Here it is, in the nutshell that is the logline for yesterday’s 90-minute season finale:
“A nightmare leads Clark to begin to understand why he was sent to Earth and he seeks counsel from Jor-El, who warns him that he must reunite the three crystals immediately or a disaster of epic proportions will befall the planet.”
I haven’t even seen the episode, but I already know it’s going to suck.
If it weren’t for Television Without Pity, I might despair that I’m the only Superman fan who thinks that Smallville has ripped out the heart of the DC legend, stomped on it, set it on fire, then put out the fire with hydrochloric acid. Which is to say, it stinks.
I hate shows that revolve around prophecy, especially when they make shit up in an attempt to give the illusion of purpose. One of the things I loved about the original Superman– the real Superman, dammit– was the fact that he was finding himself and deciding who he wanted to be of his own free will. Mark Waid’s Birthright dealt with that very issue, and it didn’t need to resort to lame gimmicks like prophecy or destiny.
Maybe it’s because I’m an atheist, but I prefer my heroes to take responsibility for their actions. Sure, you can be tortured or affected by your past, whatever, but don’t blame the invisible hand of fate when you’re the one pulling the trigger.
And I can’t describe how much I hate the idea that Kryptonians visited Earth long before Kal-El landed. The point, people, is that he’s the last son of Krypton. Say it with me, now: Last. Son. Of. Krypton. He’s a refugee, an orphan, a lost boy who finds his way because he is rescued by chance, not because it was planned for him to rule the world. He’s Anne Frank, and the Kents are Miep Gies and Victor Kugler and Bep Voskuijl and Johannes Kleiman and they don’t even know it.