Last night, AMC’s The Walking Dead returned with bang, beating out the NFL with 17.3 million viewers attached to their couches to watch Rick and the gang fight the hungry people of Terminus. A couple weeks ago, ThePublicSphere.com published an article I wrote concerning the similarities between The Walking Dead and the current immigration crisis in Texas. Adding the Ebola crisis only makes it more relevant. I hope you will check it out.
The struggle is real, y’all.
HBO’s “The Leftovers” has become one of my favorite shows of the year. After an apparent rapture of 2% of the world population, the show details the difficulty its characters have moving on from this “departure,” and attempts not to answer what happened or why, but “what now?”. I think this show can teach us something about coping with death, especially as Christians.
The truth is American Christians have been riveted by stories of the apocalypse for decades now. If this craze were a house, zombie horror movies in the 80s and 90s laid the foundation, Timothy LaHayes’ widely read Left Behind book series built the house, and AMC’s The Walking Dead raised twins and a spaniel in it. I think Christians are particularly adept to loving these shows and the overall narrative in the apocalypse genre for a few reasons: we actually think resurrection exists and is possible (even if we don’t act like it); we like to prey upon shows with any resemblance of Christian symbolism and imagery, even if it’s actually not there (I am guilty of this); and, maybe most importantly, we like to say these violent and bleak shows and movie have Christian motifs so we can warrant our obsession with something that is so morbid and mostly unimportant. Christians just can’t admit that we like to be entertained by things more interesting than Kirk Cameron’s movies.
The Leftovers has all of these draws. It’s fun to watch, gives you something to think about, and makes you question what a faith in anything looks like in the midst of such despair and confusion. However, there are some serious differences, differences that I think set apart The Leftovers from the usual ramblings of apocalypse narrative that we Christians bandwagon.
Unlike zombie films and popular renditions of resurrection and life after death, The Leftovers is not about dead people coming back to life, or what happened to people who vanished in rapture-esque manner. It is about people who have lost loved ones to reasons unknown and what their lives look like as they try to cope and move one from this loss. Because no one knows where “the departed” went or what happened to them, there is a strong focus on the unraveling of lives trying to live with such questions. It show characters who try to date again after their spouse poofed into thin air; daughters who deal with their parents divorce after one of them joins a cult dedicated to smoking cigarettes, silence, and constant reminding of the departed; and sons who go looking for hope and truth in those who claim to have it, and being let down when they realize they truth doesn’t exist.
The shows still focuses on life after death that is so popular in resurrection/apocalypse narratives, but just not in the ways we are used to. “Life after death” for The Leftovers means actually looking at people’s lives after they experience death; it diverts our eyes away from those who die and find life again to those who witness death and have to live with it everyday. The attention in not to the miraculous return to life, but the daily grind of life itself. If The Leftovers was a story about Jesus, it wouldn’t be a gospel detailing Jesus’ miraculous return to earth or his ascension, but about the disciples who were left behind with feelings of abandonment and questions of “what next?”.
And that is exactly the questions that The Leftovers thinks matters. Not “Why?” but “What now?”. The show challenges us to think about the everyday struggle of moving on, of trying to get over what seemed impossible.
And we should be reminded that impossible things happen to each of us everyday. Three years ago my father took his own life, an action that still seems absolutely unreal and with which I am still trying to live. The truth is that death happens everyday and shatters our entire worlds, making it hard to carry on and imparting grief that seldom rests. As many of us experience, even as Christians try to profess hope in death it is hard to look any other direction than despair when we are faced with loss, even if there are better things we hope for like Heaven.
I appreciate that The Leftovers deals with the daily musings of what it’s like to live with and after death, not zombies, angels, and little kids who see God. I think this approach is more helpful, more authentic to human experience, and, honestly, far less corny.
The Leftovers shows us the dark side of the reality of resurrection and life after death. By giving an alternate view of “rapture,’ we are reminded that our obsession with apocalypse narratives has us looking in the wrong direction. The view of life on the ground is much more important and interesting, one that helps us move on to what’s next. Although an afterlife is a hope many of us share, we can’t forget about the dangers of focusing on it too much. Frankly, resurrection should scare us to death.
