On the Return of Superman

Appropriately or not, my notes on this film were written on old receipts, since I arrived at the film thoroughly expecting to be lulled into stupidity and without a notebook. Also appropriate, I think, is the fact that I put my notes into my borrowed copy of "Imperial Ambitions: Conversations with Noam Chomsky on the Post-9/11 World." This strikes me as one of those tasty little ironies that help me get through the day.

"Superman Returns" is indelibly a post-9/11 film, fraught with references to the war on terror, the civil war in Iraq, and the nationalistic patriotism of the US while recovering from the startling realization that we are, in fact, vulnerable. And like the country with which Superman is readily identified, the Man of Steel is no longer as steely as he might seem. He is weaker, permeable even, and lacking in the self-assuredness of his previous global dominance. However, in his big comeback special, Superman works his magic around the world, impressing people all over the world with his strength, his generosity, and his attention to the pain and suffering of the 'common people.' No job is too small, nor too big. He will work all manner of miracles in the name of truth and justice. Sound familiar?

When I heard that Superman was going to be back this summer in a new film, I could barely stifle my groaning disappointment. Another comic book film, another white WASP-y hero, another reincarnation of adolescent male fantasy dressed up in spandex. Wait, no, superheroes don’t wear spandex. They wear appropriately masculine reinforced rubber-plastic bodysuits, sometimes even with anatomically correct fittings - highlighted crotch or nipples anyone? But always appropriately heterosexually masculine. Unless you’re some Joss Whedon creation or a superhero of color. Then do whatever the hell you want, as long as you’re prepared to be branded a subculture or a one-off.

But back to Superman. Yes, he’s returned. From a five-year vacation to deep space where he attempted to recover the lost planet of Krypton, leaving poor Lois Lane and her broken whiny heart behind. When he returns, he magically gets his job back at the Daily Planet, where Jimmy the kid photographer, still wears that stupid bow-tie. Jimmy’s bow tie is emblematic of the baby boomer/postwar aesthetic employed by director Bryan Singer throughout the film. Superman comics were born in the 1930’s but came to pop culture prominence in the 1950’s. The styles of these twenty years are echoed in the film, most obviously in the building and interior design of the Daily Planet, but also in the homestead of Superman’s adoptive mother, and the flashback to his childhood (how can someone in their late 20’s/early30’s have grown up in the 1960’s?). The costuming of the characters also harkens back to this golden age of Superman, most notably in Lois Lane’s wardrobe, predominantly composed of high heels, pencil skirts, Lauren Bacall shoulder pads, and fingerwaved hair. She only lacks Rosalind Russell/Hildy Johnson’s fantastic woman-reporter hats.



About Lois Lane and Hildy Johnson. As my co-conspirator Art Ryel-Lindsey commented, why can’t we just have a female character in these movies that is actually as strong as we’re supposed to believe she is? Lois Lane is framed as hell-on-heels, a workhorse and a firestarter. A muckraker in the old-timey sense. Yet does she ever write anything except confessionals about how Superman suddenly appears on rooftops and carries her off into the stratosphere? Maybe she belongs to the Candace Bushnell school of journalism. On that note, are we really supposed to believe that Lois Lane won a Pulitzer for an article called “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.” That sounds like my second grade science report “Why Dolphins are Pretty.” Okay, I’m making that up. But as Frank Langella as Perry Smith, the chief of the Daily Planet, remarks, “Pulitzers are like the Academy Awards. No one remembers why you got one, just that you got one.” Or something along those lines; it’s hard to write in the dark. Apparently it doesn’t matter how crappy a writer Lois Lane is, just that she’s connected to Superman and the Pulitzer proves her devotion. This incarnation of Lois Lane makes me long for Hildy Johnson, the sharp, cracking female reporter who can run intellectual circles around her male colleagues and still look fantastic, even when standing next to Cary Grant.

And speaking of Cary Grant, Brandon Routh as Superman seems to be invoking those larger-than-life leading men, with the kind eyes and without the silly quasi-British accent. Yeah, Archie Leach, I’m talking to you. Routh does the best he can, I think, with what he’s given. Which is not much. Smile like you know more than other people, which you usually do, act befuddled around Lois, make lots of straining faces as you lift airplanes, cars, crystal-rock-asteroid things, and in a spectacular and horrible moment of cliche, the planet logo from the top of the Daily Planet building in an Atlas-moment. Stay in shape. And practice making fists.

Standouts from the cast are as expected. Or rather, standout, in that Kevin Spacey makes a good villain as we all knew he would. And he even manages to squeak out some truly horrible lines without sounding as horrible. Personally, I think there should be a moratorium on the line “bring it on” for the next thirty years or so, but Spacey pulls it off with a crazy shaking bravado that only a bald man in designer suits can do. His henchwoman/bimbo-of-choice, “Katherine/Kitty,” is played by Parker Posey, and I couldn’t help but wish Singer would have let her do what she does best, which is grind the role into a mush of sour sadism. But instead Kitty is played as alternately stupid and stupider. Plus she carries around a tiny lap dog the whole time. Sigh.

Where this Superman departs from earlier Superman films (and I confess that my knowledge of Superman II and III is severely limited) is in the redeeming power of the nuclear family. Spoiler alert, whatever. Superman gets messed up, as he does when he comes in contact with that green glowing kryptonite (which doesn’t get picked up by my spellcheck...hmmm...how come I can’t get it to recognize “transgender” but it knows “kryptonite”?), resulting in a good, old fashioned ass kicking at the hands and feet of Lex Luther’s thugs. Superman escapes by falling off a cliff into the ocean, and is promptly picked up by not just Lois, but Lois, her husband, and her five year old. This beautiful white upper middle class nuclear family with their own plane pluck Superman out of the ocean and magically bring him back to consciousness. Hooray the saving power of the nuclear family. By jove, those neocons are right. Family values will save the world, or at least save the man/alien who will save the world.

After the world has been saved, and order and father-son relationships are restored, Lois eventually attempts to write a follow-up to her Pulitzer-Prize winning article, entitled, wait for it...”Why the World Does Need Superman.” Hell yes. That’s right. We need a man with good old-fashioned values of truth and justice, of infinite strength and power, of undying devotion and determination. He has to be white, with kind eyes and at least seem tall if not already tall. And it will help if he’s from one of those down-home places like the farms of the Midwest or Texas. Superman returns...again and again and again...

Images courtesy of: BBC, ModernTimes.com, and Wikipedia.com, respectively.