The Myth Goes On: Christopher Reeve’s Original Superman Costume

Image Courtesy of Warner Bros

Worn in the 1978 film’s flying scenes, the cape and tights up for sale in Denmark aren’t just collector’s items — they’re a last, red-threaded link to a vision of heroism that still hovers somewhere above us all.

Christopher Reeves as Superman in a flying pose, reaching forward with a determined expression, wearing his iconic blue and red costume with a red cape.

There is a way to write about a cape and tights — those polyester metaphors of myth — that doesn’t reduce them to “movie memorabilia” or “pop culture ephemera.” Because sometimes the object isn’t just an object. Sometimes, like here — at an auction house in Lyngby, Denmark, where Lot No. 1C07A587D6B4 is being prepared for hammer time — it’s a vessel. And not even in a mystical sense. I mean literally: this was the thing Christopher Reeve used to fly.

Not in the way a pilot uses an aircraft or a kid uses a bike ramp — but in the sense that flying here meant appearing to fly, convincing millions of ticket buyers in 1978 that a man — 6'4", broad‑jawed, absurdly symmetrical — could hover above Manhattan in blue nylon and red leather boots and make it look like physics had finally given in to charm.

What’s for sale is the original flying costume from Superman: The Movie. This isn’t stunt gear. This is the cape. The one that had its own wind machine. That flared as he banked toward the camera. Red wool with the “S” insignia stitched like a benediction. Nylon top and pants — now faded — with seams tired from wire harnesses and human tension. The yellow plastic belt. The boots, labeled inside in pen: “CR L 4” and “CR R 4.” (CR = Christopher Reeve. L & R = anatomical.)

All in, 14 items — plus provenance paperwork, a DVD still shrink‑wrapped like Kryptonite, a CD-ROM (remember those?), and a press photograph of Reeve in mid‑flight. Also noted: “Top and pants faded.” Because even icons oxidise in the end.

Estimate: roughly £100k. The condition report reads like quiet biography: scuffs, wear, modest age. But still whole. Still coherent. Still, somehow, intact. But then again, who isn’t holding it together by threads?

Close-up view of a leather jacket with red, beige, and black sections, featuring a partially unzipped zipper and handwritten notes in black ink that say "GGL L" and the number "4".

Here’s the thing. Reeve didn’t just play Superman. He became the role in a way few actors have, or even can. Not because he was method, but because he was, for a time, the shared mental image of decency. Of idealism without irony. He wasn’t a god — he was a Kansas boy who looked like one. And then life, as it tends to, edited the story.

In 1995, Reeve fell from a horse during an equestrian event in Virginia. Shattered vertebrae. Paralysis. He went from Superman to quadriplegic in under a second. But rather than disappear into quiet bitterness, Reeve fought. He became an activist for spinal injury research. He testified before Congress. He used a ventilator to speak, and when the breath gave out, he still held your eyes. He didn’t vanish. He recalibrated heroism.

And still, the cape flies. In July 2025, James Gunn’s Superman reboot landed in the multiplexes — younger, moodier, more metatextual. Gunn — whose whole deal is postmodern sincerity laced with just enough ironic self-awareness to keep the Marvel‑fried crowd engaged — has dialled the story back down to earth. Less bombast, more warmth. Fewer gods, more people trying to do the right thing in a cynical world. But for many of us, Superman will always mean Christopher Reeve.

So now, in 2025, we auction the fabric of that earlier myth — the flying version. It’s not nostalgia. It’s something stranger. Reverence, maybe. This is a relic not of a man who flew, but of the belief that he could.

In Superman, Reeve’s Clark Kent is bumbling, small, trying to shrink himself to fit. When he straightens up — removes the glasses, squares his jaw — there’s that moment, subtle but seismic. The voice drops an octave. The body language changes. And you realise: the disguise wasn’t the cape. It was the man.

Yellow plastic strap with a circular fastening buckle.

Which maybe makes this auction less about a costume than a question: What would it cost — really — to believe in heroes again?

The gavel falls 11 August, 6 p.m. Lyngby time. Someone will walk away owning it. But we’ll all still carry the image: a man, suspended in air, red cape trailing behind, eyes fixed ahead. Flying not to impress — but because someone needed help.

Ends 11 August 6:00pm with Bruun Rasmussen

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"The costume made him Superman on screen — but it was how he wore it that made us believe."

Image Courtesy of Warner Bros