Superb Heroes: Batman: Going Sane

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.
 
The notion that superheroes and supervillains need one another is exceedingly familiar in the comicbook world, even trite. In fact, the idea that good and evil are mutually inclusive is much older than comics as a medium. How can you have light without its corresponding darkness? Would we even know what goodness looked like if there was no evil to which we could compare it? You know what I mean. You've been stoned in college.
     In the Batman mythology, the theme of the Joker and Batman needing each other has been perhaps over-explored. More specifically, there is the well-worn concept that the existence of a Batman creates the necessity of a Joker, that the hero causes the villain. Both live-action Batman films to include the Joker used this causal relationship as key pieces of their stories, though in admittedly very different ways, and numerous Batman comics of varying popularity and influence have done the same. What makes Going Sane stand out for me is that it offers the characters an actual escape from their unending battle. Rather than simply discussing or displaying how Batman and the Joker feed into one another, Going Sane gives us a look at a world where one of them believes they've reached a definitive end to their conflict, and shows us what life could be like for the Joker if Batman was permanently out of the picture. Of course, it ends up being only a temporary condition, and there's some question as to whether or not the identity that the Joker creates for his new bat-free lifestyle is even ever "real," but the fragility and short-lived nature of the situation is all part of the appeal. We as readers know the new state of affairs can never last, even though both Batman and the Joker would be happier if it did, and therein lies the tragedy for everyone in-story and out.
     Going Sane is split into four chapters (having originally been published as issues #65-68 of Legends of the Dark Knight; I own the collected TPB) and the first part reads pretty much like any other Joker story. It is, in fact, nearly boring in its simplicity and lack of originality, which ends up being the point. It needs to be a run-of-the-mill experience right up until the end, so that the end can catch the Joker and the reader off-guard. After pulling some fairly lame tricks—a public explosion and then a violent kidnapping, neither of which are exactly minor offenses but they're no great feats for Batman's greatest villain—the Joker sets up a predictably booby-trapped cabin for his inevitable confrontation with the Dark Knight. Only, unlike ever before, this time the Joker's plan works. Batman finds himself distracted by his own furious distaste for the Joker's antics. He is so fed up with this bad guy, and so angry about Joker's persistence, that he ends up slightly off his game, just enough that when the cabin explodes, he's still inside, instead of making it out in the nick of time like he usually does. The Joker doesn't expect or especially want this outcome, and even with the thoroughly defeated and seemingly deceased Batman at his feet, Joker assumes his old foe is playing possum at first. When he realizes he's finally won the battle he thought would go on forever, he's delighted but also a little scared, panicked, and even madder than before. His already screwed-up psyche breaks in a whole new way, unable to cope with the idea of Batman dying, and he develops a new personality: Joseph Kerr, a quiet, unassuming, shy accountant.
     That's where we find Joker in chapter two, living his life as Joseph, having nightmares about a clown and a bat that he can't understand but we realize are the distorted memories of his real past, as opposed to the imagined past that came with this new identity. Joseph hates his dreams, but seems fairly content otherwise, and is a quite likable sad sack. His story is one of new love; he meets and falls for Rebecca, and she for him, pretty much instantaneously. We see their relationship develop from both points of view, with Joseph and Rebecca each narrating different parts of the story. Their affection is so genuine and pure, it's almost overly saccharine, but J.M. DeMatteis does a good job selling it by making both Rebecca and Joseph such delicate, decent, relatable people. They're looking for someone to connect with and trust in, and they find that in each other, so their love is believable and satisfying if perhaps too sweet at times.
     DeMatteis also wastes no time in breaking Joseph down and revealing the villain hiding underneath. Because the reader meets Joseph largely through Rebecca's eyes, we come to know and root for him rather quickly, so when his dark side starts to push through and he struggles to reign it in, we're already on his side, already sad for what we know the end of his story will have to be. He loses his temper with Rebecca to the point of nearly striking her, figures out that his name is an weak pun, and gradually deteriorates as time goes on, his true self too big and forceful an entity to contain. Then in chapter three, Batman returns, and when Joseph discover this in chapter four, he loses all control and effectively dies as the Joker reemerges.
     Batman's recovery is the focus of chapter three, and it's the weakest part of the narrative. Though there is a pseudo-romantic dynamic between him and Lynn Eagles, the doctor who rescues him, it's way more restrained, uneventful, and uninteresting than Joseph and Rebecca's, so it doesn't do well in comparison. It is important, though, because it represents a "normal" life that is tempting to Bruce Wayne the man if not Batman the hero. Though Bruce never seriously thinks he could give up being Batman, his time spent healing is also time spent relaxing, maybe the first relaxation he's had since his parents' death, so he toys with the idea of staying there for good. In the end, though, he heads back to Gotham almost as soon as he's able, eager for vengeance against the man who nearly took his life. That's all seen via flashback, while in the present Batman starts to search for wherever the Joker has been hiding, and does eventually find Joseph Kerr and peg him as a suspect. Invading Kerr's apartment, Batman sees a picture showing the obvious love between Joseph and Rebecca, and learns from the building's super that they are on their honeymoon. Knowing the Joker would never be capable of anything even resembling love, Batman decides to rule Kerr out. It's another mistake, but this one caused by Batman staying level-headed and Joker acting as uncharacteristically as possible, whereas the first time Batman was unfocused and Joker was super-extra like himself.
     That turnaround also marks the start of a turning point, since chapter four is pretty much entirely devoted to reestablishing the regular status quo. Joseph learns that Batman is back, snaps, and disappears into a stormy night, believed drowned by the authorities but never by Rebecca, not completely. She holds out the depressing hope that Joseph will come back to her somehow if she just continues to love him, and as far as she's concerned, she has no choice. He was a once-in-a-lifetime find in her mind, and her faith in his eventual return may well be all she has to keep her going. As for Batman and Joker, the conclusion of their shared story is as typical as the beginning was: Joker re-kidnaps his previous victim, Batman determinedly hunts Joker down and bests him, Joker ends up in custody. There is a moment where Batman has to show that he's better than the baddies by saving the Joker's life rather than letting him drown, but...the reader understands that Batman essentially killed Joseph, so he ends up as much a villain as the Joker. He might be the worse of the two. After all, Joker is just doing his Joker thing from top to bottom. Batman's stubbornness, his unwillingness to do exactly what the Joker did and transition into a new, peaceful life based on love rather than hate, it kills and innocent man and breaks the heart of an innocent woman. And yes, ok, the innocent man was just a false persona the Joker's brain manufactured to protect him from the shock of killing Batman, and the Joker identity would probably have bubbled back to the surface at some point even if Batman stayed away, indeed was starting to do before Batman returned, but still. Batman ends up being the cause of the Joker's victory over Joseph's will to keep existing, and that makes me kind of hate Batman. Joseph deserved a better ending, and Rebecca damn sure did.
     Of course, the tragic endings for all the characters are also part of what make Going Sane so good, because we see them all coming from the start, yet they still hurt when they finally arrive. DeMatteis builds the story intelligently, giving himself a lot of space to make the Rebecca-Joseph romance click as fast and fully as it needs to for the rest of the story to succeed. Artists Joe Staton and Steve Mitchell (pencils and inks, respectively) also do really strong work with Joseph's design and whole physicality. He is a little hunched and withdrawn, with sunken yet soft facial features. It's all built on what is recognizably the Joker's frame, but in such a way as to set the two characters apart as well. That's important, because we need to believe that Joseph is the Joker, but also feel for him the opposite of what we feel for the Joker, seeing them as separate people while knowing they share a body. The art is more responsible for that than the script by far.
     It all comes together to make for a brief but beautiful look at the whole Joker-Batman thing, the mutual dependance and two-way corruption that are the core of their relationship. Going Sane doesn't just suggest that Batman might be responsible for the Joker, it places that responsibility square on his shoulders by making his reappearance the final straw for Joseph. Yet Batman knows nothing about it, and thus has no reason to even consider that he might give the Joker a reason to be. And the good that Batman does is underlined, too; Lynn tells a story about Batman saving her once from what would most likely have been her murder, not just by pummeling her attacker but through providing her comfort after the fact. She calls him a healer, and it's a valid point, but I'm not sure it makes up for the demolition of Rebecca's whole world or the destruction of Joseph Kerr as a person. That's the main attraction of this story, and the reason I picked it for a Superb Heroes column: the hero and villain each get to play hero and villain at different times along the way, and they're both equally compelling and effective in both roles. This comic erases the average superhero genre good-evil dichotomy and presents a reality in which the scales can slide dramatically with any shift in circumstances. That's a nicely nuanced, entertaining, frustrating-in-a-good-way approach to superhero storytelling, and it goes especially well with the classic Batman-Joker rivalry.

