Defeating The Invincible
Why are superheroes still around if critics are so sick of seeing them?
I’ve only ever been truly frustrated with my friend Joe once.
Among a group of friends, we saw “Avengers: Age of Ultron,” a film promising to be even more ridiculous than its record-smashing predecessor. If “Iron Man 3” and “Captain America: The Winter Soldier” were any indication, “Ultron” would be full to bursting with clever writing and action fantasy. All of us, rising juniors in college, were filled with childish glee.
We left the theater significantly less gleeful. “Ultron,” despite its fascinating themes of self-hatred, fatigue, American savior-ism and technology run amok, was disappointing. The plot was too full of new characters and predictable plodding action (and expository foreshadowing with no context; what the hell was that strangely sexual bathtime vision, Thor?) to explore the playful character tensions and frenetic superpower tag teaming that made “The Avengers” an instant classic. Worst of all, the titular villain felt like a feature-length bit part.
Joe’s poor film critic’s heart couldn’t take the disappointment. We argued through most of dinner, my love of comic books driving my devil’s advocacy, his intelligent cultural criticism driving his exhaustion with comic book films. We got a little too loud for dinner conversation. It’s still kind of a touchy subject between us.
Our differing opinions aren’t nearly as intriguing as our tendency to re-hash these conversations, establishing and re-establishing our opinions in different cultural and personal contexts. “Inside Llewyn Davis” is one of my favorite films, but we don’t talk in circles about the Coen brothers as if their oeuvre was a philosophy course.
Superheroes, however — my friends and I talk about superheroes every day. I talk about superheroes with my family. I talk about superheroes with people on the train, the cashier at McDonald’s, the homeless guy on the corner. Nobody bats an eye when a superhero film is great, but when a superhero film is bad, we blame the filmmaker and forgive the hero.
We like superheroes. We like that they are good, and we trust them to stay that way, always present and never fading. We trust them to reflect us. We trust them to be everything we can’t be. We believe in them more than we believe in any other fiction, because they tap into our hopes and values like no other characters can. This is why they’ve stayed in the cultural spotlight regardless of the criticism they receive.
End Times
Some commentators think that spotlight might be ending. This July, CNBC published a short article about a perceived negative trend based on the number of superhero films declining from 13 in 2010 to four in 2014. The takeaway, both by the reporter and among film executives, was that we might be staring down the barrel of a downturn in the number of comic book films.
This is ridiculous. 27 superhero movies are being scheduled for release through the year 2020. That’s more than five movies per year for the next half decade. Someone at CNBC clearly wasn’t doing their homework.
That’s not to say that the planned films won’t be cancelled, or that they’ll be successful or acclaimed. In fact, many critics and insiders have bemoaned the endless march of the masked avenger, none so vocally and publicly as Steven Spielberg, who set off a month of Internet debates when he said,
“We were around when the Western died and there will be a time when the superhero movie goes the way of the Western.”
He sobered the statement by adding, “It doesn’t mean there won’t be another occasion where the Western comes back and the superhero movie someday returns.” His levelheaded clarification, though still misguided, garnered as much support as it did ire.
Regardless of how the Internet responded, anyone who thinks superheroes are going anywhere is fooling themselves. The age of big budget movies with intertwining stories might end, but people have loved superheroes since before superheroes existed. These characters aren’t a trend — they’re an essential trope in human history.
Booms, Trends and the Big Blue Boy Scout
Perhaps Spielberg’s fatigue is pre-emptive, and critics are just ahead of the curve. Perhaps the boom that began at the turn of the millennium with Bryan Singer’s “X-Men” and Sam Raimi’s “Spider-Man” has reached critical mass.
Or perhaps critics could do their homework and see that the millennial boom is nonexistent and if a boom exists then it started in 1978 with Richard Donner’s “Superman.”
