There was a time; not too long ago; when if you said the word “superhero,” someone within a ten-foot radius would either break into applause or projectile vomit. Marvel had us by the spandex for more than a decade, pumping out three-to-four movies a year, plus TV shows, tie-in webisodes, theme park rides, Taco Bell cups, and, eventually, our will to live. DC, on the other hand, decided to zig where Marvel zagged; mostly into a rain-soaked alley filled with emotionally constipated men named Bruce, a vaguely Eastern European sepia filter, and slow-motion debris fields.
Zack Snyder’s DC vision was less “comic book adventure” and more “Nietzschean fever dream scored by Gregorian chants.” Which, to be fair, has its place; preferably in the dorm room of a 19-year-old philosophy major who just discovered Joseph Campbell and wears fingerless gloves unironically. But joy? Fun? The occasional glimmer of hope? Not exactly Snyder’s brand.
Then, in flew James Gunn; Marvel defector, chaos connoisseur, and patron saint of misfit heroes. After injecting irreverent life into The Suicide Squad (the one where the shark talks and people actually laughed), Warner Bros. handed him the keys to the whole DC kingdom. And what did he do with his new power? He started with Superman. Again. For the fourth time. Fifth if you count Smallville, sixth if you count dreams, hallucinations, or Henry Cavill’s Instagram posts.
But this time; this time; it works.
James Gunn’s Superman (2025) isn’t an origin story, thank Krypton. The movie opens with a title card that catches us up on thirty years of Superman activity in about thirty seconds, and ends with a line that lands like a sucker punch: “Three minutes ago, Superman lost his first fight.” Cut to Superman plummeting from the sky, bloody and broken, which is probably how most of us felt after Justice League (either version).
Enter Krypto; the dog, the myth, the legend; who drags his alien dad home like a loyal golden retriever hauling in a 200-pound Frisbee. That single canine moment has more emotional resonance than the entire runtime of Batman v Superman. (Sorry, Zack. Not sorry.)
This Superman, played by David Corenswet, is not your father’s Superman; or your father’s father’s, unless your father is Jor-El. He’s sensitive, funny, haunted, and genuinely human in a way the Kryptonian has never quite managed onscreen before. He argues with Lois Lane in their apartment like a regular couple trying to split rent and responsibility while juggling international diplomacy and alien invasion. There’s real heart here. Not the kind you draw in the margins of a middle school notebook, but the kind you feel thumping in your chest during scenes that actually dare to be sincere.
And then there’s Lois; Rachel Brosnahan, freshly flown in from The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, who absolutely refuses to play second fiddle, or any fiddle, really. This Lois flies planes, fights bureaucrats, calls Superman on his alien nonsense, and still finds time to be impossibly cool. No fainting, no damseling, no “what a scoop!” hokum. She’s the kind of journalist you actually want in your newsroom, even if she knows your secret identity and keeps moving your stuff around.
As for the villain, Nicholas Hoult’s Lex Luthor is part tech bro, part Bond villain, part Silicon Valley cult leader. He dresses his minions in Hawaiian shirts, as if mid-genocide he might pause to sell you a vacation package. There’s something uncomfortably familiar in his media manipulation and his endless double-speak, but that’s probably just a coincidence and not at all inspired by recent news cycles. Not at all. I’ll end my sarcasm there.
And it’s here that Superman becomes unexpectedly…prescient. This isn’t just another CGI punch-fest. Gunn’s script tackles misinformation, fear-mongering, and the way we treat the very people trying to help us. Superman, the alien immigrant, becomes the scapegoat of a world desperate to blame someone for its own mess. The parallels are clear; but never preachy. Just painful.
But don’t worry, this isn’t all geopolitical existentialism in tights. There are action scenes galore; classic James Gunn showpieces where characters you’ve never heard of suddenly become your favorites. Green Lantern (Nathan Fillion) steals scenes like he’s shoplifting charisma, and Mister Terrific (Edi Gathegi) lives up to his name. And yes, there’s a Justice Gang. Not a League. A Gang. Like a bowling team of superheroes who actually like each other.
The film’s emotional core, though, is a quiet scene in Kansas. Just a conversation between a son and his parents (Pruitt Taylor Vince and Neva Howell, giving the phrase “down-home wisdom” a whole new weight). It’s here that Superman is reminded; we’re reminded; that strength isn’t about lifting trains or flying through buildings. It’s about showing up. Trying. Even when no one wants you to.
And then there’s Krypto. My god, Krypto. The best dog in cinema. No notes. Give him an Oscar. Or a bone. Or both.
So yes, we’re living in strange times. Everything feels upside down, the truth is slippery, and even your local weather report might be an op-ed. But somehow, against all odds, this movie makes you believe again; not just in superheroes, but in goodness. In decency. In the idea that maybe, just maybe, someone can fall out of the sky, pick themselves back up, and still choose to help. And for the first time in a very long time, it feels like cinema is flying again. Cape and all.
