Superman and the Death and Life of Moral Gravity

Why the world needs a principled Superman—and how autism could save us all

I grew up in the ’80s, and for as long as I can remember, Superman has been my favorite superhero.

Sure, I’ve connected with plenty of others in more emotionally complex ways over the years—characters with deeper flaws, modern struggles, sharper edges, and messier internal lives. But none of that has ever changed the fact that, deep down, Superman has always held a special place in my heart. And it started—as it did for many of us—with Christopher Reeve.

There was something about his portrayal that never left me. It wasn’t the charm, or the idealism, or the emotional weight of one of the most iconically inspirational scores ever composed. It was the way he carried himself. The stillness. The restraint. Not just performative stoicism, but the way he made you believe, without ever needing to say it, that his strength came from somewhere deeper than muscle or myth.

Moral gravity. That’s what I’m calling it. By which, I don’t just mean virtue or goodness. I mean a kind of groundedness—an internal structure that holds, even under pressure. Something that doesn’t shift with public sentiment or personal gain. The kind of clarity that doesn’t need to shout, because it doesn’t need to prove itself.

Empathy Is Action, Not Feeling

Reeve’s Superman didn’t pull people in with power. He supported them—gently, steadily—through the force of his conviction. You trusted him. Not just to save you, but to be who he said he was. No matter what.

And somewhere along the way, we lost that.

Or maybe we just stopped believing it was possible.

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Brandon Routh’s portrayal in Superman Returns came closest to recapturing that energy. He brought emotional restraint, quiet depth, and a sincere sort of care that felt exactly right for Superman. Sadly, the story itself didn’t know what to do with him. It left him hovering—literally and metaphorically. There was no arc. No real growth. Just an echo, suspended in air, never quite landing. It was all very surface-level—further perpetuating the myth that Superman is just too simple for our morally complicated modern world.

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Then came Henry Cavill.

Not my favorite portrayal for a number of highly opinionated reasons I won’t bore you with today. But ultimately, I don’t think Cavill was really the problem. He brought a real presence to the role—something strong and still and potentially grounded. But the writing didn’t allow him to build anything. Instead of watching Superman rise into himself, we watched him pulled in every direction. He reacted. He hurt. He brooded. But he didn’t align. And when he almost did, it never felt like it came from a particularly deep, internal place.

It was just so… performative (my word of the year, apparently).

It felt like Zack Snyder just really needed Supes to stop floating around and finally punch something—logic be damned—and that’s about as deep as the development went.

Beyond the False Choice

So for years now, Superman has felt conceptually adrift. Not quite irrelevant—but definitively unrooted, un-centered. He’s either been dragged into this cold, hyper-modern nihilism or placed back on that nostalgic pedestal, as if those are the only two options: icon or cynic. Neither one is satisfying, because neither one reflects what made the character resonate in the first place.

It’s easy to forget, but Superman was never interesting because he was flawless.

He was interesting because he wasn’t driven by ego. He was a man of unimaginable strength who chose restraint. Who held himself back, constantly, because he understood something that seems to be missing in a lot of modern storytelling: that the right thing isn’t always the loud thing.

That power means nothing if you can’t live with yourself after using it.

And the truth is, I think we need that kind of Superman now more than ever. Not because the world is worse than it used to be, but because the cracks are more visible—and because the ground underneath our feet doesn’t feel as stable as it once did.

It’s not just the politics or the climate or the economy. It’s the way people respond to all of it. The way grief is starting to look like rage. The way confusion is being rebranded as moral clarity. The way people are grasping for something solid—anything solid. Mistaking volume—or vengeance—for truth.

I felt that fracture after the murder of the UnitedHealth CEO.

I didn’t know how to talk about it at first. Not because I didn’t have a reaction—I most certainly did—but because I knew that reaction wasn’t going to land well with a lot of people. People with whom I would otherwise be relatively morally aligned.

The act itself was horrifying. Predictable, inevitable, but nonetheless horrifying.

But what really shook me was the reaction. It wasn’t just grief, or shock, or disillusionment. It was manic celebration. “Free Luigi” trended. In memes, yes, but more than that—in actual people’s explicit public statements. People who normally talk about restorative justice and the sanctity of human life were suddenly justifying murder like it was an act of necessary rebellion. It wasn’t just satire. It wasn’t hyperbole.

Reframing Autistic Inertia: It’s Not What You Think

And when I spoke up—when I said, plainly, that this was not okay—I was shut down. Labeled a hypocrite. A sympathizer. A shill. Treated like I was defending the billionaires, simply for refusing to celebrate a man’s death. I lost a friend over it. I was blocked from spaces that had claimed to be progressive, inclusive, ethical.

But I wasn’t defending UnitedHealth. I was defending the idea that there should be lines. That our response to injustice can’t be to abandon the very values we say we’re fighting for. That murder, no matter how cathartic it feels in the moment, is still a rupture—one that breaks more than it heals.