“Superman,” though still full of levity and one-dimensional morality, brought a sense of propriety and value to a character that was, and still is, for children. The effects are astounding for their time, especially considering director Richard Donner’s insatiable need for “verisimilitude.” Christopher Reeve was dashing and tender in the titular role, eschewing Superman’s tendency to be shallow and distant in print. Marlon Brando brought a venerable thespianism to the role of Jor-El, Superman’s somber and otherworldly biological father. Brando’s speeches and platitudes to the Big Blue Boy Scout are still the best parts of the film.
The film grossed Warner Brothers a hefty $245 million and was nominated for three Academy Awards, an incredible feat considering its infantile source material and years of tedious script revisions. Over 137 American superhero films have been released since “Superman” proved that capes and masks could star in blockbusters. In case you weren’t counting, that’s an average of 3.7 superhero films per year.
So no, there is nothing unique about the number of superhero films released in the past decade. In fact, American cinema’s obsession with caped crusaders stretches back to the beginning of American film.
Old Timey Fanboy Wars
Making a big deal out of this perceived superhero boom seems the latest excuse to rail against a genre that has always had detractors and skeptics. Nitpicking and griping about men in masks is nothing new.
The earliest prototype for the cinematic superhero is arguably 1920’s “The Mark of Zorro,” and wary critique of swashbuckling action surrounded even that primordial release. The New York Times was quick to note the film’s appearance as a vehicle for comedian-turned-hero Douglas Fairbanks, saying that “whatever plausibility there was in the original has been sacrificed for headlong action…whatever sentiment there was has become romantic nonsense.” Yet the review admits that there are moments “which must delight anyone, no matter how preposterous.”
Equally shade-throwing was Bosley Crowther’s review of the identically titled 1940 remake, which he claimed was “a sufficient facsimile.” Despite his reluctant stamp of quality, Crowther was critical of Tyrone Power’s stint as Zorro; as skeptical about Fairbanks’s successor as modern critics have been towards “Batfleck” or Donald Glover as Spider-Man; as skeptical as the Times critique of the original film, even.
Not to say that every heroic action film has been perfect. The Batman and Superman serials of the ’40s and ’50s are, aside from some exceptions, terrible. So are Joel Schumacher’s two Batman films, as well as 2003’s “Daredevil” and 2007’s “Ghost Rider.” But these films deserve to be criticized on their artistic and entertainment merits, not the perceived value of the source material they’re based on.
I don’t know enough about the psychology of criticism to explain why commentators have always hated pulp heroes. However, if I had to guess, I’d say the tradition of wounded derision results from prejudice’s powerlessness when faced with a pair of tights.
Welcome to Camp Self-Deprecation
As perennial as discriminatory critiques of superhero movies are humorous lampoons of the spandex icons. Throughout the Silver Age of comics, most superheroes regularly became farces of themselves. Captain Marvel slowly acquired a vaudevillian family of similarly-powered relatives; Batman’s serious nature was played up against increasingly preposterous villains and contraptions; covers would constantly twist facts to make Superman seem like a jerk; the original Green Lantern’s weakness was wood, while the modern Green Lantern’s weakness is the color yellow, both for no real reason besides bizarre irony.
It was around this time in the 1960s that Marvel started releasing its own marquee titles like “Fantastic Four” and “X-Men,” both of which were considered revolutionarily serious for their time. No one from this side of the year 1980 would use those descriptors, though.
The culmination of this self-deprecating trend is without a doubt the Batman television series that ran from 1966 to 1968.
“Batman” didn’t take a single thing seriously — Catwoman was sexualized to the point of being unattractive, and Robin, “the Boy Wonder,” was played by a 21-year-old. Batman had a visible paunch, and, as per the comics, he and Robin were the only characters that didn’t seem in on some kind of cruel joke. All the actors delivered their lines the same way, episode after episode.
In its short two-year run, “Batman” turned a beloved character into a delightfully campy laughing stock, so much so that even after the revival of a grim, mean Gotham in the comics, critics and fans were skeptical of DC for choosing nouveau-gothic Tim Burton to direct their bumbling, homoerotic detective.
