Let us begin with a confession: Superman, that caped crusader of truth, justice, and the American way, has always struck me as a bore. Not because he’s invulnerable—though, heavens, that does get tiresome—but because he’s so unrelentingly good. Goodness, in its pure, unadulterated form, is about as cinematic as a tax return. Yet here we are, in 2025, awaiting yet another celluloid resurrection of the Kryptonian Boy Scout, this time under the stewardship of James Gunn, a man who made a talking raccoon more compelling than most leading men. If anyone can make Superman interesting, it’s probably Gunn. But let’s not get our hopes up too high—Kryptonite might be scarce, but disappointment is always in plentiful supply.
Superman, born in 1938 from the pens of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, was a Depression-era fantasy for a world that needed one. A godlike alien with a jawline sharper than a Ginsu knife, he could leap tall buildings, outrun locomotives, and presumably file his taxes with telepathic precision. He was the ultimate immigrant success story: a refugee from Krypton who landed in Kansas, adopted a Midwestern drawl, and somehow convinced everyone that glasses made him unrecognizable. The comic-book Superman was a power fantasy for boys who couldn’t get a date, but when he hit the silver screen, he became something else: a mirror for our collective aspirations, insecurities, and occasional bad taste.
The first Superman film, Richard Donner’s 1978 epic, remains the gold standard, not because it was perfect but because it believed in itself with such earnest conviction that you couldn’t help but buy it. Christopher Reeve, with his dimpled chin and eyes like a Labrador retriever’s, was Superman in a way that felt divinely ordained. Reeve didn’t just play the role; he was the role, balancing Clark Kent’s bumbling charm with Superman’s square-jawed nobility. The film’s tagline, “You’ll believe a man can fly,” was no empty boast—Donner’s special effects, creaky by today’s standards, had a kind of handmade magic. When Reeve soared over Metropolis, you felt the wind in your hair, even if you were stuck in a sticky-floored cinema eating overpriced popcorn.
But let’s not get carried away. The film had its flaws, not least Marlon Brando’s Jor-El, who delivered his lines as if he were reading the Kryptonian phone book while being paid by the syllable. And don’t get me started on the ending, where Superman reverses time by flying around the Earth backward. It’s the kind of plot device that makes you wonder if the writers were inhaling Kryptonite dust. Still, Donner’s film captured something essential about Superman: he’s a symbol of hope so pure it’s almost embarrassing. In a world of Watergate and disco, that was no small feat. The sequels, alas, were a mixed bag, like a fruitcake left too long in the sun. Superman II (1980) had its moments, particularly Terence Stamp’s gloriously campy General Zod, who chewed scenery with the gusto of a man who knew he’d never get a better role. But by Superman III (1983), the franchise was wheezing like a punctured accordion. Richard Pryor, a comic genius in other contexts, was shoehorned into a plot involving synthetic Kryptonite and a supercomputer that felt like it was programmed by a toddler. Superman IV: The Quest for Peace (1987) was a noble disaster, a film so underfunded it looked like it was shot in someone’s backyard. Reeve, ever the trooper, tried to inject some gravitas into a story about nuclear disarmament, but you can’t save a sinking ship with a smile, no matter how super.
The less said about Superman Returns (2006), the better. Brandon Routh, poor lad, did his best to channel Reeve, but the film was a nostalgia trip that forgot to pack a pulse. Director Bryan Singer seemed more interested in homage than innovation, and the result was a film as exciting as a museum exhibit. Superman lifting a continent made of Kryptonite was visually impressive, but it felt like a metaphor for the franchise itself: burdened by its own weight, unable to soar. Then came Zack Snyder, who decided Superman needed a makeover as a brooding, Nietzschean demigod. In Man of Steel (2013), Henry Cavill’s Superman was less a beacon of hope than a walking midlife crisis. Cavill, with a physique that suggested he bench-pressed planets for breakfast, was a fine Superman, but Snyder’s vision was so grim it made Gotham look like a holiday resort. The film’s climax, with Metropolis reduced to rubble and Superman snapping Zod’s neck, was less heroic than apocalyptic. It was as if Snyder had decided that what the world really needed was a Superman who could star in a Lars von Trier film.
Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) doubled down on the gloom, pitting Superman against Ben Affleck’s Batman in a grudge match that felt like two divorcees arguing over alimony. The film’s Martha moment—where the two heroes bond over their mothers’ shared name—became a meme for all the wrong reasons. By Justice League (2017), Superman was resurrected, but the film was a Frankenstein’s monster of studio interference and tonal whiplash. Cavill’s digitally erased mustache, a CGI travesty, was the final nail in the coffin. The Snyder Cut, released years later, was an improvement, but four hours of slow-motion heroics tested even the most devoted fan’s bladder.
What is it about Superman that keeps us coming back, despite these cinematic misfires? He’s not Batman, with his psychological complexity and penchant for brooding in the rain. He’s not Spider-Man, whose everyman struggles make him relatable. Superman is a god who chooses to be a man, and therein lies his problem: he’s too perfect. His powers—flight, strength, X-ray vision, the ability to hear a pin drop in Poughkeepsie—are so vast they make drama difficult. His moral code, unyielding as Kryptonian steel, leaves little room for ambiguity. Clark Kent’s bumbling persona is meant to humanize him, but it’s a tired shtick, like a sitcom character who never evolves. Yet Superman endures because he represents something we crave: certainty. In a world of moral greyness, he’s a primary colour, a reminder that goodness can exist without irony. His cinematic portrayals have struggled to balance this purity with the demands of modern storytelling, which favours grit over grandeur. Reeve pulled it off because he understood that Superman’s strength wasn’t in his biceps but in his heart. Cavill, burdened by Snyder’s dour aesthetic, never got the chance to smile. The question is whether James Gunn, a director with a knack for finding humanity in the absurd, can rediscover that spark.
Gunn’s Superman, set to grace screens this month, promises a fresh start. The man who turned Guardians of the Galaxy into a cosmic mixtape and The Suicide Squad into a blood-soaked ballet has a track record of defying expectations. Casting David Corenswet as Superman is a bold choice—Corenswet, with his all-American looks and quiet intensity, seems poised to channel Reeve’s warmth without imitating it. Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane is a stroke of genius; her whip-smart energy could make Lois more than just a damsel in distress. And Nathan Fillion as Green Lantern Guy Gardner? That’s the kind of casting that makes you believe Gunn is having fun.
Gunn has promised a Superman who’s both an alien and a human, a hero who’s optimistic without being naive. This is no small task in an era where cynicism is the default setting. If anyone can pull it off, it’s Gunn, who’s proven he can make us care about a tree that says three words. But the challenges are daunting. The DC Universe, rebooted under Gunn’s and Peter Safran’s watch, is a crowded sandbox, with The Batman, Joker, and a dozen TV shows vying for attention. Superman, once the undisputed king of superheroes, now risks being overshadowed by his grittier peers.
Then there’s the question of tone. Gunn’s films thrive on irreverence, but Superman demands sincerity. Can Gunn find a way to make the Man of Steel soar without turning him into a punchline? The trailers, with their glimpses of Krypto the Super-Dog and a Metropolis that looks like it’s been dusted with fairy powder, suggest a lighter touch than Snyder’s. But lightness can tip into frivolity, and Superman deserves better than a smirk. Superman, at his best, is a reminder that power doesn’t have to corrupt, that hope can be a choice rather than a delusion. His cinematic journey has been a rollercoaster of triumphs and turkeys, from Donner’s earnest epic to Snyder’s apocalyptic dirge. James Gunn, with his knack for blending heart and humour, might just be the man to make Superman relevant again. Or he might crash and burn, leaving us with another cinematic footnote in the Man of Steel’s checkered history.
