Death of an Idea
by MARCO SPARKS
He speaks in your voice, American, and there’s a shine in his eye that’s halfway hopeful.
—Don Delillo, Underworld
One of our favorite sons of the comic book world, Captain America, is dead, betrayed by the woman he loves after surrendering to the forces of governmental control he fought against in a civil war of super heroes just to promote peace in a country that needs their figurehead to show them stability and the courage to go on.
That's one of the nerdiest sentences ever birthed into the world, but even the mainstream media got involved in reporting how Captain America died on the steps of some fine institution of American Justice.
This is huge news for both the geeks and cultural theorists who share an interest in the sequential art medium, which dates back to Greek friezes, Roman columns advertising the nearest orgy, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and even the cave art of the earliest humans. Present in the beginnings of storytelling and the creation of lasting myths, comics are still such an important part of our continuing American mythemes.
But the point remains, Captain America is dead, replaced in the role by his former sidekick, a nastier, deadlier incarnation. A man for our times? Perhaps so we were lead to believe, though Steve Rogers, the original Captain America is already slowly making his return, Billy Pilgrim-style.
Meanwhile, over at Marvel's Distinguished Competition, we still have what is arguably America's other best known comic book son: Superman.
Superman's constantly updated but never fully changed origin has all the things we Americans want out of our modern day myths: alien apocalypses, rocketships, messianic infants with Christ-like or at least Moses-like potential, orphans, childless farmer couples, and someone of a tiny stature who can lift a car over their head to the shock and awe of others.
The Man Of Steel is probably the most quintessentially American hero, the immigrant who comes to our shores and not only achieves the American dream, but embodies it. And yet, he's such a cookie cutter boy scout, a 'my way or the highway' douchebag. Is it really possible that all his stories haven't been told yet? And as far as his villains are concerned, how many different colors can there be in the Kryptonite spectrum?
Millionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, despite having a fortune handed to him by the death of his parents (and what is more American than that?), is the ultimate self made man. I would say that any version of Batman, except the ridiculous Adam West one, is a mythic figure we need in this time or any other.
A guy dressed in black leather, a cape, and pointy ears, running over the rooftops of our American Gotham and doling out fear and punishment to the criminals that are unlucky enough to be found by him? That's awesome. But most importantly, the caped crusader is a man who's crafted his fully human body into a weapon, with his brain perhaps being the biggest muscle he can flex. That's the kind of super hero I want my kids going crazy over when it comes to merchandising.
There's just one catch, though. The Dark Knight, though in the middle of a successful movie relaunch (and you have to love that while no American or anyone born outside the British Isles will ever play James Bond or Doctor Who or any of Albion's other favorite creatures, we yanks have no problem absorbing a chameleon-like Welshman into the fold to play one of our modern pop culture Gods), is dead.
He sacrificed himself to save nothing so small as the entire multiverse itself from a threat so serious and so campy that it actually calls itself Darkseid (even when it still wears that old wonderful Jack Kirby super villain kilts and thigh high boots).
It happened recently in Final Crisis, third in a trilogy of universe and continuity smashing event miniseries (though usually used as fix it measures by DC comics to fix where stories have gone wrong), written by Grant Morrison, who may be just as insane as he is both brilliant and Scottish, and with art by J.G. Jones, Carlos Pacheco, and Doug Mahnke. The idea is not a totally shocking one since DC did kill off Superman in the 90s and even broke Batman's back around the same time, forcing him to be replaced in the role, and just like those ventures, Bruce Wayne will eventually be back in the role (once he, in a story too long to share here, defeats the timestream to return to the present, Lost-style).
But for now the myth gets a facelift, and is reborn as something relevant and viable to our day and age. Batman's original sidekick, child trapeze artist Dick Grayson, who was the little bird in "Batman and Robin" before becoming his own hero called Nightwing, will inhabit the cowl and black leather. And the illegitimate son of Wayne, a snot nosed and possibly murderous kid wonderfully named Damian, will become the new Robin. Even in the world of super heroes, nepotism is king. This Recording's own Dick Cheney can tell you better than anyone: it's either about who you know, who you're related to, or who you're fucking.
The super spandex American dream is taking a breather and we're living in the age of replacement heroes. The morality playbook of the old comics creators who created American myth on the cavewalls by firelight has changed, no longer focusing on the trendsetters and trailblazers, but on those pick up the torch in their steed, the analogues trying to keep the world safe until the originals return. But the message is still hopeful...
No matter how dark it may get, as they say, the fire does not go out.
Marco Sparks is a contributor to This Recording. He blogs here, and tumbls here.
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