Check out @CBR’s Tweet: https://twitter.com/CBR/status/498883560535625729
I been posting my thoughts on Superman’s super-ness over the last few weeks in my series, “Capes and Flags.” One of my points was that Superman embodies, even though he is an alien, what we like the think of as a human ideal – the perfect human body and moral code. This idealism is what I find quite alarming for two reasons: (1) What about us who are not white, male, muscular, handsome, and (questionably) morally exemplary?; and (2) we must consider, then, what effect Superman’s idealism has had on American culture and the adolescent minds over the last 80 years of his existence as a comics icon and a feature film star.
I say all of this in the respect to the recent comments by Geoff Johns, the mastermind behind the new Superman comics series, “The Men of Tomorrow,” and Chief Creative Officer at DC Comics. Johns said that Superman’s ideal is something beautiful and that he is the most relatable character ever. Here are few quotes from his interview over at ComicBookResources.com:
“Superheroes — I like to call them “good junk food.” On the surface, they look like they’re candy and they’re popcorn, but I think they embody ideals that all of us get drawn to. Especially Superman. You know exactly how Superman’s going to act. I think he’s one of the easiest characters to write, because you know exactly what he’s going to do.
“I think it’s important to keep these characters alive, because they do inspire people. Especially this one. This is the most inspiring super out there.
“Everyone’s like, “He’s so powerful, I can’t relate to him.” Are you kidding me? He’s the most relatable character ever. He grew up on a farm, he doesn’t have a lot of friends, feels isolated, he can’t tell everybody what his secrets are. He’s a great character. He feels overlooked — who hasn’t felt overlooked, or wanted to connect with people? All social media is, is people wanting to connect with other people. That’s all it is. Because people long to connect with other people. And Superman is the embodiment of that. He’s more relevant now than ever.”
Johns’ sentiment is respectable, especially considering his attempt to flesh out the humanity of Superman in recent comics. However, The reasons he gives for Superman’s relatability fall short considering what I have briefly detailed above, and what you can find in my other posts. Sure, he is from a farm, but he embodies the city and its technology, able to overcome its dangers and fight its crime. His isolation is no doubt relatable, but only if you take away his great power as the cause of his loneliness and replace it with fear, rejection, and weakness that normal humans, me and you, feel and have to deal with. In this way, Superman as an icon of the small town farmer, the one who is lonely, and those of us who are cast-out and overlooked, simply doesn’t work. Real human pain, I want to suggests, cannot be relatable if it has to be first filtered through great power that then causes pain and some arbitrary form of weakness. Superman is not truly weak, nor is his truly from a farm; the only reason his is overlooked is because he is borderline narcissistic about his self-sacrifice for the sake of others (primarily women; I should say, primarily women he loves and feels need his protection). Last years “Man of Steel” movie came as a prime reminder that Superman is hard to make relatable, even if you give him Kevin Costner’s ideals and a every-man’s hairy chest.
Most people think Superman brings hope to and something to which us fallen human can aspire (just listen to Russel Crowes’ words in the trailer for “Man of Steel”), that the Man of Tomorrow is what we people of today are reaching for, that Superman serves as a Christ-figure showing us the way, or at least giving us hope for being better. Now this all sounds great and powerful, and maybe it is on the surface; but underneath, as I have argued in my earlier posts, it’s simply a way to cover over very realistic pain and tragedy with masculine salvation.
And for those who think Superman is a Christ-figure: remember that Jesus died on a cross as a homeless man who was betrayed by all his friends, and, if you believe as much, resurrected still with scars intact. Jesus was so not-super it killed him, so intimately human that his story has lasted 2,000 years. I think we all can relate to that guy regardless of our faith, but maybe not so much to the good-looking Superman that Geoff Johns’ is talking about.
In my last post, I explained how superheroes’ bodies matter, especially in the way that they serve as stand-ins for our fears and anxieties, beings who are able to overcome the things to which us normal people must bow down. Some of these fears included being blown up by bombs in WWI and II, being irradiated, falling off buildings, and, most of all, to ease the physiological burden of those moving from the rural country to the technological metropolises. I also pulled heavily on Scott Bukatman’s work to say that the way superheroes’ bodies look, are colored, and what nationality they identify are the driving force of comics and movies. In this way, superheroes embody not only our worst fears, but our most devastating biases, whether they be sexist, racist, or nationalistic. What I want to deal with in Part 3 of my series “Capes and Flags” is how people relate masculinity with salvation, and the effects this relation has on things like racial and gender bias. Better put, if superheroes help us deal with our fears and embody our political concerns, how do they do so, and why is this protection usually overly masculine?