Superb Heroes: Ex Machina

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.

I have been meaning to finish and publish this for the better part of a month, and it keeps eluding me. After that long, I typically admit defeat and delete a work-in-progress for the sake of clearing mental space for new things that might be written more quickly or naturally. And in this case, it made extra sense because just a couple months ago, Jeffrey Gustafson finished his story-by-story review of Ex Machina. And it was great. But I just took so many notes and did such a fast and furious reread of this series in preparation for this post that I can't quite bring myself to dispose of it entirely. So instead, I'm just going to put up what I have so far and call it a day. So if anyone's interested enough in what I have to say about Ex Machina to read 2,800 words on the subject—beginning with the first few paragraphs of a "real" draft, followed by a loose bold-text outline for the rest of the piece, following by a long section of italicized notes I wrote to myself as I was reading the comic and fleshing out this column—now is your chance to do so. It's kind of repetitious, but basically all the points I would've made if I'd written a whole real thing get made somewhere in there, I think. Enjoy!

Every politician claims to be doing what they believe is best for whatever chunk of the world they represent, whether it's a single neighborhood or an entire nation. And while some of them are probably outright, knowingly lying, I give most of them the benefit of the doubt that they're genuinely doing what they think will make the most people most happy. To intentionally piss off the public by making bad, wrong decisions on purpose would just be working against one's own political future, right? Yet with all their supposed good intentions, it's rare that any politician does everything they promise, or even most of it. And even if they do reach some ambitious goals, it typically comes at the cost of something else. Politics is a game of compromise and combat, where people who want opposite outcomes have to either find common ground or viciously go after one another, and neither of those options is seen as ideal by either side. The end result is that, no matter how hard any individual politician tries, they're going to end up making some mistakes, screwing up some choices, and making some enemies during their career.
     The same is true of superheroes. For all their impressive powers and earnest efforts to wipe out the forces of evil, no superhero is ever active for long without some major blunder. Villains get away, innocents die, the hero inadvertently causes one disaster while trying to prevent another, etc. Superheroism a high-risk activity, and nobody avoids the fallout forever. Even the greatest superheroes have had their hands in some tremendous tragedies, and while they might ultimately make up for it with the good they do, it's still an inescapable part of the lifestyle.
     This shared inability between politicians and superheroes to ever quite be as good as they or their public wants them to be is the strongest unifying theme in Brian K. Vaughan and Tony Harris' Ex Machina. The book's main character is Mitchell Hundred, an engineer-turned-superhero thanks to a freak accident, and subsequently a superhero-turned-mayor-of-New-York because he manages to save the second tower of the World Trade Center during 9/11. I haven't spoiled anything for you, by the way, because all of that information is covered in the debut issue, where we also get the first glimpse of Hundred's struggle to be the kind of hero and the kind of mayor he wants to (and believes he can) be. For the rest of the fifty-issues-plus-four-specials that make up this excellent series, that struggle is Hundred's whole world, as his superpowered past keeps bubbling up to screw with his political present, which is already full of its own complex problems with no obvious solutions. He never quite achieves the kind of greatness he wants in either of the roles he plays, nor does he blossom into the supervillain which the forces who gave him his powers originally intended him to be. Hundred's life is one of always coming up short, and in the end, the question of whether he's done more harm than good overall is not easy to answer.
     Hundred gets his superhuman abilities while investigating a strange, glowing device that was discovered in the water attached to the Brooklyn Bridge. The object explodes when Hundred touches it, and the blast does some serious damage to his face. It also gives him the power to communicate with machines, to "speak" with them and "hear" what they're saying. Exactly what that sounds like or how it works are never entirely explained, but they don't need to be, since we see the practical applications of Hundred's powers many times. By using his special voice, he can control machines, giving them instructions that they are somehow compelled to obey. Everything from dimming the lights in his bedroom to jamming the gun of a would-be assassin to taking control of a hijacked airplane and landing it safely on the streets of New York. It's a remarkable power to have, and the theoretical influence or control it could give him if he chose to abuse it is terrifying, but Hundred is too altruistic to let himself be so corrupted. As a lifelong fan of superhero comics, he decides to model himself after the stars of those books, becoming a masked, jetpack-wearing vigilante called The Great Machine.
     Hundred learns pretty quickly how misguided his plan to become a real-world costumed crimefighter is. For one thing, he's never very good at it.

Talk about all the ways he sucks as a hero: unfit, impulsive, nobody trusts him or wants his help, cops hate him, he creates a villain he can barely handle and then has to kill, etc. Basically, for every step forward, there are one or more steps back. Give examples, of course.

So he decides he can do more good as mayor, but it's not truly any better once he gets there. It's still all about doing as much as he can, and he still upsets somebody no matter what. He lies a lot, or tells half-truths, because he has to in order to stay in the game. He's popular and smart, and he definitely does some good stuff, but it's always got a dark side. The fact that he sometimes has to step out of the mayor suit and into the superhero one is no help, but that's not really the heart of it. Even the all-politics stuff (Lincoln, gay marriage, letting the protest march happen, etc.) often leaves him no good choices.

At this point, conflating the two as much as possible. What would a truly good politician look like? Or a truly SUPER hero? Probably not possible, and a big part of that is the short-term solution problem. Fighting the crooks one at a time doesn't end crime, and working within a fucked up political system isn't changing the way the world works. Also, there is an inherent dishonesty. Superheroes have fake names and costumes. Politicians need to bend truths or lie outright to stay afloat. That lack of transparency taints things necessarily.

However, for all his failure, he succeeds in not bending to the will of his creators. Whoever sent the beacon that made him what he is wanted him to use his powers as the first step in prepping for a full-out invasion. One that still looms. But he has disappointed those forces at every turn, and continues to determinedly do so. A worse villain, then, than good guy, but not great as either.

In the end, he's alone and only the VP. He never gets there all the way, but instead comes up just short always. And maybe that's the condition of all superheroes and all politicians. Certainly Ex Machina seems to think so, or at least strongly suggests the possibility.

In the first issue, we see that he was a hero on 9/11, but ALSO that he sucked as a hero at first and/or in general. He's a win/loser from the beginning.

Lincoln: nobody likes it, and the person who created it has to go villain in order to undo her villainy. Also she totally assaults that dude and it gets brushed off annoyingly.

Snow murders: A very funny and sad conclusion to have the killer be a teenager. But really this story is about Hundred's past and current relationships with Kremlin and Bradbury. And this arc as a whole is about how he is with everyone: Wylie, Journal, Angotti, and his chief of staff whose name I forget now. It's about seeing that he wants to do good, but he doesn't really know how. And maybe no one does, which is what Kremlin and Bradbury talk about in their last convo as Hundred walks away.

It's not that he's a villain, it's that he's not the guy to be a hero. And maybe nobody really is. I think this is kind of a question about the whole genre, because what are the chances that a kid with Superman's powers gets the Kents or that Bruce Wayne reacts that way to his parents' murder or that a genuinely earnest kid with Uncle Ben and Aunt May raising him is the one the spider picks or what have you? Maybe those folks exist, but most of us are not that good, and Hundred is no superhero. He's not even heroic, he's just a flawed, mostly well-meaning but ultimately vain guy who happened to be the one to get these insane powers. He's a fluke.

Also, you can't really be a GOOD politician like you can't really be a SUPERhero. 

Gay marriage/NSA: Right off the bat, I noticed how when Jackson's wife tries to compliment Hundred for saving someone once, he tells her it was actually a person he'd put at risk who hated him now. Also, the whole thing of different people reacting differently to the glyph that made Hundred what he is fits in with this idea of "who would REALLY get powers?" The gay marriage issue is another case of Hundred trying to be a good politician and coming up short (in the long run). His whole thing is short-term solutions, right? That becomes apparent here, not just with the marriage, but his approach to school vouchers as a patch while fixing the system. And that is the problem with superheroism, too: it's not a long-term way to deal with crime/evil. It's violence and might squashing things on a case-by-case basis. So maybe the biggest flaw in Hundred's character is that tactical attitude.

