In the grand, glittery pantheon of superhero cinema, where capes flap like overpriced laundry and skyscrapers topple with the regularity of a toddler’s Lego towers, Superman arrives with the weight of a rebooted DC Universe on its broad, spandex-clad shoulders. Directed and penned by James Gunn, a man who once made us care about a talking raccoon and a sentient tree, this latest iteration of the Man of Steel is a curious beast: a film that soars in fits and starts, propelled by a stellar cast and some cracking action, yet plummets into the abyss of a plot so overstuffed it could choke a kaiju. And then there’s the small matter of Jor-El, Superman’s Kryptonian dad, reimagined here as a galactic autocrat with a penchant for world domination. Oh, how the mighty House of El has fallen.
Let’s start with the good, shall we? The casting is, in a word, sublime. David Corenswet, our new Clark Kent/Superman, is a revelation, a square-jawed paragon who manages to channel the gee-whiz earnestness of Christopher Reeve while sidestepping the brooding intensity of Henry Cavill’s Man of Steel. Corenswet’s Superman is a hero you’d invite to a barbecue, not one you’d expect to sulk in the corner over existential dread. His Clark is a bumbling delight, all awkward smiles and spectacles askew, yet when he dons the cape (complete with those gloriously retro red trunks, a defiant middle finger to sleek modern athleisure), he’s every inch the mythic saviour. Rachel Brosnahan, as Lois Lane, is equally magnetic, her sharp-tongued reporter a perfect foil for Clark’s guileless charm. Their chemistry crackles like a fire in a Metropolis newsroom, particularly in a tender scene where Clark serves Lois “breakfast for dinner” to mark their three-month anniversary—only to be gently corrected that it’s his favourite, not hers. It’s a moment so human, so deftly played, that you almost forgive the film for what follows.
The supporting cast is no less impressive. Nicholas Hoult’s Lex Luthor is a cold, calculating serpent, a billionaire villain who doesn’t just chew the scenery but swallows it whole, spitting out the bones with a sneer. His Luthor is the best we’ve seen on screen since Gene Hackman, a sociopath whose charisma makes you understand why people follow him, even as he orchestrates global chaos from his LuthorCorp control room. Pruitt Taylor Vince and Neva Howell, as Ma and Pa Kent, bring a homespun authenticity that grounds the film’s wilder flights of fancy. Their scenes with Clark are the emotional bedrock of the movie, a reminder that Superman’s greatness stems not from Krypton’s crystalline spires but from a Kansas farmhouse. And let us not forget Krypto, the superpowered mutt who steals every scene he’s in, a caped canine so charming he deserves his own spin-off. (Memo to Hollywood: never underestimate the power of a dog in a cape.)
The action sequences, too, are a triumph of choreography and imagination. Gunn, ever the maestro of comic-book mayhem, delivers set pieces that pulse with energy and wit. A battle with a mysterious “Hammer of Boravia” (revealed to be Ultraman, Luthor’s drone-controlled pawn) is a visual feast, with Superman weaving through Metropolis’s skyscrapers like a blue-and-red comet. Another standout is a clash involving a skyscraper-sized dinosaur-like monster, a gloriously absurd kaiju throwdown that somehow vanishes without a trace, as if Metropolis’s sanitation department moonlights as a TARDIS. The fights are crisp, inventive, and mercifully free of the quick-cut nausea that plagues lesser superhero flicks. Even when the CGI threatens to overwhelm, Gunn keeps the geography clear, ensuring we know who’s punching whom and why.
But oh, the plot. The plot, dear reader, is where Superman stumbles like Clark Kent tripping over his own shoelaces. It’s as if Gunn, in his zeal to launch a new DC Universe, decided to cram every comic-book trope, geopolitical allegory, and half-baked idea into a 2-hour-9-minute blender and hit puree. The result is a narrative so cluttered it makes a Jackson Pollock painting look minimalist. Superman, three years into his Earthly tenure, is embroiled in a war between fictional nations Boravia and Jarhanpur, a conflict orchestrated by Luthor to paint our hero as a meddling alien. Add to this a menagerie of secondary heroes—Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, Mister Terrific (a film-stealing Edi Gathegi), Metamorpho, The Engineer, Ultraman—all of whom pop up like uninvited guests at a wedding, only to vanish before you can learn their names. Supergirl shows up drunk in a post-credits scene, which is either a bold choice or a cry for help. The film feels like a pilot for a TV series, not a standalone epic, and its pacing is as erratic as Krypto chasing a laser pointer.
Then there’s the matter of Jor-El, Superman’s saintly father, who in this telling is less a wise scientist and more a Kryptonian Mussolini. In a twist that lands like a lead balloon, Luthor unearths a second half of Jor-El and Lara’s message to their son, urging him to subjugate Earth and repopulate Krypton with “as many wives as needed.” Yes, you read that correctly: Superman’s dad is now a cosmic colonizer with a side of polygamy. This revelation, broadcast to the world by Luthor, is meant to spark a crisis of confidence in our hero, but it’s so jarringly out of character that it feels like a prank. Even when it’s revealed that Luthor doctored the message (a twist so obvious it barely qualifies as such), the film doubles down, suggesting Jor-El’s intentions were at least partly imperial. This is not the Jor-El of All-Star Superman, whose selfless sacrifice inspired a legacy of heroism. This is a Jor-El who’d fit right in with General Zod, plotting galactic domination over a cup of Kryptonian tea. The decision undermines the immigrant narrative Gunn aims to tell, reducing Superman’s Kryptonian heritage to a footnote and his Earthly upbringing to a simplistic assimilation tale. When Superman declares, “I’m just as human as the rest of you,” you can almost hear the ghost of Christopher Reeve sighing in disappointment.
Gunn’s attempt to weave modern commentary into the mix—Luthor’s army of internet monkeys spreading anti-Superman hashtags like #Supershit, or a detention scene evoking authoritarian overreach—feels half-hearted, like a Post-it note slapped on a comic book. The satire lacks the bite of Clive James at his peak, who might have skewered such heavy-handedness with a quip about “a script so earnest it could lecture a puppy on morality.” Instead, the film oscillates between sincerity and glibness, never quite finding its tone. The humour, when it lands, is vintage Gunn—think a cameo from the fictional band The Mighty Crabjoys—but it’s too sparse to lift the film out of its narrative quagmire.
In the end, Superman is a paradox: a film that gets so much right yet feels so inconsequential. The casting is a masterstroke, the action a thrill, and Krypto a furry godsend. But the plot is a chaotic stew, and the reimagining of Jor-El as a would-be dictator is a misstep so egregious it’s almost performance art. Gunn’s film wants to be both a nostalgic return to Superman’s roots and a bold new chapter, but it ends up stranded in no-man’s-land, neither timeless nor revolutionary. As the credits roll, with home videos of Ma and Pa Kent soothing a battered Superman, you’re left with a pang of what might have been: a Man of Steel who could truly soar, if only the script hadn’t clipped his wings.
