Review: The Graphic Novel: Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow…

Yeah, I probably should have read the graphic novel before watching the film, especially since I’m always preaching the virtues of reading the source material first. Apparently, I’m better at giving advice than following it. At least I would have had a clearer sense of what the filmmakers kept, what they changed, and where they went completely off the rails.

Now that I’ve read Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow, by writer Tom King, artist Bilquis Evely, and colorist Matheus Lopes, I ironically find myself wanting to watch the horrible film adaptation again. If nothing else, I’m curious to see how the two compare with the graphic novel fresh in my mind. That said, I can already say that some of the film’s stupider moments have absolutely no basis in the source material.

But back to the graphic novel.

SWOT has two protagonists, a concept I pretty much poo-pooed when I reviewed the film. Now that I see the same approach comes directly from the source material, I’m still not entirely sold on it. But that’s one reason I enjoy writing about the books I read and the films I watch: digging into them usually gives me a better appreciation for what they’re trying to do, even when my initial reaction is less than enthusiastic. 

At the outset, Ruthye Mary Knoll’s journey is driven almost entirely by grief and rage. After Krem of the Yellow Hills murders her father, she sets out with a single purpose: to find him and make him pay. She regards Kara Zor-El as an almost godlike protector, someone capable of delivering the justice—or, more accurately, the vengeance—she desperately wants. Kara, however, complicates that mission by forcing Ruthye to consider what revenge would actually accomplish. By the end of the story, Ruthye has grown from a grieving child demanding blood into someone capable of breaking the very cycle of violence that set her journey in motion. She chooses not to kill Krem, recognizing that mercy offers what vengeance never can: the possibility of moving forward. Though, decades later, she still gives the repentant old man a well-deserved bonk with her cane.

A similar trauma links Ruthye and Kara: both understand what it means to lose nearly everything. The crucial difference is that Kara has already learned that vengeance cannot restore what has been taken. Krypton, after all, cannot be avenged back into existence. When we first meet Kara, she is spending her twenty-first birthday drinking on a red-sun world, weighed down by the trauma of Krypton’s destruction and a lingering sense of aimlessness. Unlike Kal-El, who was raised safely on Earth, Kara remembers the world she lost. That experience allows her to understand Ruthye’s fury after Krem murders her father, but it also lets her see where that fury might lead. Ultimately, Kara steers Ruthye away from blind vengeance and toward something far more difficult: hope and mercy.

Krem of the Yellow Hills enters the story through an act of absurd cruelty: he murders Ruthye Marye Knoll’s father for refusing to laugh at his joke. Ruthye’s quest for vengeance leads her to Kara Zor-El, who is spending her twenty-first birthday drinking on a red-sun world. After Krem poisons Krypto, steals Kara’s ship, and escapes, they pursue him across the galaxy—a premise DC’s overview of the graphic novel frames as both a revenge quest and a transformative journey. The chase grows into a cosmic Western involving Barbond’s Brigands and the Mordru Globe, yet Krem remains deliberately ungrand: petty, cowardly, and casually vicious. That contrast defines his menace. Amid extraordinary powers and alien worlds, evil appears not as corrupted greatness but as ordinary cruelty allowed to spread—a reading consistent with DC’s official synopsis, which centers Kara, Krypto, and a heartbroken child pursuing those who shattered her world.

SWOT explores trauma, the uneasy boundary between revenge and justice, and the moral responsibilities that come with extraordinary power. DC’s official synopsis frames Kara as someone who watched her world disappear and now finds herself drawn into the mission of an angry, heartbroken child seeking revenge. That premise matters because, unlike Superman, who left Krypton as an infant, Kara remembers what was lost; her grief, anger, and isolation therefore parallel Ruthye’s response to Krem of the Yellow Hills murdering her father. Their journey becomes less a straightforward hunt for a villain than an extended argument about whether vengeance can actually produce healing or closure. Kara’s near-godlike strength makes that question even more pointed, since her heroism is ultimately defined not simply by what she can do, but by what she chooses not to do. As Kara and Ruthye increasingly mirror one another, the story suggests that restraint, mercy, and the difficult work of living beyond trauma are more meaningful expressions of strength than retaliation—a character-centered interpretation consistent with Tom King’s discussion of Kara’s emotional depth in DC’s official interview.

