MISSED POTENTIAL: IN "SUPERGIRL" IMITATION ISN'T FLATTERY, BUT CRUTCH.

Supergirl is annoying.

Not "Kara Zor-El", the character created by Otto Binder and Al Plastino in 1959. After nearly seven decades of constant reboots, reinvention, redundancy, resurrection, and reinterpretation across various entertainment mediums, Supergirl  has earned her place in the DC pantheon.

What’s annoying is sitting through a film containing so much squandered potential. There are disappointing movies, and then there are frustrating movies. Supergirl is both.

Directed by Craig Gillespie (Cruella, I, Tonya), the story follows Kara Zor-El as she wanders the galaxy carrying the guilt of being the last survivor of Argo City of Krypton. She travels to galaxies containing red suns to lose her Kryptonian powers so as to numb herself with alcohol and fisticuffs. When she crosses paths with Ruthye (Eve Ridley; The Witcher; Isadora Moon), a young woman bent on revenge against the mercenary Krem (Matthias Schoenaerts; Rust and Bone), she is forced to aid her in her quest when the mission becomes suddenly and immediately personal.

On paper, it’s a compelling premise. 

On screen, it’s egregiously detached.

Ana Nogueira’s screenplay (based on the controversial Tom King-penned maxiseries "Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow") should have been a haunting meditation on survivor’s guilt. However, the screenplay repeatedly informs us of Kara’s emotional wounds but rarely allows us to experience them organically via performance. Instead of discovering her pain through action and choice, the audience is frequently asked to accept it axiomatically because the dialogue insists upon it. "Implication" replaces "development" and "exposition" replaces "trauma". It violates a major rule of visual fiction: "Show; don't tell".

Milly Alcock (House of the Dragon) does her best with the material given her. She fills in many (but not all) of those emotional gaps through performance alone. She conveys exhaustion, regret, guarded compassion, biting cynicism and, most importantly, PTSD even when the dialogue doesn’t fully support it. Her chemistry with Eve Ridley, who in many ways acts as her foil, is extremely effective. Together, they provide the film’s strongest emotional current. That dynamic is the film's strongest point.

The cinematography is a CGI-laden visual wonder. Gillespie and his creative team construct a galaxy that wears it's Star Wars, Blade Runner, and Mad Max influences on it's proverbial sleeve. The dusty, amber-hued dystopian set design reflects Kara’s emotional isolation, creating imagery that often communicates Kara's state of being more effectively than the screenplay itself.

A hero is only as good as their nemesis. Unfortunately, Matthias Schoenaerts’ "Krem" never becomes the monster the story desperately needs. Or rather, not in the way the film requires. He’s neither terrifying, engaging, charismatic, nor tragic. He’s merely irritating; gratingly so. A great villain elevates the hero. A mediocre villain simply occupies screen time. It's like "Mr. Ditkovitch" from the Sam Raimi Spider-Man films undergoes a villain arc wherein he suffers a mental break due to Peter Parker's chronic lateness with the rent and bedazzles his flesh and dons BDSM leather. That performance, if it can be called such, succeeds only in taking the viewer completely out of the film.

But the film's biggest problem is that it suffers from an identity crisis. It's not directed by DC Studios' head honcho James Gunn, but Gillespie tries to direct it as though it were. The film is replete with, shall we say, missapplied "Gunn-isms". Gunn has cultivated a recognizable cinematic identity over the past two decades. His films juxtapose absurd comedy with genuine pathos, "needle drops" with emotional sincerity, grotesque violence with childlike optimism. and manages to deftly juggle irreverence with solmentiy and gravitas. Gunn knows how to take those ingredients and turn them into a satisfying recipe of entertainment. That's Gunn's vision.  While Gillespie shares some of those sensibilities, films like Cruella (2021) show he has his own unique voice which is unfortunately muted here. That’s the difference between an aesthetic and an authorial voice. Aesthetic can be copied. A specific voice cannot.

