Zlatko Burić – Movie Musings

A fun, character-led, engaging film that makes a better stab at starting a massive franchise

Director: James Gunn

Cast: David Corenswet (Clark Kent/Superman), Rachel Brosnahan (Lois Lane), Nicholas Hoult (Lex Luthor), Edi Gathegi (Mister Terrific), María Gabriela de Faría (The Engineer), Anthony Carrigan (Metamorpho), Nathan Fillion (Guy Gardner), Isabela Merced (Hawkgirl), Skyler Gisondo (Jimmy Olsen), Sara Sampaio (Eve Teschmacher), Wendell Pierce (Perry White), Pruitt Taylor Vince (Jonathan Kent), Neva Howell (Martha Kent), Zlatko Burić (President of Boravia), Frank Grillo (Rick Flagg), Bradley Cooper (Jor-El)

In 1978 Hollywood promised to make us believe a man could fly. In 2025 it just wants us to believe a franchise can be reborn. Superman, again, hopes the man of steel can launching a DCU franchise to compete with Marvel (in some ways, hilarious that this is just at the point when the world seems tired of interconnected monolith Comic Book worlds). Has it learned the lesson of the first attempt? I’d say yes: under the experienced hand of James Gunn, Superman is light, fun, exciting and engaging. It may all be (inevitably) heading towards a city-sized smackdown to save the world, but at least it does it with a bit of charm and character work along the way.

What it also definitely isn’t is an origins story. And, in many ways, thank God: is there anyone under this yellow sun that doesn’t know Superman is from Krypton, his alias is mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent at the Daily Planet, he’s got the hots for Lois Lane, his enemy is balding super-genius Lex Luther and he’s got a deadly fear of Kryptonite? Gunn is totally spot-on that we didn’t another hour plus on film laboriously putting all those pieces in place again.

Superman instead throws us straight into the second act: the invulnerable hero (David Corenswet) getting beaten for the first time, outmatched by Lex Luthor’s (Nicholas Hoult) Ultraman who has all of Superman’s powers and none of his personality. It’s part of a doom spiral where Superman’s decisions to unilaterally intercede in a war are condemned for overstepping, painful revelations about his past leave him ostracised by the world and he winds up imprisoned by Luthor who wants to reshape the world as he sees fit. Can reporting (and romantic) partner Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan) rope in the Justice Gang (a group of meta-human heroes) to help?

That probably doesn’t give quite a clear enough picture of what a barmy, primary-colour spectacle Superman is. To say it throws in everything including the kitchen-sink at your would be an understatement. Gunn’s film is soaks in love for the scatter-gun, heightened reality of comic books. If the first wave of DCU films were about trying to ground superheroes in the real world, this throws us into a nutsy world where: the Justice Gang are celebrities and their members include a half-hawk woman and a cocky dickhead with a magic ring; the villain has a private pocket universe he’s using as a personal Guantanamo Bay; and battles with giant space monsters are such a regular sight people whip out their phones to film it rather than runaway.

In fact, in this world, Superman facing off against his super-powered foe in a city collapsing into a giant rip in space-and-time actually feels strangely grounded. Compared to floating around on flying platforms through a purple pocket universe or swimming through a river of anti-matter to save a meta-human baby who can change his form into any material on earth, it’s pretty normal. But Gunn’s film embraces its madness with a tongue-in-cheek joie d’vivre: in fact, it’s refreshing that the film acknowledges there is no point trying (once again) to Nolanise this stuff.

In fact, Gunn works hard to make sure any real-world commentary is delivered with a soft-touch. A key sub-plot about the invasion of Jarhanpur (a stand-in for both Ukraine and Gaza) by its neighbour Boravia (blatantly Russia) gets funnelled into a black-and-white moral issue. A Trump stand-in is Boravia’s blow-hard leader, with a thick Russian accent (distancing him from the real thing). Social media gets a kicking (not surprising considering the director’s personal experience on it), but with off-the-wall gags like Luthor owning a legion of engineered monkeys endlessly typing angry comments into the ether to drive algorithms. Metropolis is the only city where a daily paper not only drives discussion, but is the most trusted source of news.

