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There are reasons why Superman is my least favourite superhero. For one, he lacks the unabashed arrogance and charm of Batman -— now forever immortalised as the Dark Knight. Two, he’s never possessed Spiderman’s humility or self-deprecating humour. But for any DC Comics’ fan, Superman is the embodiment of all qualities that make an ideal American superhero — a conflicted childhood, a high moral compass that leaves no room for showing off his prowess (unlike the cheeky Batman) and, of course, superhuman abilities like X-ray vision, flying and laser eyes that can cauterise wounds.
But what is Superman without his all-powerful albeit meaningful “S”? It is this question that had me flummoxed as I sat through Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel, the new addition to the multi-million dollar Superman franchise. My expectations were high — the producer, after all, is Christopher Nolan, the man behind the masterful The Dark Knight trilogy. Which is why I am sorely disgruntled and disappointed. The “S” emblazoned across Superman’s toned chest, we are told, now stands for a rather unimaginative sentiment — “hope”.
The film opens with a cataclysmic event — planet Krypton (the birthplace of Superman as Kal-El, as all comic fans will know) is mired in what can only be explained as extremely complex environmental issues. Thus, it is now unstable and is headed towards inevitable destruction. Papa Superman or Jor-El (a very British, dignified Russell Crowe who looms across the film as his own “consciousness”) revolts against the military forces who want to perform their own version of breed selection. And so we meet our villain — an intense General Zod, played impressively by Michael Shannon. A jaw-dropping action sequence — best enjoyed in 3D — follows and Krypton explodes. The rest is history. Baby superman arrives on earth in a spaceship and is raised as Clark Kent by god-fearing parents (Kevin Costner and Diane Lane, both underutilised).
While Snyder may be applauded for tweaking the original and lending a rather gloomy fatalism to the narrative, I am not convinced. Now, the new Superman, a body beautiful Henry Cavill who storms into the film topless — he is literally on fire as he tries to save an inflamed oil rig — fails to do justice to America’s most-loved superhero. While he struggles to express his conflict (should he tell the world what he is?), his rippling muscles get the better of him. If someone told you that you were the answer to the loaded question — “Are we alone in this universe?” — would you be shocked, ecstatic, nervous or terrified, at least? A younger Superman looks mildly surprised, if not bored. Before saving the world from yet another apocalypse, he seeks advice from a nervous priest whose audible gulp makes for the only funny moment in the film.
It’s futile to talk about how much I missed iconic characters like Lex Luthor, the treacherous Yin to Superman’s Yang, or Jimmy Olsen, the bumbling reporter. But the character which Snyder fails to exploit or develop is Amy Adams’ lacklustre Lois Lane, who seems determined to babysit our hero through the many apocalyptic events in this two-hours-and-counting tale. Adams does her best to make Lois fiery, but the cluttered plot fails her as much as it fails us. The chemistry between Adams and Cavill is nearly absent.
The saving grace then are the grandiose special effects that make minor developments to the plot — Superman thrashing around his neighbourhood to avenge Zod or the destruction of Krypton — a pleasure to watch.
Sequels will follow. I suggest Cavill pick up a comic or two to understand where Clark Kent ends and Superman begins.
