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The Failure of Nonviolence and The Rejection of “Love Leaders” in Wonder Woman #761

We spoke in class about WIlliam Moulton Marston’s idea of women as “love leaders,” which posits that people, specifically men, should willingly allow, or “lovingly submit” themselves to women’s loving and nonviolent nature in order to curb their more violent tendencies. Wonder Woman and her comics, as a result, became Marston’s means of personifying and playing out this concept. Diana’s main implement of carrying out her will is, after all, a magic lasso that forces someone to tell the truth without using violence. Without fail she uses her lasso to resolve issues and lovingly force people to submit to “the truth”, simultaneously confirming her seemingly incorruptible understanding of right and wrong. But what happens when the truth doesn’t align with her morals? When Maxwell Lord becomes her unwitting ally, Diana is forced to confront this very question.

Diana, as per Marston's ideal, is set apart by her specific dedication to self-defense and the protection of others. Her main heroic items, her bracers, are defensive implements, being used to deflect bullets instead of to harm others. Wonder Woman very rarely, if ever, commits violence outright, which is a value that forms a component of her role as a love leader. She upholds these values and they come to form her ultimate sense of right and wrong, leading her to oppose those like Maxwell Lord who would wield violence, domination and deception against others. Maxwell Lord stands as a dark reflection of the “loving submission” portion of Diana’s role as a “love leader.” His power, mind control, is a form of submission, but one that is involuntary. Lord forces people to follow his will, while Diana, with the help of her magic lasso and unshakable moral fortitude, guides people, like Gloria Bullfinch in Sensation Comics #8, towards recognizing the truth for themselves.  In this way, Lord can be seen as representative of patriarchal ideology, which forces men and women alike into believing falsehoods in order to maintain a way of life that benefits its propagators. Conversely, Diana can be seen as representing a feminist liberating force, showing men and women the ways in which they have been deceived through protest and nonviolent resistance.

In Wonder Woman #761, when Diana encounters people who have been placed under similar forms of delusion, she immediately, and understandably, assumes that Lord is behind it. After being deceived herself, she confronts him, forcing the lasso around him and demanding that he reveal the truth, which she believes is that Lord is behind everything. Diana is disturbed to learn not only that Lord is not behind this, but that she will have to work with him in order to stop these violent incidents.

The lasso reveals that Wonder Woman’s supposedly unshakable moral code is flawed; that “loving submission” through protection and nonviolence alone is sometimes insufficient and that the world isn’t always as black and white as she, or her creator, has believed.

In these panels, as she realizes that she needs Lord and that her enemy’s worldview is as truthful as hers, Diana sees Lord as Ares, the Greek god of war and her ultimate adversary. Ares, as a god of war, embodies violence and strife, seeking to perpetuate them in the world so that he might grow more powerful, while Diana, as a champion of nonviolence, typically opposes Ares, but on this page we see that, when her moral code is shaken, Diana questions her dedication to even her most sacred values and begins to turn towards violence.

I see this scene, in some ways, as a kind of realization of the flaws of the nonviolent feminist movements of the past, which Wonder Woman has come to represent. She also simultaneously shakes off the essentialist vision of her creator, who believed that women were nonviolent by nature. Nonviolent protest and resistance are somewhat effective against oppressive, patriarchal ideology, but even if they aren’t snuffed out and win small victories, these methods are easily adapted against; the manipulation just becomes less obvious. Diana’s personal realization that her methods alone can’t beat every problem mirrors that of many oppressed people that have begun to awaken to the ineffectuality of nonviolence against ever-increasing subjugation. Max Lord’s role in this scenario then, if we see him as an embodiment of patriarchy, suggests that oppressed people should utilize the tactics of oppressive ideologies to fight for their liberty, which is quite a profound statement. Ares’ presence here only hammers this home, and Diana’s affirmation in response to “You need me,” and “Let me help you” in the final panel rings as an acceptance of the power of violent resistance or even all out war against tyranny. Indeed, Diana does work with Lord in the end, even using violence to stop a threat that comes from someone whom she trusted. This message hits especially close to home today, as our country teeters at a precipice that threatens to destroy the ways of life of countless people. Evil can, and will, destroy us if we allow it to, so I might suggest that we follow Diana’s no-longer loving lead.

