Supergirl (2026)

When it comes to helming a cinematic universe, James Gunn has an unenviable task. Superhero fatigue has long since set in, meanwhile the imminent purchase of Warner Bros. and a shifting political climate only complicate things further. Until now, Gunn had been shaping a new era for DC around a solid, albeit idiosyncratic vision: tonal diversity, inspired casting, banging soundtracks and genuine pizzazz. For all that it could occasionally veer into bad taste, this was a franchise that did have a taste, a certain flavour, with Peacemaker and Superman both amassing audiences, while anticipation grows for the horror-tinged Clayface and a neo-noir take on Lanterns. At this pivotal point for the DCU, we get a lively if not-entirely-convincing space opera, in Supergirl’s first solo outing since 1984.

Milly Alcock’s Supergirl/Kara Zor-El was introduced at the end of Superman as his hot-mess cousin who spends her time with adorable pup Krypto on red-sunned planets where whiskey does its self-medicating work. Mid-bender, she meets a familiar plot device: the recently orphaned Ruthye (Eve Ridley), out for revenge against the dastardly S&M-coded Krem (a wasted Matthias Schoenaerts). Searching for a MacGuffin — an antidote for the poison coursing through the veins of Krypto (a very good boy) — the pair journey across a litany of sepia-toned planets, poky dive bars and fight sequences.

Director Craig Gillespie (I, Tonya, Dumb Money) knows his way around a punchline, but now directing a superhero movie, he only offers diet-James Gunn. The jokes and needle-drops largely fizzle out, and the film lacks one of the DCU’s best signatures: a scene-stealing supporting cast. The closest we get is Jason Momoa’s glam-rock mercenary Lobo, charming in his handful of minutes but amounting to little more than an extended cameo. Even more ill-advised is the looming threat of sexual violence, tonally jarring and regressive against Supergirl’s potential as a fun feminist icon who seeks to be “good but not nice”.

There are genuine glimmers of hope. Outside the main action, flashbacks to Supergirl’s origin story and the fate of the Kryptonians are artfully composed and heartbreaking, with perfectly pitched performances from David Krumholtz and Emily Beecham as her parents, while Alcock and David Corenswet, as cousin Superman, have an easy chemistry. Those bright sparks illuminate the thin central thread, even if our hero’s moral code and PTSD don’t totally cohere.

The result isn’t disastrous by any means, just blandly safe. You just wish Gillespie would let these freak flags truly fly. There are good ingredients here: a witty, hard-partying, badass antihero, a moving backstory, an odd-couple dynamic between Alcock and Corenswet worth building on — but the fledgling DCU still has yet to prove itself.