As I’ve mentioned in this space all too frequently—and probably to my own detriment—I am an unapologetic comic book-movie geek. (If I’m flipping through the channels on a rainy Saturday afternoon, and I happen to land on 1980s Flash Gordon, I’m going to watch it—in its entirety.)

So imagine my delight upon hearing rumors that Christopher Nolan, responsible for the superlative resurrection of the Batman franchise, had recently been acquisitioned by Warner Bros. to serve in an advisory role to the soon to be re-booted Superman canon.

Details on the extent of Nolan’s involvement are unclear, yet according to slashfilm.com, a source close to this revitalization project was apparently quoted in saying that this new film “would definitely not be a follow-up to Superman Returns,” referring to Bryan Singer’s 2006 offering. The article also suggested that fans would find this particular piece of news to be a welcome relief.

Curious as to why such a sentiment would permeate the Superman fan base, and because it had been a while since I’d seen Singer’s film (and also because I had absolutely no adult supervision whatsoever this past weekend), I threw my copy of Returns into the ol’ DVD player to see if I might agree with the need for a trajectory change. I have to say I’m now one of its staunch defenders.

There’s a moment in the film in which the man of steel soars toward the heavens, exuding grace and exhilaration that conjures up every memory or preconceived notion one may have ever had of the caped, red-booted hero. One of the taglines for the original Superman film promulgated that “you will believe a man can fly!” Four sequels and 19 years later (in 2006, that is), we didn’t just believe that Superman could fly; he simply was flying.  The scene is so beautifully shot, and film technology had come such a staggeringly long way that suspension of disbelief was no longer necessary. In fact, it had been so long since we’d seen him on the big screen that you thought, “Man, this guy’s been practicing!”

He ascends above the stratosphere, subtly pirouettes amongst the stars, and then simply . . . hovers. Eyes closed, arms extended languidly at his sides, he listens. And waits. Watching him from the darkness, the audience soon begins to hear (quiet, at first, then with a gradually burgeoning urgency) all the sounds he hears: an innocuous argument taking place in some apartment in some unidentifiable town, the murmurs of dialogue emanating from someone’s television screen, a mother singing her baby to sleep.

And then, slowly yet with unmistakable certainty, a sound synonymous with dread catches Superman’s ear: a gunshot! Then, blaring sirens followed by more gunshots. Superman’s eyes shoot open with glaring, focused intensity. And he is off! Like a speeding bullet, he barrels toward the ongoing conflict, and the audience pumps its collective fist in ubiquitous, stalwart approval.  John Williams’ famous, rousing score ensues.

Regardless of what direction future installments may assume, it’s moments like this that make continuing the Superman franchise worthwhile. No, scratch that. It’s moments like this that make continuing to shelve out eight plus dollars to go out to the movies worthwhile. As we continue to grow more and more desensitized to special effects and other facets of film wizardry—all of which have become steadily ameliorated since the genesis of the “Event” movie back in the mid-1970s—it’s refreshing to know that such staple components can still serve to reinforce certain themes and elements of mythology that made movies a source of wonderment to begin with.

Yes, we’ve seen Superman fly. We’ve seen him detonate flying embankments with that laser beam vision of his. We’ve seen him turn back the clock by flying around the earth multiple times at astonishing speed. We’ve even seen Superman get a little sad on occasion and shed a few mighty tears in the process. But what this first 21st century contribution to the franchise had shown us was something special, something that heretofore we had not seen from a “Superman” film.

It actually established pathos in Superman. As he hovers there in space, the camera zooms in on his pained expression and we recognize instantly a sense of desire, a sense of regret, and yes, even a sense of utter helplessness. “I hear everything,” he says solemnly at one point in the film.

Whenever trouble reared its ugly head in the past, we always knew Superman would swoop in to save the day, but how did he always know where trouble was? Sure, he sometimes benefited from being in the right place at the right time, and sometimes he was even fortunate enough to be told where problems lurked.  But sometimes he would just simply show up.

So, did it ever occur to anyone that the big guy was sometimes compelled to choose who would be the beneficiary of his help? Imagine the emotional devastation such knowledge would incur—to know that despite being blessed with extraordinary (and seemingly limitless) power, even that is simply not enough. As it turns out, Superman indeed cannot save the world. In the end, the best he can do is really the best any of us can do: his own part, little by little, every day, and every chance he gets.

The greatest accomplishment of Superman Returns was that it finally instilled a sense of empathy for a character that seemed beyond empathy. But what’s most inspiring about this and all the films in the series is the one pervasive theme that serves as a testament to what the character has always stood for: Never quit.

A corny sentiment? You bet. In fact, modern day cynicism practically demands it be defined as such. But when in our lifetime has such an attitude been more necessary? Besides all that, Superman movies are just damn good fun, in addition to being highly inspirational.