Leto as Automaton/jury duty: Things that never happened, or that were MADE not to count, is the common theme in the end. Easy lied, Leto is erased. Hundred is surrounded by lies and secrets, some he knows about and others not. Again, this is the life of any superhero or any politician. Maybe THAT is the hook of this column that being a politician and being a superhero are the same in so many ways, because you can't really be GOOD in the strictest sense to succeed as either, let alone both.

Mitch's mom: Again, the big point is that lies are necessary, ok, and inevitable. His mom says everyone lies TWICE in one issue, and then at the end of that issue, Hundred tries to bring transparency by letting film students into a water tunnel, but basically lies to those same kids about his dad. 

Pherson: again, bringing up the death penalty is a big example of the impossibility of true goodness as a politician or vigilante. What do you do with the evils as powerful (or more) than your good can ever be? Also, there's a dishonesty aspect in that the host lies or at least misleads Hundred about the topic of the interview. The Pherson story itself is about Hundred being called out as not doing enough or not doing it right. It's an open challenging of his cause and behavior, which does't happen too often, really. People push back against it, but I don't know if it gets questioned in this way.

Protest: Angotti and Hundred lie about how they find the terrorist. Hundred let the protestors march because how could he tell them they can't, but also lots of folks tell him it is a bad idea. Again, lies and the impossibility of doing this politician job right. Doesn't get into his history as much, but that's the point because he thinks (nay, assumes) that the attack is about him personally.

Weed: Hundred avoids the topic of his current weed usage. Meanwhile, being bad about arresting a pot dealer as a superhero sneaks up on him as a politician when the kid's mom kills herself. Then he can't even use that suicide to make a stance, because it'll make him look like he bends to terrorism. So, once again, not able to do a truly got job in either role.

Zeller: Mitch is so fucking stubborn about not wanting to know about his powers. It's frustrating. Everything Zeller says is so interesting, and he is the epitome of honesty, and he is a good guy, as he self-identifies and demonstrates all along. He causes some damage, but he is there to issue a warning and he tries his hardest and all the pain is accidental. Hundred, meanwhile, gets ragey and punches the dude with the butt of his gun. And threatens him and refuses to listen and stuff. It's villain-y for sure. In the end, he gets credit for something he maybe doesn't deserve, as pointed out by Lilith. So here, he's a BAD hero and a BAD politician but he comes across as a hero. And without trying to lie, he has to, which is another reversal. So all the same themes, but looked at a little differently by going heavy in the hero direction of things, as far as the central problem. 

The Pope: Doesn't really fit these themes, but it's also maybe the worst arc. The mind control thing is SO dumb and weird. Weak, archetypal villains so disposable one of them kills the other and it's meaningless. The antichrist thing is sort of foreshadowing what Hundred is supposed to be, I guess, but only barely and not directly. That part can't be pointed out because the Vatican guy doesn't know about it (and neither does Hundred). But yeah I'm not wild about him seeing God and seeing himself as president. It's not that I'm offended, just bored. He DOESN'T become that, and there's no difference to me if he really saw God or didn't, so...wah wah.

Trouble: Similar to the Pope story, I'm not sure how this fits. Certainly it has to do with the struggle to be a good hero, but...this isn't Hundred's fault. This is a crazy woman being crazy, and it's the worst kind of crazy woman character, too: sexed up and love crazed. I hate her look and her personality, so to hell with this.

New Years: Hundred dons his other, previously-foreshadowed superhero duds to go underground, expecting Pherson and instead finding the first thing he ever listens to. Because it looks like Zeller, basically (who's the only real hero in the book I reckon). Point is, he has to be willing to give up being a politician at all, while at the same time his original political sin, the white box, is threatened and then gets out of control. This is his darkest hour as a politician, his lowest and worst. BUT. He also learns that he has failed to make way for an invasion, and in that, we see that as bad as he is a superhero, he failed WAY worse at being the villain he was actually, technically meant to be. That's kind of cool, and in some ways his highest moment as a hero. Not as the Great Machine, but this other, nameless persona that is willing to hear out his enemies, admit his mistakes, and sacrifice things because it's the right thing to do. 

Suzanne: In the midst of trying to deal with the abortion thing and how to handle it, whether or not to screw over Wylie, etc., Hundred has to go full-on hero for a full-on villain. And he defeats Suzanne, but less through superheroics and more through politics. It is his lie about the nullifier that wins the day, ultimately, more than his powers. And it is Bradbury covering his ass that saves his career, which is also totally politics. 

Finale: Here, we see Hundred at the height of his political career, and the absolute furthest he's ever been from being a superhero or even a decent person. He abandons Bradbury for politics, he kills Kremlin to cover up his big huge lie about stealing the election, etc. Everybody else loses, just like he says. And even after all that, he ends up playing second fiddle to Cheney. Not that good a politician, even when he gives up heroism entirely. This is sort of the inverse of the New Years story, which was lowest politics but highest heroism. Here we get highest politics and lowest heroism, but the results are still decidedly middling. No matter which way he swings or how far, being truly great at either is beyond him perpetually.

He ends up alone, having failed as a hero, failed to become president, and failed as the harbinger of an invasion he was intended to be. This is a book about a man's earnest but ultimately unsuccessful attempts to be a good guy in several arenas, and the futility of that kind of idealism in general. Nobody can solve all the problems, and those who try will compromise and lie out of necessity until they become destroyers instead of builders. It ties into what Hundred says in the Suzanne story about how the gas and 9/11 terrorists were engineers. Fine line between builder and destroyer, and he crosses it often.

Superb Heroes: Enigma

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.