It’s probably best to start with Bukatman again, since he is my most respected authority on superhero bodies and their masculine tendencies.Warding off these insecurities happens only insofar as the superhero becomes what Bukatman calls an “armored body,” a body that creates a boundary that protects the hero from outside imposition. Like a military soldier in war, the superhero must armor himself from destructive forces, both mentally and physically. The superhero’s body is militarized, disciplined and formed to work as a part of the larger political machine, to accomplish its purposes and resist any other order(s). The armored superbody, therefore, becomes hyper-masculine: it grows huge muscles, dominating stature, and/or supreme brilliance. The superhero’s body becomes rigid and impenetrable, protecting itself from the danger of being killed by outside destructive forces and bodily emotions.
Take Henry Cavill’s Superman in last year’s “Man of Steel.” As the picture below shows, a super human looks undeniably like a very muscular, hairy man. So the question becomes, does Superman have big muscles and demonstrate powerful maleness because that is simply how his creators envisioned him, or is there a need for our imagining of a super being to look like a Greek God. What I want to argue is that we humans, especially of the American flavor, cannot envision a super being that isn’t ripped with a six-pack and hyper-masculine.
Superhero fiction shapes the armored body as the masculine, impenetrable body, and, therefore, shapes the feminine as the evil, destructive force that threatens the armored body. Spider-Man and other heroes are constantly afraid to love because it will cloud their judgment or put others in danger, a temptation always enacted by the woman. If the superheroes’ armored bodies marks masculinity, then the woman embodies the fear of being penetrated, and thus destroyed. Even female superheroes are no exception in that they most often end up looking and acting like their male counterparts while they undoubtedly indulge male fantasies. The female superhero becomes more like a cosmetic reconstruction of the male. Bukatman’s notices that superhero fiction confronts the consumer “with an aggressive hyper masculinity that depends upon a ruthless suppression or an obliteration of the feminine” and attempts to ground one’s subjectivity in and around the masculine armored body. In this, notions of femininity become tied to that which threatens the superbody. The armored body constitutes itself over and against flowing bodies – the masculine against the feminine.
A wonderful, yet horrifying example of this evil, feminine body in opposition to the armored body comes in the form of Batman’s arch-nemesis, The Joker. The guy wears makeup, is oddly in love with Batman, and has a keen eye for bright and flashy colors. He is the opposite of a hardened, serious fighter with muscles like Batman and Superman; instead, he laughs and tricks and dances around. He is the flowing body set against Batman’s armored shell. Wearing makeup, laughing, and dancing are not bad things, but they become associated with evil and weakness after constantly being attached to insane character like The Joker. (Greg Hunter wrote a great piece on The Joker’s sexuality over at The Comics Journal. You should check it out.
Consequent to the masculine, armored body, the woman lies outside of the social norm, only making her way back in through, like the female superhero, embodying or completing masculine fantasy. Wonder Woman, for example, looks more like a teenage male sexual fantasy, with more muscles than the average body builder.
Like the woman, Bukatman’s primary focus is on the bodies that threaten and lay outside the social norm of the armored masculine. He calls these bodies “X-bodies”: “Marginal beings” who “pose a question and a threat to the social body” who either must be reincorporated or marked with an “X’ to brand their difference. Superhero fiction most often represents these x-bodies as mutants – freaks of nature whose bodies, while possibly armored, are uncontrollable and risk erupting (a mark of the feminine) the stable body politic. Cyclops, for example, has a flowing body that is tormented by the risk of his power erupting from his eyes uncontrollably. These bodies are constantly undergoing modes of assimilation, but where inclusion fails, they must be eradicated because of their threat to social norms.
