Man of Kleenex?

I have to confess: I have not read many Superman comics. I have not read many comics, period (may my students forgive me!) So when I went to see "Man of Steel" yesterday, it was not a reunion with a beloved character from my childhood as it was for my husband who grew up in Iowa, on a farm similar to that of Clark Kent's adoptive parents (where, as he told me, you learned to fly out of sheer boredom). So I watched Zack Snyder's newest reincarnation of the American Savior as if it were just another SF movie. In that capacity, it sucked. The plot made no sense, the special effects were impressive at first but grew repetitive, and when Metropolis was being destroyed, I reached for my popcorn, only to remember that I don't touch the stuff, ever.

But even for my superheroes-blank mind, it was clear that there is something wrong with the American mythos. It was not dark, as in Batman movies. It was pathetic. The invasion from Krypton represented nothing at all except nostalgia for yesterday's enemies (one evil Krypton lady spoke with a sexy Russian accent and the general's rotating eyebrows reminded me of Brezhnev but it was probably unintentional). Superman stared blankly into the distance as if trying to summon some worthier adversary, Godzilla perhaps. Or else he was hungover from the beer he drunk at his minimum-wage job at IHOP. The corn farm was plowed under by Monsanto; the "Daily Planet" is now a website and employs a staff of one; and Louis Lane is - or should be - dieting and applying for a position as a waitress.

Superman was invented by two Jews, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, as an American answer to the Nazi Ubermensch in 1938. But the Ubermenschen are long gone; and the echoes of eugenics debate in the movie, unattached to anything in the real world, sound as quaint as the idea of a full-time, secure job. Reinventing its mythos is necessary if American culture is to remain vital. But the Man of Steel is not it. Toss him into the waste-basket of history and start anew.