Supergirl review: Flaring at the Sun
It takes all of 15 seconds for Supergirl, the latest comic-book jaunt in the reimagined DC Universe (not to be confused with the DC Extended Universe—that’s deader than Ezra Miller’s career), to announce its tonal intentions. As the guitars of a Sleigh Bells song churn on the soundtrack, a white dog with floppy ears careens through a ramshackle interior, settles atop a newspaper whose headline proclaims the exploits of Superman, and urinates all over the front page. The message is plain: The Man of Steel’s cousin is too hip, too fun, to be fettered by wholesomeness or optimism.
At least, that’s the idea. But while Supergirl, which was directed by Craig Gillespie from a script by Ana Nogueira, operates with a sheen of irreverence—the pop-punk needle drops, the eye-rolling insouciance, the slow-motion beatdowns—it isn’t truly rebellious. After all, it’s a cautiously designed would-be blockbuster, the second venture in producer James Gunn’s ongoing refurbishment of prized intellectual property, following the smash hit that was Superman (which Gunn wrote and directed himself). This means that, as much as Supergirl presents itself as arch and quippy, it must also fulfill the usual commercial imperatives: fitting into a carefully constructed mythology, supplying uplifting themes, and taking care not to actually offend anyone (well, aside from the misogynistic trolls who perceive the very existence of a female-centered superhero flick as an assault on their values). And this solemn, grudging duty places the movie squarely in conflict with its main character. Read More
