James Gunn’s Superman is a baroque cathedral of spandex and salvation—part cosmic opera, part gospel pamphlet. It’s a film where every punch echoes through dimensions, and every teardrop carries mythic weight. Starring David Corenswet as the Sun-borne savior and Nicholas Hoult as the malevolent mind behind his misery, the movie balances reverence for its comic book DNA with a willingness to interrogate its icons. And though it stumbles, it stumbles with grandeur.
Corenswet dons the cape not just with confidence, but with the serene melancholy of someone raised by Kansas humility yet haunted by Kryptonian ghosts. His Superman is bruised but tender, more martyr than messiah. When he surrenders to the government, it’s not defeat—it’s sacrament. Gunn invites us to see Kal-El not merely as the Last Son of Krypton, but as a Jesus surrogate: born of heavenly parents, cast down to Earth, tempted, tortured, buried and ultimately resurrected. It’s unsubtle, but it works.
Luthor, played with gleeful venom by Hoult, chews through the scenery like a man allergic to moderation. His Lex is less tragic genius than deranged nihilist—fueled by envy, driven by god-complex. He’s clever, cruel, and catastrophically smug. The reveal that Ultraman is his clone feels right in tone but wrong in pacing; it lands more as a plot twist than a psychological revelation. Still, Hoult gives the film a ferocious anchor, even if the character’s motivations blur into chaos by the climax.
Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane is a smoky revelation. She’s sharp, grounded, and deeply humane—she doesn’t just challenge Clark, she believes in him before the world remembers how. Her chemistry with Corenswet simmers in quiet moments more than dramatic ones, and her daring infiltration of Luthor’s pocket dimension puts her on par with any caped crusader. She’s the soul of the Daily Planet, and her line about Perry White “being allergic to metaphors” is one of the script’s cheeky highlights.
Ah yes, Perry. A man who probably edits headlines by yelling at clouds. His brief appearance, barking about deadlines while unknowingly sipping coffee from a mug labeled “World’s Third Best Dad,” earns a laugh and nothing more. He’s the kind of character that feels more like set dressing than story.
But let us kneel before the true star: Krypto the Superdog. A furry missile of delight, Krypto embodies the film’s themes of loyalty, kindness, and unspoken heroism. His rescue of Superman from Ultraman’s wrath and his later imprisonment summon genuine pathos. When he’s reunited with Superman and Kara at the Fortress, it feels like poetry—a reward not just for surviving, but for believing. In a film about divine strength, it is Krypto’s gentleness that offers grace.
Where Gunn excels is in layering the spectacle with genuine stakes. The black hole splitting Metropolis in half is visually arresting and symbolically rich—civilization torn by fear and manipulation, only mended by courage and truth. But the plot occasionally buckles beneath its own ambition. The Boravia–Jarhanpur subplot, while timely, is thinly developed. Gunn’s effort to address the “woke immigrant” discourse lands in gestures, not statements: Kal-El is both refugee and native son, both feared and revered. The film doesn’t solve the controversy, but lets it live in ambiguity.
The ensemble cast—Mister Terrific, Hawkgirl, Metamorpho—adds texture but not necessarily depth. They orbit the core drama without ever challenging it. Still, their presence enriches the mythos and reinforces the theme of chosen family over destiny. The Justice Gang formation scene is brisk, clunky, and weirdly endearing.
Gunn’s direction is ambitious and unafraid. He paints with bold colors and risks tonal whiplash. Some action sequences soar, others stumble under exposition. But he understands Superman’s essence: strength wielded with mercy, power tempered by restraint. This isn’t the definitive Superman film—it’s a provocative, imperfect hymn to a character forever suspended between gods and men.
Grade: B+
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