[the-eclectic-eel]

“Hyper-Gothic” Noir in Batman Dracula: Red Rain

Film noir of the 1930s emphasized heavy shadows and the obscuration of the human form in shadow and since the return to form in the Modern Age, Batman writers and artists have, more often than not, utilized these same natal motifs to give the titular character a sense of inhuman mystique. Yet, most every Batman story since Frank Miller’s run keeps the characters, plot and even the artwork grounded in reality; the human form is still relatively stable and shadows merely hide human features. Batman Dracula: Red Rain, however, stretches the character’s darker side to its outer limits. The comic’s art stretches and contorts the human form to an almost sickening degree in order to evoke a sense of the fantastic, while the story riffs on tropes common to the noir and Hardboiled detective genres by eschewing realism almost entirely and adopting elements of gothic horror. The comic’s overall blend of these stylistic elements create a unique and novel take on Batman that explores both extremes of the character’s lineage.

Even before Batman undergoes his vampiric transformation, the art of Red Rain depicts him as a nocturnal animal:

In the centermost panel, Batman’s cape is unfurled to what looks like multiple feet to both sides of his body. The artists have lengthened the “ears” of his cowl by several inches, giving his cowl an off-putting fang-like quality. As he glides above Gotham’s towering sepulchral spires in this image, Batman’s cape and ears evoke the image of, well, a bat. The Caped Crusader’s hunched posture in both the top right and bottom panels, along with his bared teeth, lend to this animalistic portrayal. Many comics, like Batman Year One, merely suggest that criminals see Batman as a huge man-sized bat creature, but this art truly makes the reader feel that their favorite detective is something other than human. These images pull at themes present in the gothic horror genre: the bestial nature of man, inhuman figures cloaked in darkness, and even the supernatural. Even so, the story clings to Batman’s hardboiled detective roots.

The dialogue in these panels evokes many of the tropes commonly seen in noir and hard boiled-detective stories; the femme fatale/ strong female character (Tanya), tells the Gotham’s police commissioner that the city and its inhabitants have been corrupted by a shadowy force (a horde of vampires) that works beyond the law. This would serve to ground the story in complete realism in any other typical noir or detective story. The abandonment of complete realism is necessary here, however, in order to tackle the supernatural subject matter, while also playing up the more gothic elements of the story. For most of the story, Batman does seem to stand as incorruptible, but he must inevitably succumb to the satanic forces that oppose him…

In order to combat the indomitable inhuman threat, the Dark Knight must become his enemy. The image above depicts a Batman that is no longer human, having been transformed into a fully fledged vampire; a true Bat-man. As alluded to in the above panel, Gotham has become a kind of Hell after being infested with undead vampires. Indeed, the lightning striking behind him and the backdrop of roiling purple clouds on a red sky confirms the notion that this new Bat-man is flapping through the sulfury fires of the biblical Inferno. The Crusader’s once sleek cape is now a mass of writhing tendrils that stretch out further than would seem possible. His anatomy is completely obscured by his now monstrous cape and the only bodily features that are visible are a pair of hideous, leathery bat wings. To call this image gothic would be to do it disservice. The art stretches the reader’s perception of reality to its absolute limit, encroaching into a kind of “hyper-gothic” style that distorts physicality in order to create horror.

This hyper-gothic image is yet again contrasted by the hero’s actions, however. Though his figure is now that of a demon more than a mortal man, Bruce maintains his sanity and, crucially, his morality, setting him apart from the corrupted masses of undead that he fights. The World’s Greatest Detective alone retains the last vestiges of his humanity in order to save his shadowy city from the overwhelming evil that lurks within it. This element alone prevents the story from entering into the realm of complete fantasy in the third act, maintaining the balance that sets this story apart from other more fantastical interpretations.

