NEW DAWN RISING: "Spider-Man: Brand New Day" Serves as A Mature Love Letter to The Character and A Meditation of Grief.

 

When it comes to modern superhero cinema, the buzzword is “realism”.

The problem is that “realism” has become one of the most misunderstood concepts in the genre. Sometimes realism means stripping away the fantasy elements and asking what a character like Batman or Superman would look like if they existed in our world. Sometimes it means embracing a bleak worldview where heroes are viewed with suspicion, idealism is treated as naïve, and morality exists only within shades of gray. Other times, realism becomes a form of self-aware irony, where the absurdity of superheroes themselves is presented in >wink wink, nudge nudge< fashion. However one slices it, the fact remains these interpretations of realism are simply different forms of cynicism. They confuse darkness with depth.

A superhero story does not become mature because the hero kills, because the world is miserable, or because the tone is relentlessly bleak. Those things can create a certain atmosphere, but atmosphere is not maturity.

True maturity comes from understanding consequences. It comes from examining what happens in the aftermath of battle. It comes from exploring grief, responsibility, sacrifice, relationships, and the emotional cost of being a hero. That is the difference between realism and verisimilitude. The greatest fantasy stories are not realistic because they remove the extraordinary. They are realistic because they make the extraordinary emotionally believable. This was something Richard Donner understood when he made Superman (1978). Donner did not make Superman compelling by diminishing him. He made him compelling by honoring the spirit of the material. And it wasn’t an isolated situation. Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) demonstrated that a comic book film could explore political complexity and moral uncertainty while still respecting the heroic ideals at its center. But too often, modern superhero cinema has mistaken grimness for adulthood.

Which is why Spider-Man: Brand New Day is such a refreshing surprise.

Because despite being a story about impossible abilities, advanced technology, and costumed heroes, it may be one of the most genuinely adult comic book films in years for a fairly simple reason: It remembers that this is a “Spider-Man” story.

Does Whatever The Spider Can.

One of Marvel Comics’ greatest innovations was combining two genres that had previously existed separately: superhero adventure and personal drama (i.e. soap opera/romance). By the late 1950s and early 1960s, superhero comics had lost much of their previous dominance, while romance and soap opera comics had developed their own audiences. Marvel’s revolutionary approach was to merge these styles, creating stories where the personal struggles of the characters were just as important as the battles they fought. Spider-Man became the ultimate expression of that philosophy.

Peter Parker was never compelling simply because he could defeat villains. He was compelling because underneath the mask was a person dealing with loneliness, responsibility, insecurity, relationships, and the consequences of his own choices. That is why Brand New Day feels like perhaps the closest cinematic representation of Spider-Man’s comic book roots.

The story takes place years after Peter Parker’s (Tom Holland) devastating decision in Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021), where the entire world forgets that Peter Parker exists. Everyone remembers Spider-Man, but no one remembers the person beneath the mask. Since then, he’s completely embraced his alter ego, dedicating himself solely to fighting crime complete with his own “Commissioner Gordon” in the form of Detective Jean DeWolff (Liza Colon-Zayas) and new AI assistant, E.V. (Naomi Watts). This creates a fascinating inversion of Spider-Man 2, where Tobey Maguire’s Parker attempts to escape the burden of being Spider-Man. Here, Holland’s Parker does the opposite. In the meantime, both MJ (Zendaya) and Ned (Jacob Batalon) have moved on with their lives without knowing he exists. On the flip side, Spider-Man is revered as a hero. So the tragedy is no longer that the world hates Spider-Man, but that the world has forgotten Peter Parker. That loss is immeasurable. It is the experience of losing something one cannot replace — a relationship, a version of oneself, a chapter of ones life — while the rest of the world continues moving forward.

The Spider v. The Man.