The story of Enigma is the kind where everything that happens leads to a single significant event at the end. I don't mean to suggest that the journey isn't wonderful, just that the destination is really the point. The closing pages of the closing issue of this series see a comicbook character, creator, and fan join forces to battle a superpowered evil together in the real world. That's a fantastic final beat, and all the insane and earth-shattering events that build up to it exist so that the ending can feel earned and real and important. It could have been a comical conclusion, played for laughs, winking at the audience with a "Do you see what we've done here?" attitude. Instead, Peter Milligan, Duncan Fegredo, and Sherilyn van Valkenburgh craft a narrative that, while acknowledging its own outlandishness, also takes itself seriously enough to have significant stakes and a lasting impact.
     Enigma is also a thoughtful look at superheroes as icons, questioning their positions as moral guides, and the very idea of morality at all. Enigma (the titular hero) doesn't just use lethal force against his opponents but, it is revealed later in the series, he's also responsible for their existence. He transformed random people into supervillains using his immense powers, simply so he'd have something to do. He had decided to become a superhero, and that required bad guys to fight. Forcing people to do something evil and then killing them for it is pretty rotten, as protagonist Michael Smith emphatically points out when he learns what Enigma has done. But because of how vast his abilities are, Enigma sees himself (perhaps accurately) as being more than human, and therefore operating outside of our concepts of right and wrong.
     Enigma the book isn't really about Enigma the man anyway, or at least it's not focused on him. Michael is the story's center, the person we follow and relate to the most. He's as everyman as a character can get, a point Milligan's script drives home immediately and in no uncertain terms. The omniscient narrator of Enigma has a fabulous voice, sarcastic and sometimes even bored with the story, yet at other times openly concerned that it's not telling the story well enough. There's also an amazing reveal about the narrator's identity in the last issue (which I won't bother spoiling here) that makes its attitude throughout the series ten times more amusing in hindsight.
     Anyway, the narrator explains right away how commonplace and insubstantial Michael's life is when everything begins. His dead-end relationship with its scheduled sex, his lack of ambition or energy, and similar details of his overall in-a-rutness are laid out clearly. He's shaken loose when he gets attacked by the first of Enigma's villains, The Head, a hideous creature with a cartoonishly swollen cranium from the brains it sucks out of its victims. Enigma kills The Head just in time to save Michael's life, and that encounter is the first major step toward Michael leaving behind his old self and replacing it with a more adventurous, passionate, active version. When he wakes in the hospital and sees on the news that Enigma is battling a new bad guy named The Truth, Michael recognizes both characters from his favorite childhood comicbook, and senses that he is connected to these mysterious events in a significant way. He's not wrong, and his journey leads him to become more than just a fan of Enigma, becoming his closest ally, his confidant, and his lover.
     At first Michael pushes back hard against his homosexuality, but when he and Enigma finally meet face to face, he can no longer resist the feelings that have been bubbling up for so long. He falls rather madly for his childhood hero, and at first it's all he's ever wanted. Eventually their romance is twisted, tainted a little when Michael learns that, just like with all the supervillains, Enigma used his powers to make Michael fall in love with him, as opposed to it being a wholly natural attraction. Yet even in this knowledge, Michael chooses his new life over his old one, preferring to feel excited and self-confident and deeply in love than to return to his previous stagnation, even if it means allowing himself to succumb to a sort of lightweight form of mind control. This decision is the end of the character's personal arc, and pretty much the end of the entire series, because, as I said, this is Michael's story. Once his new life is firmly established, and he officially decides to stick with it rather than allowing Enigma to undo the changes he made to Michael's psyche, there's not much left to tell. Enigma's own story is left open-ended, but the book still reaches a fitting conclusion, and one that satisfies completely.
     As for Enigma, he's not literally a fictional comicbook character come to life. He's a hyper-intelligent and superpowered human being who chooses to model himself after a comicbook hero after the real world almost ruins him for good. Thrown into a well in his infancy by his crazed mother, Enigma never had a name (that we know of) or a childhood or anything resembling a normal life. But he did not die down there on his own in the darkness. Using what were already impressive mental abilities, he was able to sustain himself by psychically asking the world for food and receiving lizards and bugs and other such critters to live on. This was his perfect existence for decades, contentedly living underground with no sense of the world above, not even truly aware that he was human or what that meant (if, indeed, it means anything). Finally, he was discovered and "rescued" from the well, brought to a mental institution that tried to make sense of his condition. Right away, Enigma was overwhelmed and mightily depressed by what he encountered, from the vast openness of this surface world to the ignorant and idiotic efforts of the humans around him. To him, they were no more intelligent or impressive than the lizards he used to eat, and so he used his powers to free himself and return to the only home he'd ever known. Sadly, his well was spoiled now by his knowledge of the reality outside it. Unable to truly get back the life he'd lost, he set out to invent himself a new one. More or less arbitrarily, he chose to transform into a long-forgotten 1970's cape-and-mask crimefighter named Enigma, and began turning other people into his foes and friends.
     What works so well about this idea is that it acts as its own excellent superhero tale and as criticism of superheroes in general. Because Enigma is not a part of regular human society, and his mind does not operate at all the way anyone else's ever has, his interpretation of a typical superhero comic is quite different than the usual one. He does not see in the main character a beacon of righteousness and justice, because those words have no value for him. It's just a collection of costumes and names, people fighting one another as a way to pass the time, less-than-mindless entertainment with no morals to teach or lessons to impart on those who read it. At the same time, Enigma inadvertently becomes a legitimate hero, saving Michael from an existence he hated, bringing a bit of happiness where once there was gloom. And he does everything he does in an attempt to prepare himself to battle his mother, the woman who tossed him down a well all those years ago, and is now a horrible monster, a distorted reflection of her son with the same level of power he possesses but none of the intellect. She's a mindless beast, determined to finish what she started and finally kill her child, and Enigma knows he'll need help to stop her. It's a classic hero-villain dynamic, and not an entirely unusual mother-son relationship either, so while his methods are perhaps not the best available, we still root for Enigma in the end.
     Milligan's writing is a big part of the reader ultimately siding with Enigma is spite of his more unlikable actions. The character has such a matter-of-fact voice, a detached outlook that makes it difficult to be angry with him. He's not coming from the same viewpoint as we are, we're not supposed to understand or even necessarily connect with him. For that we have Michael, and through Michael's choice to love and forgive Enigma we are able to do the same.
     But even if you don't land where Michael does, even if the existential/nihilistic overtones of this series rub you the wrong way throughout and make you angry with the ending, there's some seriously breathtaking art in these issues. Duncan Fegredo brings a dreamlike quality to much of the series. Things move strangely and feel like they are barely held together, but it's not a sketchy or uncertain style at all. Some of the strongest panels are the smallest, tiny moments Fegredo includes to greatly enhance or add to a scene. These are usually quick, close shots of someone's face, a brief flash of emotion that adds a lot to whatever page it's on. It's a carefully composed piece, even if the overall effect is one of out-of-control energy and madness.
     The designs for Enimga and, more than that, his villains are all exceptional. Even in this comicbook, they feel like characters from a comicbook, so much broader and more bizarre than everything else we see. They are less restrained than their actual 1970's comicbook selves, which we also get to occasionally see over the course of the series. Michael still has his old issues, and we get glimpses of pages here and there when the story calls for it, when something happening in real time is a reference to something from the fictional original book. Fegredo switches up his style in these places so the comic-within-the-comic is always distinct and immediately recognizable. It looks and feels like a series from its era, whereas the real-life Enigma is very much a contemporary piece (and I say that now, even though it's twenty years old). Fegredo clearly has a reverence for a well-done superhero story, and brings all of that admiration to this book, taking his time to craft the super-beings as appropriately impressive, terrifying, awe-inspiring figures.
     If Fegredo is responsible for the surreality of Enigma, it is colorist Sherilyn van Valkenburgh who brings things back down to Earth, though not in a way that at all dampens what Fegredo is doing. The coloring is dark and moody, more a reflection of Michael's internal life than Enigma's. It has its bright spots, plenty of harsh oranges and reds that can at times dominate the page. But these tend to come from fire and blood and the like, colors that accompany violence and danger, not necessarily meant to brighten the title's darker general tones. What van Valkenburgh does best is striking a balance between panels with realistic coloring and those that are more exaggerated or drenched in a single hue. When things are ordinary and/or the gravity of a scene brings reality crashing down, her palette reaches further and colors everything more or less as it would be in our world. Then in the most heightened scenes, a single shade will often take over, more starkly disconnecting the images from what the reader knows. So while Fegredo's work as a whole is less interested in realism than van Valkenburgh's, the two artists still collaborate well, playing into one another's strengths and weaknesses in equal turn as needed to deliver a strong final product.
     Besides, the mash-up of things from reality and from someone's imagination is what Enigma's all about. The superhero Michael adored as a child becomes his flesh-and-blood boyfriend as an adult. Enigma takes characters invented by someone else and brings them to life so he can combat the real-life mother who wants to end him. The fictional and actual ram up against one another all throughout this series, until Michael finally picks one over the other and makes them into the same thing.

Superb Heroes: Butcher Baker, the Righteous Maker

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism. 