Yes, some will always scoff at the idea of a movie about a guy in tights and a cape being inspiring, but really, what’s more inspiring than the power of imagination and the freedom it allows? If the classic theme of good versus evil—(with “good” of course constantly prevailing against insurmountable odds)—doesn’t get your inner motivational speaker going, what does?

Any dorky fan of the franchise (like myself) will tell you that, indisputably, one of the greatest moments in cinematic history comes courtesy of the heart-pounding climax of Superman II, which finds our seemingly forlorn hero kneeling before the evil General Zod, taking his hand to swear eternal allegiance. (Zod believes Superman is now powerless after standing in a sealed off super power-vanquishing contraption, but the man in blue has in fact surreptitiously switched things around so that Zod and his minions are the powerless ones.)

Superman slowly takes Zod’s hand, which, a beat later and without warning, gets methodically crushed in the beguiling good guy’s grip (and once again, that oh-so-catchy Williams score methodically pipes in, announcing, “That’s right, you lose, evil villain!”) Horror-stricken, Zod compulsively hunches over, screaming in shock and anguish, while Superman rises magisterially, hoists Zod up by his chest, and with a smirk and one quick shake of the head, hurls him to his icy demise. No, it may not be tantamount to Jimmy Stewart’s enduring filibuster scene in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but it’s a rollicking good triumph in its own right, to be sure!

And how about the sequence in the original Superman film in which the puissant Samaritan saves a school bus from plummeting off the Golden Gate Bridge? He glides up effortlessly, takes hold of the bus (with one hand, I believe), gently places it back safely on the road, and then makes a point to smile and wave at the kids on board as though he was none other than Joe, your friendly neighborhood crossing guard, ushering them across the street to school. “Hi, kids!” he says enthusiastically. “It’s all right now!”

And who can forget the famous ending that punctuates every Superman film, which finds our hero—after a long day’s work—coasting along the night sky, turning toward the camera and flashing us a reassuring grin. “I’ll always be around,” that grin says.

Of course, back in the summer of 2006, a great deal of fuss erupted over the fact that the makers of Superman Returns had equivocated the title character’s advocacy of “truth, justice, and the American way” (as he so succinctly and definitively put to Lois Lane during a candlelit interview in the original film—a line for which, incidentally, Christopher Reeve must receive a tremendous amount of credit in that he delivers it without a solitary shred of irony or self-awareness. He says it and, damn it, you believe it!).  In Returns, Perry White, the editor of The Daily Planet, commands his staff to determine if Superman still stands for “truth, justice . . . and all that stuff.”

All that stuff?

It leads one to wonder if, in this highly politicized climate in which we find ourselves suffocating every day, that “the American way” has simply been reduced to a trite, ambivalent concept that bears hardly any more significance than a “Beavis and Butthead” re-run.  (Yeah, yeah. Heh heh.  Heh heh. Truth and justice and stuff. That’s pretty cool. Heh heh.)

Sure, the producers had claimed that the line was, um, “modified” so as not to offend any of our neighbors abroad, thereby precluding any international coin from losing its way to the bottom line tally. And who could blame them? They were, of course, absolutely right in this line of thinking.  But the fact is that Superman has always stood for so much more than just the “American Way.”  He belongs to all of us.

Returns found Superman covering every corner of the globe, seeking out turmoil wherever it may lurk. And as we all know, it lurks everywhere. Indeed, his sense of responsibility is the American sense of responsibility. After all, what’s more American—regardless of where you might sit politically—than to recognize a tremendous sense of empowerment and use it, to the best of your ability, to aid those who are powerless to defend themselves against the transgressions of others?  We don’t always succeed, and we’re not always correct in our actions, but the philosophy endures:  Always keep trying to make this world a better, safer place in which to live. Never quit.

It was unequivocally clear to me from the opening frame to the closing titles that Bryan Singer had shot this franchise entry with tremendous affection and reverence for the original films. It’s a faithful homage to what was started as well as a send-off for limitless new possibilities, thereby adequately dispelling any doubts that Singer had honorable intentions in upholding everything that the iconic status of Superman represents, including, yes, “the American Way.”

Ultimately, this film, as well as its predecessors, was created for the same reason the character of Superman himself was created, the same reason the Greeks created the gods of Mount Olympus:  to express the need for guidance and to instill a sense of hope. The mythology of Superman is really not unlike the mythology of any indelible story or idea that has captivated our imaginations throughout time and distance. “They can be a great people,” we hear in a voice-over from Superman’s father, long since perished. “They wish to be. They only lack the light to show them the way.”

We need to know that someone is up there listening. We need to know that regardless of whoever or whatever that someone might represent to each of us individually (be it Superman, God, Mohammed, Buddha, or Zeus disguised as Kermit the Frog), that he’s always around. And above all, we need to know—even if he can’t always immediately get to us—that we haven’t been forgotten.

Todd Guill is a columnist for the New River Voice, pop culture enthusiast, and super geek. He’s a super geek, super geek, he’s super geeky.