a mix of genuine observation laced with sarcasm so dry it practically evaporates.

The line “which must be good for Superman’s morale” is the tell. It’s a wink—he’s not seriously suggesting that Superman is boosted by these poorly mixed, context-less shouts. He’s gently mocking the ADR for its artificial, almost performative enthusiasm, which sounds less like panic or awe and more like a halfhearted pep rally.

Phrases like “delightful stream of outfield chatter” and “generalized crowd rhubarb” are also deliberately comic—they reduce what should be life-or-death crowd reactions to sports commentary background noise.

So yes, he’s being sarcastic—but with a smile. He’s not just criticizing the ADR; he’s playing with its emptiness, showing how unmoored it is from the stakes of the scene. Another subtle but effective dig at the hollowness of the moment.

Critique #9: The Scene Undermines Its Own Stakes by Making the Civilians Absurd.

Danny hits the core of the narrative failure here: if the superpowered characters are invulnerable, then all dramatic tension must come from the threat to ordinary people. That’s what gives Superman’s struggle meaning—it’s not about his survival, it’s about his duty to protect others.

So when the civilians are portrayed as clueless, cartoonish, or indifferent—laughing, skating, answering phones—it doesn't just kill realism, it collapses the moral and emotional engine of the scene. Superman’s “The people!” plea becomes hollow when the people themselves seem oblivious, unserious, or invincible-by-comedy.

In a sense, Lester’s choices don’t just change the tone—they sabotage the central dramatic architecture of the story. Danny’s critique here isn’t just aesthetic—it’s structural. If the stakes don’t land, the entire sequence fails as storytelling.

“No! Don’t do it! The people!” isn’t just Superman pleading with the villains in the story—it feels like he’s yelling through the screen, at Lester himself, begging him not to forget what this world is supposed to mean.

After all, Jor-El said "They can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be. They only lack the light to show the way. For this reason above all, their capacity for good, I have sent them you... my only son." And here Lester is undermining all of that. The scene isn’t just misjudged—it feels profoundly dissonant, like the film has betrayed its own heart. Superman remains earnest, selfless, and committed to the ideals he was sent to embody. But the film around him has drifted—into slapstick, spectacle, and detachment.

And that makes it feel tragic, not just flawed. Because the disconnect isn’t between characters—it’s between a hero and the world that’s supposed to deserve him. Superman is still trying to save them. But they’re too busy roller-skating, cackling, or clutching KFC trays to notice. And the film treats that as entertainment.

It’s not just a tonal mismatch—it’s a thematic abandonment. And that’s why it stings. Because we’ve seen what this story can be. And here, it’s let go of that greatness.

Critique #8: Product Placement Inflates and Distorts the Scene.

Danny’s speculation about the telephone gag being un-cuttable due to its placement within the KFC sequence hints at a deeper issue: commerce driving structure. That’s not just a problem of aesthetics—it’s a distortion of editorial judgment. What should be a tight, purposeful action beat becomes a bloated showcase for brands.

This ties into broader blog commentary about the sheer volume of product placement—Marlboro, Coca-Cola, JVC, KFC—all visibly, and sometimes absurdly, present during scenes of urban destruction. Instead of focusing tension or advancing story, the film is pausing for branded spectacle, making the scene feel even more artificial and ungrounded.

So not only does Lester’s indulgence inflate the runtime, but corporate interests help ensure the bloat stays in. It’s one more reason the scene drifts so far from the kind of focused, emotionally driven filmmaking we saw in Superman I.

Critique #7: The Scene Breaks Emotional Reality —this is the linchpin moment in Danny’s argument, where the critique crystallizes. The cackling man on the phone isn’t just another gag—it’s the scene’s tonal collapse made visible.

Danny zeroes in on it because it’s the moment that breaks any remaining illusion that these are real people in real danger. Amid collapsing buildings and chaos, we get not fear or confusion, but manic laughter. It's so divorced from human behavior that it punctures the scene’s emotional logic entirely.

