Our Gods Wear Spandex (3 page)

Things went from bad to worse.
Batman and Robin
, the nearly unwatchable 1997 film directed by Joel Schumacher, brought the Batman franchise to its knees and nearly took the Warner Brothers empire down with it. This was followed by a string of superhero flops like
Judge Dredd, Tank Girl
, and
The Phantom
that threatened the future of the entire “comic-book movie” genre. There is an ironic symmetry to this, for it was the success of the first
Batman
film in 1989 that launched one of the most feverish booms in the comic-book industry's fifty-year history, just as the success of the
Batman
TV series had done in 1966.

In 1996, two creators decided they had had enough. One was Alex Ross, an astonishingly talented painter and preacher's son from Texas. Ross grew up obsessing over the work of classic illustrators like Andrew Loomis and Norman Rockwell, and the music of the classically trained rock band Queen. His great passion, however, was for the noble, self-sacrificing superheroes of the so-called Silver Age of comic books (1957–1970). Ross burst onto the comic-book scene in 1994 with a series entitled
Marvels
, in which he presented Marvel Comics' most popular heroes in his graceful and impressionistic, yet photorealistic, style. Ross' noble characters had an immediate effect, making all the other superhero comics look ugly and cynical by comparison.

With the help of another ornery Southerner (dialogue writer Mark Waid), Ross declared war on the Chromium Age. His 1996 epic mini-series
Kingdom Come
is nothing less than an apocalyptic tract, awash in fiery Biblical wrath. The story presents a world in which the old-school superheroes (Superman, Batman, Flash, Wonder Woman, and others) are either in forced retirement or operating underground. In their place, a new generation of heroes arises—violent maniacs who spend most of their time engaging in pointless battles with each other. Foremost among these is Magog, a none-too-subtle parody of Rob Liefeld's most successful creation, Cable. During one of their meleés, this new breed of heroes causes a nuclear accident that irradiates the Midwestern farm belt and reduces it to a wasteland. Savvy readers recognized this as a metaphor for what the new breed of superhero comic was doing to the medium and the market.

Alarmed by this, Superman emerges from retirement and reassembles DC's Justice League. In an eye-grabbing series of battles, Superman and the League descend from the heavens like archangels and smash the new breed of super-powered lunatics, finally placing them in an enormous gulag in the radioactive wasteland of Kansas. Superman's arch-foe, Lex Luthor, has other plans, however. Luthor assembles his own band of heroes (led by a mind-controlled Captain Marvel) to fight the League. The climax comes when Superman and the more-powerful Captain engage in battle, while nuclear missiles meant to destroy all super-powered beings rain down from the heavens. At the very last moment, Captain Marvel tears himself free from the influence of the mind control and summons lightning from the heavens to destroy the missiles in mid-flight. He dies in the act. The story ends with peace on Earth and Wonder Woman pregnant with Superman's child.
Kingdom Come
marked the end of the Chromium Age, even though it would be several years before the comics market recovered from the damage it had wrought. The book is remarkable, however, for another reason.
Kingdom Come
—perhaps more than any other comic book in history—delineates what superheroes are to their most devoted fans. They are nothing less than gods.

Ross and Waid clearly depict the Captain—a discorporate entity incarnated by occult magic—as the new Christ. Though Superman is the book's star, Marvel is the linchpin of the series, and his death is the salvation of mankind. In
Kingdom Come
, Captain Marvel is endowed with an invulnerable, almost totemic, power.

In many ways, Captain Marvel is the ultimate icon of wish-fulfillment. A young orphan, Billy Batson, accidentally stumbles on a great wizard in an underground chamber. The wizard then teaches him a magical incantation that gives the boy the powers of a god. Captain Marvel isn't stained by the faults and foibles of ordinary heroes. His costume, with its royal, militaristic flourishes, is more dignified than Superman's longjohns. Nor is he saddled with the psychological baggage that figures like Batman and Spider-Man carry. It's no surprise, then, that he was the favorite character of the most important creator in the history of superhero comics, Jack Kirby. Two of Kirby's most iconic characters, the Mighty Thor and OMAC, borrow heavily from Captain Marvel, as does Kirby's signature character, Captain America. And it is probably no coincidence that two other pivotal creators, Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman, began their careers writing for Captain Marvel's British counterpart, Marvelman.

Kingdom Come
summoned the spirit of Captain Marvel because its creators felt that his absence—or rather, the absence of what he represented—was destroying something they loved. The grim and gritty superheroes of Rob Liefeld and his mob of coconspirators—dark, violent vigilantes like Wolverine and The Punisher—were no longer even
likable
, never mind admirable or worth emulating. The catalyst for this trend was Frank Miller's 1986 graphic novel,
Batman: The Dark Knight Returns
(or simply
Dark Knight
).

Dark Knight
was a relentlessly brutal look at urban violence, seasoned with heavy doses of crypto-fascist propagandizing and sexually transgressive imagery. The book's apocalyptic fury (complete with nuclear warfare) had the emotional impact of a bludgeon, and soon all of comicdom was following suit. Superheroes began to shed their naive, kid-friendly aura, and soon became up-to-the-minute urban warriors. This appealed to inner-city youths, many black and Hispanic, who were living through similar mayhem in their own neighborhoods. Indeed, the bulk of new readers who came into the comic-book market in the late 1980s were urban. American cities were in the midst of an existential crisis, and it is in times like these that gods appear. Likewise, it is probably no accident that the comics boom began to wane as the crack epidemic and the horrific gun violence that accompanied it began to ease in the mid 90s.