There is a subgenre in the world of superhero fiction that focuses on pointing out the flaws of superheroes, the dangers and hypocrisies they represent. And some really excellent stuff has come from this, because there's no shortage of material. Superheroes, even the best and most classic characters, get a lot wrong and often cause as much or more harm as they do good. And there is something fundamentally flawed with the very notion that the best use of superhuman powers is to fight crime using a codename and costume. It's really very short-term, shallow, unambitious thinking.
     But I fucking love superheroes, despite seeing the cracks in the wall and sometimes even because of it. They may not be the most level-headed bunch, but they are thoroughly entertaining, and they stand for the best and worst parts of human potential in equal turn. Butcher Baker, the Righteous Maker takes all of the worst accusations leveled at superheroes, within their worlds and from ours, and finds a way to condemn and applaud them at once. Its protagonist is a narcissistic superhero sadist with an engine for a heart, but self-aware and experienced enough to know exactly what his sins are. A warped lens through which to view the genre, but a powerful one, pointed at all the right places.
     As a character, Butcher Baker is a non-stop force of manic egotism and machismo. He loves the violence inherent in his job, and gets grim but very deep satisfaction in putting his enemies down. There is no concern for collateral damage, nor any indication that Baker is at all motivated by some desire to protect the public. What drives him forward is the mere promise of more action, more bloodshed, more opportunities to prove to himself and the world what an indestructible badass he is. It makes him hubristically reckless as a hero, throwing himself blindly into situations and then improvising his way through them. This overgrown sense of self-worth and the carelessness it causes in Baker's career are the foundations of the series' simultaneous celebration and denouncement of common superhero shortcomings.
     Take, for example, his failed attempt at destroying the Bertrand Institute, the prison that houses all the supervillains of this world. Baker is hired to kill everyone inside, but because he is so over-confident, he merely blows the building up with excessive explosives and then leaves, assuming the job is done. These are freaking supervillains, so of course some of them can survive a single explosion, no matter the size, and ultimately Baker frees a handful of his enemies rather than slaying them. This is a more direct, literal version of something superheroes are blamed for all the time: the existence of their villains. If there were no superheroes, goes the classic argument, there'd be no supervillains to fight them. They need each other, and they necessitate one another, an unbreakable cycle of evil rising up to match the good in the world and vice versa. Maybe you agree with that argument and maybe you don't, but within the pages of Butcher Baker, it's fairly clear that the good guy is responsible for what the bad guys are up to this time. Because not only is he the one who sets them loose anew, but the destructive actions they take afterward are all targeted at him directly, revenge for his attempt on their lives.
     But Baker is still a superhero, and that means two things: 1. He openly admits, to the reader, anyway, that he botched the job and is responsible for the consequences, and 2. Even in the aftermath of his flub, he's still the only guy who can get the job done. When three of the baddies, Angerhead, The Abominable Snowman, and El Sushi, start a brawl with Baker in Times Square, the military is sent in to contain all four of them. Predictably, the evil superhumans tear through the hapless soldiers like tissue paper, and only Baker has the quick thinking and sheer might to stop their rampage. He may have blown it on his first try, but he was still the right choice to take out this collection of maniacs, and by the time the series reaches its conclusion, Baker has made certain there are no leftover Bertrand survivors.
     This is what I mean when I say the book both holds up and looks down on the darker side of superheroes. Writer Joe Casey places Baker squarely in the role of hero-responsible-for-his-villains, but then reminds us why the first word of that hyphenated string is "hero." Because when enormous, superpowered evil turns up, it takes someone of equal power to defeat it. And someone with the courage and wits to see it through. Yet even as day-saver, Baker is brutal, fatal, and irresponsible, raising the question of whether super-people should be operating at all. I can't claim to know for certain that any of this was Casey's intention, but there's no shortage of examples to pull from.
     For a long time, Baker's relationship with policeman Arnie B. Willard is exemplary of the typical complaint that superheroes place themselves above the law and/or threaten to replace the current law enforcement system. The two make fast enemies, with Baker always very condescending toward Willard's red-faced demands for respect. This lasts until the story's conclusion, when the two men find themselves suddenly on the same side of a fight. They connect, reach a bizarre understanding of one another, and save each other's lives. And once that conflict ends, Baker is able to find a tiny bit of redemption in the way he resolves his issues with Willard.
     Superhero comics get a bad rap for being aggressively violent, and Butcher Baker is unarguably, unabashedly that. Baker himself finds his few faint pleasures in excessive punching (and sex), and for the bulk of the eight issues, the series seems to agree with his viewpoint. Again, though, things change in the closing. The final battles in Baker's journey end up being won mostly through mental maneuvers. There's still some bloodshed, but it is his brain that ultimately saves him.
     The list goes on. The book is dramatically hypersexualized, another common anti-superhero argument, yet there is an emptiness to Baker's sex life, apparent in the degree of its hedonism and flash. Baker is about as ridiculously macho as a person can be, right down to his big rig being his weapon, but it's played as much for comedy as anything, a good laugh at the typical level of testosterone in a cape comic. Et cetera, you know? Casey packs it to the gills with the funniest, most enjoyable versions of the worst that superheroes have to offer. Not so much a defense of the genre as it is an argument along the lines of, "Yes, superheroes can be depraved, bloodthirsty, insane, and destructive, but that doesn't mean they can't still be amazing and admirable characters."
     And then there's Mike Huddleston's artwork, which says something else entirely. I like that the art chooses to go off in its own direction, not worried about borrowing elements from classic superhero series like the narrative does. Instead, its focus is on relaying the tonal and emotional thrust of the story.
     Huddleston brings an almost schizophrenic style to this series. The visual texture often changes between panels, sometimes through a shift in medium, sometimes coloring, and occasionally because Huddleston just brings a new technique to the page. It doesn't look like any typical superhero book, nor does it resemble other work I've seen from Huddleston. But it captures the spirit of this story and, above all, its protagonist perfectly. Kinetic and laid out somewhat claustrophobically, the art carries the story at a rapid-fire pace.
     Huddleston also has a real knack for character design, striking a careful balance between goofy and serious elements. Or even whole characters. El Sushi is just a visual gag. Jihad Jones is not, though he's still a verbal one. The Absolutely is neither. It helps both the zanier and the more intense moments of Casey's scripts land, and makes the cast—most of whom need to be introduced quickly before they die—that much easier to connect with and differentiate.
     I mean, most of them are egotistical lunatics, Baker included, but they all have their own spin on it, which Huddleston helps establish or at least underline. And maybe that's the real point of this series, that good or bad, superpowered or not, people are fucking crazy. Maybe it's not about what I am claiming at all. Whatever its aims, though, this book functions as an extensive and highly entertaining look at the arguments against superheroes and, even while admitting their validity, turns them into arguments for superheroes. It's a cool trick to pull off during such a wild ride, and it's what I find most fascinating about this twisted, trippy series.

Superb Heroes: Spider-Man Noir

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism. 

