Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery – Rian Johnson’s Gothic Gambit Redefines the Whodunit

Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery – Rian Johnson’s Gothic Gambit Redefines the Whodunit

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By Rasesh Patell

Founder & Chief Critic, CharotarDaily.com

Let’s be honest: franchises usually die a slow, repetitive death. By the third installment, most series are content to simply play the hits, regurgitating the same formulas that worked the first time around. When Rian Johnson announced Wake Up Dead Man, the third entry in the Benoit Blanc saga, I was skeptical. Glass Onion was a maximalist, colorful satire of modern tech-bro hubris, but could Johnson pull the rug out from under us a third time without the trick feeling cheap?

I sat down in the theater with my notebook, ready to be entertained but expecting diminishing returns. Two hours and twenty minutes later, I walked out into the night air absolutely floored.

Wake Up Dead Man is not just a sequel; it is a tonal deconstruction of the cozy mystery genre itself. It trades the autumnal warmth of Massachusetts and the sun-drenched satire of Greece for a misty, claustrophobic, Gothic horror aesthetic that chills the bones. This is Johnson maturing, Steve Yedlin (Cinematographer) painting with shadows, and Daniel Craig delivering the most nuanced performance of his career.

Here is my deep-dive analysis of why this film is a masterclass in subversion.

Direction & Tone: The Shift to Gothic Noir

If Knives Out was Agatha Christie and Glass Onion was a puzzle box, Wake Up Dead Man is pure Daphne du Maurier meets The Wicker Man. Rian Johnson has made a bold directorial choice here: he has turned down the volume on the dialogue and turned up the volume on the atmosphere.

The film is set in a converted, crumbling monastery on the Isle of Skye, now the estate of reclusive literary titan Dame Olivia Thorne (Glenn Close). From the opening shot—a long, slow-pan drone shot descending through thick fog toward the jagged spires of the estate—Johnson establishes a sense of dread that never lifts.

What struck me most was Johnson’s use of verticality in his direction. In previous films, the danger was horizontal—people running through hallways or across islands. Here, the danger is vertical. The camera frequently looks down from dizzying heights (the bell tower) or up from the claustrophobic crypts.

Key Scene Analysis: The "Resurrection Dinner."

About thirty minutes in, we get the requisite dinner scene. But unlike the chaotic shouting matches of the previous films, Johnson directs this with suffocating silence. He uses static shots, holding the camera uncomfortably long on Josh O’Connor’s trembling hands or Glenn Close’s icy stare. The only sound is the clinking of silverware and the howling wind. It creates a tension so thick it feels physical. This is confident direction; Johnson trusts the audience enough to let the silence do the work.

Cinematography: Painting in Chiaroscuro

Steve Yedlin, Johnson’s longtime collaborator, deserves an Oscar nomination for his work here. The visual language of Wake Up Dead Man is a stark departure from the digital crispness of Glass Onion.

Yedlin employs a heavy use of Chiaroscuro lighting—high contrast between light and dark. There is a specific recurring motif of candlelight. In the second act, during the power outage sequence, the film is lit almost entirely by practical firelight. This renders the characters as flickering ghosts, their intentions obscured by shadow.

Technical Highlight: The Mirror Maze sequence.

There is a pivotal conversation between Benoit Blanc and the local vicar (played brilliantly by Andrew Scott) that takes place in a conservatory filled with antique mirrors. Yedlin shoots this handheld. As Blanc circles the suspect, the camera catches Blanc’s reflection fracturing into multiple slivers. It is a visual metaphor for the detective’s own fragmented understanding of the case at that moment. It’s not just "cool" looking; it is cinematography serving the narrative.

Screenplay: The Structure of Belief

As a writer, Johnson is known for the "donut hole" metaphors, but here, the screenplay tackles a heavier theme: Faith vs. Fact.

The script is tighter than Glass Onion. It sheds the pop-culture references (thankfully, no more Jeremy Renner hot sauce jokes) in favor of literary allusions and theological debates. The mystery hinges on a "miracle"—the apparent resurrection of a character we saw die in the cold open.

Johnson’s genius lies in how he structures the reveal. Usually, the "Howcatchem" format shows us the killer early. Here, the script hides the nature of the crime. We don’t know if we are watching a murder, a suicide, or a supernatural event until the third act.