[the-eclectic-eel]

Flow: Non-Anthropocentric Metafiction in Swamp Thing

In class we discussed anthropocentrism, which is the viewpoint that humans are the center of all things, and how it applies to the themes of Alan Moore’s run of Swamp Thing. We discussed how anthropocentric thought limits us from understanding the environment, and even broached into discussions of depictions of plant consciousness. Moore’s work in Swamp Thing counters previous anthropocentric depictions of the character, while simultaneously criticizing overzealous overcorrection solely in favor of plant life. In this piece, I want to focus on the ways in which he, artist Steve Bisset, and colorist Todd Klein all work together, using metafiction that champions collective consciousness between both plant and animal life, to challenge readers to reexamine their relationship with nature. Their use of the metafiction device bridges plant and animal perspectives by emphasizing flow and continuity within the structure and form of the comic itself. In order to accomplish this, Moore and the artists incorporate transitional dialogue between pages, blend colors, break down panel borders, and even play with the orientation of the physical book in which the story is written. The issues are absolutely packed with examples, but I’ll focus on two here.

The first instance comes in Swamp Thing #22, where both Swamp Thing and Jason Woodrue grapple with abandoning their humanity. Swamp Thing struggles to hold on to his connection to his human life, while Woodrue struggles to disconnect himself from it completely.

The first page portrays the resolution of Swamp Thing’s internal struggle: acceptance. The panels of the first page depict him losing his humanoid shape, symbolically dropping his own skull, and engulfing the environment around him in his own plant matter. The page ends with a panel depicting the result along with the word “swamped,” which perfectly describes the action taking place: Alec swamping the rocky outcropping with vegetation. Turning the page, however, reveals that “swamped” is actually the beginning of Woodrue’s next line, as he too begins to delve into the Green. This blending and flow of dialogue from page to page can be observed in many places throughout the issue, connecting the dueling narratives of Woodrue and Swamp Thing. This metafictional connection between the two characters brings focus to the interwoven relationship between humanity (Woodrue) and plant life (Swamp Thing), while simultaneously reminding the reader of that relationship’s inherent polarity. 

Just as Swamp Thing’s existence as a being of pure plant matter deters him from accepting his humanity, Woodrue’s human-centered thought prevents him from fully comprehending the collective experience of the Green. The second page above, which is actually two pages, depicts Woodrue “merging” with plant consciousness. As the panels progress on the leftmost page, Woodrue’s face transforms, becoming greener and less defined, while the panel borders become thinner. This transformation culminates in a kind of grotesque harmony between the features of Woodrue’s face and a natural landscape. As the reader’s eye travels down each panel of the transformation, however, the lush greens of the plant life are violently interrupted by the jagged bright red of Woodrue’s brain waves on the EEG. These harsh pulsing waves cut through the borders of every panel, reminding readers, and Woodrue himself, that he still has a brain; he still has singular, selfish thought. Then, on the next page, the brainwaves become more erratic and the botanical features disappear, leaving only Woodrue’s face. The panel borders are slowly re-established and the EEG waves end in a violent *SHRAK*. Readers are given these visual clues that inform them that Woodrue never truly understands the Green, as his face and his brain waves —which both represent his self-centered, egoistic thought— are always the most prominent images on the page. So the following imposition of his own views on nature makes sense, as he merges with the Green, but never truly lets go of his ego. Moore, Bissel and Klein are emphasizing, through the art, that Woodrue’s view of humans as the source of all natural problems is anthropocentric because it still places humanity at the center of the natural world, albeit negatively. It is in this way that Woodrue himself becomes a demonstration of the duality of humanity’s prevailing anthropocentric attitudes; both destroying the environment for our own gain and seeking to destroy all of humanity in order to eliminate nature problems.

So then, what does a true union between human and plant consciousness look like on the page? The answer comes only a few issues later in Swamp Thing #34, in which Abby Arcane reveals her love to Swamp Thing and eats of his fruit, leading to a kind of psychedelic sex scene. The way the encounter between the two is depicted is breathtaking, so much so that it transcends the boundaries of the medium in which it is presented.

As the fruit begins to take effect, Klein’s colors shift to beautiful pastel pinks, yellows, reds and oranges. The ends of panel borders are nonexistent, causing each panel to spill into the next in an interconnected, perennial mosaic of flora and fauna, all drawing the eye towards the luscious scenery at the left center of the page. Most interesting here is the play with the panel progression. The panels’ narrative starts in the top left of the page instead of the typical top right, and is oriented vertically. As the panels progress down the page, their orientations slowly decrease in angle as Abby begins to understand and merge with nature, compelling the reader to either rotate their book or their head to follow the narrative. This metafictional device forces the reader to take an active role in interacting with the material and draws attention to the physical act of reading. By manipulating the structure of the comic, Bisset forces the person reading to literally change their perspective along with Abby and, in so doing, reexamine the anthropocentric way in which they view their environment. The reader is shown the sublime beauty of nature alongside Abby and given a kind of metatextual ego death so that they might grasp a fleeting understanding of the true flow of nature.