Supergirl repeatedly borrows the external trappings of a James Gunn film—its irreverent humor, eccentric supporting characters, sudden tonal pivots, and self-aware dialogue—but without the underlying narrative architecture that makes those choices feel organic. The result isn’t homage. It’s imitation. Given the success of last year's Superman (directed by Gunn), it's not surprising that that route was taken. The rub is that imitation, no matter how technically proficient, almost always evokes the original and robs the imitator of it's own identity.

For example, the aformentioned "needle drops" made sense in Gunn's Guardians of The Galaxy trilogy because they were organic to the character of Starlord/Peter Jason Quill. The use of familiar "Earth" music in Guardians wasn’t simply a stylistic flourish. Peter Quill literally carried those songs into space. They were his last tangible connection to home, to his mother, and to the life stolen from him as a child. Every song had narrative justification. In Supergirl, similar musical choices often feel decorative rather than motivated. At one point, alien characters are effectively performing Earth songs despite having no meaningful connection to Earth itself. Damnation by misapplication. It’s a small detail, but it illustrates a much larger issue. The film remembers what Gunn did but forgets why he did it.

Jason Momoa’s "Lobo" is another example. Jason Momoa clearly has the time of his life playing the character he has said in interviews he was born to play. You can’t fake that kind of enthusiasm. Every scene crackles with energy because Momoa completely understands the assignment (even though he's playing an "R" character in a "PG-13"-rated film). He revels in it. Unfortunately, in this film the character is practically unnecessary. His presence serving only to signal that this is still the same interconnected DC Universe established by Gunn. The irony is that Supergirl shouldn't need that reassurance. If anything, it needs the confidence to stand on its own. Instead, Lobo occasionally feels like a guest star wandering in from a different movie—one whose tonal identity is already fully formed. Take him out of the procedings, and it wouldn't affect the story one bit.

Claudia Sarne's score is servicable. Rather than supporting scenes, it attempts to manufacture emotions the screenplay hasn’t earned, which only highlights the scenes' deficiencies. 

David Corenswet’s brief appearances as "Clark/Superman" provide some of the film’s clearest emotional moments. Rather than overshadowing Kara, they quietly reinforce who she is—and more importantly, who she isn’t. In many ways, those scenes reveal the movie that Supergirl might have been.

This isn’t a bad film. It’s a fragmented one. Its performances are stronger than its screenplay. Its imagery is stronger than its storytelling, and its ambitions exceed its execution.

Ultimately, Supergirl is enjoyable enough as it unfolds, but leaves surprisingly little emotional residue once it’s over. Like so many popcorn summer blockbusters, it’s easy to consume. It’s simply harder to remember. By the time the credits roll, Supergirl has left remarkably little behind besides attractive imagery and unrealized potential.

And that is the greatest disappointment of all.

THIS IS THE WAY...TO MAKE A "STAR WARS" FILM: "The Mandalorian and Grogu" is a Long-Awaited Return in Both Character and Form.

Everybody’s favorite space ninja daddy is back, and it is a welcome return indeed.

Of all of Disney’s ventures into a galaxy far far away since acquiring "Star Wars", arguably the most successful has been "The Mandalorian".

What began, according to expectation, as a straightforward bounty hunter television series took a sharp and unexpected left turn when it introduced the world to perhaps the most endearing animatronic creation in recent memory: Grogu, still affectionately known in many circles as "Baby Yoda". That single creative decision transformed what could have been a competent but conventional streaming adventure into something genuinely resonant. It became not merely a story about survival and duty, but about found family. The series was such a phenomenon that it effectively commandeered two episodes of "The Book of Boba Fett" to continue its own narrative momentum. Even with a somewhat uneven third season, its popularity endured. Now, those adventures make the leap to the big screen for the first time in "The Mandalorian & Grogu" (whose title borrows heavily from the Japanese series "Lone Wolf and Cub", as much as "Star Wars" heavily borrowed from "The Hidden Fortress" (1958), and the transition proves well worth the wait.

