COZ Close-Up - Editorial Review
COZ Close-Up - Editorial Review
Storytelling has always been a powerful tool for psychological development, acting as a mirror that influences how audiences—especially the youngest and most impressionable—perceive the world and themselves. When comic book and fantasy cinema tackle structural themes like gender roles, the narrative choices made by directors and screenwriters can either provide a constructive path forward or fall back on polarizing shortcuts. This week, we step into the screening room to contrast two major theatrical releases that approach the concept of identity and masculinity from completely opposite ends of the cinematic universe.
For a reviewer hyped to see James Gunn’s latest expanded universe venture, Supergirl lands as a visually stunning but ultimately disappointing mixed bag. Taking place entirely off-Earth in planetary outworlds far from the empowering rays of a yellow sun, the film unfolds as a cosmic odyssey. Kara Zor-El migrates through alien bars, gritty outposts, and creature-laden environments that feel heavily reminiscent of a Guardians of the Galaxy blueprint. While the signature 360° action pieces and quick-witted humor are present, the narrative structure frequently feels less like an organic film and more like a sequence of challenges, stages, and weapon configurations designed for a future video game tie-in.
More concerning is Kara's psychological trajectory. Stripped of the baseline optimism and core principles associated with her cousin Kal-El, this version of Supergirl feels distinctively pessimistic—a byproduct of watching her parents perish, which leaves her looking like she belongs in Gotham rather than Metropolis. Driven out of bed only because her dog Krypto is injured in the opening act, she spends the film establishing boundaries with other characters, only to abruptly abandon those very standards herself by the finale. Even the inclusion of the highly anticipated Lobo (played by Jason Momoa) feels underwhelming; he is relegated to a side character used to fill the comedic void left by the sidelined Krypto, which ultimately underutilizes Momoa's massive potential.
The primary narrative misstep of Supergirl lies within its antagonism, creating a stark disconnect between audience expectations and the final product. Many viewers headed into the theater anticipating an uplifting celebration of the sheer power, resilience, and unique strength of a formidable woman. Instead, the narrative shifts its weight to focus heavily on the horrors of toxic masculinity and the grueling, bleak struggle of women merely trying to survive it.
Kara is reluctantly pitted against "the Brigands"—an exclusively male alien faction led by the sadistic, homicidal Krem (brought to life with a standout performance by Matthias Schoenaerts). The Brigands exist solely as human traffickers kidnapping young girls across the cosmos to perpetuate their own kind. While the performance is top-tier, the premise falls into a tired, reductionist trope frequently seen in female-led action films: making "men in general" the collective enemy. Instead of utilizing the vast rogue's gallery of powerful female adversaries available in the source material, the film relies on a framework that can feel more alienating than inspiring, trading genuine female empowerment for a story about systemic victimization.
In sharp contrast, Masters of the Universe emerges as a definitive five-star masterpiece, offering a brilliant masterclass in the potential of positive, constructive masculinity. The script balances its grand sword-and-planet stakes with a healthy dose of self-deprecation and playful, natural homosexual innuendo. These elements feel completely unforced, creating an inclusive, lighthearted atmosphere that remains deeply affirming and positive throughout Prince Adam's journey to claim his destiny. What makes the execution so spectacular is how it perfectly prods at its own retro source material. It delivers affectionate, witty jabs at the campy logic, theatrical dialogue, and beloved quirks of the classic 1980s lore in a way that will absolutely delight anyone who grew up watching the original series, proving you can honor nostalgia while completely modernizing the narrative.
Rather than shaming the concept of male strength, the film actively encourages men from all walks of life to harness their innate capabilities for the collective benefit of their families and communities. The entire narrative framework is anchored in a philosophy of protection and compassion through strength. It presents an idealized version of manhood where vulnerability, communal responsibility, and physical prowess coexist harmoniously, providing a deeply healthy blueprint for younger viewers looking for modern cinematic role models.
What makes Masters of the Universe particularly brilliant is how it handles its villainy without alienating its audience. Skeletor represents the absolute zenith of toxic male behavior, but the narrative handles him in a way that warns men rather than indicting them. The story carefully illustrates the profound fear, insecurity, and psychological weakness that motivates Skeletor to be so aggressively commanding, demanding, and abusive. It serves as an educational cautionary tale, effectively highlighting the exact pitfalls of corrupted power.
Ultimately, where one feature leans into polarizing tropes that risk driving a wedge between demographics, the other tackles the societal pressures men face today—whether it's living up to the daunting shadows of their forefathers, or feeling the pressure to over-compromise and completely diminish their identity out of fear of being mislabeled. By showing that true strength lies in service, accountability, and empathy, Masters of the Universe proves that cinema can celebrate one perspective without needing to tear down another.