However, the screenplay isn't perfect. I argue that the second act drags slightly. There is a subplot involving a missing codicil to a will that feels a bit "Estate Law 101," a trope Johnson usually twists but here plays straight. It’s a minor blemish on an otherwise razor-sharp script, but it did cause the pacing to sag around the 70-minute mark.

The Performances: A Triumvirate of Talent

The acting in Wake Up Dead Man is, without hyperbole, the best of the trilogy. The ensemble is smaller, allowing for deeper character work.

1. Daniel Craig as Benoit Blanc

We finally see the cracks in the veneer. In the previous films, Blanc was an unflappable observer. Here, faced with a case that defies logic and touches on the supernatural, Craig plays Blanc as genuinely rattled.

• Specific Example:* The "Confessional" scene. Blanc is trapped in the monastery’s crypt. Craig drops the Southern drawl for a split second, whispering in sheer panic, before composing himself. It’s a masterclass in physical acting—showing the fear behind the flamboyant persona. We see a Blanc who is aging, tired, and perhaps afraid of the dark.

2. Glenn Close as Dame Olivia Thorne

Glenn Close is a force of nature. She plays the matriarch not as a villain, but as a woman so consumed by her own legacy that she has lost touch with humanity.

• Specific Example:* Her monologue on the cliffs regarding "the immortality of art." She delivers it not with shouting, but with a terrifyingly quiet resolve. When she tells Blanc, " The dead don't wake up, Mr. Blanc, unless we need them to," the delivery sent shivers down my spine. She brings a Shakespearean gravitas that anchors the film’s wilder plot twists.

3. Josh O’Connor as Father Thomas

The breakout performance. O’Connor (of The Crown and Challengers fame) plays the nephew turned priest. He is a bundle of nervous, twitchy energy. He serves as the foil to Blanc—where Blanc represents logic, Father Thomas represents blind faith. O’Connor’s ability to switch from pathetic vulnerability to menacing fanaticism in a single scene is extraordinary.

Comparative Analysis: Contextualizing the Film

To truly understand Wake Up Dead Man, we must look at where it sits in cinema history.

• Against the Genre: While Knives Out was a tribute to Sleuth (1972) and Glass Onion nodded to The Last of Sheila (1973), this film feels deeply indebted to Hitchcock’s  and Clouzot’s Diabolique. It utilizes the "gaslighting" trope but subverts it by having the detective be the one who is unsure of his reality.

• Against Johnson’s Career: This is Johnson returning to the noir roots of his debut, Brick. It has that same hard-boiled cynicism, stripped of the Star Wars blockbuster gloss. It proves that Johnson is at his best when he is deconstructing genres from the inside out, rather than playing in someone else's sandbox.

The Final Verdict

Wake Up Dead Man is a daring, visually stunning, and emotionally resonant conclusion to the "Benoit Blanc" era (if this is indeed the end). It refuses to give the audience the comfortable, cozy mystery they expected. Instead, it offers a meditation on death, legacy, and the lies we tell ourselves to survive.

Is it as "fun" as the first one? No. It is heavier, slower, and darker. But it is a far superior piece of filmmaking. It proves that a franchise film can still be art.

CharotarDaily Rating: ★★★★½ (4.5/5)

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Who Should Watch This?

I believe in providing actionable advice for my readers. This movie is not for everyone.

Watch this if:

• You appreciate Cinema over Movies: If you care about lighting composition, blocking, and sound design, this is a feast.

• You love Gothic Romance/Horror: Fans of Crimson Peak or Rebecca will feel right at home with the atmosphere.

• You want to see Daniel Craig act: If you want to see him do more than just shoot guns or deliver one-liners, this explores his range.

Skip this if:

• You want a fast-paced comedy: This is not Glass Onion. The jokes are sparse and dark. If you are looking for light escapism, this might feel too heavy.

• You have a short attention span: The pacing is deliberate. It requires patience.

The Enduring Architecture of Grace: A Critical Look at Madhuri Dixit's Artistic Legacy

The Enduring Architecture of Grace: A Critical Look at Madhuri Dixit's Artistic Legacy

By Rasesh Patell

In the ever-shifting constellations of Indian cinema, few stars possess a light that is not only bright but also unwavering. Many burn intensely for a moment, then fade into the nostalgic haze of memory. Madhuri Dixit is not one of them. For over three decades, she has been more than a star; she has been a standard, a cultural semaphore for a particular kind of artistry that weds classical grace with mainstream appeal.

