The Boy Who Fell From the Sky — and Straight Into a Slasher Film
If Man of Steel and The Omen had a love child that grew up on a steady diet of Red Bull and nihilism, you’d get Brightburn. Directed by David Yarovesky and produced by James Gunn, this is the superhero movie that crawled out of a meteor crater, looked around, and said, “You know what this world needs? Less hope and more heat vision murder.”
At its core, Brightburn is a brilliant premise: what if Superman landed on Earth and turned out to be an absolute psychopath? It’s one of those “why didn’t anyone think of this before?” ideas. The answer, of course, is that they probably did—but the studios were too afraid to put the S-word (sociopath) next to the Superman archetype. Thankfully, Gunn’s crew isn’t afraid of anything, least of all child villains, exploding jaws, or the trauma of parenthood gone intergalactic.
Meet the Breyers: Kansas, Cornfields, and Cosmic Regret
We begin in the small town of Brightburn, Kansas—a place so idyllic it practically begs for alien invasion. Tori (Elizabeth Banks) and Kyle (David Denman) are a couple who can’t conceive, until the universe delivers them a baby in a smoking spaceship. Because apparently, when something crashes in your backyard, the logical next step is adoption.
They name the boy Brandon (Jackson A. Dunn), raise him with love, and for twelve blissful years, everything’s great—except for the occasional dead chicken and creepy thousand-yard stare. Then puberty hits, and Brandon goes from honor roll student to extraterrestrial Ed Kemper overnight. It turns out that his spaceship’s been whispering sweet genocidal nothings into his ear, telling him to “take the world.” Most kids get acne and mood swings. Brandon gets super strength and a god complex.
From Superhero to Superproblem
Brightburn is what happens when you take the Superman mythos and replace the moral compass with a rusty compass that just points toward carnage. Brandon discovers he can fly, shoot lasers from his eyes, and crush human skulls like grapes—but instead of saving cats from trees, he’s killing people with the emotional detachment of a Roomba.
The kills are where the film truly shines (literally—often with laser eyes). There’s a scene where Brandon crushes a girl’s hand in gym class after she calls him a creep. Another where he flies through his uncle’s truck windshield like a deranged bullet. And, of course, the now-legendary diner sequence—equal parts horrific and hilarious—where a woman’s jaw ends up on the floor. Literally. Brightburn doesn’t do half measures.
Each death feels like the film whispering, “What if we took a PG-13 superhero moment and just… didn’t stop there?”
Elizabeth Banks: The Real Hero (for About 90 Minutes)
Elizabeth Banks carries the emotional weight of the film as Tori, the loving mother in total denial that her son is the Antichrist with a cape. You can almost hear her inner monologue: He’s not evil, he’s just… gifted! Watching her try to reconcile maternal love with the realization that her child could destroy civilization is genuinely heartbreaking—and darkly funny.
There’s a particularly brutal moment when her husband, Kyle, decides enough is enough and takes Brandon on a “hunting trip.” Spoiler: it doesn’t end with s’mores. The bullet bounces off Brandon’s skull like a rubber ball, and Dad gets vaporized for his trouble. It’s the ultimate “wait until your father gets home” moment—except this time, the father’s not coming home because he’s a pile of ash.
By the time Tori tries to kill her son with a shard of his spaceship, you’re rooting for her, even though you know deep down she doesn’t stand a chance. Brandon drops her from the sky in a scene that’s both tragic and weirdly poetic. Parenthood, in a nutshell.
Kansas Has Never Been This Terrifying
Cinematographer Michael Dallatorre paints Brightburn like a Norman Rockwell painting drenched in blood. The contrast between wholesome Americana and cosmic horror gives the film its eerie charm. Sun-dappled cornfields. Cheery diners. And then, in the corner, a glowing-eyed child flying around like a nuclear-powered mosquito.
The small-town setting makes every act of violence feel intimate, personal. Brandon isn’t killing random people—he’s killing family, teachers, and classmates. It’s horror on a first-name basis.
The film’s visual design also deserves credit for the simplicity of Brandon’s costume: a red cape, a stitched-up mask, and dead eyes glowing from the shadows. It’s the DIY look of a future dictator who hasn’t yet discovered branding.
The Gunn Family’s Dark Humor
Even at its bleakest, Brightburn manages to slip in humor so dry it could absorb an oil spill. The film is self-aware enough to wink at the absurdity of its premise without ever mocking it. There’s a wicked glee in watching this alternate Superman origin unfold like a morality tale written by Stephen King.
At one point, Brandon’s adoptive dad lectures him about “not being special.” Moments later, Brandon flies through a barn wall, killing livestock and credibility in equal measure. It’s parenting at its most futile—and funniest.
Producer James Gunn’s fingerprints are all over this film: the tonal tightrope walk, the gleeful violence, the way you find yourself laughing right before a jaw hits the floor. It’s Guardians of the Galaxy—if Groot ate people.
The Ending: Up, Up, and Oh God, We’re Doomed
The finale flips the Superman myth completely on its head. After killing his parents, Brandon causes an airplane crash to cover up the evidence. When rescuers arrive, they find him standing amid the wreckage, looking angelic and innocent—like an alien Norman Bates. The news hails him as a survivor. The audience knows better.
The end credits tease a world teetering on the edge of a new superhuman horror age. Michael Rooker pops up as a conspiracy theorist ranting about other “dark heroes” out there—an evil Aquaman, a murderous Wonder Woman, and a psychotic Flash. In other words, the Justice League reboot we actually deserve.
The Themes: Nature, Nurture, and the Death of Hope
At its heart, Brightburn isn’t just about a kid gone wrong—it’s about the limits of love and the futility of trying to humanize a monster. Tori’s maternal devotion can’t compete with alien destiny. It’s not that Brandon chooses evil; it’s that he doesn’t see good as an option.
It’s the anti-Man of Steel: instead of a messiah figure inspiring hope, we get a teenage god who sees humanity as a disposable plaything. And honestly? Given how we treat this planet, you can’t even blame him.
Still, Brightburn hits harder than most superhero flicks because it’s not about saving the world—it’s about realizing that the world might not be worth saving.
Final Thoughts: Faster Than a Speeding Bullet, Meaner Than a Hormonal Teenager
Brightburn is a lean, mean, cape-wearing nightmare—a movie that gleefully takes the Superman mythos, dunks it in formaldehyde, and sets it on fire. It’s violent, disturbing, and darkly hilarious in all the right ways.
Jackson A. Dunn’s performance is terrifyingly restrained; Elizabeth Banks sells maternal despair like she’s auditioning for a Greek tragedy; and the film’s brisk 90-minute runtime ensures it never overstays its bloody welcome.
Sure, some critics complained that it didn’t fully explore its potential—but let’s be honest: the potential was “Superman goes feral.” Mission accomplished.
Final Score: 4 out of 5 Laser Eyes
Brightburn proves one timeless truth: absolute power doesn’t corrupt absolutely—it just makes you a homicidal twelve-year-old with a cape and mommy issues. And if you ever hear chanting in the barn, maybe… just move to another state.
