The Impact of Superhero Movies on Modern Culture
Growing up, there was an event that altered the course of rivers and caused emotional tsunamis in our hearts: Superman’s death.
An entire generation of children and teenagers turned to the world of comic book superheroes to make sense of this pain. I still remember the first time I saw the poster with Superman’s tattered, bloodied cape: it was in front of a magazine stand outside my father’s office. These posters were everywhere, seeping deep into our subconscious and solidifying like concrete.
My brothers and I immediately demanded the graphic novel detailing this monumental event, our edition in Spanish published by Editorial Vid. It took us weeks from mourning to frustration with some characters (seriously, no one can help Superman? Aren’t they all “super”?) and then to anticipation for the continuation of the story in Editorial Vid’s series titled The Kingdom of Supermen (a massive mess).
I know a generation of comic book readers was born in 1992 with The Death of Superman, as was my case. Elder millennials (I was eight, do the math) would have given their left big toe and two fingers from their right hand to keep reading summer superhero comics. Various major events in the world of superhero comics made me happy, especially those involving Batman (how could I not be moved by the fallen and struggling Bruce Wayne in the Knightfall novel series?). Could we have predicted the arrival of superhero cinema? Never. We wished for it, but in our wildest dreams, we couldn’t imagine this cultural shock.
We’ve had nearly two decades of this not-so-new phenomenon and are still trying to make sense of it. Everyone attempting to say something insightful, but we’re left with complaints, dismissals, and blind adoration.
This brings me to the topic of this Garage: people getting upset because the new Superman movie is “woke” or those who complain that Fantastic Four: First Families is “too childish.” Relax, everyone.
In my opinion, superhero cinema is the anthem to our affordable heroes. As Alan Moore, another comic book genius (the creator of Watchmen, considered one of the greatest works of fiction of the last century) wrote, superheroes are our new mythology. Just as drunken Greeks would throw coins for a minstrel to sing The Iliad, or children would ask for stories of Teseo’s adventures over and over, we carry these superheroes in our collective imagination, living vicariously through their heroism and hunger.
However, unlike classical mythology, superheroes, despite battling aliens or incomprehensible criminals, are relatable. They’re not gods. Let’s revisit Watchmen and Alan Moore. In Watchmen, Moore writes about a group of quixotic individuals who decide to act as superheroes without any superpowers, only courage and some good press. Bona fide superheroes, those with powers, have been imprisoned, outlawed in a nuclear-brink USA with fear of the uncontrollable. The only “super” left is Dr. Manhattan, a humanoid nuclear experiment who can traverse the universe, create atomic collisions, and destroy worlds as casually as ordering an Uber. “God exists and he’s American,” says one of the novel’s most despicable politicians.
The Watchmen of the title are “vigilantes” who maintain varying degrees of glory but never lose their connection to “the people.” They are heroes and human beings. Terribly human.
Watchmen is much more complex, but to my point: superhero stories have a wide range of nuances. They span from the most simplistic tale to the most intellectually profound epic. Let’s enjoy the entire spectrum.
The new Superman movie is proof of all this. James Gunn’s film about the most iconic superhero oscillates between a simple adventure flick with no ambition beyond entertainment and a politically reimagined protagonist. After the monotony of some previous DC Comics films (I’m looking at you, Zack Snyder), this new Superman is a masterclass on reviving a narrative universe that seemed knocked out. (And thank goodness, Superman is back as a reporter, albeit a terrible one. And isn’t Lois Lane fantastic? She’s the real journalist putting Superman through the wringer.)
Now, I should address the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU), that powerful machine Disney has been building since it started courting Marvel —for those reading from another galaxy, DC Comics is the company behind characters like Batman and Superman; Marvel is its rival, home to Spiderman, Iron Man, or X-Men—. It was clear that pop culture was about to get drunk.
I’m too lazy (and old) to fully grasp what they call “the phases” of the MCU, the order in which the films build the overarching MCU narrative. I suppose if I had kids from Generation Alpha, I’d have to make an extra effort to keep up with it all, but as it is, I just want adventures, explosions, and colors.
Marvel’s films are more mechanical games than strict movies. I understand and celebrate the effort to give these stories more cohesion beyond individual films, yet each can be enjoyed in small doses of visual caffeine. Why celebrate? Because, a) this continuity between various stories mirrors the original comic book culture: to follow a complete narrative cycle, you must jump between separate storylines and understand how each character’s line connects to a larger whole, and b) summer cinema only makes sense if you turn your brain into mush in front of the screen.
Perhaps I have a childish perspective: I have the mental age of a high schooler. How can you argue with Martin Scorsese, who famously said that superhero movies are creating an acritical audience? There’s some truth to that, and I won’t deny that watching Robert Downey Jr. play Iron Man for the fifth time might flatten mental muscles. There’s more interest in making money than delivering quality from Disney.
My friend Miguel Toro, a great comic book superhero connoisseur, gives the most intelligent arguments against this captivating cinema. Paraphrasing Miguel, the comic book genre matured long ago. Why do filmmakers insist on only portraying the most simplistic part of the genre? The humor in the MCU is predictable, useful only for a brief, mindless escape. Directors like Taika Waititi and the previously mentioned Gunn have harmed the genre with their simplistic humor. But in comics, there’s more: drama, social analysis, deaths, pain, and consequences. Miguel told me he found the new Superman movie mediocre: a black hole cuts Metropolis in two, and NO ONE dies. Yes, childish.
But what do we seek in superhero cinema beyond two hours of escape? For me, the real problem is when this cinema becomes a dud that’s neither digestible nor enjoyable. Don’t make me think too hard; summer, for me, is that impressionable girl awed by Superman’s torn cape. There’s nothing new in superhero cinema, but everything is amazing to me.
