The first third of SUPER is promising, with enough subversion and outright wackiness to gratify viewers hoping for more than the usual superhero routine. Frank, played with surprising pathos by Wilson, is like no hero we've seen before, his choices both unpredictable and interesting. He's inspired to become the Crimson Bolt by two things: a psychedelic vision involving an eel-like creature, and a superhero series that appalls him with its insipid writing and bad acting. He wants to fight for good but sees nothing wrong with whacking two people who cut in line on the head until they bleed -- the same punishment he applies to drug dealers.
Then, two-thirds of the way through, the film takes a big turn, and suddenly everything and the kitchen sink is thrown into the mix. There's addiction-speak, cartoon whimsy, buddy comedy, sad sex, brutal (very brutal) violence -- and it doesn't all gel. Instead, it feels like the filmmakers loaded the car, gassed it up, drove full throttle, then jumped out at the last minute. The car bobs and weaves, pitches off the cliff, explodes, then suddenly softens. Say what? Exactly.