SUPERMAN RETURNS
Bryan Singer's Superman Returns is finally here, the product of a mere 13-year development whose unrelenting series of missteps and setbacks threatened to catapult the project up, up, and away. Wisely, Singer took a classic, let's-forget-III-and-IV approach and continues the story from the franchise's only respectable sequel, 1981's Superman II. Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, Singer's ace writers from X2, center the plot on the sudden disappearance of Superman/Clark Kent (Brandon Routh). For five years, the Daily Planet was without its pantywaist reporter, Lois Lane (Kate Bosworth) was heartbroken/pissed that he didn't say goodbye, and the world soldiered on without their savior. When he just as unexpectedly shows up again, Superman still has released convict Lex Luther (Kevin Spacey) to contend with. And poor Clark is stunned to find Lois with a fiancé, Richard (James Marsden), young asthmatic son, Jason (Tristan Lake Leabu), and a Pulitzer—for a piece entitled "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman." Superman Returns runs a potentially patience-testing 154 minutes, but don't be surprised if your focus never wanders to your watch. It's not without flaws. Routh and Bosworth's eye colors are unforgivingly inconsistent, for instance. And Frank Langella's Perry White is quite possibly the blandest editor-in-chief in film or reality. Most egregious, though, is the casting of Bosworth as Lois, who is supposed to be brash. A bit pushy. And, well, a woman: Take a look at the 23-year-old Bosworth's angelic, wide-eyed face, and she comes off like a prom queen with a fake I.D. When Superman Returns is good, however, it's very, very good. Singer's superhero can still fly faster than a speeding bullet, naturally, but in scenes that are nearly Spielberg-poetic, he also glides and floats, his deepened-red cape fluttering behind him. Routh is like Reeves reborn, both physically and in mannerisms (especially his goofy Kent). The script shines, romantic, funny, and occasionally aching, with a great turn near the end. And the effects: Singer thrillingly shows off his destructive range, including a spectacular Metropolis ball-dropping that's like a nightmare version of New Year's Eve, earthquakes, and an outstanding, claustrophobic touch of Poseidon. With reverence so admirably paid, this long-lost hero has received a rather fine welcome back.
Bryan Singer's Superman Returns is finally here, the product of a mere 13-year development whose unrelenting series of missteps and setbacks threatened to catapult the project up, up, and away. Wisely, Singer took a classic, let's-forget-III-and-IV approach and continues the story from the franchise's only respectable sequel, 1981's Superman II. Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, Singer's ace writers from X2, center the plot on the sudden disappearance of Superman/Clark Kent (Brandon Routh). For five years, the Daily Planet was without its pantywaist reporter, Lois Lane (Kate Bosworth) was heartbroken/pissed that he didn't say goodbye, and the world soldiered on without their savior. When he just as unexpectedly shows up again, Superman still has released convict Lex Luther (Kevin Spacey) to contend with. And poor Clark is stunned to find Lois with a fiancé, Richard (James Marsden), young asthmatic son, Jason (Tristan Lake Leabu), and a Pulitzer—for a piece entitled "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman." Superman Returns runs a potentially patience-testing 154 minutes, but don't be surprised if your focus never wanders to your watch. It's not without flaws. Routh and Bosworth's eye colors are unforgivingly inconsistent, for instance. And Frank Langella's Perry White is quite possibly the blandest editor-in-chief in film or reality. Most egregious, though, is the casting of Bosworth as Lois, who is supposed to be brash. A bit pushy. And, well, a woman: Take a look at the 23-year-old Bosworth's angelic, wide-eyed face, and she comes off like a prom queen with a fake I.D. When Superman Returns is good, however, it's very, very good. Singer's superhero can still fly faster than a speeding bullet, naturally, but in scenes that are nearly Spielberg-poetic, he also glides and floats, his deepened-red cape fluttering behind him. Routh is like Reeves reborn, both physically and in mannerisms (especially his goofy Kent). The script shines, romantic, funny, and occasionally aching, with a great turn near the end. And the effects: Singer thrillingly shows off his destructive range, including a spectacular Metropolis ball-dropping that's like a nightmare version of New Year's Eve, earthquakes, and an outstanding, claustrophobic touch of Poseidon. With reverence so admirably paid, this long-lost hero has received a rather fine welcome back.
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