[the-eclectic-eel]

Krakoa: An Examination of Humanity's Relationship to Our Environment

When we think about human environmental impact on our environment, the most pressing matter that comes to mind today is global warming, but in the 1970s, with the Cold War still very much looming and the Cuban Missile Crisis still in the memory of the American populus, nuclear fallout was a much more pressing environmental concern. This is the context in which Krakoa, the living Island, is presented. By examining Krakoa’s depictions in the 70s and today, it becomes possible to glimpse changing views towards humanity’s effect on the environment.

 In its first appearance in Giant Size X-Men in 1975, Krakoa is presented in a similar manner to some iterations of the far more well-known Godzilla: organisms whose form and DNA is mutated by atomic weapons, causing them to combine and grow to enormous size. Krakoa seems, at first glance, to be yet another villain-of-the-week who only serves to unite the newly formed X-Men through the danger it poses, but Krakoa is actually far more interesting. The being itself is actually technically a mutant, albeit one created through atomic radiation. Krakoa can be seen in a somewhat sympathetic light as a reflection of humanity’s disregard for the Earth. As a living being of enormous size, its desire to consume isn’t unjustified; after all, it never asked to be mutated and given life. The X-Men, however, seem not to care about it at all. As a people that has been discriminated against and ostracized from society, one might expect mutants to take pity on Krakoa, a mutant being that was acting only out of desperation, especially as it begs for their help.

 The mutants’ utter disregard for its plight is revelatory of the wider ignorance of humans’ destruction of nature during the time of the writing of this piece. Krakoa seems to signify to the authors and readers in the 1970s more so the potential outcome of full-scale nuclear war than the effects that the testing of nuclear weapons had already wrought on the environment, so its destruction is seen as necessary. The wider populace at the time, understandably, wasn’t ready to take responsibility for the testing of increasingly more powerful nuclear weapons because the threat of nuclear war still loomed. 

Only much later can we look back in examination of our deeds and try to make amends. Krakoa’s appearances in House of X and Powers of X represent just that effort. In these stories, Krakoa becomes the homeland of all mutants in an act of acknowledgement of its mutanthood and right to existence. The mutants not only acknowledge Krakoa, but respect it, making efforts to sustain it and commune with it and allowing it to thrive.

Krakoa, in these stories, becomes a kind of ideal vision of how we should treat the Earth, living in harmony with it and treating it as an equal. Though the message might come across as kind of “hippie-esque” to some, it’s certainly necessary, especially now, and is just one of the many positive visions of the future we see in these runs.

[the-eclectic-eel]

Unnatural Selection: The Singularity, Humanity and the Technological Sublime in House/Powers of X

We briefly touched in class on the idea of “technological singularity” which is described as the point at which technology will begin to surpass humanity’s attempts to limit it. This singularity is shown in its full effect in the Powers of X run, and gains some context in the House of X run. More specifically though, I want to explore what these stories and their use of the singularity say about what it means to be human through the lens of the technological sublime, which is the feeling of dread or awe at technology’s sheer power over nature. 

Every instance in which humans and mutants have struggled for coexistence and, eventually, supremacy in the Marvel Universe, humanity has always come out on top. In every universe that Moira experiences thanks to her reincarnation power, Humanity inevitably dominates and oppresses mutantkind by utilizing artificial intelligence, or AI. Moira discovers this in her 7th life:

What Moira realizes here is that sentinel AI and the singularity are inevitable because humans have an incessinstinctual need to be the dominant species. Humans develop increasingly advanced AI that seek to force us to merge with technology in order to “win” against mutants in the battle of evolution, as natural selection dictates is our ultimate purpose. 