What made that moment so difficult wasn’t just the act itself—it was the realization that people were starting to find more coherence in vengeance than in principle. Not because they were monsters. They are not. But because they were exhausted. Betrayed. Worn down by systems that profit off their pain. And when you’re desperate for justice for long enough, sometimes anything that feels like justice starts to look morally justified.

That doesn’t mean it is.

But I digress.

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It was in that space—of horror and sadness and quiet disorientation—that I found myself, once again, thinking about Superman. Not as an answer or a solution—obviously. But as a reminder of what holding looks like.

Because Superman doesn’t have to be perfect. He doesn’t have to be flawless, or Messiah, or even relatable in the traditional sense. All he needs to be is anchored. We need to believe that when the world spins out, he won’t. That his strength isn’t just about what he can lift—it’s about what he can withstand without losing himself. That’s what gives the character weight. What makes him compelling.

That’s what makes him relatable.

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And maybe it’s just me, but I’ve always felt something else lingering beneath the surface of a well-written Superman—something that feels… familiar.

I’ve never seen it named, at least not seriously. But if Superman were written today with care, nuance, and a deep sense of character structure, I think he’d make a wonderful, brilliantly multifaceted, implicitly autistic character.

Not the stereotype. Not “quirky.” Not a nerdy genius who never seems to be in on the joke. Not a walking DSM checklist. Not a categorization of perceived deficits.
But in the way the character processes. The way he holds emotional structure internally, and doesn’t always externalize it in ways people understand. The way he masks, not to manipulate, but to survive. The way he doesn’t perform empathy—but lives it, quietly, through principle.

There’s a kind of resonance there. A structural echo. The need for clarity. The discomfort with contradiction. The internal compass that doesn’t always align with the social script—but does align with something deeper. Something that holds.

And no, this isn’t about saying autistic people are more moral. We’re not. (That’s abundantly clear in this current political climate.) Integrity isn’t a diagnosis. It’s a decision. But for a lot of us, the drive toward internal alignment feels existential. It’s not about being right. It’s about being whole. And that wholeness often comes from clarity, structure, consistency. From choosing a framework and honoring it—not for approval, but because the alternative feels unbearable.

That’s not superhuman. That’s just how some of us have to live.

A Superman who holds his integrity not because he was taught to—but because it’s the only way his mind knows how to feel real—that’s a version of the character that would resonate on a level I don’t think we’ve seen yet. And I don’t need it to be explicitly stated, to be clear. Frankly, I don’t want it to be spelled out. I just want it to be there, quietly shaping the way he moves through the world. Those of us who need it will see it, clear as day.

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There’s a well-known monologue in Kill Bill Vol. 2 where Bill calls Clark Kent a disguise—Superman’s critique of humanity. That Kent is weak, bumbling, ordinary, and that this is how Superman sees the rest of us.

It’s a sharp bit of writing. Entertaining and character-appropriate. Classic Tarantino. But it’s also pretty far off the mark.

Clark isn’t Superman’s darkest joke. He’s not a mask. He’s the bridge. He’s how Superman gets close to us—how he lets himself be vulnerable, quiet, unseen. He’s not pretending to be small. He’s choosing to be near. And that choice is the opposite of contempt. It’s empathy. It’s commitment. It’s love, expressed structurally, from the inside out.

That kind of Superman—thoughtful, principled, even alien in his empathy—isn’t just compelling. He’s necessary.

Not because he’ll save us. He won’t. But because he reminds us what it looks like not to lose ourselves. He reminds us that clarity doesn’t have to mean coldness. That alignment doesn’t mean inflexibility. That restraint doesn’t mean weakness.

It means having something inside you that doesn’t blow away with the wind.

That’s what we need more of right now. Not heroes who punch harder. Not omnipotent gods apathetically existing above it all. But characters who stay grounded—in themselves, in their values, and in the hope that there’s still something worth grounding to.

The Shape of Normal

I’m having a hard time containing my excitement at this point, but I’m cautiously optimistic about James Gunn’s upcoming Superman.

I’ve watched the teasers—and the full trailer this morning—with a mix of hesitation and growing anticipation—not because I’m desperate for another reboot, but because this one looks like it might actually understand what’s been missing. The casting of David Corenswet feels pretty intentional. He looks the part, sure—but more importantly, the framing suggests a shift away from irony and image toward something centered. Something morally anchored.

Not simplistic. Not nostalgic for its own sake. But focused—on character, on grounding, on the kind of strength that doesn’t need to justify itself by punching harder or grimacing more.

If Gunn can hold that thread—if he actually lets Superman draw power from his integrity rather than his iconography, or our nostalgia—then maybe we’re finally ready to tell this story again. Not as myth. Not as deconstruction. But as a return to a character who means something because he stands for something—even when the world gives him every reason not to. ∞

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