Superman

The Weight of Sunlight

For the better part of a decade, the cinematic Superman was defined by his distance from us. He was a deity drifting in desaturated gray skies, a figure of burden whose goodness was often framed as a chore. James Gunn’s *Superman* (2025) does not just correct this color palette; it aggressively overcompensates, flooding the screen with a primary-colored optimism that feels almost radical in our cynical era. Yet, beneath the solar-punk brightness and the Silver Age nostalgia, Gunn has smuggled in a surprisingly complex deconstruction of the "Chosen One" mythos. This is a film that asks not if Superman can save the world, but if he can survive the truth of where he came from.

Visually, the film is a rejection of the "grounded" aesthetic that has plagued the genre since Christopher Nolan. Gunn and cinematographer Henry Braham treat the frame like a comic panel, utilizing wide lenses and a saturation level that makes Metropolis pop with an Art Deco, retro-futuristic vitality. The flying sequences are not just displays of power; they are kinetic, joyful ballets. However, this visual whimsy occasionally clashes with the narrative’s sharper edges. There are moments where the digital landscape creates a suffocating sense of unreality—particularly in the chaotic third act—reminding us that even the most earnest artifice has its limits.

But the film’s true special effect is David Corenswet. Stepping into a role previously occupied by titans, Corenswet offers a performance of disarming gentleness. His Clark Kent is not a bumbling disguise, but the authentic self; the cape is the uniform he wears to work. The chemistry with Rachel Brosnahan’s Lois Lane—sharp, cynical, yet undeniably drawn to Clark’s sincerity—anchors the film in a screwball rhythm that feels refreshingly human.

The narrative’s boldest stroke, and its source of genuine friction, lies in its subversion of Superman’s origin. By reframing Jor-El and Lara not as benevolent saviors but as imperialists who sent their son to conquer rather than protect, Gunn strips Kal-El of his messianic destiny. This twist transforms Superman’s heroism from a genetic inevitability into an active, agonizing choice. He is not good because he was sent to be; he is good because he was raised by farmers in Kansas who taught him the value of a neighbor. This thematic pivot allows Gunn to explore his favorite motif—found family—on a operatic scale. Superman chooses Earth, not as a god looking down on ants, but as an immigrant rejecting the toxic legacy of the "old country" to embrace his new home.

The film is not without its stumbling blocks. The inclusion of the "Justice Gang" (Mr. Terrific, Hawkgirl, Guy Gardner) occasionally clutters the narrative, threatening to turn a character study into a universe-management spreadsheet. Furthermore, the fictional geopolitical conflict between Boravia and Jarhanpur serves as a somewhat clumsy allegory for modern interventionism, occasionally straining the film’s buoyant tone.

Ultimately, *Superman* is a film about the labor of hope. It posits that optimism is not a passive state, but a muscular, difficult discipline. James Gunn has managed to make the Man of Steel feel vulnerable again, not by stripping away his powers, but by giving him a broken heart to mend. In a landscape of cynical deconstructions, this film dares to look up at the sun and smile, even while acknowledging the shadows it casts.