Coogan, Peter. The Secret Origin of the Superhero: The Emergence of the Superhero Genre in America from Daniel Boone to Batman. Diss. Michigan State University, 2002.
Coogan, Peter. Superhero: The Secret Origin of a Genre. Monkeybrain Books. 2006.
As I understand it, Superhero: The Secret Origin of a Genre, is essentially the back half of his dissertation The Secret Origin of the Superhero (hence the extremely similar titles). What I�m about to say is based on his dissertation, not the published book, but I suspect the argument applies both ways.
I�ve talked about Coogan�s definition before in my paper on Watchmen, but at the time, I�d read the definition only, all by itself, without the larger argument about generic development that surrounds it in the dissertation. Specifically, I want to argue an understanding of this definition, and by extension all genres, that is (for lack of a better word) �zonal,� rather than categorical.
To start, let�s review the definition in its most basic form:
�Su�per�he�ro (soo'per h�r'o) n., pl. -roes. 1. A heroic character with a selfless, pro-social mission; who possesses superpowers, advanced technology, or highly developed physical and/or mental skills; who has a superidentity and iconic costume, which typically express his biography or character, powers, and origin (transformation from ordinary person to superhero); and is generically distinct, i.e. can be distinguished from characters of related genres (fantasy, science fiction, detective, etc.) by a preponderance of generic conventions. Typically superheroes have dual identities, the ordinary one of which is kept secret. �superheroic, adj. Also super hero, super-hero (Trademark).� (358)
(That last note, that the term is jointly trademarked by DC and Marvel Comics, is a matter of some annoyance to those of us who recognise that the term is literally generic [it refers to a genre], is in common usage and has been for decades, and isn�t, as American trademark law requires, exclusively associated with the holders of the trademark. The term is associated with a genre, not a publisher, and there are now dozens of publishers in the US alone who put out superhero stories, in comics and other media. If the term has retained any kind of exclusive use by DC and Marvel, it�s because of the trademark, and the threat of being sued by two large corporations, which is a ridiculous manipulation of trademark law. But that�s neither here nor there.)
We can, and Coogan does, separate the definition into four basic parts: (1) mission, (2) identity, (3) powers, and (4) generic distinctiveness. In �Myth and Demystification,� an expanded version of �A World With Contradictions,� I broke down the first part:
�The [first] part of Coogan�s definition [�] is the deliberately vague notion of a �prosocial mission.� Simply put, �prosocial� means the opposite of antisocial. (In fact, we can make this the definition of the supervillain by replacing the word �prosocial� with �antisocial.�) However, what qualifies as prosocial or antisocial can, and usually does, change radically from one context to the next [�] Each superhero�s mission statement is slightly different, but generally speaking the basic version is best expressed by Captain Metropolis in Watchmen, who claims that �SOMEBODY HAS TO SAVE THE WORLD� (2.11.7). Moore even signals to readers that they should read Metropolis as an example of the typical, perhaps even an archetypal, superhero by naming him after the city in which Superman lives.� (Myth 3)
The prosocial mission is also different from one superhero to the next. Superman�s is, famously �Truth, Justice, and� added later �the American Way�; he stands for big concepts and philosophical ideals, which reflects the iconic power of the character. Spider-man, however, is the �friendly, neighbourhood� superhero who learned that �with great power, comes great responsibility� from his uncle, Ben; Spider-man is local and approachable, a down-to-Earth character, who believes that the ability to do something necessarily brings with it a moral system based on personal responsibility. The specific nature of the prosocial mission leads directly to the second and third points, which is more complicated than it might seem.
Identity comprises the intersection between costume, history, mission, and powers, and in fact argues that superheroic personae almost always do require an intersection between those factors. The character�s origin story�struck by lightning, affected by radiation, born non-human (alien, mutant, etc.), or receiving some kind of family heritage�is generically required to be the basis of the costume and powers, and is usually the basis of the precise nature of the prosocial mission, as well. Peter Parker was bitten by a spider, gained spider-based powers, and calls himself �Spider-man.� There is a unity to the superheroic persona. There are two exceptions I�d like to briefly hover over.
