f.Clash of Capes: James Gunn Erupts Over “Political Crap” Backlash to His Superman Reboot, Telling Detractors to Hit the Road.f

In the high-stakes arena of superhero cinema, where caped crusaders soar above box office battles and cultural fault lines, few icons carry the weight of Superman. Born in 1938 from the imaginations of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster—two sons of Jewish immigrants fleeing pogroms in Eastern Europe—the Man of Steel has always been more than a fist-fighting alien in tights. He’s a symbol of the American Dream: an outsider rocketing to Earth as a baby, adopted by humble Kansas farmers, and growing into a beacon of truth, justice, and unyielding optimism.

For decades, Superman has punched Nazis in propaganda shorts, championed civil rights in comic panels, and stood as a bulwark against tyranny on the silver screen. But as Warner Bros. unleashes James Gunn’s bold reboot on July 11, 2025, that legacy has ignited a firestorm. Critics on the right have branded the film “political crap,” accusing it of shoving “woke” agendas down audiences’ throats. Gunn, the co-CEO of DC Studios and the visionary behind Guardians of the Galaxy’s irreverent charm, isn’t backing down. In a series of blistering interviews and social media skirmishes, he’s broken his relative silence with fury, declaring the movie a celebration of immigrant roots and lost human kindness—while bluntly telling naysayers, “Screw them” and “Go away if you can’t handle it.” As the film hurtles toward its premiere, this uproar isn’t just about capes; it’s a referendum on Hollywood’s soul in a divided America, where escapism collides with ideology like Kryptonite meeting invulnerability.

The genesis of Gunn’s Superman traces back to a seismic shift at Warner Bros. Discovery. In late 2022, amid the wreckage of the DCEU—Zack Snyder’s brooding epics had grossed billions but fractured fanbases with their dour tone—new regime head David Zaslav tapped Gunn and producer Peter Safran to reboot the DC Universe from the ground up. Gunn, fresh off Disney’s parting ways over old offensive tweets (a scandal he’d weathered before), saw Superman as his magnum opus: not a sequel to Henry Cavill’s steel-jawed Man of God from Man of Steel (2013), but a fresh origin blending the character’s Golden Age wholesomeness with modern heart. Casting announcements electrified the fandom. David Corenswet, the handsome unknown from Ryan Murphy’s Hollywood, stepped into the blue suit as Clark Kent/Kal-El, his boyish grin evoking a young Christopher Reeve. Rachel Brosnahan, the whip-smart Mrs. Maisel, embodied Lois Lane with Emmy-winning bite. Nicholas Hoult, the shape-shifting mutant from the X-Men prequels, twisted into the villainous Lex Luthor, shedding his affable everyman vibe for icy megalomania. Supporting the trinity were a rogues’ gallery of fresh faces: Nathan Fillion’s hotheaded Green Lantern Guy Gardner, Isabela Merced’s resilient Hawkgirl, Ed Skrein’s brooding Mr. Terrific, and Anthony Carrigan’s sardonic Metamorpho. Filming wrapped in Australia amid 2024’s brutal heat, with a $200 million budget fueling practical effects, practical sets, and a score that nods to John Williams’ timeless theme without aping it.

Gunn’s vision, teased in trailers that amassed 250 million views in their first week, promised a “warm, hopeful” take. Clark arrives in Smallville as a toddler pod from exploded Krypton, raised by Jonathan and Martha Kent (Nathan Lane and Pruitt Taylor Vince, infusing folksy wisdom with quiet profundity). As an adult, he’s a bumbling Daily Planet reporter navigating his dual life, romancing Lois amid corporate espionage from LexCorp, and clashing with interdimensional threats. The plot weaves classic elements—a Fortress of Solitude hologram of Jor-El (Russell Crowe in a cameo nod to Man of Steel)—with Gunn’s signature humor: Krypto the Superdog steals scenes with laser-vision fetch, and a ragtag “Justice Gang” of misfit heroes assembles for a climactic brawl against Luthor’s monstrous creation. Early screenings raved about Corenswet’s earnest physicality—he bulked up to 220 pounds for the role, nailing flight sequences with wirework that feels ethereal—and Brosnahan’s chemistry with him, sparking in a rooftop confession under Metropolis’ neon glow. Critics’ early peeks, embargoed until July 7, hailed it as “a triumphant return to form,” with 92% on Rotten Tomatoes from outlets like The Hollywood Reporter calling it “the anti-Snyder: bright, buoyant, and unapologetically kind.”

Yet, beneath the hype simmered unease. Gunn’s promotional tour, kicking off in June 2025, veered into charged territory. In a profile for The Sunday Times of London, he laid bare the film’s thematic core: “Superman is the story of America… an immigrant that came from other places and populated the country. But for me, it is mostly a story that says basic human kindness is a value and is something we have lost.” He elaborated that the narrative explores Clark’s struggle with identity in a polarized world, where his alien heritage mirrors the immigrant experience—seeking belonging while wielding godlike power. “Yes, it’s about politics,” Gunn admitted, framing it as a gentle rebuke to societal cynicism. “We’ve forgotten how to be kind to each other.” The remarks, timed amid raging national debates over border policies and urban unrest, landed like a heat-vision blast. Within hours, conservative firebrands pounced. Fox News’ Jesse Watters quipped on air that Superman’s cape now reads “MS-13,” riffing on the notorious gang to mock perceived pro-illegal immigration vibes. Kellyanne Conway, the Trump-era advisor turned pundit, fumed on The Five: “We don’t go to the movie theater to be lectured to and have somebody throw their ideology onto us.” Ben Shapiro, in a viral YouTube rant viewed 2.5 million times, accused Gunn of “separating Superman from America,” likening the hero to “an illegal immigrant who doesn’t assimilate.” Tim Pool’s podcast dedicated a 45-minute episode to dissecting the “woke-ification” of the Last Son of Krypton, while X accounts like End Wokeness amassed 1.2 million impressions with memes of Superman at a border checkpoint, captioned “Dreaming of the American Way… via cartel.”

