Joss Whedon

As we start to stitch back together the garments rent on learning that Joss Whedon was no longer going to do the Wonder Woman movie (Why? Why? Why? Can you think of a more perfect fit, of a combination more likely to imbue us all with a sense of hope and shining anticipation of greatness in this otherwise bleak and godless universe? No. You cannot) we must embark on a damage-limitation exercise. Close study of the series (weekend mornings, Living) yields the following vital guidelines for any successor:

1. Establishing shots are much improved by the addition of bright yellow cartoon squares containing explanatory captions. When the audience sees a Gothic mansion full of people with harsh guttural accents marching around in black uniforms covered in swastikas, they still require a box in the top left hand corner of the screen saying "Secret Nazi intelligence headquarters in Munich, 1942" lest they simply assume Diana Price has been invited to an elaborate costume party by her crazy European mates.

2. Substantial research will need to be carried out to make sure that there are still sufficient corsetry fetishists out there to make strapping some Hollywood diva into a gold-trimmed basque worthwhile. An A-lister is likely to be significantly less malleable than TV ingenue Lynda Carter, both metaphorically (stars being what they are) and literally (most have no flesh to bind.)

3. You must keep the bullet-deflecting bracelets and the transforming twirl. It’s all anyone remembers. And you really must drop the golden lasso of truth. It is the most tragically inadequate accessory ever sported by a superhero, and certainly will not pass muster in an age when any ordinary Joe can build himself a nuclear warhead from a kit off the internet.

I don’t suppose, now that Whedon - the only feminist writer in Hollywood - is off the project there is the slightest chance of Wonder Woman not getting her tits out for the lads at some point, so we shall end the lessons here.