Superman�s costume, history, mission, and powers have very little to do, directly, with his well-known origin story: �AS A DISTANT PLANET WAS DESTROYED BY OLD AGE, A SCIENTIST PLACED HIS INFANT SON WITHIN A HASTILY BUILT SPACE-SHIP, LAUNCHING HIM TOWARDS EARTH! [�] EARLY, CLARK DECIDED HE MUST TURN HIS TITANIC STRENGTH INTO CHANNELS THAT WOULD BENEFIT MANKIND [�]� (Action 1.1.1, 1.1.5). According to the later-to-be-reified conventions of the genre, Superman should, by all rights, be named �The Kryptonian� or �Krypton Man,� much as J�onn J�onz is called �The Martian Manhunter.� Superman, however, was the first of his kind. The genre had yet to be solidified, either in the minds of its creators or its fans. Much like Jesus wasn�t a Christian, Superman doesn�t actually represent the purest form of the generic figure called �the superhero.� In neither case was the genre, Christian or superhero, actually defined yet.
The second example is Daredevil, whose origin and powers are unified, but whose persona and costume is a deliberate break from them. As a child, Matt Murdock was struck in the face by radioactive substances that both left him blind and enhanced all his other senses to superhuman levels. Instead of calling himself something like �Blind Justice,� he took the name Daredevil and wears a red (formerly red and yellow) costume with devil horns. The name ostensibly refers to the manner in which he leaps and flips around Hell�s Kitchen, like a circus performer.
However, his public identity is actually a way to hide his secret identity as Matt Murdock, who is known to be blind. Ironically, Matt Murdock could easily �pass� for a sighted man, but he chooses to retain his handicap, a choice that pushes the �cripple by day, superhero by night� concept of the character. In this case, Murdock, or his creators if you prefer, use the identity/powers convention as part of this character�s persona. Instead of advertising his one weakness, like DC�s Hourman (whose �miraclo� pill gives him the strength of ten men, but for only an hour), Daredevil uses his identity to hide that weakness. If there were no pre-existing identity convention, that ruse wouldn�t work.
Finally, the most non-intuitive part of Coogan�s definition is �generic distinction,� and it�s the part I really want to talk about. Coogan�s text is a little cagey about this part of the definition. He says that �as with other genres, specific superheroes can exist who do not fully demonstrate these three elements, and heroes from other genres may exist who display all three elements to some degree but should not be regarded as superheroes. This apparent indeterminacy originates in the nature of genre� (374).
He then takes on a few case studies of comicbook characters who defy the conventions to some degree, but nevertheless are superheroes, in his estimation. The Hulk has no mission, but has all the other conventions, and lives in a superheroic context, complete with supervillains (375-6). Batman has no powers, but has heightened �normal� physical abilities and a large collection of gadgets and vehicles that duplicate powers (376). The Fantastic Four have no secret identities, and originally no costumes, but gained costumes a mere four issues into their series, and have all the other conventions (376-8).
Next, he works his way through a few examples of characters who are often offered up as examples of superheroes, but fit more easily into other, pre-existing genres. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is a vampire hunter, not a superhero (379-80). Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.E.I.L.D., is a super-spy, not a superhero (380-1). Adam Strange is a sci-fi hero, not a superhero (381). Conan the Barbarian and Xena, Warrior Princess, both fall into the barbarian fantasy genre (381-2). John Constantine, �Hellblazer,� is a horror investigator (382). Other examples follow of characters who manage to straddle the line, like DC�s Legion of Superheroes, the Phantom Rider (n�e the Ghost Rider, and later the Night Rider), Ka-Zar (a Tarzan knock-off), the Punisher, Swamp Thing, and Man Thing.