The landscape changed, however, when the tragedy of 9/11 struck. Politicans and pundits alike responded to the event with a calculated series of statements and actions that seem lifted straight from the pages of
Superman
or
The X-Men
. And
the comic-book industry wasted no time rising to the occasion. A series of commemorative magazines and comics quickly flooded the racks, featuring Marvel's top characters reacting to the tragedy.

The following summer, a big-screen adaptation of
Spider-Man
hit the screen. The damage done to Manhattan by the Green Goblin in that film tapped into the primal fear unleashed on that beautiful September morning, and Spider-Man's eventual victory guaranteed that the movie would become a box-office juggernaut. The trauma of 9/11 explains why the film packed the visceral punch it did. As we watch Spider-Man triumph over the forces of chaos and evil, in some sense the psychic damage done on that day is repaired. And those primal fears still linger. Witness the success of the 2005
Batman Begins
, which also featured similar acts of apocalyptic mayhem wreaked on Gotham City.

The box office success of superheroes has led many movie studios and animation firms to attempt to build their own superhero properties from scratch.
Space Ghost, Birdman and the Galaxy Trio, The Mighty Isis, The Greatest American Hero, Thundarr the Barbarian, The Thundercats, Darkman, Dark Angel, Meteor Man
, and
M.A.N.T.I.S
. are all examples of this. Most of these attempts, however, have been short-lived. There have also been movie characters that are superheroes in all but name—Terminator and Rambo, for instance. But there is something about the medium of the comic book that seems to be the best incubator for our substitute gods. People seem to sniff out the insincerity of these prefab Hollywood properties. And insincerity is instant death for a superhero—or a god, for that matter.

The two films that have successfully created superheroes from the ground up have drawn heavily on comic books to do so. In 1999,
The Matrix
was created by two comic-book-fans-turned-movie-directors, Andy and Larry Wachowski. The brothers enlisted two flashy comic-book artists, Geoff Darrow and Steve Skroce, to help them develop their concepts. In fact, Darrow and Skroce essentially created a comic book out of the script. The directors then used the comic book to pitch the film.
The Matrix
also drew heavily on religious mysticism and cyberpunk science fiction, effectively creating the first Gnostic, computer-hacking, Zen Buddhist
superhero in Neo, played by Keanu Reeves. After writing and producing another big-budget movie based on a comic book
(V for Vendetta)
in 2006, the Wachowskis took the plunge and started their own comic-book line, Burlyman Entertainment.

A more family-oriented band of heroes,
The Incredibles
, was created by animator Brad Bird for the computer-animation studio Pixar. This heroic family was either a tribute to or a blatant knockoff of Marvel's
Fantastic Four
, depending on your outlook.

Efforts have also been made to present superheroes in film and on television without all of the iconic trappings (i.e., Spandex). M. Night Shamalayan's film
Unbreakable
(2000) posited the existence of real-life superheroes who are unaware of their powers. More recently, the cable series
The 4400
has presented a new race of humans, who are given superpowers by scientists from the future in order to prevent a projected disaster. The series, however, draws heavily on
The X-Men
, in that the 4400 are endowed with individualized powers and are perceived by the government and the society at large as an existential threat. Following in this tradition, NBC's smash-hit series
Heroes
(co-produced by top comics writer Jeph Loeb) has made these everyday superheroes sexy.

Yet the printed comic book remains, as it has for 70 years, the primary incubator for superheroes, even for film and television. The reason for this is two-fold. Comic books use a highly effective form of storytelling that resonates directly with the reader's unconscious mind. Comics are also very cheap to produce and print. A talented cartoonist can break your heart with nothing but a #2 pencil and a few sheets of paper.

While the technology that supports comic-book creation has improved significantly—computerized coloring lets artists render scenes in near-photographic detail—it all still starts and ends with the most basic of tools. While very popular comics have been printed inexpensively in black-and-white, most readers today generally expect comics to be very finely rendered by high-priced talent and printed in full color on high-grade paper. But compared to a feature film or even a video game, the cost is negligible. With lower production costs and less upfront financial risk, creators and publishers are, at least theoretically, able to experiment and pursue very idiosyncratic visions, which can result in truly groundbreaking material.

The diehard passion of comic-book creators gives their work a visceral conviction unlike that of any other storytelling medium. Comics fans are often aspiring creators and comics creators are usually avid fans themselves. For better or worse, most casual comic-book readers drift off into other pastimes; those that remain are a highly specialized, highly sophisticated audience. They know what they like and what they don't, and they take their favorite characters very, very seriously. In fact, artists and writers who don't hold their heroes in the same esteem, or portray them in a way seen to be insufficiently worshipful, often find themselves unofficially blacklisted. Since
Kingdom Come
, comic-book artists are expected to render their superheroes with a similar reverence.