The novel’s central motifs—trauma, perspective, and moral restraint—continually sharpen one another. Kara’s memories of Krypton distinguish her from Superman, who escaped as an infant; DC’s account of Supergirl’s evolving origin explains why that lived connection remains central to her character. Ruthye’s grief, by contrast, drives an obsessive pursuit of Krem and gives the story the shape of a revenge Western. DC’s overview of Woman of Tomorrow likewise emphasizes both her fury and her importance to the journey. Although Kara and Ruthye share the trauma of loss, they understand justice differently: Ruthye initially seeks closure through violence, while Kara knows grief cannot be avenged away. Kara’s power is therefore most meaningful when expressed through restraint, endurance, and compassion. Ruthye’s retrospective narration reinforces that point, showing how trauma, memory, and time can turn history into legend.

Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow has earned considerable recognition as a character-defining Kara Zor-El story: DC’s deluxe-edition listing notes its 2023 Hugo Award finalist status and selection as one of the New York Public Library’s Best Books for Adults of 2022. Its planet-hopping revenge narrative plays as True Grit launched into deep space, blending the rhythms of a Western with the scale and strangeness of cosmic fantasy. Yet the book’s reputation rests on more than its premise. Bilquis Evely’s intricate linework and Matheus Lopes’s vivid colors give each world a distinct visual identity; DC’s artist spotlight credits the creative team with establishing the book’s bold visual language and emotional depth. Beneath that spectacle, Tom King builds a thoughtful study of Kara’s trauma, isolation, and struggle to define herself beyond Superman’s shadow.

Evely’s artwork and Lopes’s colors give Woman of Tomorrow much of its mythic, otherworldly character. The delicate linework, elaborate environments, and expansive cosmic imagery invite comparisons to European science-fiction and fantasy illustration—Moebius is an obvious touchstone—while the decorative compositions sometimes recall the elegance of Art Nouveau. Those influences never make the book feel merely imitative, however. Evely’s expressive figures and densely imagined worlds are held together by Lopes’s luminous palette, which shifts easily from fairy-tale warmth to alien strangeness. DC’s artist spotlight describes the series as establishing a bold new visual identity for Kara, while an interview with Evely, Lopes, and Tom King offers direct insight into the collaboration behind that look. Together, the art and color transform a cosmic revenge story into something closer to an illustrated legend.

SWOT recasts the superhero story as a revisionist Western about trauma and moral responsibility. Ruthye Marye Knoll’s pursuit of Krem gives the book its revenge structure—DC’s overview likewise calls her quest furious and vengeance-driven—but Kara complicates its promise of satisfying retribution. Ruthye’s ornate, subjective narration turns Supergirl into a near-mythic figure seen through a grieving child’s memory. That perspective matters because Kara, unlike Superman, remembers Krypton; DC’s history of Supergirl’s origin traces how that lived connection shapes the character. Her immense power is balanced by grief, isolation, and the burden of survival. The climax ultimately favors mercy over cyclical vengeance while remaining skeptical that justice can fully repair trauma. Bilquis Evely and Matheus Lopes stage that tension in luminous, densely imagined worlds, and their interview with Tom King provides firsthand context for the book’s distinctive cosmic style. 

I’m now tempted to rewatch and critique the film with a clearer sense of what it preserves, simplifies, or misunderstands. The graphic novel’s dual protagonists, revenge-Western structure, and emphasis on mercy are not incidental; together, they shape its larger argument about surviving loss without giving in to vengeance. The more interesting question, then, is whether the film carries that argument into a new medium or merely borrows the plot. Either way, I remain committed to reading the source material first—or at least checking whether a film was based on a book. Perhaps, eventually, I’ll learn.