By Juan Barquin
By Amy Nicholson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Travis Cohen
By Juan Barquin
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Amy Nicholson
By Juan Barquin
In all this carping, I don't want to overlook the fact that much of the movie works. The Kansas material is affecting—he wears a Royals shirt!—and the superhero battles here are the first I've ever seen onscreen that measure up to the scale of actual comic books. The lengthy battle in downtown Smallville is a legitimate marvel, a rare case where the too-muchness (your phrase!) of movies like this seems a form of generous madness. To say that every punch looks like a million bucks is to lowball the pricey, creative mayhem.
The later fights are bigger still but lack that first one's clarity, and they're also more afflicted by the problem you mention: Rather than destroy such wide swaths of Metropolis, the Superman the world has loved for so many decades would find a way to take the battle elsewhere. There's glory in the moment he and Zod smash each other into a goddamn satellite, but the movie offers no explanation for why Clark can't continue to chuck him into lower Earth orbit—and actually save some of the lives he's been sent to save.
And then, at the end, to save a handful of lives, this Superman dares what no previous Superman would. [EVEN BIGGER SPOILERS THAN BEFORE, PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY.] Coldly, like the morally compromised hero of some spy flick, our Superman snaps the neck of his antagonist, which is exactly what Jesus would not have done. Or Superman, as most of humanity has understood him. Glen Weldon, author of Superman: The Unauthorized Biography, has assured me: In thousands of comics, Superman has only killed, once—a couple Kryptonians who annihilated every living person on an alternate Earth. He then exiled himself to space for a year; this Superman, by contrast, seems to punish himself with journalism school.
There's lots of talk of ideals in the Superman movies and comics—isn't the point of ideals that they're held to even in the face of serious adversity? And isn't the point of Superman that his humanity is greater even than his powers, and that with those powers he can achieve the most humanistic of ends? So why does he cave in to the temptation that James T. Kirk avoided just a month ago in Star Trek Into Darkness? As he's got Zod choke-held in Metropolis' knock-off Grand Central Station, why doesn't Superman up-up-and-away them both through the ceiling? Or burn an eye-ray hole in the floor? Or blow the civilians to safety with his super-breath? Why does he not spirit Zod to the Arctic, imprison him in some hokey/fantastic Super Jail, and then have to explain to the world that we have to trust him on this one?
In short, why in the hell does Superman kill? And what does it mean that Snyder, Nolan, DC, and Warner Brothers think this is what the world wants?
To: Alan Scherstuhl
From: Stephanie Zacharek
That idea of "We'll have to trust him on this one"—that's essential to the spirit of Superman, and Man of Steel isn't completely ignorant of that. I love that moment where Superman is led to jail in handcuffs, and Lois looks at them quizzically—like, can't he just melt those dumb things away? And he explains that if wearing the handcuffs willingly makes people more comfortable with him, he's fine with it.
Superman can do anything—just about—which is why people have loved him for years. As you've said, Alan, he has so many other options open to him: melting a hole in the floor, anything. He has all these tools that mean he doesn't have to kill a man. Plus, he's just a really good guy. So why, in this version of the Superman story, does he kill? It's untrue to the spirit of the character, but maybe worse yet, it makes him like every other bozo who "just can't take it anymore" and loads 100 bullets into someone. Well, OK, it's a little more visceral than that. But still—Superman should have a greater sense of honor than this, and he should also have his wits around him, even if he is fallible.
That moment breaks faith with the audience, and it makes Man of Steel not more affecting but more generic. It's very much like every other blockbuster out there—where there's so much destruction and mayhem that nothing really registers that much. It seems that Snyder, David Goyer, and Nolan feel they have to push the character to his limits or the audience won't care anymore. But there are millions of ways to make an audience care just with the structure of a scene, or by trusting your actors. Last summer's The Amazing Spider-Man was a terrific example—in retrospect, that was one of the rare recent quiet superhero movies, one that relied largely on the strengths and charms of its actors, Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone. (Not to mention Sally Field, who may have given a better performance as Aunt May than she did as Mary Todd Lincoln.) That's what really frustrates me about Man of Steel. Most of the actors, with the exception of Michael Shannon, who just does his trademark eyeball-bulge thing, are terrific, and Snyder is attuned to that. There are plenty of scenes where the performers get to do exactly what they do best. I've gone on and off Kevin Costner over the years, mostly off. But he brings just the right amount of common-sense gravity to Jonathan Kent. And Cavill makes a lovely Superman. There's something both confident and unassuming about him. It's really important that Superman be charming, something the filmmakers obviously understood. There's a lot that's right with Man of Steel. But in the end, maybe the filmmakers just didn't trust Superman enough.
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