Because he's such a classic and popular character, stories about Spider-Man have been done to death. Alternate realities, distant futures, clones, deaths and rebirths, enormous retcons, Doctor Octopus taking over Peter Parker's body...we've seen it all. This is not to say the Spider-Man mine is void of any fresh resources, just that the need for new takes on or examinations of the character has been met many times over. It's a smart if risky decision by writers David Hine and Fabrice Sapolsky, then, to not worry themselves too greatly with sticking to established ideas and/or character concepts in Spider-Man Noir. Instead, they craft a story that could be told through the eyes of nearly any superhero. This series isn't Spider-Man in the 1930s, it's superheroism in general in the 1930s, a chance to take the genre and map it onto an era that precedes it. There are numerous examples of recognizable Spider-Man-specific details in the book, but Hine & Sapolsky use them only when they are a natural fit, and are happy to ignore or dramatically change others if it suits their goals. This makes the series much stronger and more cohesive than it might've been if the Spider-Man mythos was followed too closely, and provides a solid, original tale about trying to stay good in the face of insurmountable evil.
     The biggest, most notable shifts are in the title character himself. This is not shy, scientific nerd Peter Parker. This is angry young man Peter Parker, railing against the ugliness and horror of society with an incessant fury. Even before he has any superhuman abilities, Peter is eager to take up the fight against evil, and refuses to accept the idea that someone as villainous as Normon Osborn---who loses the "green" from his pseudonym in this setting and is known simply as The Goblin---can't be taken down. And when a magic (not radioactive) spider bites Peter and grants him incredible power, there is no indication that it comes with any "great responsibility." On the contrary, he wages a brutal, unforgiving, sometimes reckless war against The Goblin's various illegal operations, using a gun along with his webbing because he's just as happy to kill as disable his enemies. Motivated not by a sense of honor or duty but the much baser impulse of vengeance, this Spider-Man is nearly as ruthless as the man he's trying to defeat. But Parker thinks that ruthlessness is necessary, seeing no other way to effectively combat these incredible evils.
     His rage comes from an odd mix of naivete and experience. He's naive in the sense that he doesn't understand why no one speaks out against The Goblin. Unaware (initially) of the widepsread corruption in the city, Peter can't see how someone as universally hated and feared as Osborn is allowed to stay in power. All injustice infuriates Peter, and he wants the rest of the world to feel the same, so when they don't, he's confused by it and even more deeply angered. As for experience...the Uncle Ben of this noir world was murdered by The Goblin and his goons, and Peter knows it, yet there is no way for him to prove it or get justice for his uncle's death in any way. The Goblin is too well-protected to ever have to answer for such a crime, and because Peter can't yet see all of his opponent's defenses, he is left to futilely and angrily wish that something could be done.
     This impotently pissed off Parker is who we meet at the beginning of the story, though, not who he is at the end. By the tale's conclusion, all of his anger has been focused and weaponized and used to topple The Goblin's evil empire for good. Obviously Peter's magical spider powers go a long way toward achieving that goal, but there is another, even more important element to the Spider-Man of Hine and Sapolsky's world: Ben Urich.
     Urich represents a version of Parker who's grown older and softer, having already succumb to the wickedness around him. Where once he might have been a passionate and noble man, he is now a jaded heroin addict, trading his anger for cynicism and sacrificing his morals for the sake of survival. He, too, hates The Goblin, and even has thick files of information that could bring the villain down if they were in the right hands. But Urich firmly believes that those hands don't exist, that trying to battle The Goblin is a pointless endeavor that can only result in failure. Not to mention that Urich is just as in The Goblin's pocket as anyone. It isn't until Ben meets Peter, full of piss and vinegar, that he summons the bravery to make a move, and it gets him killed almost immediately. But his files make their way to Parker through mutual friend Felicia Hardy, and without them, there might never have been a Spider-Man. Even with his amazing powers, Peter doesn't know how to best strike at The Goblin until he has Urich's files in hand, but once he does he becomes an unstoppable force. And it is even Urich who helps inspire the name Spider-Man, because his nickname amongst The Goblin's crew before they shot him was The Spider. He pulls back the curtain for Peter so the young man can see the depths of the corruption that rules their city, and Peter in turn reminds Urich what it feels like to be enraged by such things. And so the two of them combine forces to become a dark and deadly Spider-Man, even though for Urich it's posthumous heroism.
     I give Hine and Sapolsky mad props for killing off Urich in Spider-Man Noir #2, because up to that point he had been the series' narrator, so cutting him out of the remainder of the book was a bold move. Parker takes over narration duties for the second half of the story, and it helps underline that this version of the titular hero is really two men working together. Urich does more good in death than he ever did in life thanks to Peter, and Peter is more effective than he would ever be if he didn't have all of Urich's info. The spider-whole is greater than the sum of its spider-parts.
     The same could be said about the series itself, which uses some fairly simple, direct ideas and characters to tell a deceptively nuanced and intricate story. The good guy is SO good, all he does is talk about how angry he is over the evils that surround him, right up to the point that he starts actively fighting them. And the bad guys are also SO bad, a gang of former circus freaks who relish violence and openly, aggressively flaunt their power for all to see. In the middle of these two extreme camps is Urich, the only character to go through a significant internal change, but his narration is so honest and direct that, for the reader anyway, he is always an open book. Everyone is easy to understand immediately, as is the world in which they live. But that doesn't mean there are no surprises, or that the narrative ever grows tired or repetitive. Hine and Sapolsky do strong work with their whole cast, pace and progress their story with care, and end every issue on a powerful and enticing moment that keeps the excitement alive.
     All of this skilled scripting might well be for naught, though, if it weren't coupled so excellently with Carmine Di Giandomenico's art. Drawing dark and grounded images with a small but important amount of exaggeration in his figures, Giandomenico manages to capture the grim, ground-level tone of the bulk of the narrative while still fitting stylistically with the more outlandish details. So when Peter is bitten and we suddenly see a two-page spread of some sort of enormous spider demon/spirit speaking to him and gifting him with his powers, it's not as jarring as one might expect in the middle of a story about mobsters and the like. The same is true when, near the end, it's revealed that The Goblin got his nickname due to some sort of skin condition that makes him look reptilian (more reminiscent of classic spider-villain The Lizard than the traditional Green Goblin). Giandomenico displays Osborn's true flesh with enough subtlety and realism that it fits, even in a world where everyone else is essentially a normal human being in appearance. The only possible exception is The Vulture, but it is with that character that Giandomenico does his best and most memorable work on the series, anyway.
     I'd probably read a comicbook called The Vulture if he was drawing it. Actually, I'd want it to be called Toomes (the character's real last name), but that's just me. Giandomenico's Vulture is more feral dog than man, hissing and gnashing his teeth, hunched over, and covered in all black. Only his Nosferatu-esque face is visible, and the occasional glimpse of his pale, clawed hands. Unsettling right away, he progresses to horrifying by the close of the debut issue. And though he is nearly silent, his presence is felt heavily throughout the series. Every appearance adds tension and terror. The Vulture is a constant threat, a living threat, made by The Goblin to all of his enemies at all times. Giandomenico depicts him hauntingly, and as little stage time as he gets, he's still the breakout character of the book.
     He's also Uncle Ben's murderer. Though it was of course an order given by The Goblin, The Vulture eats Ben, emptying his guts and leaving a hollowed-out and wide open corpse for Peter to find. So once he becomes Spider-Man, there is a personal edge to Peter's rampage that culminates in a scene where he shoots The Vulture point blank in order to save Aunt May. It is a moment that highlights the key differences between this and traditional Spider-Man stories, and also brings home some of the overarching themes of the book. Spider-Man has never been one to callously kill, but this is a hardened hero for a harder world. The Peter Parker we all know and love would be unlikely to last a minute in this setting, but the one we get here is perfect for it.
     And that's what any superhero should be: the solution to the problems of his or her own time and place.

Superb Heroes: The Umbrella Academy

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.

I'd argue that superhero stories are soap operas more often than not. The emotions are big, even exaggerated; the plots and character relationships are vast and complex to the point of sometimes becoming convoluted; the casts are large and always growing and/or shifting; the villains are extra villainous, selfish schemers with some personal grudge against the heroes; and so on. This doesn't apply universally, but it tends to be true. So while it is undeniably, wholeheartedly a superhero comicbook, Gerard Way & Gabriel Bá's The Umbrella Academy is just as much a family soap opera, and it uses that fact to its advantage as often as possible. Completely embracing the tropes and cliches of both worlds, it becomes something grander than either, and throws in a fat sack of elements from other genres (sci-fi, fantasy, what have you) for good measure as well. It makes for a big, boisterous, kitchen-sink type of series---well, technically it's two series but I'll get to that---with something for everyone to love, yet still maintains a strong clarity and consistency in both the story and art. As fun and funny as it is dark and hard-hitting, as critical of superheroes as it is celebratory, Umbrella Academy is a storm of talent and originality drenching the far-too-similar and often-quite-dull comicbook landscape.
     The members of The Umbrella Academy are a group of adopted siblings who were brought together by the cold and uncaring Reginald Hargreeves so he could train them to save the world. Though he successfully developed their powers, Hargreeves was godawful as an actual parent, and so there is rampant dysfunction amongst his children in their adult lives. They secretly love or openly hate each other, are scattered across the globe (except Spaceboy, who lives on the moon), and each and every one of them is emotionally still a child in one regard or another. They are powerful, yes, but still petty and immature, and though we see them save the world twice, in both cases they find themselves unable to fully deal with the whys and hows of their adventures. The world may remain intact, but The Umbrella Academy always winds up far more broken and battered than they were when they started. And not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically, because they are ill-equipped to handle the kinds of insanity their superhero lifestyle forces them to regularly face. You might think that after a time the team would become jaded, unable to be so deeply affected by what they do. That may be true in the case of The Kraken, the dark and brooding anti-hero loner of the group (though I don't think so, really), but for the rest of them there is too much emotional investment in their work. For various reasons, they cannot separate their individual identities from their superpowered personas, and it makes saving the world into an ugly and deeply personal business.
     Apocalypse Suite, the first of the two six-issue series that make up The Umbrella Academy*, pits the family against one of its own members: Vanya, also known as Number Seven and, over the course of the story, The White Violin. Vanya was the only sibling to not have any metahuman abilities as a child, and as such was left out of the exciting and dangerous escapades of her brothers and sisters. Obviously, this led to jealousy and bitterness, so when, as an adult, Vanya is offered immense power and a chance to destroy the world, she accepts fairly eagerly (after her family pushes her away) and finds that the role of villain fits her like a glove. But even though her plan is to erase the entire planet from existence, she can't help but start things off with a more personal attack, murdering Pogo, the sentient chimp who helps to run the Hargreeves household, and blowing up the family's luxurious home. That single moment is, to me, the entirety of this title in a nutshell: no matter how powerful they become or how enormous the events they're dealing with, for this group of characters family drama will always come first.
     It's equally true in Dallas, the follow-up to Suite that has Number Three (a.k.a. The Rumor or Allison) and Number Five (no code name or real name due to being lost in the future for 20 years) traveling back to 1963 in order to stop another, older version of Number Five from preventing the Kennedy assassination. Got all that? Two of our "heroes" go back in time to ensure that JFK is killed. And why would they agree to such a thing? Because the Temps Aeternalis, an agency responsible for protecting the time stream, threatens to kill Number Five's mother in the past while she is still pregnant with him and his twin brother, Number One (a.k.a. Spaceboy or Luther). And Number Three is in love with Number One, despite their supposed sibling relationship, so in order to save his life she takes the life of a US President. Talk about personal/familial issues trumping all other concerns, amiright?
     The point being, The Umbrella Academy's superheroics only extend so far, because their lifelong problems as a family unit constantly, inescapably get in the way. At the same time, their family matters never get fully resolved because their obligations as superheroes incessantly interrupt. Their father's funeral ends abruptly because of a robot attack. Luther and Allison's romance is cut short by Vanya's vengeance. Number Five finally makes it back home from the distant future only to be dragged back to the past to murder JFK. And every time one of these superpowered events goes down, it fucks up the family dynamics even further. These characters were raised from infancy to be masked protectors of the planet, and as much as they might want to make dealing with their interpersonal issues a priority, none of them quite know how and the world won't let them, anyway. They're actually pretty great at saving the day, but that's all they're good at, and they don't even seem to genuinely enjoy it.
     You know...I was not expecting this post to zero in so narrowly on the dysfunctional nature of the Hargreeves clan and the reasons behind it. I was expecting that to be only one of several points made, all the while discussing the creative team's amazing work. Gerard Way is an exceptional writer, especially for this to be his first foray into the comicbook medium. He expertly paces every issue, finding a careful balance between necessary moments of long exposition (there are some complex ideas to explain and stories to tell) and scenes of intense action, and he laces a playfulness and powerful sense of humor throughout. Meanwhile, Gabriel Bá, along with colorist Dave Stewart, builds a world that is familiar and singularly strange all at once. There is such a powerful and unique sense of design in this series, from the characters to the settings to the props, and it's one of the biggest reasons for the book's overall quality. But where Bá most stands out and impresses is in the fight sequences, all beautifully choreographed and structured for the optimum sense of excitement and danger. Particularly when The Umbrella Academy battles Dr. Terminal's robots at the carnival. Just some stunning comicbook violence there.
     But The Umbrella Academy is an examination of what a lifetime of superheroism could and likely would do not only to an individual, but to a group of people sharing in the experience, and so that accidentally became the focus of this column. Even without the family element, growing up as a costumed crime fighter would be necessarily traumatic, and lead to deep-seeded problems later in life. Add the typical sibling rivalries, arguably inappropriate romantic feelings, and a father who never showed any love or even concern for his children, and it's a wonder all seven of these kids haven't ended up in an asylum or jail cell or coffin by now. They keep playing hero, decades later, and even after their dad's death. Hell, for some of them (namely The Rumor), it is Reginald's demise that brings them back into the superhero arena in the first place. Unable or unwilling to lead a more normal life, they chug along in the only one they've ever known, even though they can see how miserable and damaged it's made them. Saving the world has never been sadder.