Bukatman is right to connect mutant bodies to real, marginalized bodies in modernity, where the feminine is only a subcategory of the greater community of intolerable bodies: “Mutant bodies are explicitly analogized to Jewish bodies, gay bodies, adolescent bodies, Japanese or Native or African American Bodies – they are, first and foremost, subjected and subjugated and colonized figures.” All of these enslaved identities, whether inhabited by a man or not, undergo a kind of feminization that sets them apart from what it means to be a masculine male. Therefore, these marginal identities become a threat to the normalized body and call for exclusion or eradication.
This affects those of us who watch superhero movies and read comics, however subtlety, teaching us what looks acceptable and rejectable. If Superman is how we envision perfection, then what about those of us who are not muscular . . . or white? If strength and, most often, wealth are monikers of power and respect, what about those who are poor and weak? If being strong, dominant, and impenetrable is salvific, what about those of us who have been wounded or view the world from a wheelchair? If a super man is a white, straight, chiseled, male, then what does that make me?
These are but a few questions we should be asking about current superhero films and narrative. Still, it is helpful to talk a bit more about how this works psychologically, that is, what is the actual effect of watching these things having on our political views, desires, and ideas. My next post will deal with this important question. I will argue specifically how superheroes and their literary mediums work to form who we are in the same way that our worship, prayers, and liturgies at Church seeks influence the way we think and live.
 Bukatman borrows this term from the work of Klaus Theweleit; Bukatman, 55.
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 Bukatman, 66.
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 This is the overarching theme in Brian Singer’s “X-Men” movies.
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Although issues of American global warfare and modern social political concerns saturates superhero fiction, (read my last post on this, here) one can view these issues as a facet inside a larger, more important reality that serves as the stage on which superhero comics and film dance. That is, superhero comics and movies usually deal with the problems that humans must face after Industrialization. By Industrialization I simply mean anything that involves the new technology that spurred from American’s jump in economic and infrastructural possibility in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, including the invention of cars that allowed wider transit, assembly lines and metallurgical advancements that allowed mass production and larger, more populated cities; and the creation of bombs and modern military tactics that allowed the moving away from face-to-face warfare and to the ability of mass destruction on civilian populations. In view of their history and popularity, superheroes are most popular during periods of such industrial crisis upon the human body. Spider-Man would not exist without a need to save people from falling from skyscrapers, speeding trains, and modern medical experiments gone awry – threats only made possible by the circumstances of industrial progress. Superhero comics find their inception alongside of the musings of WWI and the Great Depression, while the present day eruption of superhero films and the resurgence of superhero comics occur directly after the event of 9/11 in New York City. Superheroes, I want to argue, are inconceivable without these crises of modernity, and like the movies exegeted above, find their most potent political constitution in these moments.
Superheroes relate well to for people who are going through moments of crisis; whose bodies are falling, being crushed, or under the threat of annihilation. The superhero, in his or her most basic sense, is a limitless and protected body, one that can resist these uncontrollable threats. Watch any superhero movie, read any superhero comic book, and you will see the human body taken above its limits. Spider-Man’s body transforms from a gangly teenage body to one that can crawl on walls and ride webs above the streets of New York. Iron Man and Batman’s bodies, although normal, cover themselves in suits, use technology, and master abilities that make them utterly invincible. Superman’s body is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and can leap over buildings in a single bound. What sets these heroes apart is just that: they are super, able to do that which normal humans cannot. Although some superheroes have an unimaginable intellect or ability to bend space and time, superheroes are most known for their physiological attributes. The visual appeal of large muscles and skin-tight costumes are undoubtedly the main attraction in comics and superhero films. However, the overt shock and awe of the superhero’s abilities sometime mask over the less apparent political ramifications that their bodies convey.
What makes superhero fiction such fertile ground for political commentary? What is it about superheroes that work so well with these industrial crises and political happenings? Although superhero comics seem to mimic and regurgitate the political hostilities of their time in their own form, in what ways do comic books try to deal with the social anxieties that come along with industrial fear? What do these super-humans achieve for the not-so-super humans?