The backlash snowballed into a digital deluge. #Superwoke trended globally, with 450,000 posts in 48 hours, blending boycott calls (#BoycottSuperman hit 300,000 signatures on Change.org) and satirical deepfakes of Corenswet’s Clark reciting policy talking points. Dean Cain, the ’90s TV Superman, weighed in on TMZ, lamenting the “woke-ification” and warning it could tank the box office: “I was excited, but bringing Superman into [politics] was a mistake.” Even neutral fans griped on Reddit’s r/DC_Cinematic, where threads like “Gunn’s Turning Supes into a Refugee Allegory—Thoughts?” drew 15,000 upvotes and debates over canon fidelity. Superman’s immigrant roots aren’t new—Siegel and Shuster drew from Moses and the Golem, and post-9/11 comics like Superman: True Brit (2006) leaned into it—but in 2025’s fevered climate, Gunn’s explicit embrace felt like provocation. Protests erupted outside the film’s Los Angeles premiere on July 7, with a dozen MAGA-clad demonstrators waving signs reading “Truth, Justice, and the Border Wall.” Online, review-bombing began pre-release, tanking user scores on IMDb to 4.2 amid unverified “leaks” claiming the film featured “pronoun fights” and “anti-cop rants.”

Gunn’s response? A powder keg of outrage that broke the internet. On July 8, at the TCL Chinese Theatre premiere, he faced a gauntlet of Variety reporters. “I’m not here to judge people,” he began, his voice steady but eyes flashing. “This is a movie about kindness—something everyone can relate to.” But as questions probed the “jerks” offended by its politics, Gunn’s restraint cracked. “Screw them,” he shot back, gesturing dismissively. “If you think basic human kindness is offensive, go watch something else. Go away.” The clip, raw and unfiltered, exploded across platforms—12 million views on X by midnight, dissected in every podcast from The Joe Rogan Experience to The Daily Wire. Gunn doubled down in a People magazine follow-up: “Superman fights for the oppressed—that’s his DNA. If that bothers you, you’re missing the point of the character.” His brother Sean Gunn, playing the scheming Maxwell Lord, amplified the heat, telling the red carpet crowd: “Yes, Superman is an immigrant, and the people we support are immigrants. If you don’t like that, you’re not American. People who say no to immigrants are against the American way.” Nathan Fillion, as the brash Lantern, lightened the mood with a chuckle: “Aw, somebody needs a hug. It’s just a movie, guys.” But the damage—or fuel—was done. Gunn’s words reignited the fray, with supporters hailing him as a “truth-teller” and detractors branding him a “Hollywood elitist” alienating heartland viewers.

This isn’t Gunn’s first rodeo with controversy. The 58-year-old Rhode Island native clawed from indie horror roots—his Troma debut Tromeo and Juliet (1996) was a punk-rock Romeo + Juliet spoof—to Marvel mastery with Guardians (2014), turning Rocket Raccoon and Star-Lord into billion-dollar icons through found-family vibes and snarky heart. But old tweets unearthed in 2018, joking about taboo subjects, cost him his directing gig on Guardians 3—until fan outcry and Disney’s reversal reinstated him. At DC, he’s architecting a 10-year slate: Creature Commandos animated in December 2025, Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow in June 2026, and a Swamp Thing horror flick to darken the palette. Superman, though, is his passion project, scripted solo over two years, drawing from All-Star Superman and Kingdom Come for a Clark who’s “good to his core” yet flawed—haunted by isolation, tempted by power, but choosing empathy. Gunn consulted Siegel’s daughter Laura, weaving in archival lore, and even penned a graphic novel prequel, Superman: The Harvest, released tie-in style.

As opening weekend looms, the stakes couldn’t be higher. Projections peg a $150-175 million domestic debut, buoyed by IMAX demand and family crowds, but international forecasts hover at $300 million total—solid, but shy of The Batman’s $770 million pandemic haul. Analysts like Shawn Robbins of Box Office Theory note the discourse’s double-edged sword: “It amps awareness, but in polarized times, social media turns opinions toxic. Pop culture and politics? They’re fused now.” Defenders point to history—Superman debuted smashing a wife-beater in Action Comics #1, a jab at fascism—while foes decry “forced messaging” in a genre built for thrills. Gunn, ever the provocateur, posted a cryptic X update on July 9: a Fortress crystal glowing with the motto “Truth. Justice. Kindness.” No hashtags, just a mic drop.

In the end, Gunn’s Superman isn’t just a film; it’s a mirror to our fractures. Will audiences embrace its hopeful immigrant heart, or reject it as preachy pablum? As Corenswet’s Clark lifts a crumbling bridge in the trailer—saving lives amid chaos, whispering “Up, up, and away”—the real test is whether Hollywood’s boldest bet can transcend the noise. Gunn’s rage, raw and righteous, underscores a truth: Superman has always been political, from punching Hitler to pondering prejudice. If detractors bolt, he shrugs—let them. The Last Son of Krypton flies on, cape billowing against the storm, reminding us that heroes don’t compromise. They save the day, politics be damned. But in 2025’s coliseum, saving the box office might demand a miracle all its own.