In recent years, the DC cinematic universe of Warner Bros. has weathered more upheavals and personnel changes than Fleetwood Mac in the 1970s. Struggling to consolidate a unifying vision, DC parted ways with Zack Snyder, aiming to salvage and revitalize the troubled franchise.
Director Andy Muschietti, best known for his film adaptation of Stephen King’s It, was tasked with veering the ship in a new direction. The Flash is the vessel with which DC Studios has decided to change course; ironically, it veered off a cliff.
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Ezra Miller's portrayal of Barry Allen personifies the trauma trope that has become synonymous with superhero origins. The character arc, forged from the crucible of childhood tragedy — specifically, the loss of his mother (Maribel Verdu) — creates a haunting specter that simultaneously torments and drives the protagonist.
After his father (Ron Livingston) is convicted for his mother's mysterious murder (the killer was never seen or found), Allen finds himself locked in a race to accumulate evidence for a trial years later. In an act of desperation, he discovers his ability to traverse time by running faster than light. Zipping through time and contradicting logic, the speedy superhero journeys to the past to prevent his father from leaving the house on the fateful day of the murder.
Muschietti’s Flash ventures into deep philosophical waters, examining the notion of fate's inevitability. Allen comes to believe that his traumatic past not only defines him but also predetermines his future, leading him to conclude that salvation lies solely in altering his past. This plan, however, backfires spectacularly when he returns to the present only to find himself a stranger in a drastically altered timeline, where he paradoxically encounters another version of himself (a turn of events wherein Ezra Miller’s preferred they/them pronouns achieve a fittingly literal application).
Despite Miller’s off-screen antics and storied rap sheet, his demeanor and mannerisms work well for the character. He’s the runt of the Justice League and carries a chip on his shoulder over playing second fiddle to more glamorous heroes such as Batman or Superman.
The Flash's narrative hinges heavily on its convoluted time travel premise. Allen's adventures through time disrupt the fabric of past and present, causing universes to intersect in a chaotic fashion. In furtherance of the current trend of “multiverses,” the movie attempts to knit together DC characters from various adaptations, primarily to distance the franchise from Snyder’s previous cast including Ben Affleck, Henry Cavill, and Gal Gadot.
Leveraging its fractured timeline, the movie recycles Man of Steel’s Zod as a lazy CGI antagonist in the final act to pummel its heroes, yet the true villain seems to be the haunting presence of the franchise's past leads, who have all since departed from the studio. The film's plot seems geared toward explaining this away through its “multiverse” gimmicks.
Michael Keaton, known for his portrayal of Batman in the late 1980s, is resurrected for this movie, reappearing in Barry Allen's altered timeline. Keaton’s return provides a much-needed highlight, injecting a sense of seasoned confidence and capability into the narrative, offering a counterpoint to Allen's immature and somewhat naive countenance.
Though the future tone of DC remains shrouded in uncertainty, Muschietti’s interpretation of The Flash sheds much of Snyder’s somber sheen that festooned Justice League in religious symbolism. It’s a lighthearted film that better suits Barry Allen’s character.
The Flash offers fresh insight into its heroes’ journeys, but it aims to please everyone and ends up satisfying few. A mishmash of narrative strands, forced franchise nods, and nostalgic cameos, it is more an exercise in corporate sleight of hand than a compelling superhero story.
How do studios milk as much money as possible from their most lucrative IP? In the past, masked superheroes such as Batman and Superman received a reboot treatment every decade or so, reprising the role with a new actor.
However, in a move so shrewd it feels closer to a product from McKinsey consultants rather than filmmakers or comic book writers, these superheroes now all exist in a broader “multiverse.” Batman can now be played by three different actors (Ben Affleck, Robert Pattinson, Michael Keaton) within the same year and even the same movie; they all just inhabit disparate, intersecting universes. Luckily for the studios, their revenue streams are consolidated within the same universe.
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Harry Khachatrian (@Harry1T6) is a film critic for the Washington Examiner's Beltway Confidential blog and a computer engineer in Toronto, pursuing his MBA.