Scott Bukatman’s work is helpful in its focus on the importance of the body in comic-book fiction, especially in understanding the key dynamics in the relationship between the normal body and the super body in moment of crisis. Bukatman notes that when comic-book fiction is working properly, at its most basic level it can become a place to consider and deal with social and political existence and the anxiety, trauma, and occasional beauty that accompanies it. The body, however, is key for Bukatman in that comic book stories cannot be told without the body as its “prime vehicle”: “Superhero comics present body narratives, bodily fantasies that incorporate (incarnate) aggrandizement and anxiety, mastery and trauma . . . [they] present a significant somatization of modernist and postmodernist concerns” about “attitudes toward flesh, self, and society.” The body is at the center of the superhero’s creation and appeal.For Bukatman, film and comics do exactly what plain narrative cannot do: embody the words and give form to the scene. One of main reasons why superheroes are so appealing is that they (visually) overcome the bodily limits of reality, and give ordinary humans a taste of the extraordinary. The body is not just an attribute of the appeal of superhero, but the key focus, Bukatman notes:
Comics narrate the body in stories and envision the body in drawings. The body is obsessively centered upon. It is contained and delineated; it becomes irresistible force and immoveable object. The body is enlarged and diminished, turned invisible or made of stone, blown to atoms or reshaped at will. The body defies gravity, space, and time; it divides and conquers, turns to fire, lives in water, is lighter than air. The body takes on animal attributes, merges with plant life, is melded with metal. The body is asexual and homosexual, heterosexual, and hermaphroditic. Even the mind becomes a body: it is telepathic, telekinetic, transplantable, and controllable . . . The body is an accident of birth, a freak of nature, or a consequence of technology run wild. The superhero body is everything . . .
Superheroes are only as good and interesting as the abilities their extra-human bodies allow, the villains they can overcome with those empowered bodies, and the attractiveness of the high-tech suits and consumes (or lack thereof) that cover their exquisite physiques. Concisely, one could define the superhero as nothing other than a body that is imbued with super-power and coded by social anxiety.
The superhero’s significance is that he or she emerges on the other side of industrialization, able to combat these new fears and weaknesses. Bukatman points to the particular social attitudes and anxieties that were involved in the genesis of the superhero, suggesting that the superhero is a product of the human body trying to deal with the trauma of industrialization. Industrialism opened up possibilities that were before thought impossible, dawning a new age of human social and technological progressivism. Still, however progressive industrialization was for humanity, it also created dangers that the human body had never encountered. Now bodies had to deal with catastrophic damage that the assembly line’s powerful machines could inflict. As buildings grew taller, machines more powerful, and people more gathered around such forces, the risk and fear of death increased exponentially. The atomization of firearms and the invention of the modern bomb revolutionized war, making mass death a constant reality. Technology surpassed the body’s limits at such a rate that humanity had to catch up and deal with its helplessness in whatever ways it could, or at least find an outlet to deal with the trauma that industrial life brought with it.
Looking back at some of the most famous comic books and the history of the mediums most popular characters shows an obsession with industrial tropes. Take the first appearance of Superman in Action Comics 1 for example.
Arguably the first comic book featuring a true superhero, the cover of Action Comics No.1 depicts the Man of Steel amazingly lifting and destroying the car of couple of gangsters after they attacked Lois Lane. Superman saves the damsel in distress from the crime of the industrial city, along with the technology that makes it possible. The invention of the automobile revolutionized the way humanity lived, traveled, and interacted. It also extended the boundaries of organized crime. Here is a super-human protecting an innocent woman from a threat that industrialization made possible, taming the uncontrollable like no human could imagine (hence the terrified bug-eyed fellow in the foreground). Superman had a “new kind of body- only the Man of Steel has the constitution, organs, and abilities equal to the rigors of the Machine Age.” What makes this cover even more interesting is that the car depicted in the drawing is a believed to be a 1937 DeSoto, and, as seen in DeSoto’s 1930s advertisement, there is a tension between the pre-industrial lifestyle and the new, technological world the car brings.
This juxtaposition between the old, agrarian world in the Desoto ad and the new, industrial world holds together nicely with Superman’s origin story. Although Superman is originally from Krypton, a highly advanced industrial world of super beings, he is raised in Smallville, Kansas, a very rural farming town in the middle of nowhere. Unlike Spider-Man, a hero born and bred in the city, Superman is a creature of the small town America. However, Superman finds his heroic calling in Metropolis, a sprawling industrial twin of New York City. Superman, an alien among humans, embodies the narrative of migration from the countryside to the city. Many Americas underwent the same process, moving from farm to the city in heaps in the early 1900s. Immigrants from other countries were undergoing the same anxiety of moving to a new world. Clark Kent, Superman’s alter-ego, overcomes the fear of moving from horse to car; rural America to city; citizen to alien. Still, inasmuch as Superman embodies this anxiety, he is ultimately unlike the normal human – able to outrun the gangsters, tame the new technology, and blend in perfectly within the city’s demographic.
