Superman (2025) Review: James Gunn’s Superhero Misfire of Galactic Proportions

Superman (2025) Review: James Gunn’s Superhero Misfire of Galactic Proportions.
Spoilers ahead—not massive ones, but enough that if you haven’t seen Superman yet, proceed with cautious curiosity. 

Let me start by declaring my allegiance upfront: I’m a James Gunn fan. Truly. His filmmaking style has long resonated with me, and I’ve enthusiastically enjoyed almost every project with his name attached. But this time? This time, Gunn took a swing so wide that it practically circled the Earth before missing entirely. Superman is, in no uncertain terms, a staggering disappointment—and I say that as someone who typically finds something redeemable in even the most flawed of blockbusters.

This film marked the first time in my cinematic memory that I seriously contemplated walking out. Not joking. About an hour in, I was ready to bolt. It was that bad.

Let’s start somewhere—anywhere. How about Krypto, Superman’s canine companion? The digital dog who’s supposed to charm the audience into a collective “aww”? Not a chance. Krypto is hands-down one of the most obnoxious pet characters I’ve ever seen on screen. Not cute. Not quirky. Not emotionally engaging. Just a tedious binary creation shoved into scenes where he somehow manages to drain energy rather than add to it. I couldn’t connect with him at all—and unfortunately, that disconnect extended to every other character in the film. The writing and development across the board was so shallow and unfeeling that none of the characters earned my empathy or even basic interest.

Now let’s talk Superman himself. David Corenswet steps into the iconic cape, and while I’m sure he’s a capable performer, this iteration of the Man of Steel did him no favors. He makes a more palatable Clark Kent than Superman, but even that’s faint praise. The character spends most of the film getting pounded, obliterated, and generally tossed around like a rag doll. Yes, vulnerability can add depth—but this went beyond humanizing into outright humiliation. Watching Superman repeatedly get steamrolled didn’t stir pathos; it stirred frustration. I was this close to exiting the theater, and I’ve never done that before.

Corenswet simply wasn’t convincing as Earth’s most powerful metahuman. His emotional delivery never matched the gravity of the character, and while that’s partially the fault of the script, it was hard to find much light in his portrayal. The writing undermines him again and again, painting Superman not as a symbol of hope but a punching bag in tights.

The runtime clocks in at two hours and nine minutes, but it feels double that. Every scene drags as we’re forced to endure illogical setups and forced story beats. Take the central love story between Clark and Lois—it’s rushed, unearned, and unconvincing. Their declarations of love land with a thud, and I couldn’t care less when those sentiments were exchanged. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t stirring. It was hollow sentimentality presented without context.

Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane fares no better. Like her co-star, she tries—genuinely tries—but the script does her zero favors. Her actions often make no sense (she literally hops into an alien spacecraft built by Mr. Terrific and flies it like she’s a seasoned pilot, with no explanation whatsoever). It’s baffling. And when it comes to crafting meaningful emotional arcs or character moments, Gunn completely misses the mark. Again.

And then there’s Lex Luthor. Nicholas Hoult’s portrayal had me cringing—and not in a good “wow, the villain’s scary” way. This Lex isn’t menacing; he’s whiny, screechy, and utterly unbelievable. His bizarre chants of weapon codes like “A-13!! D-33!! A-1!!” made me feel like I was watching someone rage in a video game rather than a genius-level adversary. It lacked gravitas, coherence, and anything resembling intelligent villainy.

Skyler Gisondo’s Jimmy Olsen? Flat. Lifeless. Introduced with no dimension and no purpose. Just there. Like a cardboard cutout propped beside Superman.

The so-called “Justice Gang” consisting of Nathan Fillion’s Green Lantern, Isabela Merced’s Hawkgirl, and Edi Gathegi’s Mr. Terrific offered some brief respite. Fillion, in particular, provided the only glimmer of charisma in the whole enterprise. It was fleeting, yes—but at least it existed.

The ending sequence is absurdly surreal: Superman lounging at the Fortress of Solitude, watching holographic videos of his youth—despite Ma and Pa Kent being very much alive and able to share those memories face-to-face. Enter Supergirl, tripping over herself in a drunken stupor. Apparently, she got lit somewhere in the galaxy under a red sun (because Earth’s yellow sun doesn’t allow her to get drunk? Even though she’s clearly on Earth?). It’s explained with the finesse of a bad improv sketch and left me asking, “Seriously, what am I watching?”

Post-credit scenes? Yes, two of them. And not a single moment provided a compelling reason to continue with this cinematic universe. Neither scene teases anything intriguing. They don’t push the story forward or plant seeds of anticipation. They exist solely because post-credit scenes are now obligatory. And yet even in that, they fail.

I enter every film with an open heart and an open mind, ready to be surprised, moved, entertained. Superman slammed those doors shut. This was a disjointed, frustrating, poorly executed launchpad for the “new” DC cinematic universe. If this is the foundation, it’s already cracked—and what follows may not be worth building.

-Jay Katz