In the lead up to the release of James Gunn’s Superman in cinemas, we will be publishing – both on the Goggler website and on our Instagram feed – a series of pieces that explore the pivotal role that the character has played in our popular culture.
In September 1986, DC Comics published the last ever Superman story. Okay, so it wasn’t actually the “last ever” Superman story, but it would mark the end of an era. It was called: “Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow” and it was written by Alan Moore.
In it, Moore would write: “This is an imaginary story (which may never happen, but then again may) about a perfect man who came from the sky and did only good. It tells of his twilight, when the great battles were over and the great miracles long since performed, of how his enemies conspired against him and of that final war in the snow-blind wastes beneath the Northern Lights; of the women he loved and of the choice he made between them; of how he broke his most sacred oath, and how finally all the things he had were taken from him save for one…”
The story opens with a reporter from the Daily Planet coming to interview Lois Lane about the last days of Superman. It had been 10 years since Superman died and the Planet was doing a special memorial feature.
Lois narrates.
She tells of how all of Superman’s greatest villains would gather – Lex Luthor, Braniac, the Kryptonite Man – slowly wearing him down, reaching out for his friends and family, all in the belief that they are destined to fulfill his doom.
But in the end, Moore is quite explicit about the true cause of our hero’s death: his own rigid moral code. You see, at the very end of the story, Moore makes Superman a killer. It is a last resort. It is the only way he can save Lois. He doesn’t have any other choice and it is more than he can bear.
From the very outset of the story, Superman faces, and defeats, without killing, ever more dangerous foes until he meets one enemy too dangerous to be left alive. Moore implies such an enemy will always exist, and because of this, Superman’s own ethics pose the greatest existential threat to the Man of Steel.
There was a time when the superhero’s virtue was inflexible. Because “whatever we collectively imagine ‘good’ to be at any given time, the superhero too must strive towards that end.”
This wasn’t the last ever Superman story. There were plenty more to come. This was a tribute to that old sentimental world of comics that Alan Moore knew was ending. He would write: “This is an imaginary story…”
Aren’t they all?
The Golden Age superheroes, those characters that came to life between 1938 and 1950, were the unmistakeable product of an early twentieth century imagination. They were pure escapist fantasies, a response to the great depression and then World War II, they were modern day Gods, who were motivated by altruism, and driven by an overwhelming desire to do good. They were characters that were aspirational. The were supposed to be the best of us. They were supposed to be better than us.
In “The Myth of Superman,” Umberto Eco spoke about the essential inertia that characterizes such mythic constructs as superheroes. Basically, these are heroes that must defy the very forces of nature by never aging or evolving, retaining a basic iconic profile in order to preserve their power as a figure of legend, and last through the cyclical adventures that define their existence. Superheroes are trapped in a never-changing loop of cause and effect, always battling the same villains, struggling with the same dilemmas, and exemplifying the ideals of heroism and courage for generation after generation with nary a hair out of place, or a wrinkled pair of tights.
But heroes change.
With every era, with every subsequent generation, comes an effort towards reinterpretation. Shifting societal norms and cultural checkpoints, coupled with short attention spans and an increasingly jaded public, demand that the heroes we grew up with be occasionally updated; their origins redrawn, their relationships reformed, their costumes resewn. Batman got darker. The Green Lantern got gayer. Superman kills. And Captain America got killed.
These early decades of the 21st century will no doubt be marked as a time when moral absolutes were hard to come by and our heroes (super and otherwise) were steeped in ambiguity. (There was, of course, that moment of collective mass hysteria back in 2008, but even Barack Obama’s optimism would eventually get watered down – by reality, but mostly by Republicans.)
It is an affliction that permeates every aspect of our lives, from the books we read, to the movies we make, to the anthems we sing. Misery loves company and our popular culture seems almost unapologetically steeped in it. We live in a time when the superheroic and the saintly are considered unrealistic at best and downright farcical at worst.
The “darkening” of our superheroes was a gradual process. A slow and sustained tanning that would take place over two and a half decades. One that would eventually give birth to the real and the raw that we seem to embrace so readily. Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons would set the ball rolling with their Watchmen. But even they wouldn’t touch canon. That would come later.
For in an effort to keep with the times, to overcome ennui and ever declining comic book sales, to make our superheroes more human, a generation of comic book writers would take what was once canon and skew it. They would take the holy and transform them into conflicted individuals whose lesser angels were just barely besting their greater demons.
They would retell their stories in order to reflect ours. They would rejig their lives for the sake of relevance. And we’d allow them to. We’d allow for the likes of Geoff Johns and Frank Miller. We’d allow for Flashpoint and the darkening of The Dark Knight. And we would do so, because each and every one of these reimaginations, whether an All Star Superman or The Long Halloween, would be rooted in a deep understanding – not to mention an abiding respect – for the characters and the world in which they reside. That every change, however small, was not just an evolution of stories, but an evolution of character.
We wanted our heroes to grow and change like we did. We wanted complexity. But what we got instead was just so much brooding. What we got was Christopher Nolan’s Batman, who had no sense of humour, and Zack Snyder’s Superman, who had no sense of wonder. The many evolutions began to compound. The digressions and compromises began to take root. Our beloved heroes had slowly become all but unrecognizable. And there was no longer anything super about them.
So maybe it’s time for a reboot. Maybe it’s time for a Superman who sees the world, not as we do, not for what it actually is, but for what it should be. Maybe it’s time for us to reconsider Superman’s role in our lives and in our literatures. He has always been the product – as well as a victim – of the times – from the escapist creations of Jewish immigrants, to a metaphor for the civil rights movement, to a rallying force against the Nazis and the Communists. Superman was always the manifestation of everything that was good in humanity.
All we’ve seen so far from James Gunn’s take on the character are a “teaser” and an “extended look,” but even that was enough to show us that his Superman was a return to the core of what makes a superhero a superhero. The color. The tone. The music. The prevailing sense of hope.
Our heroes are supposed to be better than we are. Black and white in a world so irreversibly stuck in grey. They aren’t just supposed to make the difficult decisions, they are supposed to remind us of what the right ones are. To be that shining beacon. To possess an aspirational quality. However unachievable.
Which is why it is the perfect moment for James Gunn’s reboot. We live in horrific times, and now, more than ever, we need our heroes (super and otherwise) to provide some relief. To provide some clarity.
Heroes change. And there’s nothing wrong with that. They should be complex, but they should never compromise. They should grow up, but they should never grow old. They’re even allowed to disappoint you from time to time, but they should never, ever, break your heart.