It may be easy for audiences to overlook this in the sensory overload of the sequence. But Danny isolates it like a sharp cut through the noise: this isn’t just over-the-top—it’s incoherent. It confirms that the film has stopped treating its world seriously, and by extension, stopped inviting us to care.

Invoking Donner’s “verisimilitude” here certainly aligns with Danny’s argument, but it does raise the question: is it necessary at this point?

By this stage, Danny has already built a detailed, compelling case—through evidence, tone analysis, and character behavior—that the scene fails on its own terms. So invoking Donner could feel like shifting the terrain—framing the critique not purely on how this scene functions but on how it deviates from a previously established vision.

The move risks becoming a kind of appeal to authority—Donner as artistic benchmark—when the reader has already been shown that the sequence is tonally incoherent and emotionally void. It might feel like the critique needs to be validated by a higher principle, when in fact the scene has already disqualified itself by what it does on screen.

So yes, the Donner reference adds context, but it also complicates the rhetorical clarity. Danny’s evidence already speaks powerfully. Returning to Donner at this point might suggest a lack of confidence in the argument’s self-sufficiency—which isn't warranted.

After presenting a mountain of evidence, Danny pauses to make a preemptive defense of comedy itself—Critique #6 (or rather, a framing move): I’m Critiquing the Execution, Not the Concept of Comedy.

He knows the danger here: if the reader thinks he’s just a humorless nitpicker objecting to levity, the whole argument risks being dismissed. So he lays down a rhetorical flag: “I value comedy. I understand its place in film. This isn’t about disliking jokes—it’s about jokes that don’t belong here.”

The umbrella metaphor adds a self-deprecating touch, reinforcing that this isn’t an attack on fun but a struggle to articulate why this specific kind of fun breaks the film's emotional contract with the viewer.

It’s both necessary and a little risky—because softening the blow might undercut the clarity of his earlier critique. But it shows Danny's awareness of how strongly the film is defended—and how carefully one must argue against something widely loved without alienating the audience.

Critique #5 emerges: The Scene’s Tone Is Incoherent and Undermines Believability.

Danny is no longer just saying the scene is comedic—he’s showing that it's tonally unstable, veering wildly from moment to moment. The list of gags he presents isn’t just observational—it’s cumulative evidence that the scene lacks internal tonal logic. One shot plays for sitcom-style banter, another for absurd visual comedy, another for deadpan surrealism.

The quote “tones change from one shot to the next” is crucial. It implies not just inconsistency, but a collapse of emotional continuity. For a scene meant to represent the terror of a city under siege, these gags introduce a world where nothing has weight, and characters behave like cartoon extras, not humans.

So even if any one of these moments might be amusing in isolation, the pile-up becomes the point: they erode any sense that the world we’re watching is real or worth emotionally investing in. It's tonal whiplash masquerading as variety.

Critique #4: The Scene Reflects the Director's Pleasure, Not the Story’s Needs.

Critique #3: The Scene Is Directorial Indulgence, Not Story-Driven.

That line—“None of this is in the script, by the way”—isn't just a casual aside. It’s a sharp pivot pointing to the artificiality of the scene. Danny is flagging that this isn’t a moment growing out of character or plot necessity—it’s Lester filling time, satisfying contractual obligations to be credited as director.

In the broader context of the blog, where Danny has already documented the production quirks—especially the need for Lester to shoot a specific percentage of footage—this scene becomes emblematic of that behind-the-scenes compromise. It's not just a flawed sequence; it's a symptom of a broken process, where filler replaces function.

So yes, Critique #3 is about authorship and motivation—the idea that this scene exists not to serve the film’s internal logic but to satisfy external requirements and Lester’s own comedic sensibilities.

critique #1 -- the scene runs too long

so blogger Danny is warning us that he's about to bring his cranky take to Richard Lester's cheerful shenanigans