The colourful barmyness also works, because Superman grounds itself in warm and relatable characters. Bought to life with a great deal of humility and relatability (the one area the film plays it completely genuinely) by David Corenswet, this version of Superman embodies the virtues of kindness. He’s endlessly polite and attentive, from his robot servants in the fortress of solitude to his hardest language being “gosh”. He’s dedicated to preserving life (from humane subduing of giant monsters to saving a squirrel mid-fight) and putting others first. He’ll go to great lengths to protect his pet dog Krypto (possibly the most genuinely endearing dog on screen since The Artist).

And it makes a great framework for a film that deconstructs Superman by stripping him of his certainties. Dramatically it’s always difficult to fear for an invulnerable hero, so Gunn’s decision to open with our hero having had the crap beaten out of him (not for the last time in the film) is a good touch. But Gunn also challenges Superman’s moral certainties, in particular with a unique reveal in Superman-lore leaving him questioning everything he thinks he knows about his past. It’s refreshing to see a film challenge superheroes for taking unilateral decisions on behalf of everyone, with even Lois criticising him for a power-grab. Sure, it’s a strawman – there is no doubt Superman’s decision to stop Boravia is the right thing to do – but it’s good to see it discussed and questioned.

Superman uses this to explore characters, in particular the emotional vulnerability of Clark Kent and the bond between him and Lois. There is a refreshing scene where Corenswet and Brosnahan simply sit and talk about his turmoil, while outside the window in the distance a bizarre intergalactic-eye monster is fought by the Justice Gang. (Both a good gag, and a sign of the film’s focus on character). But, unlike other Superman films, Corenswet’s Man of Steel confronts him with the possibility of physical and moral failure on every level. Throw in a Luthor who, for all his man-child antics, carries out some of the darkest, most brutal acts any version of the character has before and this leads to some genuinely affecting moments of grief and guilt.

Gunn combines this genuine interest in character with some engaging use of obscure comic book characters, about him the general viewer has no pre-viewing expectations. Krypto is a genuinely funny addition as a hyper-active chaos pet. Nathan Fillion is good fun as a dickish blow-hard with super-powers. Edi Gathegi is wonderfully droll as the wearily frustrated Mr Terrific. And the three leads make a very effective combo: Corenswet’s selflessness and kindness very well contrasted with Hoult’s petulant arrogance while Brosnahan gives Lane gallons of determination and can-do attitude.

It’s not perfect. A sub-plot about Luthor’s girlfriend is presented as a victim of an controlling relationship and a source of comedy for a desperate neediness. It’s resort to a big-city smackdown is overly familiar, while a few reveals can be seen coming far off. Hoult’s Luthor is a big-swing of a performance that doesn’t always hit. But when it works, it’s a bubbly ball of super-hero-fun that celebrates basic decency, kindness and looking after each other. And maybe that’s the hero we need right now.

Östlund’s super-rich satire lines up straight-forward targets to easily knock down

Director: Ruben Östlund

Cast: Harris Dickinson (Carl), Charlbi Dean (Yaya), Dolly de Leon (Abigail), Zlatko Burić (Dimitry), Iris Berben (Therese), Vicki Berlin (Paula), Henrik Dorsin (Jarmo), Woody Harrelson (Captain Thomas Smith), Alicia Eriksson (Alicia), Jean-Christophe Folly (Nelson), Amanda Walker (Clementine), Oliver Ford Davies (Winston), Sunnyi Melles (Vera)

In my review of The Square, Östlund’s previous Palme d’Or winner, I described its targets as “so obvious, the entire film might as well be footage of fish being shot in barrels”. If only I’d known: Triangle of Sadness, his satire on the super-rich, takes this to the Nth degree: it’s an entire film of Östlund spraying machine gun bullets into an aquarium of drugged fish. That’s not to say there ain’t good jokes in here and several of its sequences are cheeky, engaging and funny. It’s well-made and high quality: but it’s also obvious and is in a such a rush to make its oh-so-clever satirical points that it frequently blunts its own impact.

The film revolves around a luxury cruise liner. On board: the self-obsessed, selfish, greedy representatives of the world’s oligarchs. A Russian who repeatedly amuses himself by bragging that he sells “shit” (fertiliser), a Danish app builder who splashes his cash, a married couple of British arms-traders who jovially bemoan how UN restriction on landmines made for tough financial years… you get the idea. Also on board: Instagram influencer supermodel Yaya (Charlbi Dean) and her insecure male model boyfriend Carl (Harris Dickinson). All of them treat the staff like slaves. But when the ship sinks after a storm and an attack by Somali pirates, the surviving passengers find they entirely lack the skills needed to survive on an island, unlike toilet-cleaner Abigail (Dolly de Leon) who rockets from the bottom to the top of the social hierarchy.

