What happened to SuperMAN?
We saw Superman Returns last night. Right. If it hadn't been for Lo's spilling the Fanta I snuck in for her and Biggy's cellphone ringing TWICE--Hello Moto (No, you don't want to go the movies with us), I'd have fallen asleep. The film was a giant soggy cracker. Besides the production designer (wow!) and Parker Posey's hair (playing the REAL villain), there was no true star. And between the epicene Brandon Routh and bland Kate Bosworth, it was like trying to light a match in the rain.
Watching Routh in action, I was reminded of an essay I read in Salon a few years ago, entitled "Robby Benson's Clean White Underpants," wherein author Cintra Wilson's description of Benson, as I apply it now to Routh, put it better than I ever could: " [He] was too pretty to be taken seriously...always described as doe-eyed, but his eyes are more eerily religious, like backlit blue marbles. If [he] had been allowed (or had allowed himself) to develop a little more coolness and/or masculine, sexual alertness, his teary-eyed vulnerability would have had more legs. But since his supersensitivity was coupled with a cloying, chaste manner, he was written off as a dickless square. ...[He] moved on tippytoes, like he was carrying a dying baby bunny in a potholder. [He] represented a soft, sexless flavor that called for a taste nobody but grade-school girls ...wanted to acquire."
Hey, that was fine for me when I was ten and thought you could get pregnant if someone gave you a wet willy. But not today. Give me a Christopher Reeve. Give me a real man of steel, with a steely look and tracks in his shorts--not a simpering boy-man whose look suggests he's wondering whether his eyebrow wax appointment is Tuesday or Wednesday.
And don't get me started on the problems with the story. I don't have all year.