To chart the career of Madhuri Dixit is to witness an artist in constant, quiet evolution. A simplistic reading would credit her unparalleled dancing prowess or her million-dollar smile. While those are undeniable assets, they are merely the entry points into a far more complex artistic lexicon. A discerning eye sees an actress who has meticulously built her craft, moving from a symbol of exuberant energy to an architect of nuanced, powerful performances. This is not a filmography of mere hits, but a journey of artistic self-realization. To understand her indelible impact, we must look beyond the box office numbers and examine the keystones of her career—projects that didn't just define her, but also redefined the contours of the Hindi film heroine.

The Spark: 

Before 1988, Madhuri Dixit had appeared in a handful of films, but it was N. Chandra’s gritty blockbuster Tezaab that truly announced her arrival. Her role as Mohini was, on paper, a familiar trope: the beleaguered but resilient woman forced to dance for a living. Yet, what Dixit did with it was revolutionary. The catalyst, of course, was the song "Ek Do Teen."

Choreographed by the legendary Saroj Khan, the performance was a bolt of lightning. It was not merely a dance; it was a three-act play condensed into seven minutes. Watching it today, one is struck by its narrative force. Dixit’s performance is a masterclass in abhinaya (the art of expression in Indian classical dance). Every beat, every turn, every glance conveys a story of youthful longing, playful anticipation, and electrifying energy. She wasn't just executing steps; she was inhabiting the music.

In a public interview years later reflecting on her symbiotic relationship with Saroj Khan, Dixit stated, "Masterji [Saroj Khan] taught me how to use my face, my eyes... how to talk through the dance." This is the key. While her contemporaries were often skilled dancers, Dixit was a dancing actress. "Ek Do Teen" established her as the definitive performing artist of her generation, a benchmark against which every subsequent song-and-dance sequence would be measured. It was the moment she ceased to be just an actress and became a phenomenon.

The Zenith: Hum Aapke Hain Koun..! (1994) and the Embodiment of an Ideal

If Tezaab was the spark, Sooraj Barjatya’s Hum Aapke Hain Koun..! was the glorious, sustained blaze. The film itself was a paradigm shift—a three-and-a-half-hour family musical devoid of conventional villains or violence. Its success hinged entirely on its ability to charm an entire nation, and at the center of that charm was Madhuri Dixit's Nisha.

Nisha was not a character of dramatic speeches or grand gestures. Her power lay in the subtleties: a mischievous glance, a playful retort, the gentle authority with which she navigated complex family relationships. Dixit imbued Nisha with an aspirational, yet accessible, blend of tradition and modernity. She was respectful but not servile, witty but not impertinent. In her performance, an entire generation of Indians saw an ideal—the perfect daughter, sister, and partner.

Her craft here is one of exquisite calibration. Consider the iconic "Didi Tera Devar Deewana" sequence. It is a performance of layered emotions—playfulness masking a budding romance, all within the accepted confines of a family function. Her interactions with Salman Khan's Prem are a testament to the power of unspoken chemistry, built on stolen looks and gentle teasing. In an interview with film critic Anupama Chopra for the book 100 Films to See Before You Die, director Sooraj Barjatya confirmed that the film's fabric was woven from these small, authentic moments. Dixit's ability to make these moments feel genuine, to carry the emotional weight of a sprawling saga with such effortless grace, cemented her status not just as a superstar, but as the very heartbeat of 90s mainstream Hindi cinema.

The Reinvention: Devdas (2002) and Dedh Ishqiya (2014)

An artist’s true mettle is often tested not at their peak, but in their evolution. For Madhuri Dixit, the phase bookending her self-imposed hiatus from cinema demonstrates a profound deepening of her craft.

Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s opulent Devdas saw her portray the courtesan Chandramukhi. Here, her dance was no longer just an expression of joy but of profound pathos and unrequited love. The climactic "Kaahe Chhed Mohe," choreographed by the Kathak maestro Pandit Birju Maharaj, was a showcase of pure classicism. Bhansali has publicly spoken of his desire to capture a timeless, painterly beauty, and Dixit’s performance was its living embodiment. As Chandramukhi, her eyes communicated a world of pain, dignity, and sacrifice. It was the perfect, poetic culmination of her "dancing queen" era before she stepped away from the spotlight.