This whole section, despite allowing for several exceptions, characterises genre distinction in measurable, even quantifiable, terms. Coogan raises the idea that supporting characters, like Batman�s Harvey Bullock or Daredevil�s Ben Urich, could be superheroes because they live in superhero worlds and help superheroes perform their missions. �Are these interactions as transformative as radioactive spider bites?� Coogan asks �All these questions can be answered easily with a firm �No� [�] Generic distinction marks these characters as non-superheroes even though they may have the missions and powers requisite to be superheroes, and might even possess elements of the identity convention� (386). �Generic distinction� is, then, a technical term. It means �this character does not belong to genre A because it belongs to genre B.� Why? �Because it does.� I don�t necessarily disagree with Coogan�s examples or his logic, but his methodology leaves me a little suspicious.
What this section leaves out, and what Coogan has told me in personal correspondence was always his point, is that genres aren�t rigid categories that insist upon �inside� and �outside� distinctions. They are, in fact, fluid, flexible, and permeable distinctions that we invent after the fact as an aid to creating or understand literature. Those generic distinctions can become rigid after the fact, but only if we, readers, creators, and critics, insist upon treating them that way. Instead of talking of fluid categories, then, we�re better off simply picking a new metaphor that more accurately describes how genres actually function. Though I�m sure there are many that would work, the one that works best for me is colours.
Imagine, if you will, a vast canvas on which we pour three cans of paint, blue (for superheroes), red (sci-fi heroes), and green (fantasy heroes). The colours flow across the canvas and evenly bleed into each other (this metaphor works better with light than pigments, but bear with me). Anyone who has played with the custom colours in a digital art programme will be familiar with what this looks like. We point to no spot on the surface that is pure blue, red, or green, and we can draw no line between them; we cannot say, with certainly, where one ends and the other begins.
Typical superheroes will cluster around the blue area, characters like Superman, Spider-man, or Wonder Woman. Notice, though, that all three of those characters have leanings in other directions. Superman and Spider-man�s origins are ostensibly science-fictional, one is an alien and the other was affected by radiation; they�re mostly blue with tinges of red. (J. Michael Straczinski�s recent retcons regarding Spider-man have pushed him into the green of fantasy/mysticism, but that�s a separate issue). Wonder Woman leans towards the fantastic; she�s mostly blue with tinges of green.
Other typical characters do the same. John Carter�s supplication to the god of Mars, which transports him to the Red Planet, is very fantastic, but it�s embedded in an otherwise solidly science-fiction setting; he�s largely red with a little green. Neo, from The Matrix Trilogy, is largely a sci-fi hero, but has superheroic abilities. Link even refers to him �doing his Superman thing� while flying (Reloaded). He even has arguably fantastic qualities due to his status as �The One,� a messianic figure. Neo is mostly red but with a healthy amount of blue and just a little green. Dr. Strange is a clean splicing of a fantasy character into a superhero setting; he�s about half blue and half green.
The point is that most characters employ elements from many genres. In fact, any given genre is often a recombination of elements from previous ones. The superhero, as Coogan�s own dissertation argues, is a direct descendant of the leatherstocking hero, through the detective, the sci-fi superman, and the pulp mystery man. Speaking of them as �in� or �out� of this or that genre is possible, but not particularly useful. As I said in �Myth and Demystification�: �We [should] base generic distinction not on whether [a] character either does or does not possess certain traits, but on the degree to which a character possesses those traits� (Myth 2). A better way to think of them is as characters who employ certain narrative devices, many of which have previously been grouped into one genre or another.
They even overlap. If we limit ourselves to just superhero, sci-fi hero, and fantasy hero, then Neo, as I previously mentioned, seems to take a least some small part in all three. But if we acknowledge the Chinese generic hero of wuxia film (�flying people�), then his ostensibly superheroic powers reveal themselves as part of a cluster of narrative conventions that fall under that distinctly Asian genre.
Narrative conventions don�t belong to genres; genres are labels we invented to organise narrative conventions. Those organising terms then change from descriptive to proscriptive through the reification of those (newly-minted) genres such that we can start to talk about a character �violating� or �revising� the conventions. That can happen only once we�ve agreed on what those conventions were in the first place.
Posted by orion at April 1, 2006 5:09 PM