The Screen Scribe

I have never walked out of a Superman film feeling so hollow. Not angry, not outraged, just empty. Because Superman (2025) did something far worse than offend me. It bored me. For days afterwards I tried to piece together why this film left me feeling so detached and I kept coming back to the same realisation. This is not a Superman film. This is a James Gunn film that just happens to star a character wearing a cape and calling himself Superman.

The film reboots the franchise yet again, introducing David Corenswet as Clark Kent, an early career Superman learning to balance life as Metropolis’ protector with his role at the Daily Planet. Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan) is the ever-capable journalist, Lex Luthor (Nicholas Hoult) is a tech billionaire determined to rid the world of Superman, and along the way Mister Terrific, Guy Gardner’s Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, and others make appearances. There is a war subplot echoing Russia and Ukraine, talk of aliens and metahumans threatening Earth’s security, a few comedic bits with Krypto the Superdog, and scattered emotional beats intended to humanise Clark. On paper, it sounds like a sprawling Superman epic. In execution, it is a messy blend of ideas with no cohesive soul.

Let’s get this out of the way: I am not a Superman expert. I know his broad strokes, his powers, his rogues gallery, and his moral ethos. But even from that general knowledge, I can confidently say that this film does not understand Superman. What James Gunn delivers here is a petulant child in a cape, quick to anger over minor inconveniences and lacking any semblance of the maturity and moral clarity that define Kal-El. He loses almost every fight throughout the film, stumbling from defeat to defeat with no growth, no revelation, and no meaningful character development. By the end, I felt like I had watched an origin story with none of the emotional payoff that usually accompanies it.

The supporting cast are mostly placeholders. Hawkgirl, Guy Gardner, and the other Justice Society, sorry, Justice Gang (yes, that’s what they’re called) cameos feel like they were written into the script purely to flesh out the future DCU slate rather than to serve this story. The exceptions are Mister Terrific, who brings an enjoyable intelligence and dry wit, and Lois Lane, whose no-nonsense journalism grounds her scenes in something approaching authenticity. But everyone else is here to fill space, quip, or pose dramatically.

Then there is Lex Luthor. Nicholas Hoult is a talented actor, but here he plays just another generic corporate tech genius with a paper-thin motivation to want Superman dead. His dialogue is peppered with pseudo-philosophical monologues about power and human progress, but there is no menace, no intellectual gravity, no conviction. It is hard to fear a villain whose plan is so half baked you wonder how he ever made it to middle management, let alone became a billionaire industrialist.

The plot is an overstuffed mess. There are so many characters and disconnected subplots fighting for oxygen that Superman himself gets lost in his own film. This is a movie called Superman, yet it feels like an ensemble pilot for the new DC Universe. The Russia and Ukraine war analogue shoved into the second act is baffling in its execution. It neither comments intelligently on geopolitics nor integrates naturally into the story. It is simply there, like a news headline scrolled past at 3 AM, to facilitate Luthor’s overwrought, nonsensical plan.

Now, let us talk about the Kents, because my God. Jonathan and Martha Kent are retooled as Kansas bumpkins, complete with over-the-top accents and one-dimensional rural wisdom that feels lifted straight out of a parody sketch. Their scenes feel hollow, lacking the gravitas or warmth that Kevin Costner and Diane Lane brought to Man of Steel. The film’s biggest betrayal, however, is its treatment of Jor-El and Lara-El. Without spoilers, their brief reimagined inclusion strips away any nobility or cosmic significance, leaving them as the ultimate betrayers of Clark’s legacy rather than the foundational myths of his identity.

Musically, the rejigging of John Williams’ Superman March with electric guitars and modern synths fell completely flat for me. It felt like a smug wink rather than a reverent nod, on top of the complete out of place pop songs scattered throughout. This is Superman Mr. Gunn, not Guardians of the Galaxy. At least Man of Steel was brave enough to try something new. Hans Zimmer’s Flight remains one of my favourite pieces of film music ever written, a composition that captures Superman’s majesty and sorrow in a way Gunn’s reorchestration simply cannot.

Finally, while Krypto has some enjoyable comedic moments, the film leans too heavily on him for cuteness factor, undercutting scenes that should have carried emotional weight.

If I am being fair, there are glimmers of quality. Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane is sharp, fearless, and deeply human, anchoring scenes with genuine pathos. Mister Terrific’s inclusion works thanks to his moral clarity and dry intellectualism, qualities that ironically should have been Clark’s defining traits. The visuals are colourful and comic book accurate in design, and the pacing never drags – even if what it races through is narratively hollow.

Superman (2025) is a film that wants to launch a franchise rather than tell a story. It is content to give us cameos, quips, and surface-level charm instead of moral courage, mythic grandeur, or emotional truth. This did not feel like Superman to me. It felt like a James Gunn film that borrowed Superman’s name to sell tickets. It is not braver than Man of Steel. It is not more soulful than Superman Returns. And it certainly does not touch the timeless masterpiece that was Christopher Reeve’s original. At best, it is an empty spectacle with moments of humour and flashes of sincerity. At worst, it is a betrayal of a character who deserves so much more than to be reduced to a petulant child in a red cape.

2 / 5 ✨ from the Screen Scribe.

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