IN the Beginning, there was “Superman: The Movie,” and it was truly divine.  Then came “Superman III” and “IV” and an icon became a joke, the comic-book superhero a mere soulless commodity.  Flash forward thirty-one years from the day we believed a man can fly- back when taglines actually meant something- and “X-Men Origins: Wolverine” opens to big box office, but little critical or fan-boy acclaim.  Is it too much to ask for something akin to perfection in our filmic adaptations of the illustrated gods of geek?  What happened between the emergence of Krypton’s son on the silver screen and the adamantium-clawed mutant leaked to the omnipresent internet?  Herewith, I offer a look at the celluloid landscape of the good guys, the bad guys, and those freaky in-betweeners who serve as metaphors for every misfit or outsider who insist on searching for life’s deepest truths in a goddamn comic book.

In all fairness, Chris Reeve wasn’t the first to break out of the colorful panels on the page and into cinematic grandeur.  Adam West, the pudgy, mannered actor who played the original Dark Knight on TV’s “Batman” series, initially graced the movie screen back in 1966 in a silly little piece of caped crusaderism.  Piggybacking off of the highly successful Warhol-esque TV show, the movie gathered all of the most memorable villains- The Penguin, Catwoman, The Riddler and, of course, The Joker- and pitted them against the Lycra-clad, bad-pun-spewing Dynamic Duo.  It was cheesy and, yes, kind of fun, but knowing Batman creator Bob Kane as I do (I don’t know him), it was far from a true representation of the comic book that inspired it.

But then came Richard Donner’s “Superman” in 1978, an epic telling of Kal-El, his Smallville life as Clark Kent, and his eventual lovesickness with Margot Kidder’s ballsy, batty Lois Lane.  It quickly became the template, the litmus test, against which all other comers — DC, Marvel or indie press comic-book hero movies — would have to follow.

Sadly, they didn’t, choosing instead to do whatever the hell they wanted with the hallowed characters, in favor of franchise fiefdom.  How else to explain “Conan The Destroyer,” which took Arnold Schwarzenegger’s bad-ass barbarian and put him on a senseless journey with Wilt the Stilt Chamberlain (??!) and Grace Jones?  Or “The Punisher,” which cast Dolph Lundgren, he of the indecipherable accent and freakishly large jawbone, as the American-as-apple-pie Frank Castle?  Sure, they cast an American in a lame re-launch of the character (Thomas Jane…what the? who? huh?), but then tried again last year with a Brit who was all muscle and no Method.  And if you even so much as mention Shaquille O’Neal in “Steel,” I swear, my head is gonna explode. (Note to producers contemplating their next action hero – just because someone can dribble a ball does NOT mean they can carry a movie!  Got it?)

But all is not dire in the world of comic adaptations.  For every “Daredevil” embarrassment, there is a Sam Raimi-directed “Spider-Man” or Chris Nolan-helmed “Dark Knight.”  Halle Berry crashed and burned as “Catwoman,” but Robert Downey, Jr. breathed kinetic life into playboy and industrialist Tony Stark, a.k.a., “Iron Man.”  The “X-Men” series had two decent entries, with a third film that left a stink worse than Nightcrawler’s pointy-toe jam.  Speaking of sequels, how come anything including and after the third movie invariably makes me want to go all Galactus and destroy the whole damn superhero universe?  Spidey number 3 offended by being so freakin’ boring, Superman took on an unfunny Richard Pryor, and Batman suffered horribly for letting Joel Schumacher get anywhere near his latex nipples.

Ironically, the best comic-book movie isn’t based on an original group of superheroes, but on Pixar-inspired brilliance.  “The Incredibles,” from 2004, is hands-down the best good-guys-in-tights movie ever made, with an animated extravaganza that puts all of the live-action adaptations to shame.  However, with upcoming movie versions of “Thor,” “The Flash,” “Green Lantern” and the “Avengers” on the superhero horizon, I could eat that last, possibly blasphemous statement I’ve written.  But I’d bet my untapped mutant ability against their Hollywood ham-fistedness any day, that all these films will only represent more exercises in fan-boy futility.

How do I know?  My Spidey-sense is telling me so.