James Gunn is, without question, one of the most imaginative directors in modern Hollywood. He has that rare talent to blend wit, warmth, and spectacle into a rhythm that’s effortlessly watchable. From the opening moments of Superman (2025), you feel that signature touch. The banter between Clark Kent and Lois Lane sparkles. Their private newsroom conversations feel intimate and alive. Gunn’s attention to small human details — the humor tucked into glances, the way ordinary people react to extraordinary situations — gives the first act a pulse of authenticity. For a while, it seems like Gunn has done the impossible: he’s brought Superman back down to Earth.
The early scenes promise a film that understands what made the character iconic in the first place — not just power, but presence. Clark feels human, endearing, and believable. You lean in because you care about him as a man first, hero second. For many viewers, these quiet moments of charm and humor outshine the rifts and skybeams that inevitably follow.
And then, somewhere past the midpoint, the narrative begins to unravel. The human heartbeat gives way to the thunder of CGI. The story starts bending not around Superman’s choices, but around the choices made for him. In a proper hero’s journey, the protagonist gets into trouble because of his own limitations — a lapse of judgment, a flaw of pride, an untested ideal. These errors summon the storm, forcing the hero to wrestle with consequence and rise renewed. But Gunn’s Superman never truly stumbles. He doesn’t fall from grace because of his own doing; instead, he’s framed, misunderstood, and manipulated by forces outside himself. He becomes, in essence, a victim of circumstance.
Lex Luthor masterminds a false narrative to turn the world against him, and Superman’s role becomes largely reactive. He defends, endures, and rescues, but rarely chooses in ways that redefine him. Even the final resolution isn’t the fruit of his insight or strategy; it’s his coworkers and allies who piece together the truth and expose Luthor’s deceit. The Justice League ensemble handles much of the heavy lifting, both literally and narratively. Superman, meanwhile, moves rubble, shields civilians, and ensures buildings don’t collapse — noble, yes, but narratively inert. By the time he leans in for the climactic kiss with Lois, it feels unearned, almost perfunctory — one of the least deserved kisses in recent cinematic memory. It’s as if the movie wanted the emotional payoff of a full heroic arc without ever letting its hero earn it.
This creative choice leaves the audience with an odd emptiness. Superman remains flawless, misunderstood, and vindicated — but unchanged. And in mythic storytelling, transformation is the soul of heroism. Without it, even the brightest savior can feel strangely distant.
Yet beneath the spectacle and charm, there’s a thread running quietly through the film that’s hard to ignore. Superman is portrayed as an alien outsider, struggling for acceptance in a world quick to fear difference. Lex Luthor, by contrast, is painted as the cynical nationalist — mistrusting, condescending, determined to expose the foreigner’s flaws. The dynamic feels deliberate: the noble immigrant versus the native skeptic. In today’s polarized climate, that metaphor echoes real-world political tensions, whether intended or not. To some viewers, Luthor’s disdain rings familiar, mirroring rhetoric from the right that fears unchecked immigration. To others, Superman’s grace feels like a plea from the left for empathy and inclusion.
Now, perhaps this is all coincidence — after all, Superman’s immigrant symbolism is as old as the character himself. But one can’t help imagining James Gunn, ever the clever craftsman, smiling to himself as he sprinkles in a theme that might play like a subtle wink to progressive audiences. Maybe he didn’t write it to preach, but to giggle — to earn knowing nods from left-leaning circles and a few admiring glances from politically-minded brunettes in the back row.
Whether intentional or subconscious, the result is a story that feels tilted toward commentary. Superman, the innocent outsider, suffers unjustly; Lex, the fearful insider, becomes the embodiment of intolerance. It’s not that the message is wrong — compassion over fear is timeless — but by shaping the conflict around ideological archetypes rather than personal choices, the film trades mythic depth for moral certainty.
And that, ultimately, is what keeps Superman (2025) from soaring into true greatness. A true hero’s journey isn’t about being right or just from the start. It’s about stumbling, seeing one’s own shadow, and choosing humility. The climax shouldn’t hinge on clearing a name but on clearing the heart. The most moving heroes don’t save the world through brute force; they save their world — their relationships, their integrity, their capacity to love. When they learn to forgive, to trust again, to act from grace rather than pride — that’s when the universe shifts. That’s when the kiss is deserved.
Superman (2025) is witty, heartfelt, and watchable, but it stops just short of myth. Gunn gives us a savior adored, not a soul transformed. And in stories that aim for timelessness, it’s not the mightiest who win our hearts — it’s the ones who fall, grow, and rise loving more than before.
Thanks,
Ira