David Corenswet or Henry Cavill? The truth is, there’s no one definitive Superman

Cue lots of radio and newspaper chat to decide “the definitive Superman”. The Times even contrived a top ten ranking from worst to best. Is this really necessary? We all know that, with his kind-eyed decency as he set about saving the world, his effortless spin from klutzy Metropolis reporter to tottering towerblock supporter, his ability (almost) to carry off scarlet underpants the wrong side of tights, Christopher Reeve takes the prize.

But does he? If you came of age in the 1950s, you’d no doubt make a case for Constitution-quoting patriot George “Faster than a speeding bullet!” Reeves. For teenagers a decade ago, the Man of Steel was equally square-jawed but far more ethically troubled Henry Cavill.

Coincidentally, I’ve been enjoying BBC4’s rerun of the 1980s Miss Marple. For millions, Joan Hickson with her cardigan, her ease as a single older lady people might foolishly overlook, her gentility giving way to worldliness (“I think you know the platinum blonde lady, Major”), remains the peerless embodiment of Agatha Christie’s most radical character. But Hickson came after Margaret Rutherford and Angela Lansbury, and before Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie. They’re all someone’s favourite.

Poirot, courtesy of David Suchet’s dedication, has escaped this degree of passionate partisanship, but a stream of other characters have not. Sherlock: Rathbone, Brett or Cumberbatch? I say Brett. James Bond: Connery or Craig? I say neither. Doctor Who? I say let’s not even go there. Instead, let’s debate what names should be on this list. Let’s argue about who to argue about.

Because – and as a person employed to spout a strong opinion, I almost can’t get the words out – these definitive versions don’t exist. Instead, it is each of us who is definitive, with our life-earned, bespoke fields of reference through age, geography, preoccupations, tastes and a million other factors. And we have to be careful. If we don’t acknowledge this, along with the limitations of our heroes and our own resident blind spots, we park ourselves in defined, zero-sum fan groups and become easy prey for those looking to exploit us.

Mussolini wasn’t the first to politicise mass collective nostalgia for his own ends, and he has not been the last. Even just culturally, if we sign up to a list of favourite names of yesteryear, we are party to the ossification of culture, the idea that nothing fresh can come along; that a ten-year-old girl out there right now shouldn’t enjoy her own dazzling moment when Superman first appears, hopefully this time with his underpants and tights on in the right order.

Better instead in this world of chaos to enjoy these debates that have no real consequence. And to enjoy the fact that we all sit somewhere on contours of swirling resonances, different opinions, common points of reference. Sting was once asked what keeps him and his wife Trudie Styler together after decades, and there was nothing tantric in his reply. Instead, he spoke a generous truth: “shared nostalgias”.

A pub garden, a kitchen table and an argument about the best 007 – what could be better? On that note, I’ll brook no alternative to Roger Moore in his safari suit. Final word. I’m sorry, but there’s an exception to prove every rule.

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