As the ’60s became the ’70s, Marvel began to replace DC as the campy TV fodder of choice. Various cartoons and specials continued in the tradition of “Batman,” albeit with some of the melancholy inherent in all Marvel properties (Note the iconic closing theme of “The Incredible Hulk”). In response to the source texts’ campy overindulgence, it became commonplace to poke fun at superheroes at every turn. In a particularly obtuse 1979 skit, Saturday Night Live hosted a party of Adam West-ian superheroes, all letting themselves go during a lull in supervillain activity.
Despite decades of abject ridicule, the selfsame heroes remain, and in this era we cast them as lynchpins of martial arts, technological genius, physical beauty, espionage and quippy banter. These clichéd characters have survived the past fifty years for the same reason they have survived self important critics for the past eighty — even when we alter them, what stays is something about superheroes that appeals to every man, woman and child on Earth.
A Rose By Any Other Name
“Superhero” is a strange term. Admittedly, calling them heroes is uncomfortably broad; Jay Gatsby is the hero of his story, but it’s a story about him being powerless. Superheroes more often fit into the monomyth theory of heroism — being forced from obscurity, fighting for a set of beliefs, trying to attain new stability, dealing with new responsibility, fighting a force of evil, learning from mistakes and hubris, etc.
However, they differ here as well. In Joseph Campbell’s monomyth framework, the hero returns home or finds a new peace, ending the quest. A superhero never finds this peace; the march of capitalism and branding demands that a superhero trudge through trial after trial, loss after loss. See Spider-Man’s unending alienation from his family, his girlfriends and even his wife. Watch as Tony Stark falls into alcoholism and depression for the thousandth time.
The burden of non-canonical releases weighs heavily even on those masked avengers who give their lives in the standard continuity. Affliction of afflictions, many return from death to endure ever more bravery and suffering. This is true both in film and on the pages of glossy monthly comics. From a consumer’s view, superheroes are functionally immortal thanks to reboots and recasts.
So yes, these characters are superior to the average narrative hero. But I can think of a much shorter term than “superheroes:” gods.
In ancient times, gods weren’t necessarily religious icons. They represented parts of the human psyche, and paying tribute to one god or another through sacrifice of crops or livestock was a way to show and revere those things a person valued and hoped for in this world.
Divested from their contemporary trappings, how different are a mechanical engineer and a blacksmith if both periodically give up some of their livelihood to view art about the god of craftsmanship, smithing and metalwork? For that matter, how different are Iron Man and Hephaestus? Both were largely ignored by their fathers and spurned by society for their superficial imperfections. Both proved their worth by crafting weapons of supernatural power.
For comic book and superhero fans, going to superhero films is a ritual; if not a holy one, then at least a revered and valued one. This is the reason superheroes can endure such constant derision at every turn — the ones that remain iconic tap into something at our societal core.
Regardless of what creed you follow, the notion that something bigger is out there to fight for you is reassuring, even if that notion only lasts as long as a silly kids’ action movie. Looking at our famous superheroes, it makes sense that the ancients originally splurged on pantheons rather than singular deities. Having a variety of paragons to choose from is like picking a favorite color, a badge to wear on your heart and live by.
Someone who values humility and charity might gravitate towards Superman, while ingenuity and tragic vengeance can be found in Batman. Black Widow is secrecy and lies, the Flash is speed and joy, Cyborg is disability and recovery, Spider-Man is responsibility in the face of tragedy, and the Hulk is strength and personal burden. Even Ant-Man, who few considered significant before his big-screen outing, has his values and representations — cooperation, versatility, strength in numbers and belief in the downtrodden.
Unlike the gods of old, superheroes have the added irony of having once been powerless. The gods were always immortal, but much like the heroes of the monomyth, superheroes are usually the result of normal people being put in extraordinary circumstances. Even those that weren’t once human, like Superman and Thor, have distinct lessons to learn before they can call themselves heroes.