The story picks up shortly after the events of the third season, with Din Djarin working alongside the New Republic, tracking down high-ranking fugitive Imperial officers. When one such target proves particularly difficult to apprehend, the Mandalorian (brought to life through the collective efforts of Pedro Pascal, Brendan Wayne, and Lateef Crowder) finds himself reluctantly accepting a bounty from the surviving Hutts to retrieve Rotta the Hutt., the late Jabba's only child

Naturally, things are not so simple.

What follows is a classic Star Wars adventure, one that understands the appeal of kinetic action and interstellar spectacle, but wisely keeps its emotional center fixed on the bond between Din and Grogu.

While the Disney+ series was often impressive in scope, television budgetary limitations inevitably constrained what could be done with Grogu as a practical effect. Here, freed by theatrical scale and resources, the character is finally allowed to evolve physically and dramatically. Grogu is no longer merely the adorable companion designed to elicit audience affection. He matures. He acts. He becomes the capable presence the series has long hinted he would become. In many ways, this is less Din Djarin’s story than Grogu’s.

Din remains what storytellers often call a "fixed character". His arc is relatively flat by design. He is already formed and morally centered. His role is not to undergo dramatic internal transformation but to act as the stabilizing force through which others grow. Here, it is Grogu who experiences that growth, and the film is stronger for recognizing this.

The picture is steeped in the DNA of classic Star Wars. There are subtle callbacks to the original trilogy and several cleverly placed Easter eggs, including nods to another beloved, long running star-based sci-fi franchise that observant viewers will catch.

If the film has a weakness, it is that its third act occasionally drags in pacing. Yet even this slowdown serves a purpose. The extra breathing room allows the emotional beats to land and humanizes what lesser hands might have reduced to little more than CGI spectacle populated by two-dimensional figures.

Among the performances, the standout is undoubtedly Sigourney Weaver. What could have easily been stunt casting instead becomes one of the film’s more unexpectedly effective elements. Her role as Colonel Ward is not merely an Easter egg for genre enthusiasts; it provides an important grounding presence and creates several moments of genuine warmth, particularly in her interactions with Grogu.

As a director, Jon Favreau, working from a story crafted alongside Dave Filoni, is not attempting to reinvent cinema. Nor does he need to. His direction is tight, efficient, and refreshingly clear. In an era where large-scale CGI action frequently devolves into incomprehensible visual noise, Favreau maintains coherence and momentum throughout. Every set piece is readable. Every action beat has weight.

The production design deserves special praise. It is sleekly retro, modernized without abandoning the tactile lived-in aesthetic that made George Lucas’ original universe feel tangible. This is Star Wars as it should look: futuristic but weathered, mythic but grounded.

Then there is the welcome return of composer Ludwig Göransson, whose familiar themes remain among the strongest musical contributions to the franchise in decades. His score carries the same adventurous spirit once embodied by John Williams, while still retaining its own identity.

"The Mandalorian & Grogu" does not break new cinematic ground. What it does instead is something perhaps more valuable: it recaptures the rollercoaster, feel-good spirit of the original 1977 film. This is adventure cinema with heart.

At its core, this is a story about parenthood — specifically adoptive parenthood — and the lengths one will go to protect a child entrusted to their care. Din Djarin has always been Grogu’s protector, but here he makes a compelling case for something deeper. He is not merely guardian. He is "father" in the truest sense of the word

If you are looking for spacefaring thrills, edge-of-your-seat action, and a story with genuine emotional sincerity, then the journey with "The Mandalorian and Grogu" is well worth taking.

GRIDLOCKED: "TRON: ARES" - Fire Without Flame

 

Red is a potent color. It’s the color of passion, of fire. It’s primal — wilder, volatile,  dangerous. It inspires. It enrages. It inflames. Tron: Ares is drenched in it. Saturated with it. So how does a film so steeped in the palette of intensity end up feeling so tepid?

This is the paradox of Tron: Ares: a film that looks like a live wire but plays like a dying ember. Where its predecessor, Tron: Legacy (2010), swam in cool, immersive blues and managed to feel as if it was it's own world; one which was grand, tactile, and alive, this latest entry in a multi-generational franchise never truly takes off.