This inevitability evokes technological sublime. The key to this aspect is our recognition that humanity is a part of nature too. The idea that we can create things that can destroy or surpass us so completely is scary in an overwhelming sort of way. I believe that it is our experience of the technological sublime that signifies our humanity. Our dread at our own technological oversteppings against nature is a recognition that we are a part of that which we have abused 

However, in a situation where humanity is faced with a perceived existential threat —the X gene— that comes from our own identity within the system of natural selection, the technological sublime, and therefore our own identity are at risk of being deferred for the sake of justifying supremacy. But certainly we would never commit atrocities on such a level, right? What kind of ideological system could so totally alter our fears, hopes and desires that humanity would abandon even its own identity?

Why, religion of course! The idea of singularity, or our merging with technology as shown above in a page from Powers of X #3, is transformed into a religion that brands our humanity as impure and champions integration with technology in order to coax humanity away from its identity as a species. This Techno-theocracy grinds away humanity’s fear of the technological sublime, our identity as living beings, and replaces it with a need to be better, to evolve by wholly unnatural means.

Part of the reason that we identify with the mutants in these comics, even though they are categorically not human, is because they are depicted as being more human than humanity. Mutants, more than humans, experience firsthand the technological horrors that humanity is capable of when the chips are down without humanity’s remorse for itself; they feel the technological sublime more potently than we ever could.

[the-eclectic-eel]

Kyoryu Sentai: Nationalism, Nuclear War, and Youth

In Kyoryu Sentai: Jyuranger, it is possible to see Japan’s nationalistic redirect after bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Second World War was undeniably a time of intense national pride for many countries, Japan especially. The nationalistic fervor propagated by the government was so strong amongst the Japanese people that they were willing to kill themselves in order to preserve  Japan’s honor and national identity. After the bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki rocked Japan to its core however, the government surrendered to the allied forces and the source of Japan’s identity was demolished. Nationalism, however, was not going anywhere.

 Without its former identity and being supported by the United States in restructuring, Japan struggled to find a new sense of self. As we touched upon in class, that struggle manifested itself in its media in a few distinct ways. One of these ways is a focus on youth or orphans. We can see in Kyoryu sentai that the Rangers are teenagers from Japan’s past that have been locked in a kind of stasis. When they are awakened, they are thrust into a new world, without parents or family in general, they are forced to fight the mounting pressure of evil with “love.”  Bandora, the show’s villain, seems to further support this idea. 

This quote brings about imagery of the aftermath of an atomic detonation, which is barren, charred and devoid of life; qualities that humanity might find dull or ugly. In this way, Bandora is a kind of personification of an atomic bomb, a being who finds destruction and utter ruin beautiful and so seeks to make the world that way. This is an interesting and novel view of nuclear weapons that makes one pause. Bandora’s values seem nonsensically pardoxical, to an almost comedic degree. How could something that lives create such death and destruction and find it good? Ask the United States military.

The Rangers’ situation mirrors those of the many children of Japan that were orphaned as a result of the atomic attacks. The show, in this way, seems to look towards the nation’s younger generation, though they are orphans, for a sense of national pride. In the face of a mounting evil, or nuclear weapons, the show seems to suggest that Japan must fight against their evil by embracing life and love, and that its children will help to do so.

[the-eclectic-eel]

FantQstic

Marvel’s first family is an interesting look into queer identity, as they are forced to the fringes of society and public tolerance. From their very first issue, we can see the Fantastic Four struggling to exist within the bounds of ‘normalcy.’

In this panel from Fantastic Four #1, the thing smashes through the doorway of a clothes store while commenting that doorways are built too narrow. His query mirrors those of many queer people, disabled people in particular, who have much trouble maneuvering infrastructure designed to cater to “normal people.” As the thing crashes through the door, questioning his situation, we see the response to deviation, to queer existence: horror. Even though Ben Grimm can speak and has humanoid form, he is labeled a monster by the pedestrian; not just for his variant form, but also for his refusal to live within the structures society has enforced upon him.

As the issues progress, the Four are seemingly more tolerated by their society, as they work with officers of the law in order to prevent catastrophe. But we are reminded in Fantastic Four #48 that, when faced with chaos, society will seek to blame those that are considered “other.”