*So far. There is supposed to be a third series, Hotel Oblivion, in the not-too-distant future. And there are actually a handful of short stories in addition to the two limited series, but I haven't read any of them so they are not a part of this discussion.

Superb Heroes: Ultimate Comics Ultimates

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.

NOTE: What I am discussing here begins and ends with the Jonathan Hickman/Esad Ribic/Dean White era of the Ultimates (issues 1-9). I realize that within those issues there were several guest artists and colorists, but for simplicity's sake I'm only talking about the three primary creators.

To me, superheroes are all about stakes. Because they have such incredible powers, they get to deal with problems far beyond the capabilities of regular people. Yes, there are many excellent superhero tales which focus on characters dealing with things of a more personal, even mundane nature, but generally speaking, what makes superheroes so much fun (and part of the reason, I'm sure, they became so popular in the first place) is that more often than not they are fighting on such a grand scale. They save the entire city, the world, the universe, or even the very fabric of existence. And at their best, superhero stories reflect humanity's real-world potential and problems even while relating these fantastic adventures.Ultimate Comics Ultimates (henceforth referred to as "Ultimates") wholeheartedly embraces this philosophy, telling a high-stakes, high-powered narrative which simultaneously holds a mirror up to the modern world. These days, we all seem to be worried about which threat will wipe us out first: nuclear war, the Large Hadron Collider, the Mayan gods, a random asteroid, etc. Elevate this fear of the end to a superhuman level, along with the threats which might bring that end about, and what you get is Ultimates.
     The first time I read Ultimates #1, when I that saw pages two and three were both devoted to nothing but an action-movie-style title card, I remember mentally scoffing at the spectacle of it and the waste of space. But had I known then what I know now, I would've realized the title card was a perfect introduction to the what would follow. The bombastic, blockbuster story promised by those two pages is delivered before the first issue ends, and the series has never let up or slowed down since. Right off the bat, several giant shits hit an even bigger fan: a nuclear device goes off in South America, the citizens of the SEAR gain superpowers and assemble the floating kingdom of Tian, and most terrifying of all, The City arrives and starts to mercilessly and efficiently gobble up Germany. These are epic threats, even for a superhero book, as evidenced by the fact that we have yet to see our heroes truly claim a victory for themselves. They strike out against their opponents with everything they've got, but with each passing moment the good guys lose more footing, control, and hope. They become fractured and scattered, yet every one of them keeps the fight alive. Losing repeatedly on multiple fronts, the Ultimates still refuse to accept defeat, even when we as readers would probably forgive them for doing so. If this bravery in the face of the unbeatable isn't classic superherosim, I don't know what is.
     There's actually a whole mess of classic ideas, plot points, and character moments contained within Ultimates. The hero who loses his family, making the conflict personal (Thor). The depowered hero who keeps fighting in spite of his loss (Thor). The martyr who attempts to sacrifice himself in order to defeat the villains once and for all (Thor again, also Zorn). The hero manipulated by the villains and tricked into helping them (not Thor this time, but Iron Man and Hulk). This list goes on indefinitely, and it's true on the bad guy side of things as well. Reed Richards is the mad scientist, world conqueror, and thinks-he-is-really-the-misunderstood-good-guy archetypes all rolled into one glorious megalomaniac. Each of these elements of his character is heightened and made more extreme because of the others, which is why he is such a frightening and convincing foe. There are scenes, even entire issues, where the reader is practically rooting for Reed and The City. What he says often makes a lot of sense, even when he's arguing in favor of humanity's extinction, and that makes him one of the most compelling and dangerous supervillains around.
     Richards is also, in many ways, a template for the entire book: concepts that've been used and reused countless times in the superhero genre (and other places) being pushed to their extremes. This is, I guess, the supposed goal of the entirety of Marvel's Ultimate line of comics, but Ultimates does an especially excellent job of it. When an assault on Asgard goes down in this series, the corpses of former gods rain from the sky. The President isn't just assassinated, he's eviscerated, along with a significant chunk of the rest of the U.S. government. Whatever we expect to see next, we get the biggest, most intense version of it.Ultimates is a series of constant escalation. Even though the stakes were set remarkably high from the get go, writer Jonathan Hickman keeps finding new ways to expand and exacerbate the situation, steadily ratcheting up the levels of power and danger in the story. And still, in spite of it all, our heroes valiantly keep at it. As Tony Stark points out in issue #8, during times like these there are only a select few who are both willing and able to save the day. The Ultimates know that if they aren't up to the task, no one will be, and so their desperate, noble sturggle continues.
     I've mostly been discussing the narrative strategies that Hickman brings to Ultimates, but I'd be ever so remiss if I didn't take time to point out Esad Ribic and Dean White's excellent artwork as well. Because all the insane villainy and selfless heroism and superpowered excitement in the world doesn't mean jack for a comicbook if the art lets it down. Luckily, Ribic's drawings perfectly capture the scale of this series. He's at his strongest when drawing The City itself, like the breathtaking double-page spread in issue #3, but Ribic does a great job across the board. His designs for The City's Children of Tomorrow mix scary futuristic technology with just the right amount of a strange kind of innocence. Yes, they are the primary villains of the title, but aside from their leader Reed Richards, there's not a lot of hate or even really evil motivating them. Instead, what they posses is curiosity and a genuine desire to find new opportunities for growth, and their external appearance expresses this. But of course, Ribic's impressiveness doesn't end with the Children. His Thor is every bit the hardened warrior, his Iron Man a perfect blend of smug and thoughtful. And Nick Fury, the real star of Ultimates, exudes all the intelligence and anger you want in a general, barking orders when needed but equally capable of a careful, reflective pause. I mention these three because we see the most of them, but honestly Ribic nails the entire cast. His Hulk-Richards scenes underline the differences between those men beautifully, and for the few moments we've seen him Captain Britain has projected an entertaining swagger and arrogance. As for women in the cast, only really Black Widow gets any significant stage time, but her directness, confidence, and strength all come through, and for a nice change of pace in the superhero realm, she has a realistic build and outfit. Ribic has put together an intimidating, formidable cast, which makes all the intimidating, formidable events in their lives that much meatier and more fun.
     While Ribic highlights the larger-than-life elements, Dean White's colors act as a sort of counterbalance, adding a soft richness to the title that helps to bring it a step or two back down to Earth. Ribic may build the cast and set pieces, but it is White who transforms them into a cohesive world, adding a consistent tone and texture to everything. When appropriate, White can amplify things, too, able to make his palette pop or explode if needed. Whenever Thor uses his hammer, for example, there is a brilliant wash of blue light involved. Generally, however, what White offers is a touch of realism in an otherwise fantastic tale. Because Hickman and Ribic both move so forcefully in the other direction, White's colors are the perfect final component, enlivening the art and enriching the narrative, both.
     It's a damn fine comicbook, Ultimates, and an especially fine superhero one, set on a stage that covers the globe and telling a story about the fight for humanity's future. It's the kind of narrative the very concept of superhero yearns for, and with the Ribic-White combination, it utilizes the comicbook medium to the fullest. Hickman, Ribic, and White have all either left the title or will be departing shortly, which is a real shame, because during their run they set the bar incredibly high.


