Superman

James Gunn has done the impossible. He’s made me a Superman fan.

For decades, Superman has been cinema’s most boring superhero. Too perfect. Too untouchable. A god slumming it with mortals who wakes up every morning feeling fantastic while the rest of us stumble toward coffee. His bumbling Clark Kent act feeling like contempt for humanity itself. Christopher Reeve played him as a charming alien. Henry Cavill brooded through his cape like Dr. Manhattan in red boots.

David Corenswet changes everything. His Superman doesn’t just save people—he believes in them. When Lois Lane calls herself “just some punk kid” compared to him, Corenswet fires back: “I’m punk rock.” She laughs. “I question everything and everyone. You trust everyone and think everyone you’ve ever met is beautiful.” His response? “Maybe that’s the real punk rock.”

There it is. Superman’s superpower isn’t flight or invulnerability. It’s his unwavering faith in human goodness. Finally, a Superman worth rooting for.

Gunn surrounds his hero with a nascent Justice League—Nathan Fillion’s Guy Gardner, Edi Gathegi’s Mr. Terrific, and Isabela Merced’s Hawkgirl. Fillion, twenty years too old for the part, still brings swagger to Green Lantern. Gathegi entertains in his expanded role, though there’s a reason Mr. Terrific never conquered the comics. Merced disappoints, reduced from the animated series’ memorable warrior to a shrieking annoyance.

Smart move, actually. These muted supporting heroes keep the focus squarely on Superman, avoiding the ensemble bloat that could have sunk the film.

Even smarter: Lois Lane isn’t a damsel. Not once does Superman rescue her. Rachel Brosnahan gets appropriate agency without hijacking the story. She’s a first-class supporting player, not a plot device.

But about that plot: it’s pure nonsense. Another Lex Luthor real estate scheme lifted wholesale from Richard Donner’s playbook complete with a more dignified Otis and a less dignified Miss Teschmacher.

Gunn peppers his script with trademark humor—witty asides that mostly land. But he drowns his characters in exposition, making them lecture the audience about things we already know. When Luthor’s muscle literally announces “I’ve sacrificed my own humanity to help get rid of [Superman],” you feel the screenplay’s gears grinding.

Which brings us to the film’s fatal flaw: Nicholas Hoult’s Lex Luthor. The best screen Luthor yet, but that’s damning with faint praise. Luthor should be Batman gone wrong—a calculating genius who could conquer the world if not for his own ego. Think Kaiser Söze in a power suit. Instead, Hoult plays him too animated, too emotional. I couldn’t shake the notion that the British Hoult based his performance on Tom Cruise—all manic energy and grins.

To be more specific, with his shaved head, Hoult evokes Cruise’s Les Grossman from Tropic Thunder. Though, one suspects Superman would have more trouble with Cruise’s Grossman than Hoult’s Luthor.

But here’s the thing: none of that matters. Superman works because it understands the character isn’t about the powers—it’s about the hope. He’s not looking down on us. He’s looking up, with us, to who we could become and trying to lead by example. In this age of cynics he’s a genuine optimist.

Punk rock indeed.