Superman’s cultural draw extended past industrial tropes and into the very heart of American political sentimentality in the post-Depression society. As Lawrence Maslon and Michael Kantor put it in Superheroes!: Capes, Cowls, and the Creation of the Comic Book Culture, Superman “saved things. And in so doing, he found a receptive audience.” Malson and Kantor quote Jules Feiffer as supplement:
Superman came at a time when, as many people saw it, particularly the Jews, a Superhero in the wheelchair had entered the White House – and that was [Franklin Delano Roosevelt]. The notion that you could have a superhero who was going to stand up for you, who would be our advocate, was connected to the hope brought on by this larger-than-life figure in the White House. Crippled though he was, F.D.R. had a secret identity, taking off into outer space and solving problems with the New Deal and creating a whole new feeling with the New Deal. Superman was an underground New Dealer.
Just a year after Superman’s debut, Marvel Comics predecessor, Timely Publications, released its first take on a superhuman with Marvel Comics No.1 starring the Human Torch. Unlike the modern incarnation of the Human Torch from the Fantastic Four, Carl Burgos’ Human Torch was a synthetic android whose skin bursts into flames when exposed to oxygen. After the press makes his creator, Professor Horton, bury him in a capsule underwater before “Some madman can grasp its principles and hurl it against our civilization,” the Human Torch escapes and wreaks runs the streets among terrified bystanders.
It is no coincidence that the reader encounters a superhero with the ability to resist fire during this period when housing projects became larger and more populated, causing the risk of fire and subsequent death to increase alongside of the mass movement to the city. One can view the Human Torch as the embodiment of the fear of burning alive that so many felt, whether it was in the crowded metropolis or the fiery dangers American soldiers faced under stress of bombs and artillery in Europe during WWI.
One can read the origin and purpose of almost every major superhero in the vein of industrial possibility and fear: Batman is trying to battle his past by utilizing technology to police Gotham City’s (a reflection of Chicago) criminal ways and to tame its sprawling streets that the primary authorities no longer able to help; Iron Man is forced to create a suit to communist Asians who kidnap him and demand that he make weapon’s of mass destruction for their military; Captain America punches Hitler and fights off the Nazi invasion.
At first glance, Superman’s body is able to save, whereas normal, human bodies need saving. However, it is clear that Superman has a different kind of body from a different reality, a reality that is as alien to humanity as the new industrial threats were to early 20th century Americans. In his introduction to the Neil Gaiman’s highly acclaimed Sandman vol. 2: A Doll’s House graphic novel, fantasy and horror fiction guru Clive Barker describes the effects of invading fictional realities:
One [kind of fantastic fiction], the kind most often seen in horror novels and movies, offers up a reality that resembles our own, then postulates a second invading reality, which has to be accommodated or exiled by the status quo it is attempting to overtake. Sometimes, as in any exorcism movie . . . the alien thorn is successfully removed from the suppurating flank of the real. On other occasions the visitor becomes part of the fabric of “everyday” life. Superman is, after all, an alien life form. He’s simply the acceptable face of invading realities.
These new bodies, bodies like Superman’s, are always ready to deal with the threats of the new technological world. Like Superman, the hero can protect against the abrupt death of world war; survive and help others survive falling off the tallest building; allow citizens to sleep in peace as he fights off the impending dangers. Accordingly, the superhero embodies a cognitive barrier between subject and the new, dangerous world. But what makes Superman and these other amazing, bodies so appealing? If Superman, like Barker notes, represents such a different and insane reality, what makes his face ‘acceptable,’ other than the fact that he might “save” us? In other words, does it matter if Superman is man, or that he has big muscles? If so, what effect does that have on our views of overcoming crisis and our views on what our leaders should look like?
**My next post will attempt to answer this question of salvation, focusing specifically on how super-heroism is written and draw with a sense of hyper masculinity. Stay tuned.