How do I fill up countless HTML pages with these restrictions? Simple.  Whenever I need to vent, I find some ridiculously inconsequential aspect of pop culture and make fun of it.  It always makes me feel better.

Today’s exhibit: the first publicity still featuring unknown actor Brandon Routh as the title character in next year’s summer blockbuster, Superman Returns:

Let’s apply the full brunt of my knowledge of Superman lore to this regrettable image.

1. First of all, Superman does not have a “S” symbol on his belt. Do you know why?  BECAUSE THE “S” ON HIS CHEST AND THE RED CAPE TEND TO GET THE IDEA ACROSS.  Lex Luthor does not say “Now let’s see, you are...hmm...let me think...Oh!  I see the ‘S’ on your belt buckle.  You’re my arch enemy!” Why not just give the guy a name tag that says “Hello, I am the Last Son of Krypton”?

2. The character’s bright, primary red and blue colors have been noticeably darkened and muted.  This is, apparently, an attempt to update the character and make him more acceptable to a modern audience. Newsflash:  IT’S A GUY WITH A CAPE.  You either go all the way on this sort of thing or you’re screwed.  Lose the dark colors and get back to the Sunday comics.  What next, a red and blue tuxedo?

3. The “S” on the chest is now a raised, three-dimensional shield rather than an emblem.  It looks like some loser bought a commemorative Superman plate off eBay and pasted it on his shirt.

4. Look, I was in favor of hiring an unknown for this part.  I mean, I don’t want to see Ashton Kutcher changing my oil, much less playing Superman.  But I don’t like the look of this Brandon schlub.  He doesn’t have charisma.  Now, Chris Reeves, he commanded respect.  You’d be all,

“Hey, Chris, anyone tell you that you’re dressed like a total--”

(Reeves SILENCES you with steely yet confident gaze)

“---uh....so, you get your powers from Earth’s yellow sun, eh?”

But this guy doesn’t look remotely interesting.  (And keep in mind that this isn’t a candid shot; he had time to prepare for this.) He’s gazing intently into the distance, and it looks like he’s thinking:

“Now, that’s a nice chick walking over there.  Sure, she’s a bit of a townie with the big poofy hair and pasted-on nails, but she’s got it going on.  As long as she isn’t a butter face.  I hope she doesn’t turn around and see that my underoos are riding up in back.  Or, y’know, that I’m wearing a dumb looking monkey suit.”

Whew. I feel a little better now that I’ve expended my meaningless rage on a meaningless target.  I think I’ll go doorbell ditch my neighbors.