Superman must learn his ancestry before he can gain any certainty or sense of purpose; one could argue that without being given his family’s robes, he would never find the Superman identity. Thor, though born a god, has to be stripped of his power to learn humility and restraint before he begins fighting on Earth’s behalf. Gods don’t have such moral origins; they simply exist, and they offer no inspiration to mortal men. Superheroes offer the promise of greatness; they hold out a hand and tell us that our values and talents can make us super.
This is why origin stories (or at least some background) are so essential when telling a story about superheroes. The origin stories are the turkey. The sides are up to the director. But alone, a turkey is no Thanksgiving dinner. Sides must be cycled in and out. Reiteration keeps superheroes fresh.
To Repeat is to Renew
Odysseus has appeared in countless works of art and fiction, yet no one tires of him because every artist finds something new to add or accentuate in his story. The same is true of our modern heroes. Outrage at changing a hero’s actor is understandable (we’re supposed to trust their permanence), but to gripe about reboots is to miss the point. With each incarnation the writers, directors and actors can bring something new to the table.
This is especially true of the last decade, the shining example of proper reiteration being Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight,” which showed a generation that Batman has more to offer than plastic nipples and blinding neon on shabby sets. Nolan’s 2008 opus is less a superhero film than a crime tragedy, much as its predecessor and sequel are a ninja flick and a disaster/war film, respectively.
Following suit, “Man of Steel” is a sci-fi epic, “Captain America” and its sequel are espionage films for two different eras, “The Incredible Hulk” is a fugitive story, and so on. Kevin Feige, head of Marvel Studios, said it best: “I don’t believe in the comic book genre. I don’t believe in the superhero genre. I believe that each of our films can be very different.”
To say that superheroes are a film genre like westerns is an incredibly reductionist viewpoint. If superheroes comprise a genre, it’s the one genre that can be whatever it wants to be.
With that in mind, there’s no valid basis for dismissing or criticizing superheroes as one unit or trend. The superhero as a character isn’t even one archetype anymore — the ’70s and ’90s made sure to add morally ambiguous, sometimes failing masks and capes. In the absence of that straw man, one is left critiquing superhero films just like any other film: based on quality and merit.
Failure is Not Defeat
“Age of Ultron” is mediocre. Plenty of critics, even those at publications that treat comic book culture fairly, have pointed this out. It was convoluted and rushed, as well as emotionally stale and lacking surprises. My friends were right to stand up to me about its failings.
That doesn’t invalidate the feelings about superheroes that drove my devil’s advocacy, but I still regret my anger. I’ve become the kind of moral crusader who can feel prejudice creeping up on a conversation, and I was too prepared to shut down Joe’s dismissal of Marvel movies as kiddie fodder.
At the same time, the Avengers will return. “Ultron” is still a decent flick, because it features all those chiseled quippy gods; gods we don’t want to stop watching, and which our children’s children will watch even as they are replaced by gods more appropriate for the coming centuries. As long as Marvel, DC and whoever else keep making decent films, we’ll be there to pay for them.
“Nothing Ever Ends, Adrian”
What is fiction, if not mythology? The idea of a story as text dates back only to Cervantes and “Don Quixote.” Before then there were only stories, and their being recorded on paper was both a rarity and a formality. Beowulf and Robin Hood were as much an oral tradition as King David and Theseus. Why should we think of the 21st century as being any different simply because we compulsively publish our myths? Sundering a certain number of “classics” from the whole of fiction, while inevitable, devalues the popular characters that define our culture. In this age of constant media renaissance, our fiction is everything to us. Myth is merely fiction in hindsight, and if we are committed to preserving the myths of Europe and the East, the least we can do is offer a modicum of respect when we write about our caped American myths.
Not only do I take offense at the assumption that superheroes in film will someday end, but history does, too. If Spielberg was asserting that we would someday replace Iron Man and Batman just as they replaced King Arthur and Gilgamesh, I would let the issue lie. But to categorize heroes as a trend rather than a quintessential human tradition is pretentious hot garbage. If you really hate gods and heroes so much, just say so. If you can’t suffer through a measly two hours of moral banality in a mask, don’t have kids. Kids love that shit.
