This is not a superhero movie. It is a neo-Western, a road-trip tragedy, and a brutal meditation on aging, legacy, and mortality. It is also, quite simply, one of the finest comic-book films ever made. The year is 2029. The mutants are gone. Logan (Jackman) is a shadow of his former self. Now a limo driver in El Paso, Texas, he is gray-haired, slow-healing, and perpetually drunk. He spends his days saving pills for a dying, 90-year-old Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart), whose once-mighty telepathic mind now suffers from degenerative seizures that can freeze or kill everyone in a mile radius.
Logan transcends its genre. It is a masterwork of melancholy, a Western elegy for an era of superhero films that dared to be small, sad, and personal. This is not a superhero movie
Logan does not pull its punches. It buries its hero in the only way that matters: not with a parade, but with a quiet grave by a lake, a cross turned on its side to form an “X.” It is a masterpiece. The year is 2029