This is a superhero movie that barely feels like one, and that’s exactly why it works.
After seventeen years of Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, I thought I knew this guy. I didn’t. Here he’s driving a limo near the Mexican border, coughing, limping, and drinking too much. He isn’t saving the world. He’s barely saving himself.
Jackman has never been better, and it isn’t close. His face carries years of pain, and when the rage finally breaks loose, it hits like a truck. One small moment stuck with me: a claw jams halfway, and he has to pull it free with his own fingers. Something that used to be effortless now hurts. The movie never explains it. It doesn’t have to.
Patrick Stewart matches him as an aging Charles Xavier. He’s funny, heartbreaking, and genuinely scary when his mind slips. Together they feel like real family: frustrating, loving, and messy.
Then there’s Dafne Keen as Laura. She barely speaks for most of the film and still steals every scene. Her fights are ferocious. Her quiet moments are even better.
James Mangold shoots it like a Western, with dusty roads, small towns, and long silences. The nods to Shane are no accident. The R rating isn’t just there for blood, either. Every blow has weight, and every death matters.
Yes, the middle drags a little. I didn’t mind. Those slow stretches are what make the ending land so hard.
Logan is a goodbye done right. Bring tissues.