The story follows Julian Dillinger (played by Evan Peters), the grandson of Ed Dillinger from the original Tron. Now at the helm of ENCOM, Julian oversees the creation of two advanced security programs — Ares (Jared Leto, who also serves as one of the films many executive producers) and Athena (Jodie Turner-Smith). Their mission: locate Eve Kim (Greta Lee), a scientist whose discovery could transform not just ENCOM, but the real world itself.

As the mission unfolds, Ares realizes Julian views all resources — human and digital — as expendable. His programmed neutrality begins to fracture. But his evolution, such as it is, remains conceptual rather than visceral.

The Visual Spectacle That Comes Too Late

To be fair, as an extended Nine Inch Nails music video, this film is spectacular. An acoustical/visual feast. Under the direction of Joachim Rønning, the production leans fully into AI-assisted CGI technology to deliver a shimmering, immersive audio-visual experience. Tron: Ares is beautiful to look at and often hypnotic to listen to. But we are far past the point where this kind of spectacle can stun by its existence alone. AI-infused digital landscapes have saturated the blockbuster market. What might have been revolutionary ten years ago is now simply...expected.

The score, courtesy of Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, gives the film its pulse. Hell, its life! Their signature sound — haunted, industrial, and precise — anchors the film with a sonic texture that’s unmistakable and distinctly it's own as Daft Punk's confluence of synth and classical was to Legacy. Yet even their efforts can’t compensate for a story that struggles to ignite.

Though to be fair, I wonder if implied expectation comes at play here. After all it's been fifteen (!) years between Trons Legacy and Ares (still shorter than the time between the original Tron and Legacy, which was twenty-eight (!!)). While it's argulable that Legacy itself was an extended Daft Punk video, it still had a story it could latch onto. While the first postulated what would happen if the man was in the machine, the second lived up to the title by anchoring it with a relatable generational conflict dynamic. Here, being the third entry in the franchise, Tron: Ares tries to “flip the script.” The first two films explored what happens when humans fall into the digital grid. This time, the question is inverted: What happens when AI constructs cross into the real world?

It’s a compelling idea — one implied and left hanging in the wake of Legacy. But here, the execution falters. The rules of the grid don’t map cleanly onto reality, and the film doesn’t invest in the narrative scaffolding to make that leap believable. To say more would tread into spoiler territory, but the concept deserves far more than what it receives.. 

Let[o] Down and The Real MVP

I’ll admit a personal bias: I don’t think much of Jared Leto as an actor. Yet, on paper, the role of Ares seems tailored to his range — or rather, his  lack thereof. Ares is a security program who begins to develop independent consciousness while grappling with human emotion and empathy. He starts as a blank slate. Unfortunately, he ends as one, too. The character’s arc never quite lands on the moment of revelation it promises.

Evan Peters' Dillinger plays as Mark Zuckerberg and Nicholas Hoult's Lex Luthor's love child. Greta Lee plays the resourceful but ostensible living maguffin/damsel in distress, and the presumed human heart of the film. Her character's backstory is tailored to inspire sympathy and empathy, but her performance is such that she could have pulled it off without it. She is engaging, and tries to establish some sort of connection with Ares, with varying degrees of result depending on the scene. 

Fan-favorite Gillian Anderson is squandered as Elizabeth Dillinger, reduced to little more than narrative wallpaper. And while it’s almost a tradition that you can’t have Tron without Jeff Bridges, his brief return here reads more like contractual obligation than creative spark.

However, Jodi Turner-Smith is the film’s MVP. Her Athena — designed as an equal blank slate — radiates quixotically coldly furious presence. Focused, ruthless, electric. She embodies the film’s red palette in a way the protagonist never manages to. Her fury is arresting, her precision riveting. Without her performance, this film would have little pulse at all. 

A Flicker Without Flame

I tried to give this film the benefit of the doubt. I truly did. But somewhere deep in the third act, I found myself drifting — not out of fatigue, but boredom. That's never a good sign when I walked in wide awake.

Tron: Ares was supposed to be a triumphant return — a bold leap forward for a franchise built on the intersection of light and code. Instead, while it's  beautiful to look at and hypnotic to hear, to borrow and paraphrase from a scribe way more talented than me, it’s a kaleidoscope of sound and fury, but ultimately signifying nothing. Tron: Ares is a triumph of polish over pulse. In a story about fire, it's the chill that lingers.

