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.