major movie studios are primed to unleash their big-budget summer blockbusters on the undernourished masses, the selection of tween male fantasies flicks on the menu (Speed Racer, The Incredible Hulk, Sex and the City) may prove to be especially bad. Not so with Iron Man, and Hollywood's transformation of Robert Downey, Jr., into a full-fledged action super-bad-ass. Yes, that's the heavy riffage of the Black Sabbath tune of the same name in the trailer, and yes, it is a good indicator of the fist-pumping antics that the film has in store.

The film leaps into action early, with a convoy of U.S. military hummers caravaning through the deserted wastelands of Afghanistan—it's all very Syriana, minus the nervous boredom. Tony Stark (RDJ), a hard partying, womanizing, weapon-designing billionaire playboy, quaffs a highball of amber scotch as he assures inquisitive soldiers in his Funvee that, yes, he did in fact score with all 12 Maxim girls of the previous calendar year. When their convoy is ambushed, Stark is wounded by a weapon of his own design, story time ruined, and eventually awakes to find himself tattered, drenched in his own blood, and incarcerated—an experience that must be all-too familiar to RDJ. Sparing you the spoilers, he ultimately escapes his jihadi captors in a suit of body armor, exploding insurgents like bunkerbusters on performance-enhancing 'roids. Iron Man—cue Sabbath—is born.

Once back in the comfy confines of California, he publicly renounces his unconscionable lifestyle of zero accountability and disappears from the public eye, neurotically tinkering away to Suicidal Tendencies jams as he settles into his newfound raison d'étre: creating a world-saving suit of armor. Add to this a standard-issue double-crossing bald-headed business partner, played with perfect insouciant ruthlessness by Jeff Bridges, and a comely tow-headed assistant, played by Gwyneth Paltrow, and you've got what may prove to be the season's best, if its most simple.

But it's exactly the simplicity of the pared down plot (by screenwriters Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby) that is welcome. The generic insurgents are evil enough without the tiresome, unnecessary back-story of affiliation or agenda, much in the same way their Children of Men script never really explained why women of the future can't get knocked up. All we need is a stereotypically terrorist-like group to waterboard Downey and our blood is adequately bubbling.

What really shines, perhaps as expected, is RDJ in his dueling performances as both Stark and Iron Man. His playboy antics and one liners are as entertaining as watching his super powers develop on an intense learning curve in action-hero machinery, one skull fracture at a time. Fans of the original comic will walk away satisfied, as will those unfamiliar with the franchise. Expect superb special effects, teched out gadgets, babes, and a couple of knee-slapping zingers. What more could you possibly want? Besides a sequel, of course.