ACC PODCAST: DISCUSSION OF THE DANIEL CRAIG ERA OF BOND AND GOING DOWN THE AMAZON.

 

The latest American Culture Critic Podcast is live. In this episode I and my special guest, Bond aficionado James Alexander Ramos discuss the ups and downs of the recently completed Daniel Craig era of James Bond films, and speculate on the recent purchase of the Bond franchise by the corporate behemoth known as Amazon.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CP0HjCeOVEo

FIRESIDE CHAT: THE AMERICAN CULTURE CRITIC PODCAST

The latest ACC podcast is live! More laid back fireside-chat-type episdoe between me and my bruddah-from-anuddah-muddah and ranconteur Louis Rosas-Guyon as we discuss what we think makes sci-fi/fantasy good.

https://youtu.be/-QfiZEPoZF4?si=viDql9JYkgvqZImt

TWO PODCASTS FOR THE NON-PRICE OF ONE!

The American Culture Critic was busy this month, celebrating both the past and the present.

The Past: I was invited by the guys over at Team Insomniac to participate in their Triptych podcast to discuss the quasi-triology that is the Richard Donner/Richard Lester/Bryan Singer "Superman" films as someone who was actually their for their initial screenings (where's my power chair). Much snark was bandied and fun was had. You can catch it here: 

https://open.spotify.com/episode/4MD3WjsnT9g50UvuKg3CS3?si=hfsNsaxPRLqHUIVLPBfVUQ

The Present: It's the American Culture Critic Podcast, discussing not only James Gunn's "Superman (2025) (review of which you can scroll down for); but also "Fantastic Four: First Steps" (also reviewed below) and the upswing shift in tone in response to the current socio-political climate. You can find it at 

https://youtu.be/IXQ71UdVSQY?si=15e8FRgahFJgvZdL 

Hope you'll give both a listen and subscribe if you like the content. 

IT'S STEPPIN' UP TIME: "Fantastic Four: First Steps" Is, Well, Y'Know...Fantastic.

Pendulums are funny things.Start one up, and it’ll swing to extremes—loudly, dramatically, unavoidably. But with time and friction, it slows. It softens. It finds a middle ground. Pendulums aren’t just physical curiosities; they’re metaphors. For thought, for politics, for taste—and yes, for filmmaking.

Especially superhero filmmaking.

When Superman: The Movie hit theaters in 1978, it wasn’t the first big-budget superhero film ever made—but it was the first to be treated as an event. A myth brought to life with budget, sincerity, and craft. But with each sequel, that gravity gave way to excess and ridiculousness. Then Batman (1989) restarted the pendulum’s swing, this time toward darker, moodier territory (with its franchise experiencing its own descent into (further) absurdity until its reboot with Batman Begins, which brought it's own strum and drang of pessimism. That trajectory continued through the aughts and culminated with Man of Steel—a visually stunning, philosophically dense, and controversial attempt to reframe the superhero as something both godlike and painfully human. The Sony's Spider-Man films (both the trilogy and the duology) and Fox's X-Men films followed this trend (though somewhat better suited for these franchises), and one of the major arguments leveled against Marvel Studios' output in the past few years is that it has thematically taken itself way too seriously (Marvel Television's She-Hulk and Ms. Marvel aside). 

But now the pendulum is swinging again.

Like Superman 2025 (reviewed on this blog) Fantastic Four: First Steps feels like a response to the cultural fatigue of grim realism and bloated continuity. It’s not a rejection of seriousness, but a reclamation of joy. For Marvel, it feels prophetic—and just cheeky enough—to call this film "First Steps". After a divisive few years, it does feel like a beginning. And more importantly, a correction.