We see here society in pandemonium; people scrambling and screaming as fire fills the sky. Johnny Storm, The Human Torch, swoops in to try to help people, but is immediately blamed for the apparition, even though he has saved humanity many times by this point. The people in the panel seek a scapegoat that would serve to replace their apparent fear of what they do not understand —in this case, both Johnny and the flaming sky— with focused rancor, which would provide catharsis. The panel gets at the heart of the struggle of the Fantastic Four: because of their powers, the Fantastic Four will always be ‘queer’ to society. It doesn’t matter how many times he has saved people, Johnny is still blamed for crises, just as many queer people with disabilities or whose gender or sexuality do not match societal norms are blamed for social unrest today. Until we are seen as human, or until normalcy is understood to be fabricated, queer people will always be feared as ‘other’ like the Fantastic Four. 

[the-eclectic-eel]

When Tomorrow Arrives

In class, we touched upon the fact that Superman, in his many comic appearances, varies between saving humanity from its own promethean advances and actually being a promethean figure for us himself. I think that the clash of these two roles comes to an almost perfect head in All-Star Superman, where the Man of Tomorrow meets his match.

The opening pages of the first issue depict a quite literal promethean scenario: the futurist Leo Quintus has built a ship that will allow him to, as he quite literally puts it, “steal fire from the sun.” 

When the mission goes wrong, thanks to Lex Luthor’s meddling, Superman flies to the rescue as he has many times before, but in doing so he absorbs too much solar radiation and his body begins to slowly die. Quintus laments his folly, but seems dedicated to finding a solution. Having “cracked the human genome”, Quintus is able to create beings of almost immeasurable power, and seems set on the idea that Superman is still the best bet for humanity.

In these few pages we can see that humanity has progressed so far technologically that it has almost outgrown its need for Superman. From what is presented in the above panels, it is apparent that Quintus is close to being able to create another, possibly even more powerful, Superman (the vial of fluid Quintus gives to him is later revealed to be a serum that can give a human Superman’s powers for 24 hours). It is in this sense that Superman is both an anti-Prometheus and Prometheus; he saves humanity from our own overreach —rescuing the sun ship— while also providing us with power beyond our scope —his own genetics. 

The message in the issue is clear: we still need Superman, but we won’t for very much longer. It is Superman’s fate as the savior of humanity from itself that we will eventually push too far for even him to withstand. I think that this series is so brilliant because it solidly grasps at what creates Superman’s downfall. It isn’t kryptonite, or Doomsday, or even the machinations of Lex Luthor; The Man of Tomorrow meets his end when tomorrow finally arrives.  

[the-eclectic-eel]

Justifying the Fantastic

Why is science such an integral part of early superhero narratives? I think that science is important because it allowed writers at the time to create a dynamic spectrum of fantasy and realism within which their stories could exist. The superhero genre is often defined by a kind of fantasy; a sense of escapism that allows a reader to venture to a world where their problems are minuscule. The superhero genre isn’t unique in this respect, as tales of large-than-life figures performing incomprehensible feats have existed for almost as long as recorded history. What makes the superhero genre stand out is its need to justify its larger-than-life elements to the reader; to claim that the ideas being presented in the story have a basis in reality. Since their inception, superhero comics have used science to try to justify their narratives with much success. Combining fact and fiction in these stories actually serves to create a kind of middle ground, preserving the escapism while simultaneously keeping the stories and their characters relatable to audiences. I think the most poignant example of this combination lies within the origins of Barry Allen’s Flash. 

The Flash’s origin presented here is a microcosm of how the superhero genre almost perfectly marries science with the fantastic. Here, Barry Allen, a forensic scientist, is covered in chemicals that have been struck by lightning, giving him the powers of super-speed. In the panel depicting this scenario, we can see elements of realism  —a sterile lab environment, a shelf full of scientific chemicals, a scientist in a lab coat— merge with elements of the dramatic and fantastical —a lightning bolt entering a building, the huge onomatopoeia of the electricity splayed across the panel, Barry’s dynamic pose as he’s thrown backward— in order to create a kind of “super–realistic” scenario that is vital to the genesis of a superhero. Even further, it is the marriage of both the instruments of science and the chaotic, primal, and somewhat supernatural forces of nature that give Barry his powers. To go too far towards either realism or fantasy is to risk alienating an audience. Had Barry’s powers come from merely being doused in chemicals, the story might not have had as much staying power, as that would seem too ordinary. It is in the window of “super-realism” that superheroes thrive, allowing audiences to connect to their heroes and ensuring that these stories remain relevant to those that read them.