My favorite part of this entire movie was getting to watch Russel Crowe die within the first 15 or so minutes—which almost made it worth dealing with him throughout the rest of the film. My only regret is that he couldn’t somehow have also taken the casting director down with him. Crowe as Jor-El, really? Well, they did choose the sexy lumberjack hipster model for Superman, which is bizarre in its own right. But hey, 2013, right? Progress.
I tried to find something to like about this film, I really did. But unfortunately it really just proved time and time again to be filled up with the usual Hollywood gobbledegook. A case of trying too hard to play to the mainstream audience, the film rushes from point to point in order to spit out a generic story that neither sets itself up as part of a powerful future trilogy, nor threatens to be remembered even a stone’s throw into the future. An example? Zod shows up on Earth, Earth learns about aliens and Kal-El turns himself over to Zod—all within five minutes of screen time. And most of that time was spent on a flashback.
If you’re like “whatever bro, I can diggit.” Good for you. Try to dig the cliché all-in-black treatment that the Kryptonians got, which robbed them of their entire culture. Oh, but they did get something in return, that’s right… flying animals to ride on, just like in Avatar. Because that’s what aliens do now.
Just on the topic of modernizing updates, there is no end to the fail. Superman kills someone. What the hell? I’ll ask it again: What the hell?
Even putting all of that nonsense aside, the worst part of the whole thing really boils down to being the utter lack of character development. This franchise has some of the richest characters ever created, yet Superman is presented to us with all the prowess and flare of a piece of card board. As for the inspiring, strong characters of Lois Lane and Martha Kent? Even less, both being relegated to a pathetic, subservient versions of themselves.
Unless you thought GI Joe: The Rise Of Cobra was awesome, save your money. Time and again Hollywood proves that no matter the pot of cultural treasure they are handed, there’s a will and a way to destroy it.
By Johnny Beaver