Set in an alternate universe outside the tangled mainline MCU, Fantastic Four: First Steps uses its premise to its advantage. It’s a reset, and in that way, self-aware. The film opens on a version of Earth that borders on utopia, thanks to the scientific advancements of Reed Richards (Pedro Pascal), Susan Storm (Vanessa Kirby), Johnny Storm (Joseph Quinn), and Ben Grimm (Ebon Moss-Bachrach). Their accomplishments have elevated civilization—until the arrival of the Herald.

That would be Jamie Gardner’s Silver Surfer, an ethereal, morally burdened emissary warning of an incoming cosmic force: Galactus. This devourer of worlds threatens everything the Four have built—and forces them into a dilemma that could cost them one of their own. The stakes are cosmic, but the story stays grounded in the personal. Sacrifice looms. Family is tested. But the film never loses its soul.

Visually, the film is a retro-futuristic triumph. Its design evokes a World’s Fair vision of the future—mid-century optimism spliced with sleek, modern minimalism. Think Disney's Tomorrowland, but lived-in. Think "Kirby crackle" meets "Mad Men". Production design leans into a kind of mid-century futurism—a retro-futuristic world that fuses 1960s optimism with modern sensibility. It’s all gleaming towers, brushed chrome, clean lines, and Kirby-inspired tech. It feels hopeful. It feels lived in. And most importantly, it feels different from the apocalyptic tone of the last two decades. Director Matt Shakman leans hard into this aesthetic, grounding the film in an era that never was but feels eternal. This marriage of retro and now isn’t just stylistic; it’s thematic. Fantastic Four isn’t interested in grim dystopia. It wants to show you a world worth saving—and that matters.

Composer Michael Giacchino, known for his lush orchestrations and thematic clarity, provides a score that does feel familiar—at times echoing his work on Star Trek (2009). The main theme recurs frequently, maybe too frequently, but his talent lies in emotional modulation.Like John Williams before him, Giacchino knows how to shift tone, tempo, and instrumentation to match emotion. The repetition becomes an emotional throughline. By film’s end, the repetition doesn’t grate—it comforts. It becomes the heartbeat of the story.

Cinematically, the Fantastic Four have had a rough road. The Tim Story films were awkward, tonally uneven. The Josh Trank reboot… best left in the Negative Zone.

But here, the casting and chemistry work. Indeed, they are the selling point of the film. Pedro Pascal brings gravitas and restraint to Reed Richards. Joseph Quinn’s Johnny Storm is charismatic and grounded. Moss-Bachrach’s Ben Grimm adds emotional heft beneath the gruffness, though the traditional banter between Thing and Torch is more subdued than fans might expect.The standout, though, is Vanessa Kirby. Her Susan Storm is the heart and engine of the film. While Reed may be the intellectual leader, it's Sue who commands emotional authority. The film heavily leans into themes of maternal protection and emotional resilience, making her arc not just central—but essential. In many ways, it’s her movie. 

Ralph Ineson's "Galactus"...see for yourself. 

Regarding the "Silver Surfer" controversy, consider this. While purists might lament the absence of Norrin Radd’s backstory in this version of the Silver Surfer, the creative liberties taken here are consistent with the film’s themes, particularly those relating to family. The reinterpretation feels earned and helps tie the Surfer's conflict directly into the group’s climactic decisions.

Like Superman, First Steps is saturated in bright color—visually and emotionally. Blues, whites, silvers. Not just costumes, but skylines; crafting an identity and world in and of itself truly separate from the main MCU. Just as important, the public wants their heroes. Yes, there's a moment of backlash. A crisis of trust. But the film doesn’t wallow in cynicism. Instead, it reaffirms the social contract between powered protectors and the people they serve.

It’s a movie about hope. About family. About new beginnings.

And it’s not afraid to smile.

If superhero fatigue is real, then Fantastic Four: First Steps is a jolt of cinematic B-12. It’s not ironic, but it is self-aware. It doesn’t apologize for being hopeful, colorful, and at times earnestly emotional. Instead, it embraces those things—and dares you to do the same.

Much like the pendulum that started this review, this film is a swing back toward equilibrium. A reminder that these stories don’t have to be sermons or punchlines. They can just be fantastic.

For Marvel Studios, Fantastic Four: First Steps is a step in the right direction.