Ultimates Comics Ultimates #1-9 were published by Marvel Comics and are dated October 2011-June 2012

Superb Heroes: The Maximortal

Superb Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.

Superheroes and comicbooks are obviously, inescapably linked. They helped to popularize each other, and even in this current environment of incessant new movies and TV series, we all know that comicbooks are the true stomping ground of the spandex-clad superhuman. In his seven-issue series The Maximortal, writer/artist Rick Veitch explores the concept of the superhero, the history of the comicbook industry, and the ties that bind them together in a vicious, hilarious, intelligent and original way. Breaking the usual mold, Veitch's superpowered characters are morally ambiguous, their origins and motives more complex than we're used to. Comparatively, the regular humans he focuses on fill the more traditional comicbook hero and villain roles, with their direct, simple belief systems and constant battle for power. The end result is an incredible examination on the effects that superheroes have on people, in their own worlds and in ours. They have power over us beyond their actual "powers," which Veitch simultaneously celebrates, condemns, and perverts in The Maximortal, making it a thorough and thoroughly enjoyable discussion of superheroism's importance and potential.
     The titular "maximortal" is Wesley Winston, a child in mind and appearance, but possessing superhuman strength, flight, shape-changing abilities, heat vision, and physical invulnerability. At first glance, Wesley appears to be no more than a slight twist on Superman. He even crashes to Earth in a mysterious protective vessel and is discovered and adopted by a poor, rural couple. But as the series advances, Veitch pulls Wesley further and further from the Man of Steel, and in the end True-Man (Wesley's superhero moniker) is more a physical manifestation of the concept of superheroism than he is a parody of any particular character. That's a very literal statement, because we come to learn that Wesley's "origin story" is, essentially, that a fictional version of True-Man grew to be so popular, the idea so universal, that it actually became reality. The mass social belief in the character gave him life. Then in a classic time paradox, the now-living True-Man went back in time, slept with a human, gave birth to himself, and then launched himself into space so that he could someday return and be discovered. In other words, the conclusion to the series is the same as the beginning of the series, with True-Man's origin an infinite loop of self-creation. After all, not only did he birth himself, but the whole reason he becomes True-Man is that, as Wesley, he sees a True-Man comicbook and decides to take on the look and persona of the character. So True-Man parents Wesley, who then becomes True-Man.
     No doubt that all seems a bit confusing, but it is to Veitch's credit that he explains it fully and carefully within The Maximortal, taking his time with each piece of the puzzle so that by the final issue we've already more or less figured out the cyclical nature of Wesley's life. Then in that final issue, Veitch spells it out for us plainly, just in case. And even without the never-ending circle that is his creation, Wesley is just as fascinating and unique a superhero, because despite his immense power he is still a child. He has a child's innocence, ignorance, and fluid morality. This leads him to murder his adopted father, and then an entire California town, not out of malice or anger but because he doesn't fully understand what he's doing. While most superheroes are informed by their childhoods, Wesley's childhood is informed by his superpowers, and so in his early years he isn't really a hero or a villain in the classic sense, but more a force of nature in human form. It is only much later, after he has been trapped and used by humanity for years, that he decides to take up the fight for good and righteousness.
     This narrative of a child slowly but steadily being transformed into a hero is the main focus of The Maximortal, the strongest and most consistent through line from issue to issue. And honestly, I imagine it would be more than enough to tell a meaty, awesome story on its own. But Veitch doesn't stop there, as his bizarre tale is also populated by non-powered characters whose beliefs and personalities line up much more succinctly with what he think of as archetypal superheroes and villains. Primarily we see this dichotomy between Jerry Spiegel and Sidney Wallace. Spiegel is the writer who creates the True-Man comicbook, and while the real-world Wesley is amoral and destructive, Spiegel actually embodies all of the virtues he includes in his version of the character. Truth, justice, the rights of the common man---all of these things are near and dear to Spiegel, and he writes his stories not for any selfish dreams of fame or recognition, but because he feels the world needs a hero like True-Man to lead the charge against corruption and evil. Sid Wallace is Spiegel's publisher and, for all intents and purposes, his arch-nemesis. A power-hungry maniac who also happens to be overcompensating for crushed testicles, Wallace rips Spiegel off, stealing credit for the creation of True-Man and getting filthy rich off the royalties. The two butt heads several times, and each time sees Wallace with a little more power than he had before, and Spiegel with a little less. Plus Wallace gets to use as many dirty tricks as he likes knowing full well Spiegel will never stoop to that level, and therefore never be a threat. They represent creativity vs. capitalism, truth vs. lies, the little guy vs. the corporation, good vs. evil, and any number of other well-worn conflicts. Like the characters of countless superhero comicbooks, Spiegel and Wallace are two extremes battling against one another. The only difference is that they don't have superpowers, code names, or costumes. Though Spiegel does ultimately don a True-Man costume to confront and, he hopes, defeat Wallace once and for all.
     The point of all this is that True-Man is an idea so big he can inspire genuine heroism (Spiegel) while simultaneously fueling greed (Wallace). And the point of The Maximortal as a series is, to my mind, that all superheroes, indeed superheroism in general, will naturally and necessarily influence the world in both good and bad ways. The characters themselves, the values and causes they espouse, are theoretically the best aspects of humanity, and therefore could and should promote those aspects within us as readers. But of course, there is an industry behind the telling of these fables, and so they're often used not so much to point mankind toward good, but to further the goals of a few publishing companies (namely, sales). Even if we leave the comicbook industry out of it, the much bigger threat of superpowers, as Veitch takes pains to point out, is that were they to ever truly exist in our world, they'd be far more likely used as tools of war and/or commerce than forces for justice or peace. As concepts, superheroes and the stories around them are easy to fall in love with, in The Maximortal so much so that they bring themselves to life. In practice, though, even True-Man isn't safe from man's corruption and greed. It isn't a overwhelmingly positive message, but its apt, and it argues as much in favor of  superheroes as against them. No easy task, but Veitch is more than up it.
     The Maximortal has so much great stuff I haven't even touched on here, but I think I've said what I wanted. Seriously, though, there's a whole story about Wesley being used as part of the A-Bomb in WWII, and another one about the actor who plays True-Man in the movie version and how the character takes over and eventually ends his life. Then, of course, there is El Guano, an even more mysterious and non-traditional superhuman character who plays a major role in Wesley's life. It's all excellent, and all totally on-message with what I've discussed above, but the overall effect is the same. Veitch holds everything we know about superheroes and the comics they live in under a bright, unblinking light. What he finds isn't always pretty, but it's always worth the look.


The Maximortal was published by King Hell Press in association with Tundra Publishing, Ltd. (#1-6) and Kitchen Sink Press, Inc. (#7) and is dated August 1992-December 1993.