Who could have imagined that of all the superheroes in the Superman-led comic stable, the fellow most ridiculed by fandom over the years would anchor one of the most enjoyable movies in the so-called DC Universe? Along with Ezra Miller’s Flash, Jason Momoa’s Aquaman made an auspicious debut in the just-okay “Justice League,” but he gets a full-fledged origin episode in James Wan’s eponymous movie, which happily jettisons the dark, brooding atmosphere that infused Zack Snyder’s vision for the franchise in favor of a lighter, breezier approach akin to the one that made “Thor: Ragnarok,” Taika Waititi’s entry in the Marvel Universe, so much fun.

Like Thor in that movie, Aquaman is portrayed as a slightly dim hunk of beefcake, and Momoa goes with the flow, so to speak. But “Aquaman” is notable not just for its general good spirits, but for creating a shimmering undersea world that’s not only distinctive but strangely attractive, in its own way as engaging as the one in “The Little Mermaid.”

Of course, one must still deal with the fact that “Aquaman” remains, in narrative terms, an obligatory first chapter in what it’s hoped will become a long-running series. Arthur Curry is what would once have been called a half-breed, the offspring of human lighthouse keeper Tom (Temuera Morrison) and Princess Atlanna (Nicole Kidman) of Atlantis, who’s wound up on his dock. Their happiness together is shattered when goons from the undersea realm arrive to drag her back, leaving the forlorn Tom to raise Arthur on his own; we learn later on that she suffered an unhappy fate back home.

The boy grows into a brawny guy who’s his dad’s rough drinking buddy but also a heroic fellow who uses the powers inherited from his mother, and honed secretly under the tutelage of Atlantis’ wise grand vizier Nuidis Vulko (Willem Dafoe), to keep order on the high seas. In that capacity he foils an attempt by David Kane (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II) to commandeer a Russian submarine; in the melee Kane’s father Jesse (Michael Beach) dies, stoking his hatred of Aquaman.

But David has not been acting on his own. He’s in the employ of Arthur’s half-brother King Orm (Patrick Wilson), who aims to use the subs for a fake attack on Atlantis to justify the war he wants to undertake against the land-dwelling world—and unite the various undersea kingdoms under his leadership as Ocean Master. But Princess Mera (Amber Heard), daughter of Nereus (Dolph Lundgren), king of one of the other realms Orm wants to enlist under his banner and unhappily betrothed to him, approaches Arthur, begging him to challenge his half-brother for the crown to avoid a needless conflict.

Doing so, however, will necessitate Arthur’s receiving further training from Mera in the art of Atlantean combat. It will also require the two of them to undertake a quest to find the Trident of Atlan, the first king of Atlantis, which possesses special powers. The combined scepter and weapon is like the sword in the stone: it marks the true ruler and also provides him with the strength to overcome his adversaries, who include not only Orm and his allies, but also Kane, whom Atlantean technology has transformed into the formidable Black Manta.

This is hardly the most innovative plotline imaginable, and some elements of it—like the appearance of a huge sea creature that might well have been called the Kraken but instead is named Karathen—represent a reach too far. But it does allow for plenty of CGI-laced chases and battles, and for a parade of lovely above-wave locations that cinematographer Mort Weisinger, shooting in the IMAX format, takes full advantage of. Still, it’s the abundant underwater sequences, crafted by a small army of effects wizards, that really catch the eye. The images they’ve created add a touch of genuine magic to the proceedings, even if the action sequences set against them can get somewhat muddied amid the swirls.

Moreover, Wan and screenwriters David Leslie Johnson-McGoldrick and Will Beall keep things generally light, accentuating the farfetched tale’s humorous possibilities, especially in terms of the characterization of Aquaman himself, who comes across as something of a likable but sometimes exasperatingly dense hunk. Momoa plays him nicely, balancing Arthur’s beefy confidence and reckless naiveté, and the supporting cast is mostly excellent—Heard strong as well as beautiful, Dafoe appropriately smooth and Abdul-Mateen properly surly. Kidman and Morrison both make the most of the opportunities the script affords them as Arthur’s very different parents, and Lundgren, who along with “Creed II” is enjoying something of a career renaissance, overcomes his makeup to make an impression. Only Wilson seems a bit mismatched as Orm; his natural blandness doesn’t allow the character’s full villainy to flourish.