As we await the 2025 film, let’s raise a glass to Superman, that absurd, indestructible symbol of a better world. He’s a hero we don’t deserve but keep coming back to, like a bad habit or a good song. And if Gunn’s film flops? Well, there’s always the next reboot. Superman, after all, is eternal—unlike our patience.
Superman, born in 1938 from the pens of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, was a Depression-era fantasy for a world that needed one. A godlike alien with a jawline sharper than a Ginsu knife, he could leap tall buildings, outrun locomotives, and presumably file his taxes with telepathic precision. He was the ultimate immigrant success story: a refugee from Krypton who landed in Kansas, adopted a Midwestern drawl, and somehow convinced everyone that glasses made him unrecognizable. The comic-book Superman was a power fantasy for boys who couldn’t get a date, but when he hit the silver screen, he became something else: a mirror for our collective aspirations, insecurities, and occasional bad taste.
The first Superman film, Richard Donner’s 1978 epic, remains the gold standard, not because it was perfect but because it believed in itself with such earnest conviction that you couldn’t help but buy it. Christopher Reeve, with his dimpled chin and eyes like a Labrador retriever’s, was Superman in a way that felt divinely ordained. Reeve didn’t just play the role; he was the role, balancing Clark Kent’s bumbling charm with Superman’s square-jawed nobility. The film’s tagline, “You’ll believe a man can fly,” was no empty boast—Donner’s special effects, creaky by today’s standards, had a kind of handmade magic. When Reeve soared over Metropolis, you felt the wind in your hair, even if you were stuck in a sticky-floored cinema eating overpriced popcorn.
But let’s not get carried away. The film had its flaws, not least Marlon Brando’s Jor-El, who delivered his lines as if he were reading the Kryptonian phone book while being paid by the syllable. And don’t get me started on the ending, where Superman reverses time by flying around the Earth backward. It’s the kind of plot device that makes you wonder if the writers were inhaling Kryptonite dust. Still, Donner’s film captured something essential about Superman: he’s a symbol of hope so pure it’s almost embarrassing. In a world of Watergate and disco, that was no small feat. The sequels, alas, were a mixed bag, like a fruitcake left too long in the sun. Superman II (1980) had its moments, particularly Terence Stamp’s gloriously campy General Zod, who chewed scenery with the gusto of a man who knew he’d never get a better role. But by Superman III (1983), the franchise was wheezing like a punctured accordion. Richard Pryor, a comic genius in other contexts, was shoehorned into a plot involving synthetic Kryptonite and a supercomputer that felt like it was programmed by a toddler. Superman IV: The Quest for Peace (1987) was a noble disaster, a film so underfunded it looked like it was shot in someone’s backyard. Reeve, ever the trooper, tried to inject some gravitas into a story about nuclear disarmament, but you can’t save a sinking ship with a smile, no matter how super.
The less said about Superman Returns (2006), the better. Brandon Routh, poor lad, did his best to channel Reeve, but the film was a nostalgia trip that forgot to pack a pulse. Director Bryan Singer seemed more interested in homage than innovation, and the result was a film as exciting as a museum exhibit. Superman lifting a continent made of Kryptonite was visually impressive, but it felt like a metaphor for the franchise itself: burdened by its own weight, unable to soar. Then came Zack Snyder, who decided Superman needed a makeover as a brooding, Nietzschean demigod. In Man of Steel (2013), Henry Cavill’s Superman was less a beacon of hope than a walking midlife crisis. Cavill, with a physique that suggested he bench-pressed planets for breakfast, was a fine Superman, but Snyder’s vision was so grim it made Gotham look like a holiday resort. The film’s climax, with Metropolis reduced to rubble and Superman snapping Zod’s neck, was less heroic than apocalyptic. It was as if Snyder had decided that what the world really needed was a Superman who could star in a Lars von Trier film.
Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) doubled down on the gloom, pitting Superman against Ben Affleck’s Batman in a grudge match that felt like two divorcees arguing over alimony. The film’s Martha moment—where the two heroes bond over their mothers’ shared name—became a meme for all the wrong reasons. By Justice League (2017), Superman was resurrected, but the film was a Frankenstein’s monster of studio interference and tonal whiplash. Cavill’s digitally erased mustache, a CGI travesty, was the final nail in the coffin. The Snyder Cut, released years later, was an improvement, but four hours of slow-motion heroics tested even the most devoted fan’s bladder.
What is it about Superman that keeps us coming back, despite these cinematic misfires? He’s not Batman, with his psychological complexity and penchant for brooding in the rain. He’s not Spider-Man, whose everyman struggles make him relatable. Superman is a god who chooses to be a man, and therein lies his problem: he’s too perfect. His powers—flight, strength, X-ray vision, the ability to hear a pin drop in Poughkeepsie—are so vast they make drama difficult. His moral code, unyielding as Kryptonian steel, leaves little room for ambiguity. Clark Kent’s bumbling persona is meant to humanize him, but it’s a tired shtick, like a sitcom character who never evolves. Yet Superman endures because he represents something we crave: certainty. In a world of moral greyness, he’s a primary colour, a reminder that goodness can exist without irony. His cinematic portrayals have struggled to balance this purity with the demands of modern storytelling, which favours grit over grandeur. Reeve pulled it off because he understood that Superman’s strength wasn’t in his biceps but in his heart. Cavill, burdened by Snyder’s dour aesthetic, never got the chance to smile. The question is whether James Gunn, a director with a knack for finding humanity in the absurd, can rediscover that spark.
Gunn’s Superman, set to grace screens this month, promises a fresh start. The man who turned Guardians of the Galaxy into a cosmic mixtape and The Suicide Squad into a blood-soaked ballet has a track record of defying expectations. Casting David Corenswet as Superman is a bold choice—Corenswet, with his all-American looks and quiet intensity, seems poised to channel Reeve’s warmth without imitating it. Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane is a stroke of genius; her whip-smart energy could make Lois more than just a damsel in distress. And Nathan Fillion as Green Lantern Guy Gardner? That’s the kind of casting that makes you believe Gunn is having fun.
Gunn has promised a Superman who’s both an alien and a human, a hero who’s optimistic without being naive. This is no small task in an era where cynicism is the default setting. If anyone can pull it off, it’s Gunn, who’s proven he can make us care about a tree that says three words. But the challenges are daunting. The DC Universe, rebooted under Gunn’s and Peter Safran’s watch, is a crowded sandbox, with The Batman, Joker, and a dozen TV shows vying for attention. Superman, once the undisputed king of superheroes, now risks being overshadowed by his grittier peers.
Then there’s the question of tone. Gunn’s films thrive on irreverence, but Superman demands sincerity. Can Gunn find a way to make the Man of Steel soar without turning him into a punchline? The trailers, with their glimpses of Krypto the Super-Dog and a Metropolis that looks like it’s been dusted with fairy powder, suggest a lighter touch than Snyder’s. But lightness can tip into frivolity, and Superman deserves better than a smirk. Superman, at his best, is a reminder that power doesn’t have to corrupt, that hope can be a choice rather than a delusion. His cinematic journey has been a rollercoaster of triumphs and turkeys, from Donner’s earnest epic to Snyder’s apocalyptic dirge. James Gunn, with his knack for blending heart and humour, might just be the man to make Superman relevant again. Or he might crash and burn, leaving us with another cinematic footnote in the Man of Steel’s checkered history.
As we await the 2025 film, let’s raise a glass to Superman, that absurd, indestructible symbol of a better world. He’s a hero we don’t deserve but keep coming back to, like a bad habit or a good song. And if Gunn’s film flops? Well, there’s always the next reboot. Superman, after all, is eternal—unlike our patience.