Byron Vargas

It was nothing like the book. 'Nuff said.

In its latest attempt to resurrect the Man of Steel for a modern audience, Superman crashes harder than a Kryptonian asteroid—and not in a good way. What unfolds on screen isn’t just a cinematic misfire; it’s a philosophical affront, a glossy bastardization of both the Superman mythos and the very idea it was originally conceived to explore: the übermensch. Let’s start with the obvious: Nietzsche’s concept of the übermensch—the “overman”—is not about a flying man in spandex saving cats from trees or delivering limp monologues about hope to a city he conveniently allowed to fall into disrepair. The übermensch is a radical ideal: one who transcends societal norms, carves their own morality, and acts as a creative force toward human evolution. He is not a savior from above, but an exemplar who rises from the human condition. This film, instead, gives us a protagonist who is emotionally neutered, painfully earnest, and soaked in nostalgia for a morality that is both infantilizing and out of touch. The Superman here is not a visionary but a Boy Scout in a cape—moralizing without consequence, suffering without complexity. He’s less Nietzsche’s übermensch and more a boot-licking paragon of neoliberal civility. One might expect a god among men; instead, we get a glorified life coach who spouts platitudes like “You are stronger than you think” while punching generic space fascists into the sun. Worse yet, the film tries to inject “depth” by dragging Superman into tired identity crises and sanitized existential dilemmas that feel ripped from a TED Talk rather than from the pages of mythic struggle. He’s torn between his alien and human sides, but not in any way that challenges the audience to think. There’s no risk, no rebellion, no ascent—just therapy sessions masquerading as plot. Imagine Nietzsche’s Zarathustra weeping into a glass of oat milk because he doesn’t feel “seen” by Metropolis. The real crime here is how the film strips the Superman character of his revolutionary potential. Superman—at his best—is a metaphor for the future of humanity, a symbol of what we might become if we broke our chains. In this film, however, he’s a glorified middle manager of cosmic balance, constantly asking permission to be great. The übermensch acts beyond good and evil; this Superman just wants a five-star Yelp review. Director and writers, in their cowardice, have replaced the profound with the palatable. They’ve neutered the aspirational and served us the digestible. And in doing so, they’ve betrayed not just the spirit of Superman, but the very philosophical root from which he sprang. If Nietzsche saw this film, he wouldn’t say “God is dead.” He’d say “Superman is dead, and Hollywood killed him.” Save yourself the existential dread—reread Thus Spoke Zarathustra instead.

Once envisioned as a platform for dynamic, diverse women to discuss the day’s most pressing issues, ABC’s The View has devolved into a shallow spectacle of performative outrage, moral inconsistency, and intellectual laziness. What began as a groundbreaking concept has metastasized into a case study in tokenism, yellow journalism, and hollow virtue signaling. The show parades diversity in casting, but not in thought. Women of color are often brought in as token voices—meant to provide the appearance of ideological breadth while toeing the party line. This is especially transparent when any opinion outside the dominant liberal orthodoxy is either shouted down or edited into irrelevance. It’s not a marketplace of ideas—it’s an echo chamber with designer coffee mugs. Yellow journalism is alive and well on The View, thinly veiled as “hot topics.” The show routinely offers tabloid-level takes on complex issues, prioritizing virality and ratings over facts or thoughtful nuance. Viewers are expected to digest important sociopolitical developments through the lens of daytime theatrics and fact-challenged monologues masquerading as insight. The hypocrisy is staggering. The hosts routinely moralize about civility and tolerance while launching personal attacks and playing character assassins for those with whom they disagree. They clutch pearls over misinformation, then confidently spout it. They lament the loss of decorum in politics while gleefully fanning the flames of partisan vitriol. Virtue signaling is the show’s true specialty. Every issue—from social justice to women’s rights to climate change—is reduced to a self-congratulatory performance. The panel often positions themselves as the conscience of America, while ignoring the structural privilege and contradictions baked into their own platform. Empathy is wielded not as a tool for connection, but as a weapon to silence dissent and elevate themselves. Sunny Hostin, who was once a promising voice of legal insight, now seems to be navigating a personal and professional unraveling on air. Her commentary, once grounded in legal expertise, now often teeters between sanctimony and self-parody. Whether it’s the increasingly personal nature of her rants or the strained attempts to align her brand with elite progressive righteousness, her on-screen demeanor suggests a person battling more than just the news cycle. While the status of her marriage is her private business, it’s difficult not to notice how the personal tension bleeds into the public broadcast. In the end, The View no longer informs—it performs. It’s not a panel of women thoughtfully discussing America; it’s a circus of clashing egos, empty affirmations, and a desperate grasp for relevance. If this is the voice of modern discourse, we’re in serious trouble.

Disney’s latest live-action debacle, “Snow White,” is a testament to the studio’s relentless pursuit of profit over artistry, resulting in a film that is both creatively bankrupt and painfully out of touch. This remake not only tarnishes the legacy of the 1937 animated classic but also stands as a glaring example of how misguided modern adaptations can be.   Rachel Zegler’s portrayal of Snow White is a rare glimmer of competence in this otherwise dismal production. Her vocal talents are undeniable, breathing some semblance of life into an otherwise lifeless script. However, even her commendable efforts are insufficient to salvage a film so deeply flawed at its core.  Gal Gadot’s casting as the Evil Queen is nothing short of a casting catastrophe. Her performance lacks the depth and menace required for such an iconic villain, rendering her portrayal as flat and uninspired. This miscasting is emblematic of the film’s broader issues—a fundamental misunderstanding of what made the original so enchanting.  The film’s attempt to modernize the narrative with pseudo-progressive elements is both clumsy and condescending. Instead of empowering the titular character, these additions feel like hollow gestures, stripping away the timeless charm of the original story. The result is a disjointed mess that fails to resonate on any meaningful level. Visually, “Snow White” is an overproduced eyesore. The excessive use of CGI creates a world that feels artificial and soulless, lacking the handcrafted beauty of traditional animation. The Seven Dwarfs, reimagined through motion capture, are particularly unsettling, embodying the film’s misguided reliance on technology over storytelling. Critics have rightly panned this travesty. Peter Bradshaw of The Guardian described it as “exhaustingly awful,” criticizing the film’s “agobiantes añadidos pseudo-progresistas” and lamenting the wasted talent of its lead actresses. Similarly, Johnny Oleksinski of the New York Post dismissed it as “another autómata de acción real inútil y extraño,” highlighting its failure to justify its existence.  In conclusion, Disney’s “Snow White” is a soulless cash grab that desecrates a beloved classic. It serves as a stark reminder that not all stories need to be retold, especially when the retelling lacks the heart, magic, and integrity of the original. Audiences would be wise to avoid this cinematic poison apple. 

“Better Man” is an absolute triumph of storytelling and emotion, and it resonates deeply with someone like me, who values art, education, and personal growth. The film’s exploration of resilience and transformation feels profoundly personal, echoing my own journey of pursuing dreams and embracing change. As an artist and educator, I was particularly struck by the film’s visual storytelling—each frame felt like a masterful illustration, reminding me of the power of art to convey emotion and connect us to universal truths. The narrative delves into themes of self-discovery and perseverance, mirroring my aspirations to inspire others through teaching and creative expression. Moreover, the protagonist’s relentless pursuit of becoming a better version of himself resonates with my own journey—whether it’s striving to balance my professional life, personal passions, or the ambitious goal of pursuing a doctoral degree. “Better Man” isn’t just a movie; it’s a reflection of what it means to grow, evolve, and thrive against the odds. It’s a must-watch for anyone who values introspection and believes in the transformative power of self-improvement.