Her return to the screen was deliberate and selective, but it was Abhishek Chaubey’s Dedh Ishqiya that marked her true reinvention as a mature actor. As the beguiling and morally ambiguous Begum Para, Dixit shed every last vestige of the effervescent Nisha. This was a performance of quiet power, conveyed through whispered Urdu poetry and calculating glances. Her chemistry was not with a young romantic hero, but with the formidable Naseeruddin Shah, and she held her own with an understated confidence that was breathtaking.

Begum Para was a character who used her grace as a weapon and her charm as a shield. Dixit navigated this complexity with stunning precision. Gone was the wide, innocent smile; in its place was a knowing, enigmatic Mona Lisa curve. The performance was a declaration. It affirmed that her artistic well had not run dry; on the contrary, it had deepened, acquiring new shades of complexity and intrigue. It proved, definitively, that Madhuri Dixit was not an artist to be defined by nostalgia, but a formidable actress firmly in command of her present.

From the raw energy of Mohini to the dignified sorrow of Chandramukhi and the cunning grace of Begum Para, Madhuri Dixit’s career is a compelling narrative of artistic growth. She harnessed her initial stardom, built on dance and charisma, and meticulously channeled it into becoming a performer of remarkable depth and subtlety. Her legacy is not just in the songs we still dance to at weddings, but in the quiet, powerful moments that remind us what true screen presence looks like. She remains the standard, an enduring architecture of grace in the heart of Indian cinema.

The Woman in Cabin 10 Review: Keira Knightley Drowns in a Sea of Exquisite Style and Icy Suspicion

The Woman in Cabin 10 Review: Keira Knightley Drowns in a Sea of Exquisite Style and Icy Suspicion

By Rashesh, Founder & Chief Critic, CharotarDaily.com

There are certain stories that feel destined for the silver screen. They possess a potent, almost tangible atmosphere that leaps off the page, begging to be translated into light and shadow. Ruth Ware’s 2016 novel, The Woman in Cabin 10, was one such story—a claustrophobic, gas-lit nightmare set on the deceptively placid waters of the North Sea. For years, cinephiles and mystery lovers have waited, wondering who could possibly capture its unique blend of psychological fragility and high-stakes tension.

The answer, it turns out, is director Joe Wright, re-teaming with his most iconic muse, Keira Knightley. The result is a film that is, at once, a breathtakingly beautiful piece of cinema and a frustratingly polished adaptation. It’s a thriller that meticulously builds its cage out of high-gloss mahogany and polished brass, so stunning to look at that you almost forget you’re trapped inside. As a long-time admirer of both Wright’s visual panache and Knightley’s nervy intensity, I walked into the theatre with sky-high expectations. I walked out wrestling with a complex admiration, convinced I’d seen a masterclass in filmmaking that somehow, almost criminally, misses the raw, bloody heart of its own story.

This is not a simple review. This is a deconstruction.

Direction: Joe Wright’s Gilded Cage

Joe Wright does not make movies; he crafts cinematic ballets. From the breathtaking Dunkirk long-take in Atonement to the theatrical artifice of Anna Karenina, his signature is an almost obsessive-compulsive attention to aesthetic detail and fluid, mesmerizing camera movement. In The Woman in Cabin 10, this signature is both the film’s greatest asset and its most profound flaw.

Wright wisely chooses not to rush into the central mystery. The film’s opening act is a masterwork of establishing our protagonist Lo Blacklock’s (Knightley) fractured psyche. The pre-cruise burglary in her London flat is not the jump-scare affair a lesser director might have chosen. Instead, Wright and his long-time cinematographer Seamus McGarvey orchestrate a single, disorienting Steadicam shot that follows Lo through her apartment. The camera clings to her, mimicking her rising anxiety as she notices a slightly ajar door, a misplaced object. The sound design is muted, focusing on the creak of floorboards and her own ragged breathing. When the intruder finally appears, it’s a chaotic, violent rupture in this carefully controlled atmosphere. The scene doesn’t just tell us Lo is traumatized; it makes the audience feel her violation and subsequent paranoia long before she ever steps foot on the cruise liner, the Aurora Borealis.

