Man of Steel, Plot of Porridge

 Ah, the latest Superman film, directed by that merry jester of cinematic chaos — the very same fellow responsible for Guardians of the Galaxy. One is tempted to say it’s like hiring a clown to perform brain surgery: technically possible, but you may find the patient wakes up with balloon animals where his frontal lobe used to be.

Superman himself spends most of the film delivering lines with the emotional range of a slightly startled lamppost. The cape swishes, the jaw clenches, and the plot… well, the plot lurches about like a drunkard trying to hail a taxi in a hurricane.

The film tries desperately to be witty and heartfelt, like a stand-up comic reading a eulogy — you’re never quite sure whether to laugh or demand your money back. The director has clearly taken from Guardians the lesson that audiences will forgive anything if there’s a talking animal. Sadly, the only creature here capable of speech is Superman himself, and his dialogue has all the sparkle of a damp sponge.

In short: if you want your Superman earnest, noble, and awe-inspiring, look elsewhere. If you want him quipping like a slightly drunk best man while laser-eyed aliens demolish downtown Metropolis, then congratulations — you’ve found your cinematic equivalent of eating cake with a shovel.