One shouldn’t ovepraise “Aquaman.” Basically it’s just another in what’s become a seemingly endless stream of superhero movies; but its cheeky sense of humor and striking visuals make it a better-than-average example of the genre.

D

British filmmakers have prospered for years making pictures—and television shows—about members of the older generation engaging in life-affirming actions that often take a slightly naughty turn. Now there’s an American version of the premise that one’s twilight years can be golden ones in “Book Club,” about four ladies of a certain age, friends who have long discussed books every week. Together they read “Fifty Shades of Grey” and decide that its steamy message doesn’t apply only to the young. The movie proves that while the Brits have a knack for pulling off this sort of elder fantasy, we colonials lack the touch. It’s so bad that you might think that Garry Marshall had come back to life to direct it.

But no: the culprit is Bill Holderman, who not only helmed this misfire but co-wrote it with Erin Simms. For some reason a good cast signed up for their sitcom fluff. Diane Keaton plays Diane, a recently widowed woman whose helicopter daughters (Alicia Silverstone and Katie Aselton) are pressuring her to move out to Los Angeles to be close to them. Then there’s Vivian (Jane Fonda), a haughty, well-to-do hotelier who rejoices in her freedom to enjoy a stream of one-night stands without commitment. Carol (Mary Steenburgen) is happily married to just-retired Bruce (Craig T. Nelson), but is worried about their lack of intimacy. The last of the foursome is Sharon (Candice Bergen), a long-divorced federal judge who claims to be uninterested in any relationship but gets annoyed when her ex, Tom (Ed Begley, Jr.), takes up with a much younger woman (Mircea Monroe), and her son gets engaged.

So what’s the plot? Each of the four, inspired by “Shades” to do anything but the right choice—which would be to throw the book into a fire—finds romance. Even at seventy, it appears, every woman needs a man to make her life complete. For Diane, he’s Mitchell (Andy Garcia), whom she meets on a flight to L.A.; he immediately becomes an insistent suitor, and she ditches her daughters to spend time with him. Vivian finds her Romeo in Arthur (Don Johnson), an old flame from back in the day who shows up at her hotel; soon their passion is rekindled. Carol works on renewing her marriage, and ultimately succeeds. And Sharon goes on a dating site to check out candidates, eventually linking up with two (Richard Dreyfuss and Wallace Shawn). Eventually she chooses one.

As the screenplay jumps from one of these romantic threads to another, it shamelessly resorts to sitcom cliché after sitcom cliché, willing even to descend to a sequence based on the unanticipated effects of Viagra. There are, of course, obstacles to happiness to be overcome by each of the women, and they all do so in ways more likely to evoke grimaces than smiles. One has to feel sorry for the actresses as they go through the paces demanded of them; they’re all talented pros, after all, and you feel a degree of embarrassment for what they endure here. The slapstick is bad enough—Keaton and Fonda suffer most in that regard—but even worse are the serious speeches they must eventually give about the life lessons their experience has taught them. Bergen, and poor Keaton again, are the primary victims in that respect. As for Steenburgen, she’s lucky enough to get by with just a goofy dance routine at a local charity fundraiser.

There is some consolation, however, in the fact that the movie isn’t misogynist: it treats most of the male stars as badly it does the female leads. Dreyfuss gets the worst of it, especially in a scene where he appears in a state of undress, but Nelson is stuck with the Viagra sequence—and you can predict what that involves. By contrast Garcia and Johnson are allowed to slide by on their dubious charms.

“Book Club” is no visual treat, either. As shot by Andrew Dunn, the settings are attractive enough (though some of the outdoor shots have a doctored feel), and Shay Cunliffe’s costumes are designed to flatter the leading ladies; but overall the film has a flat, stagey look. Peter Nashel’s bubbly score doesn’t help matters, either.

One final point about “Book Club”: it’s hard to recall another recent film in which alcohol plays so major a role. These women constantly have a glass of wine in their hands, and they guzzle it with relish. Apparently a man isn’t all they need. But this quirk may be a useful hint to potential viewers: if you want to get through this movie, it would help to down a few stiff drinks beforehand.