However, once aboard the ship, Wright’s aestheticism begins to work against the story’s gritty core. Consider the pivotal scene: Lo hearing the "splash" of what she believes is a body being thrown overboard from the adjoining Cabin 10. In the novel, this moment is stark, auditory, and deeply ambiguous. Wright, ever the visualist, cannot resist dramatizing it. He gives us a fleeting, almost dreamlike shot from Lo's perspective through the balcony partition: a dark shape, a pale arm, and the moonlit spray of water, all rendered in a disturbingly beautiful slow-motion. It’s a gorgeous shot, reminiscent of the fountain scene in Atonement. But in that context, the beauty heightened the tragic romance; here, it aestheticizes a moment of potential brutal violence. It sanitizes the horror, transforming a raw, terrifying event into a piece of morbid art. This becomes a recurring issue. Wright is so in love with the opulence of the ship and the stark beauty of the Norwegian fjords that the grime of the crime feels perpetually out of focus. He’s filming a ghost story in a palace, when the source material was about a murder in a floating prison.

Cinematography: The Art of Drowning

Seamus McGarvey’s cinematography is, without question, utterly magnificent. He brilliantly captures the film’s central visual paradox: the terrifying agoraphobia of the open sea versus the suffocating claustrophobia of the ship's interior. The exterior shots of the Aurora are breathtaking, showing the vessel as a tiny, insignificant speck against the colossal, indifferent granite cliffs and the churning, inky-black water. These shots powerfully establish Lo’s isolation; there is no escape, no one to call, nothing but the cold, unforgiving elements.

Inside the ship, McGarvey’s lens becomes a predator. The hallways are intentionally overlit in some areas and plunged into deep shadow in others, creating a disorienting labyrinth where threats could emerge from any corner. He makes extensive use of reflections—in polished tabletops, mirrored walls, and the ever-present porthole windows. In a standout scene where Lo confronts the ship's head of security, the camera frames them so that we see not only their faces but also their distorted reflections in the glass behind them, visually reinforcing the theme of duplicity and hidden identities. The colour palette is a carefully controlled spectrum of cold blues, sterile whites, and sickly greens, making the occasional splash of crimson—a guest's dress, a smear of blood on a carpet—feel like a violent intrusion. The visual language is so strong, so articulate, that it often communicates Lo’s paranoia more effectively than the script itself.

Screenplay: The Perils of Streamlining

Adapting a novel heavy on internal monologue is a Herculean task, and on paper, hiring a writer like Gillian Flynn (who so expertly adapted her own Gone Girl) seems like a stroke of genius. Flynn’s screenplay for The Woman in Cabin 10 is a lean, propulsive machine. She smartly condenses several of the novel’s red-herring subplots and sharpens the dialogue, giving the ensemble of wealthy, suspicious guests a venomous wit that feels distinctly Flynn-esque. The back-and-forth between Lo and her ex-boyfriend, fellow journalist Ben (played with a reliable charm by Sam Claflin), is given more weight, creating a tangible emotional anchor that the novel sometimes lacked.

But in this surgical streamlining, something vital is lost. The novel’s power comes from being trapped inside Lo’s head, experiencing her mounting anxiety, her self-doubt, her reliance on alcohol, and her professional insecurities in excruciating, first-person detail. The film, by necessity, has to externalize this. It does so through Knightley’s performance and some cleverly placed visual cues, but it can’t fully replicate the book’s slow-burn descent into paranoia. Flynn’s script moves at a clip, hitting the plot beats with ruthless efficiency. As a result, Lo’s investigation occasionally feels less like a desperate, fear-fueled search for the truth and more like a conventional cinematic mystery. The ambiguity of her mental state—is she a reliable witness or an unraveling trauma victim?—is presented, but never explored with the depth the source material afforded. We are watching her panic, rather than panicking with her.

Performances: Knightley, A Symphony of Anxiety

This film rests entirely on Keira Knightley’s slender shoulders, and she carries the weight with a ferocious commitment. This role is tailor-made for her specific brand of intelligent, high-strung fragility. In the early scenes, she is magnificent, capturing the low-grade hum of a woman constantly on edge. A scene where a well-meaning guest grabs her arm unexpectedly causes her to physically recoil with such authentic terror that the entire audience flinches with her. She is a master of conveying a storm of emotions with a simple darting of the eyes or a tremor in her voice.

Her performance is a spiritual successor to her Oscar-nominated work in The Imitation Game, where she also played a brilliant woman constrained and disbelieved by the men around her. However, as Lo becomes more frantic, Knightley occasionally slips into familiar mannerisms—the jutting chin of defiance, the wide-eyed stare of hysteria—that feel less like Lo Blacklock and more like "Keira Knightley Performing Distress." It’s a powerful performance, but one that feels, at times, like a compilation of her greatest hits rather than a wholly original creation.

