Kara Zor-El (Milly Alcock) can swill an entire sorority’s supply of booze. As a Kryptonian, her hangovers are instantly cured by a yellow sun. And so director Craig Gillespie’s “Supergirl” follows a trail of empty beer bottles to find Superman’s lonely younger cousin marking her birthday on a solo interstellar bender, pounding shots alongside her dog, Krypto.
Unlike sweet-natured Kal-El (David Corenswet), a.k.a. Clark Kent, who escaped Krypton as a baby, this traumatized 20-something bore witness to their home planet’s long and painful extinction. Playing grief like the sandblasted absence of emotion, Alcock’s Supergirl isn’t in the mood for Metropolis do-gooding. She prefers slumming it at extraterrestrial honky-tonks with suitors who look like armadillo-plated slugs. She’s most visibly depressed when she tries to convince herself she’s having fun.
Who doesn’t want to go on a “Star Wars” cantina crawl? The opening stretch of “Supergirl” is great — Alcock even passes out on a toilet with aplomb. Briefly we hope that Gillespie and screenwriter Ana Nogueira are shaking up the superhero format like a bottle of gas-station champagne. I’d love to see Alcock’s heroine in a grotty, silly “Animal House”-style comedy, out-drinking a galaxy of alien squids. But the limits of Hollywood’s imagination squeeze Supergirl to stop partying and start doing some regular old rescuing. Sigh. Someone’s gotta save franchise movies from themselves.
As usual, there’s a tyke in trouble: 13-year-old Ruthye (Eve Ridley), a fellow orphan with a ramrod disposition and a tidy brunet braid that gives away that her character is modeled on Hailee Steinfeld’s vengeful teenager in “True Grit.” Ruthye wants to hunt and kill the creep who murdered her family. Unlike Supergirl, the child thinks it’s healthier to exorcize — not imbibe — one’s heartache. The duo visit an Epstein-island-like planet of kidnapped breeding women where, in one of the script’s subtler sick horrors, the locals imply that pubescent Ruthye is more valuable than aged 23-year-old Supergirl. (Although some of the caged extras appear to be as ancient as 30.) It’s yet another swiped idea, this one from “Mad Max: Fury Road,” for a minor story beat that’s unnecessary. Still, Alcock reacts with exactly the right note of disdain: “Cool,” she croaks. ‘Nuff said.
They’ve come to this cesspool to find the villainous Krem, an unrecognizably vile Matthias Schoenaerts with a mug that’s been pierced all over like he face-planted into a pile of thumbtacks. His biker-scumbag-times-infinity prosthetic design is fantastic, but what makes it genius is that the makeup team allowed a couple of metal studs to fall off Krem’s forehead before his first close-up. You know, for that lived-in barbarian sex trafficker look.
As Ruthye, Ridley’s crisp British elocution is the cleanest thing in the movie, which is shot by Rob Hardy in shades of mustard smog and latrine brown. Neither Supergirl as a babysitter nor Gillespie as a storyteller let the kid carry her share of the action, but I suspect Ridley has the talent for it. She seizes her small opportunities to impress in the film’s second half. Spitting on a baddie, her righteous loogie stings like a moral disinfectant.
Meanwhile, Jason Momoa swaggers into the fray from the cover of an ’80s hard-rock album with Kiss’ makeup, Manowar’s muscles and Meatloaf’s motorcycle. His character, a blue-skinned bounty hunter, only tangentially slots into the plot. Really, Momoa’s massive presence is here to prove that James Gunn was serious when he announced he was hard-resetting DC Comics’ film canon up to 2023’s “Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom.” Momoa as Aquaman is dead. Long live Momoa as Whoever This Guy Is.
Gillespie likes to champion difficult women, from Tonya Harding in “I, Tonya” to the Dalmatian-skinning Disney villain of “Cruella.” Yet as his budgets have mounted, so has the pressure to make his problematic ladies popular with a mass audience. “Supergirl” feels anxious to entertain. The jokes all have the same sense of snarky humor, no matter what species is cracking them. One scene even has a comic slow clap that, in my theater, didn’t get a reaction. The camera and cutting pace refuse to relax. Major set-piece action shots are impossible to follow. You can’t squint past the distracting lens flares.
Alcock’s wildling Supergirl is the one reason to see the film. As in her too-brief role on the “Game of Thrones” prequel “House of the Dragon” and her rollicking cameo at the end of 2025’s “Superman,” the Australian actor is a striking combination of grounded conviction and otherworldly essence, the ideal one-two for a character who plays anti-gravity fetch with her dog. Floating weightless in the stars, her hair unbrushed and bathrobe-like jacket shrugged on, she makes the impossible look casual. (Supergirl’s iconic red-and-blue minidress is so not her style.)
Alas, Krypto the pup is sidelined early on with a whimper, both from him and us. Maybe he’ll get more screen time when the digital animators figure out how to make him look more realistic. (Between the mutt’s anime eyes and that gawky-phony deer in “Disclosure Day,” are CGI creatures getting worse?)
Grief tethers Supergirl to Ruthye, even though they disagree on how to handle it, and it also seems to repel her from Corenswet’s dopey, innocent Clark Kent. There’s rich irony in the personality contrast between the cousins. Her Kryptonian parents raised her to help humanity; his parents intended their son to rule it. But due to twists of fate, she’s the miserable, maladjusted one. The movie has no time to mine the psychology underneath their clash, let alone summon a sniffle for the other pitiful characters who die during this escapade. Perhaps it’s holding that tension back for a sequel, but I’d rather invest in the characters now.
A flashback to Supergirl’s first touchdown on Earth has the awkwardness of a study-abroad student realizing she doesn’t like her host country at all. Despite our planet seeming to have enforced its monoculture on outer space — an extraterrestrial dive bar band even does “The Girl From Ipanema” — Supergirl appreciates little of it besides some product-placement dog treats and, in a forced touch, the pop music on her headphones as well as crammed into the soundtrack next to Claudia Sarne’s gravelly score. I’ll accept this degenerate Supergirl sporting a retro Blondie shirt, but not her willingly choosing to listen to mopey contemporary Earth jams like Rilo Kiley and a twee cover of Jimmy Eat World over, say, Kryptonian death metal.
Still, the production design has imaginatively askew takes on the mundane: gridded jail cells, plodding space buses, clumsy oxygen suits that shimmy on with a satisfying squeak. When Supergirl makes a pit stop at a celestial convenience store, she samples a snack that I’m forced to call poop-corn. If “Supergirl” sells enough of it, hopefully Alcock can rampage again in a more confident sequel that truly cuts loose.
‘Supergirl’
Rated: PG-13, for sequences of strong violence, action, language, and smoking
Running time: 1 hour, 48 minutes
Playing: Opens Friday, June 26 in wide release
