The pressure was immense. After the grim, joyless collapse of its previous cinematic universe, DC Studios needed a saviour. It needed a film that could not only wash away the memory of a half-decade of creative and commercial failures but also lay a solid, dependable foundation for a new, multi-billion-dollar future. It needed a cathedral. What it got, in the form of James Gunn’s Superman, is a chaotic, frequently amusing, and profoundly unstable funhouse.
Gunn, the architect-in-chief of this rebooted world, has delivered a film that is, in every frame, an authentic expression of his own geeky, anarchic sensibilities. It is a work of staggering self-indulgence, a love letter to the weirdest, most obscure corners of the DC Comics canon. For a small, dedicated sliver of the audience, this will be a cause for celebration. But as a foundational text for a universe intended to appeal to the masses, it is an act of spectacular folly. Bursting with ideas but devoid of emotional gravity, this is a film that succeeds so completely as a personal passion project that it fails catastrophically at its primary job. It is a universe built on quicksand.
The Weight of the World
To be fair, the task was monumental. Gunn, the director who turned Marvel’s D-list Guardians of the Galaxy into a beloved, billion-dollar franchise, was brought in as a miracle worker. His mandate was clear: bring the humour, heart, and vibrant weirdness of his Marvel work to the staid, self-serious world of DC. And on paper, who better to launch a new era of hope and optimism than the Man of Steel himself?
Of course, this is James Gunn we are talking about. His creative DNA was forged not in the gleaming halls of mainstream superheroics, but in the muck of low-budget horror-comedy and the subversive mayhem of films like The Suicide Squad. He is a filmmaker allergic to convention, a pop-culture savant whose default mode is a kind of hyper-caffeinated, reference-heavy irony. To expect him to deliver a straightforward, four-quadrant blockbuster was, perhaps, a category error from the start. He has not ignored the pressure of launching a universe; he has simply decided that the most interesting response to that pressure is to build something so idiosyncratic and bizarre that it barely seems interested in being a universe at all.
An Allergy to Origin Stories
Gunn’s most audacious choice, and the clearest signal of his intentions, is to throw the audience directly into the deep end. There is no farm in Kansas, no discovery of powers, no first flight. This is not an origin story. When we meet David Corenswet’s Superman, he is already a three-year veteran of the superhero game. He is already in a committed relationship with Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane. He is already the sworn enemy of Nicholas Hoult’s Lex Luthor. It is a statement of intent: we know you know the basics, so let’s get straight to the weird stuff.
Initially, this approach is exhilarating. It sidesteps the tedious formula of the modern superhero introduction and treats the audience with a degree of intelligence. But the novelty soon wears off, replaced by a sense of narrative vertigo. The film doesn’t just feature an established Superman; it features a world already teeming with super-powered beings, or “metahumans.” The A-list heroes are kept in reserve, but we are introduced to the Justice Gang, an ethically murky team of second-stringers who treat Superman with a mixture of camaraderie and contempt. The film feels less like the first chapter of a new saga and more like the third season of a television show you’ve never seen. It assumes a level of familiarity with the lore that will be thrilling for comic-book devotees and utterly bewildering for everyone else.
The Kitchen Sink of Nerd Culture
This is the central tension of the film. Gunn’s position as both writer-director and co-head of the entire studio seems to have removed any and all filters of restraint. The result is a film that feels less directed and more frantically curated, a two-hour-plus unloading of every bizarre concept Gunn has ever wanted to see in a Superman movie. It is a film that contains, among other things: Krypto the Superdog, a legion of cape-wearing “Superman Robots,” clones, hypno-glasses, a pocket universe, a fire-breathing monster, and a giant, floating, fourth-wall-breaking eyeball from another dimension.
Each of these concepts is thrown at the screen with such breakneck speed that none of them has time to land with any real impact. What could have been a rich, textured world instead feels like a cluttered, hyperactive toybox. The film lurches wildly in tone, from goofy, cartoonish humour to a shocking, cold-blooded murder, from debates on the geopolitical implications of metahumans to the sight of a bright green baby demon. It is a film of immense nerdy ambition, a zillion-dollar blockbuster that has the soul of an eccentric, low-budget B-movie. But in his rush to cram in everything he loves about the comics, Gunn seems to have forgotten to include the things that might make a general audience care.
The Man of Tin
Perhaps the most profound casualty of this everything-but-the-kitchen-sink approach is the character of Superman himself. The 1978 film, to which Gunn pays frequent, superficial homage with blasts of John Williams’s classic score, carried the evocative tagline: “You’ll believe a man can fly.” Its power was rooted in a sense of wonder, in the simple, breathtaking magic of seeing its hero on screen. The tagline for Gunn’s glib, flimsy version might as well be: “You won’t believe any of it.”
The film is so preoccupied with its outlandish plot mechanics and a constant barrage of video game-style visual effects that nothing feels real. Skyscrapers collapse and monsters stomp through Metropolis, but it all has the weightless, inconsequential feel of a cutscene. The sense of wonder is gone, replaced by a relentless, exhausting spectacle.
This emotional hollowness extends to the hero himself. Corenswet is perfectly cast in a physical sense; he has the wholesome, all-American charm required for the role. But the script gives him shockingly little to do beyond reacting to the chaotic events swirling around him. We are told he is a paragon of virtue, a selfless gentleman, but we are rarely shown it. Instead, the film presents him as an oddly hot-headed, petulant manchild, prone to shouting at his girlfriend and complaining about his responsibilities. The quiet dignity, the gentle strength, the fundamental goodness that defines the character are all conspicuously absent. In a film overflowing with flying dogs and interdimensional imps, the most bizarre element is a Man of Steel who seems to have been forged from tin, a hollow shell lacking a human heart.
A Foundation of Folly
In the end, Superman may well find its audience. Hardcore fans will delight in its deep-cut references and its joyful embrace of comic-book absurdity. It may even become a kind of cult classic. But as the launchpad for a decade-spanning, interconnected universe, it is a spectacular misfire. A cinematic universe, like any great structure, requires a solid foundation. It needs characters we believe in, stakes that feel real, and a world that invites us in rather than holding us at a cool, ironic distance.
James Gunn was hired to build a home for these iconic characters, a place where a new generation of fans could come to believe in heroes again. Instead, he has built a monument to his own esoteric tastes. It is a fun place to visit, for a short while. But you wouldn’t want to live there. And on this foundation of gleeful, self-indulgent, and emotionally vacant weirdness, it is difficult to see how anything of lasting substance can ever be built.