The supporting cast is uniformly excellent, particularly a chillingly ambiguous turn from Matthew Goode as the enigmatic financier who occupied Cabin 9. He oozes a silken menace that makes him the perfect red herring, or perhaps, something more.

Final Verdict

Joe Wright's The Woman in Cabin 10 is a cinematic triumph and an adaptive misstep. It is a stunningly beautiful, impeccably crafted, and superbly acted thriller that prioritizes style over substance, and atmosphere over authentic dread. The film is so immaculately polished that it buffs away the novel's most compelling feature: its grimy, desperate, psychological messiness. Wright has created a Faberge egg of a thriller—exquisite to behold, intricately designed, but ultimately hollow. It is a very, very good film that stops just short of being a great adaptation.

Rating: 3.5 / 5 Stars

Who Should Watch This?

• WATCH IT IF: You are a fan of director Joe Wright’s distinct visual style and appreciate a thriller that values mood and aesthetics as much as plot. If you love a powerhouse central performance and want to see Keira Knightley at the top of her game, this is a must-see.

• SKIP IT IF: You are a die-hard purist of Ruth Ware’s novel and will be frustrated by the changes made for a more cinematic pace. If you prefer your mysteries to be gritty, raw, and unvarnished, the film’s high-gloss sheen might leave you cold.

Superman (2025) Review: A Radiant Rebirth of Hope or Just Another Reboot? Deep Analysis of James Gunn’s Man of Steel

Superman (2025) Review: A Radiant Rebirth of Hope or Just Another Reboot? Deep Analysis of James Gunn’s Man of Steel

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Posted by: Rasesh Patell | Date: October 12, 2025 | Category: Film Reviews

The Burden of the Cape

Hello, fellow cinephiles and truth-seekers. Rasesh Patell here, welcoming you back to CharotarDaily.com.

Let’s be honest with one another: we are living in the age of superhero fatigue. The market is oversaturated with multiversal stakes, green-screen sludge, and cynicism disguised as deconstruction. When it was announced that James Gunn—the man who made a talking raccoon cry—was taking the reins of the DC Universe with a brand new Superman, the skepticism was palpable. Could the director known for irreverent humor handle the earnestness of the Big Blue Boy Scout?

I walked into the theater with my notebook in hand and a heavy dose of skepticism in my heart. I walked out two hours and forty minutes later, having witnessed something I thought was extinct: a blockbuster with a beating heart.

This isn’t just a movie; it is a cinematic thesis statement. Superman stars David Corenswet, Rachel Brosnahan, and Nicholas Hoult in a narrative that forces the Man of Tomorrow to reconcile his Kryptonian biology with his Kansas morality. But does it fly? Let’s deconstruct this beast.

James Gunn’s Pivot to Sincerity

James Gunn has spent his career celebrating the misfits, the outlaws, and the broken toys. With Superman, he faces his biggest challenge: directing a character who is perfectly whole.

Gunn’s direction here is a masterclass in tonal balance. He resists the urge to "Marvel-ize" the narrative with undercutting humor during emotional beats. Instead, he leans into a Spielbergian sense of wonder. There is a specific sequence early in the second act—let’s call it the "First Flight" 2.0—where Gunn chooses not to focus on the sonic boom or the physics of flight, but on the sheer joy on Corenswet’s face.

Gunn frames Superman not as a god hovering above us (a la Zack Snyder), but as a friend walking—or flying—beside us. The camera angles are often at eye level, grounding the fantastical elements in human reality. He treats the source material with a reverence that feels less like fan service and more like a religious restoration of the character’s core ethos.

A Technicolor Dream in a Drab World

Cinematographer Henry Braham, a frequent Gunn collaborator, has made a bold choice here: he turned the saturation up.

In an era of muddy, desaturated color grading, Superman pops with primary colors. The blues are cerulean; the reds are crimson. This visual language is crucial to the film’s thematic argument. The film presents Metropolis not as a dark, rain-slicked Gotham counterpart, but as a shiny, retro-futurist Art Deco city that feels like the cover of a Golden Age comic book brought to life.

A standout visual moment occurs during the film’s midway point—a montage of Superman performing "small" saves. Not catching falling airplanes, but fixing a bicycle chain or getting a cat out of a tree (yes, they went there). The lighting in these scenes is warm, bathed in the "magic hour" glow, contrasting sharply with the cold, sterile, fluorescent lighting used in every scene involving Lex Luthor’s Corp. The visual storytelling establishes the conflict before a single punch is thrown: the warmth of humanity versus the coldness of corporate cynicism.

