An idiosyncratic, somewhat fledgling director being handed the reins of one of Marvel’s big light shows can, in a way, feel like a triumph. A budding auteur has gotten the summons from Hollywood—a major career boost for them, sure. But also it’s good for us; it means our superhero movies—which are just a part of life now, and we must accept them—will be better, crafted by more thoughtful hands than some paycheck-mad, blow-’em-up hack’s. Everybody wins!

And to some extent, that has been proven true. Marvel has shown ingenuity by hiring directors with distinct points of view, and reaped rewards from it, be it Joe and Anthony Russo deftly handling the Captain America films, or Jon Watts giving us a surprisingly endearing Spider-Man relaunch, or James Gunn leaving horror-comedy behind to give witty life to Guardians of the Galaxy. Those films are all far better than they might have been had some dutiful company man been tasked to bring the ship into port with the help of a fleet of studio tugs. (Just go with the metaphor.)

Watching Marvel’s latest film, the bright and antic Thor: Ragnarok, made me feel something other than triumph, though. Directed by cult-favorite New Zealand director Taika Waititi, Ragnarok is silly and fun and zippy, a great showcase for star Chris Hemsworth’s increasingly reliable humor, and a solid introduction for Tessa Thompson’s Valkyrie and some other spirited supporting characters. It’s a fine diversion, and ably carries the Marvel torch before it’s passed to Black Panther (and then to Avengers: Infinity War, Part 1, and then to Ant-Man and the Wasp, etc.). But the movie is fun enough, and Waititi shows enough moxie and goofy wit throughout, that instead of feeling glad that he’d been hired to direct the movie, I felt a little sad that he had to bother at all.

Meaning: hopefully, Ragnarok will be a big hit and will write Waititi a blank check to do whatever flight of prickly whimsy he wants to do next. For that, it was probably all worth it. But watching Ragnarok, I was struck by the assimilating, Borg-esque aspect of this whole Marvel enterprise—the way it absorbs filmmakers’ talents, compacting them all into the house style. It’s almost aggressive from that angle, how they seek out interesting directors and make them bend to their will. At least Ragnarok features what looks a little bit like revolution.

Half-ish of the movie takes place on a distant garbage planet ruled by Jeff Goldblum’s delightfully loopy Grandmaster, an ageless being who spends his time toying with various collected creatures in a gladiatorial arena. Thor and Loki (Tom Hiddleston, his acid-green glow dimmed some, now that he’s done this shtick four times) find themselves on this planet through circumstances both complicated and not complicated at all—the point is they get there. While Ragnarok is exploring this wacky place and its inhabitants—including a lovably weird rock monster voiced by Waititi, whom I want to see in a buddy comedy alongside Steve Zahn’s Bad Ape—the movie has gleeful bounce. It’s an arch and winking cousin, or companion piece, to Guardians of the Galaxy, with a tone and verve all its own.