On the origin of superheroes : from the big bang to Action Comics no. 1

251 Pages·2015·2.39 MB·English

by  Gavaler

ON THE ORIGIN OF SUPERHEROES
ON THE ORIGIN OF
SUPERHEROES
FROM THE BIG BANG TO ACTION COMICS NO.
1
CHRIS GAVALER
UNIVERSITY OF IOWA PRESS
IOWA CITY
University of Iowa Press, Iowa City 52242
Copyright © 2015 by the University of Iowa Press www.uiowapress.org
Printed in the United States of America Design by April Leidig
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means without permission in writing
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gavaler, Chris.
On the origin of superheroes : from the big bang to Action Comics no. 1 / Chris Gavaler.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-60938-381-7 (pbk) ISBN 978-1-60938-382-4 (ebk) 1. Heroes in literature. 2. Superheroes in
literature. 3. Heroic virtue. 4. Heroes—History. 5. Heroes—Mythology. I. Title.
PN56.5.H45G38 2015
809'.93352—dc23
2015008647
To John Gavaler
CONTENTS
Introduction. Origin Story
1. In the Beginning
2. Revolution
3. A Parliament of Monsters
4. Indians & Cowboys
5. Evolution
6. Thou Shalt Not Kill
7. The Superhero Guide to Love & Sex
8. Best of Both Worlds
Epilogue. Magneto’s Giftshop
Bibliography
Index
Bill’s a highbrow with a lot of college degrees. I reckon he’s smart in some
ways; but his being too snooty to read the comic strips is just plain silly. How
can he teach history like it was important if he feels above the history we’re
makin’? Folks that dig up our civilization are going to learn more about us from
our comic strips than by looking at ruins.
Aunt Het, a single-panel comic strip written by Robert Quillen, c. 1930s
Cameron and Madeleine Gavaler, 2002.
INTRODUCTION
ORIGIN STORY
What do you want to be when you grow up?
My daughter has been fielding that question since she was two. She’s headed
to college now, so the question has morphed into “What do you want to major
in?” But she told me that her answer, her secret answer, the heart of hearts
answer she’ll never write on any application form, hasn’t changed since she
wore pull-ups:
“Batman.”
That’s still the first word that pops into her head. “Astronaut” is second. But
“Batman” is better. “He doesn’t have X-ray vision or any other crazy powers,”
she says, “but he still spends his life and money helping people.” He’s a bad-ass
altruist. Also the Batmobile is really cool. And his ears. My daughter has always
thought the bat ears on his hood were cute. She used to chew on them. The dolls
in our attic are gouged with her teeth marks.
A field of graduate and undergraduate classes in comics studies has popped up
since she stopped hosting tea parties with action figures, but to the best of my
knowledge, no school offers a major in Batman—not even mine. We live a five-
minute stroll from the campus where I teach, so my daughter would rather blast
off to an alien planet than stay in our Virginia smallville for college. Her brother
is finishing middle school and still peruses the occasional comic book from my
childhood trove. He’s gnawed on his fair share of attic superheroes, but I’m sure
he’ll be feeling the warmth of alien suns soon too.
Which means neither will get to take my course. It spawned in 2008 when a
group of honors students were scouring campus for a professor willing to design
and teach a seminar on superheroes. They’d suffered a few rounds of blank
stares and grinning rejections when they wandered into my wife’s office. She
was chairing our English department at the time, and you’ll never guess whose
office she sent them to next. I said yes. Of course I said yes. I’d always enjoyed
comics as a kid and then with our own kids. Now I’d just augment that with a bit
of research.
My wife says she doesn’t regret her choice, but neither of us predicted the
black hole–sized obsession the topic would open in me. Conference panels, print
symposiums, international journals, radio interviews, cybercasts, newspaper op-
eds, lit mags, one-act play festivals—my appetite for cape-and-mask forums
keeps expanding. When my wife and another good friend spurred me to start a
blog, neither had superheroes in mind then either. I could blame those meddling
honors students, but that first class of sidekicks flew off to solo adventures years
ago. I’m the one who keeps offering revised versions of the course every spring
term while posting my weekly blog links on campus notices.
The first day of ENGL 255 usually begins with some polite but bemused
variation on “Why superheroes, Professor?” Colleagues ask me the same
question, only with the preface, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but.” The short
answer is easy. Superheroes, like most any pop culture production, reflect a lot
about us. And since superheroes have been flying for decades, they document
our evolution too. On the surface of their unitards, they’re just pleasantly absurd
wish fulfillments. But our nation’s history of obsessions flexes just under those
tights: sexuality, violence, prejudice, politics, our most nightmarish fears, our
most utopian aspirations—it’s all churning in there. But you have to get up
close. You have to be willing to wrestle a bit, to pull on Superman’s cape. We all
need to sink our teeth into Batman’s head.
. . .
But before we bite open any skulls, let’s identify the patient.
What is a superhero?
I can cite a half-dozen scholars with superhero criteria ranging from leotards
to dead parents to celibacy. But even the most hair-splitting definitions leave
some nonconsensus gray area. Bruce Wayne, for instance, possesses no
superhuman abilities, so can Batman technically be a “super” hero? And does
the Punisher’s homicidal vigilantism bar him from the “hero” half of the term?
Hollywood’s Thor is thoroughly super powered, but without a human side, isn’t
he just a low-flying god? Buffy the Vampire Slayer has the superpowers and the
duality, but no nifty costume—so does that count? What about Harry Potter? Or
Nick Fury? Or Mary Poppins? Or the volunteers who unload and sort my clothes
donations at our local Goodwill? Is any extraordinary do-gooder a superhero?
I begin the first day of class by writing down every superhero trope my
students can brainstorm; it only takes ten minutes before we run out of
chalkboard. Think of it as a census bureau questionnaire of possible traits. The
list is long and mutating, but if you slash Xs through enough boxes, I say you’re
in—even if your boxes aren’t the same boxes as the masked detectives, altruistic
monsters, supernatural vigilantes, and sci-fi Robin Hoods sitting around you.
Superheroes are the ultimate amalgams, all-swallowing über-characters that