The Struggle of "The Human Way"

The screenplay, penned by Gunn himself, tackles the prompt’s central conflict head-on: Reconciling alien heritage with human upbringing.

The script avoids the tired "origin story" tropes. We don’t see Krypton explode. We don’t see the rocket land. We start with Clark already at the Daily Planet. The genius of the writing lies in the dialogue. Gunn writes Clark Kent not as a bumbling disguise, but as the real person. Superman is the mask; Clark is the soul.

The thematic meat of the film is the clash between Superman’s "old-fashioned" values and a modern world that views truth and justice as subjective commodities. There is a brilliant exchange between Clark and Perry White regarding a news story where Perry demands "the angle," and Clark insists on "the truth." It’s a meta-commentary on modern media, handled with surprising nuance.

However, if I must critique, the third act suffers slightly from "CGI Army Fatigue." While the emotional stakes remain high, the screenplay falls into a conventional beat-em-up resolution that feels slightly at odds with the pacifist philosophy established in the first two acts.

The Holy Trinity

David Corenswet as Superman/Clark Kent

The elephant in the room is Henry Cavill. Comparisons are inevitable. But let me say this decisively: David Corenswet is the Superman we need right now. While Cavill played the burden of being a god, Corenswet plays the joy of being a helper.

Corenswet utilizes his physicality beautifully. As Clark, he slouches, making himself small, flashing a goofy, farm-boy grin. As Superman, he expands, his posture radiates authority, but his eyes remain gentle. In the scene where he confronts his Kryptonian holographic father, Jor-El, Corenswet delivers a monologue about choosing Kansas over Krypton that is so raw and vulnerable, it anchors the entire CGI spectacle in human emotion.

Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane

Brosnahan is a firecracker. Channeling the fast-talking energy of 1940s screwball comedies (and yes, a bit of Mrs. Maisel), she makes Lois Lane the smartest person in the room. Her chemistry with Corenswet is electric. It’s not just a romance; it’s an intellectual partnership. She isn’t a damsel in distress; she is an investigative journalist who happens to date a demigod. Her performance proves that Lois is not Superman’s weakness, but his tether to humanity.

Nicholas Hoult as Lex Luthor

Hoult offers a chillingly different Lex. He is not the campy Gene Hackman or the twitchy Jesse Eisenberg. Hoult plays Luthor as a tech-bro narcissist with a messiah complex. He is calm, softly spoken, and terrifyingly pragmatic. Hoult plays the jealousy perfectly—he hates Superman not because he is an alien, but because Superman gives things away for free (hope, help, safety) that Luthor believes should be sold. It is a villain performance for the late-stage capitalism era.

Contextualizing the Legacy

To truly understand this film, we must look at where it sits in history.

• Vs. Donner (1978): Gunn borrows the optimism and the score’s grandeur (referencing Williams without copying him) but strips away the camp.

• Vs. Snyder (2013): Man of Steel asked, "What would happen if an alien landed in the real world?" (Answer: Fear). Gunn’s Superman asks, "What would happen if a truly good man landed in a cynical world?" (Answer: Inspiration).

This film feels most akin to Captain America: The First Avenger, but on a galactic scale. It proves that a character doesn't need to be "edgy" to be interesting. In the context of Gunn’s filmography, this is his most mature work. It lacks the nihilism of The Suicide Squad and replaces it with the found-family warmth of Guardians Vol. 3.

Final Verdict

Superman is a cinematic miracle. It is a sweeping, romantic, action-packed epic that dares to be uncool in its pursuit of kindness. While the third-act action gets a little busy, the emotional through-line never snaps.

Rasesh Patell’s Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Stars.

James Gunn has not just rebooted a franchise; he has rebooted the idea of the superhero. He reminds us that while it’s fun to see a man fly, it’s more important to see a man stand up for what is right.

Who Should Watch This?

1. The Jaded Fan: If you felt burned by the DCEU’s inconsistency, this is the apology letter you’ve been waiting for.

2. Families: Finally, a superhero movie you can take your kids to without worrying about excessive grimness. It’s a true four-quadrant film.

3. Cinema Purists: If you appreciate visual storytelling, color theory, and distinct directorial voice, there is plenty here to analyze.

4. David Corenswet Skeptics: Go watch it. You will be converted within the first 15 minutes.