Östlund’s film lays into the emptiness, greed and selfishness of the super-rich with glee, even if it hardly tells us anything we don’t already know. The rich are only interested in their own needs and can only see others as tools for their own pleasure: who knew? Wanting to expand his satirical targets even further, Östlund also takes a pop at the social media generation. Apparently, they are shallow and interested only in commodifying their own lives. Who knew? It’s the sort of stuff that makes for a punchy student revue, but you want something a little bit more challenging that moves above cheap shots from a Palme d’Or winner.

In many ways the film’s most interesting section (and most subtle ideas) take place before we even reach the boat. The film’s first chapter exclusively follows Carl and Yaya. Carl auditions for a modelling job where he’s treated like a piece of meat (hilariously they mutter about him needing botox). At a fashion show, staff pleasantly demand three people move out of their seats to make way for VIPS – who immediately ask for one more seat. Everyone shuffles along one (the camera following this with a neat tracking shot), leaving Carl seatless. This is a more subtle commentary on the self-obsessive focus of the super-rich than anything that follows.

Carl and Yaya are in an interesting position: they are both part of the beautiful super-rich and not (they don’t have any money). That early act opener balloons from a disagreement over who pays for a meal into Carl inarticulately arguing for sexual-equality and mutual partnerships that defy gender roles. It’s more interesting than almost anything that follows, because it’s multi-layered and raises genuine issues we all face (to varying degrees).

But the film abandons multi-layered the second it steps foot on the boat. There are fun set pieces. Carl unwittingly gets a pool attendant fired because he’s jealous of Yaya’s admiration for his topless body. The staff on the boat gee themselves up for days of enthusiastic deference with a tip-expectant-group-chant. A Russian lady demands the staff all swim in the sea so they can have as much fun as she is having (and to show how ‘normal’ she is). The film’s most infamous set-piece occurs as a storm coincides with the captain’s dinner (with the fish courses under-cooked due to the aforementioned obligatory staff swim) leading to nearly all the passengers projectile vomiting across the state room, then sliding around the floors of the swaying ship in their own filth.

Amusing as that can be in its guignol excess, it tells you how subtle the film is. The film is awash with obvious, lazy jokes – of course the polite arms trading couple are called Winston and Clementine! To hammer home the social issues the film whacks us over the head with, the Captain (an awkward performance from Woody Harrelson) an alcoholic Marxist spends the storm pissed in his cabin, reading Noam Chomsky and his own anti-capitalist ravings over the ship’s tannoy. This takes up a huge amount of screen-time and manages to be both obvious and not very funny.

The film enjoys taking these pot-shots so much, it ends up feeling rushed when we arrive at the island. If we had seen more of Dolly de Leon’s Abigail earlier in the film (in actuality, the film sidelines her as much as the characters do, barely allowing her more than a minute of screentime in its first hour), the shift in social hierarchy would have carried more impact. If Östlund’s film had more patience to show the passengers expectation that shipwrecked life would be identical to that on the boat, then Abigail taking charge after a few days that would have carried more impact. Instead, Abigail takes command from arrival, and then essentially behaves (in a way I’m not sure the film quite understands) with exactly the same self-entitled greed as the passengers did. She takes the best cabin, establishes a hierarchy, keeps most of the food and turns Carl into a sex toy.

Because we’ve not really seen Abigail earlier in the film, we don’t get a sense of her earlier mistreatment (really, most of the film would have been better told from her point-of-view) or join her satisfaction at the tables being turned. The film also exhausts its commentary on the super-rich leaving it with little to say about in its third act Lord of the Flies set-up. Instead, the film dawdles its way to a conclusion and cliffhanger ending that feels unearned.

It makes you regret the loss of its earlier more subtle commentary on Instagrammers Carl and Yaya (good performances from Harris Dickinson and the tragically late Charlbi Dean) who are drowning-not-waving in a world where they must commodify their bodies but have no power over them, struggling to work-out where they fit in a world. It throws this overboard to go for some (admittedly at times funny) gags about greed and very obvious social commentary. If it had committed to its social underclass uprising earlier – or carried on with its more subtle themes from the opening prologue – it would have been a better film. Instead it’s as subtle and probing as the faceful of vomit it serves up halfway through.