At first glance, Brand New Day appears to follow a traditional superhero formula. Peter becomes involved with Frank Castle (Jon Bernthal), better known as “The Punisher”, as they investigate a mystery involving Damage Control, the organization responsible for handling the aftermath of conflicts involving enhanced individuals. But director Destin Daniel Cretton, working from a screenplay by Chris McKenna and Erik Sommers, uses that premise as a foundation for something much deeper. The superhero elements are almost secondary but the core conflicts are emotional. The film explores themes of grief, trauma, acceptance, and learning how to move forward. This is where this film separates itself from many other interpretations of “realistic” superhero storytelling. It does not present trauma as an excuse for cynicism. It presents trauma as something human beings must confront.

Every major character is carrying some form of damage. Peter is isolated from the people who once defined his life. Frank continues to live with the loss of his family, allowing his pain to become his purpose. MJ and Ned feel like a part of them is missing, even if they cannot articulate it. The characters are not simply fighting external enemies, but parts of themselves shaped by loss. In fact, it lends believability to the Spider-Man/Punisher dynamic. They are mirror images of the other; cautionary tales. That is why the relationship between Spider-Man and the Punisher works so well. They represent two different responses to tragedy. Frank is consumed by grief while Parker is still searching for a reason to hope despite overwhelmingly palpable, deep sadness. The film understands that moving forward does not mean forgetting what happened. It means accepting that life continues even when parts of it are gone.

The Performances and Score Make the Emotional Weight Work

One of the smartest choices made by the production was allowing time to pass between installments and allowing the actors to naturally age into these roles. The characters feel older because the performers themselves have lived with them.

Tom Holland has completely claimed the character of Peter Parker/Spider-Man as his own, and it’s a testament to his acting that he’s developed a remarkable ability to communicate emotion while completely hidden behind Spider-Man’s mask. Through movement, posture, and physical expression alone, Holland conveys exhaustion, sadness, determination, and hope. It is the work of a performer who understands that Spider-Man’s humanity exists even when Peter Parker’s face cannot be seen.

John Bernthal has spent years portraying Frank Castle, bringing a brutal intensity and wounded humanity to the character. The challenge was whether that gritty “R” version of the Punisher could exist in a “PG” Spider-Man story. The answer is a resounding “yes”. The essence of Frank Castle remains intact — the anger, the pain, and the uncompromising pursuit of justice — but Peter Parker’s influence creates the possibility of change. In many ways, this is as much Frank Castle’s story as it is Peter Parker’s. The chemistry between Holland and Bernthal gives their scenes a natural emotional rhythm, allowing their differences to become the foundation of their connection.

Zendaya’s MJ and Batalon’s Ned also continue to provide the emotional foundation that has defined this era of Spider-Man films. The three have such a natural chemistry that it helps to underscore the tragic nature of their current reality. It’s familiar, but oh so different.

As of the time of this writing (late, for which I apologize) Sadie Sink’s role in the film is no secret. However, I will not spoil that here. Nevertheless, her character epitomizes the films themes and anchors it in brutal truth. She brings a powerful presence and serves as an effective counterpoint to Peter’s journey.

Every relationship in the film reflects another. Every character forces another to confront something they would rather avoid.

Even Michael Giacchino’s score reflects those themes in a compelling score that is familiar and in turns rousing and somber. It reflects the transformative nature of the characters both internally (in one respect more than any other) and amongst themselves.

A Brand New Beginning.

Ultimately, Spider-Man: Brand New Day is a story about endings and beginnings. It understands that life does not always provide closure. People leave. Relationships change. People change. Sometimes the person you were can never fully return. But that does not mean the future has no value.

The film refuses to wrap everything in a perfect bow. It allows uncertainty to exist (as is necessary for the inevitable films to close out this new trilogy). The Parker luck remains. But there is also a sense of possibility.

In a cinematic landscape filled with cynical heroes, grim interpretations, and endless ironic commentary, Spider-Man: Brand New Day feels refreshing because it believes in something. That heroism still matters. That compassion is not weakness. That hope can exist alongside pain.

The film gives this incarnation of Spider-Man a new coat of paint without simply repeating what came before. It allows these characters to evolve while preserving the qualities that made audiences care about them in the first place.

After years of Spider-Man stories, this does not feel like a return. It feels more like a...homecoming.

A brand new day, indeed.

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.