Lang, Jeffrey S. & Patrick Trimble. �Whatever Happened To The Man Of Tomorrow? An Examination Of The American Monomyth And The Comic Book Superhero.� JofPC. 22:3 (Winter 1988).
Lang and Trimble lay out a timeline of the development of the superhero as an exemplar of the American monomyth. The conclusion is that the monomyth changes over time; it�s only �universal� at a given moment in history. On the face of it, that claim is both eminently logical and completely contradictory, but that paradox is, or at least should be, the point of any discussion of so-called �monomyths.�
I have read �around� the monomyth concept only, so these are preliminary thoughts, but the basic concept seems a little odd to me. Perhaps the oddness I sense is my own resistance to the Structuralist desire to find unity in cultural products, instead of a Post-Structuralist desire to display fragmentation, but the very idea that there�s just one myth that applies to everything seems silly, and though this paper uses the monomyth concept, I think it conceptually argues that that monomyth can�t exist, though it doesn�t come out and say it, as such.
The basic monomyth originates with Campbell�s Hero with a 1,000 Faces, which I haven�t read yet, but I�m familiar with the basic �heroes� journey� concept: separation, initiation, and return. The monomyth itself is supposedly so widely spread that we can apply it to any vaguely adventure-like story, in any culture, geographically or historically. However, Robert Jewett and Shelton Lawrence propose in The American Monomyth that the US has a different monomyth, which is slightly different from �the� monomyth.
The main difference, according to Lang and Trimble is �the difference between rites of initiation (the classical monomyth) and tales of redemption (the American monomyth). The American monomyth secularizes Judeo-Christian ideals by combining the selfless individual who sacrifices himself for others and the zealous crusader who destroys evil. This supersavior replaces the Christ figure [�]� (158), and Superman is a great example. The connection between Superman and Jesus, or perhaps a more generic Judaic messiah figure, is a matter of long-standing discussion. He descends from Heaven and uses his miraculous powers to save us from ourselves. He experiences a virgin birth from his space ship and is adopted by a pair of salt-of-the-Earth, mortal human beings. The Kryptonian name �Kal-El� even uses the Hebrew suffice �-el� meaning (roughly) �blessed� or �of Heaven� that is attached to the names of angels, like �Michael� or �Gabriel.�
The paper cites several connections between the American monomyth and the generic features of superheroes, and in this aspect it�s particularly useful. American monomythic heroes rise �from the masses into the light of individual success [and become] the beacon for others to follow� (159). Historically, they are typically �individuals struggling with the physical limitation of science and mechanization, their sleeves rolled up, confronting a difficulty that sat immediately before them� (159). They were �almost anti-intellectual� (159) and �relied on instincts� (159) instead of the technology that was rapidly overtaking faith in American culture. Jewett and Lawrence specifically note that they are �aided by fate� (qtd. in Lang and Trimble 158), which implies, logically, that they don�t employ complex, learned skills to defeat �evil,� and ar, instead, simply favoured by God.
Finally, their defeat of �evil� becomes a kind of redemption, what �Richard Slotkin calls [�] the myth of regeneration through violence [�] which originated in Puritan colonists� tales of Indian wars. Through killing the pagan Indians, the colonists made the frontier safer for virtuous white Christians� (166), and �depicted violence as the means both of cleansing the wilderness and regenerating true faith in the believing community� (Slotkin qtd. in Lang and Trimble 166). According to Lang and Trimble again, �The message was clear: as Americans, everyone has these innate characteristics and can also achieve social success� (159).
The most interesting aspect of the monomyth, though, is the implied conceptual work that has to have been done in order to arrive at it as a concept. The paper hints at this pre-textual thinking, but never comes out and says it, as such. It states that �Daniel Waldon writes that cultures choose heroes as an indication of their national character� (159). Just previous to that statement, the paper runs through the differences between the monomyth and the American monomyth, and concludes that �it is logical to assume the American monomythic hero is different from the heroes of other cultures� (158). I cannot read the minds of Lang and Trimble, of course, but all indications are that they�re unwittingly accurate in this set of statements. What I mean by that is simple but hard to describe.
Logically, there should be only one �monomyth.� That�s the point of the thing. It applies to all stories of a certain kind. However, the very existence of the proposed American version blows that universality to bits. If the American version is demonstrably different, then there�s really no such thing as a �monomyth� at all. We can resolve that contradiction fairly easily if we overhaul the whole concept and conclude, as Walden apparently does, that cultures have different kinds of hero characters. However, the combination of the universal and the nationally specific has its own kinds of illogical, but oddly accurate implications.
Essentially, the American monomyth claims both universality, through Campbell�s concept of it, and national and historical uniqueness at the same time. �I�m special and I�m universal,� the American monomyth claims, which is really nothing new in the history of Western thought. The faulty universal fills our philosophy, claiming that �everyone� has this or that �nature.� If that �nature� is, in fact, specific to one gender, one culture, one language, one mode of thought (like reason or rationalism), or one religion, for example, then the logical consequence is that anyone who does not share that nature also does not belong to the supposedly expansive category of �everyone.� If �male� is the faulty universal gender, then �female� is synonymous with �inhuman,� much like �pagan�, �pervert,� or �savage� is. Literally, those words denote �not Christian,� �not bound by sexual taboo,� and �not belonging to my culture,� respectively, but they connote inferiority.
It should come as no surprise, then, that the American mindset produces a theory of an �American monomyth� that valorises individualism, personal success through the intervention of fate, and the redemptive power of violence. It should also come as no surprise that this theorisation claims to be unique on the back of a supposedly universal theoretical concept, the monomyth. The American monomyth describes a narrative convention of uniqueness and exclusion, and also claims to be unique and exclusive. The theoretical construction of the myth reflects that which it mythologizes.
The rest of the paper is a lucid description of the changes that the American monomyth has undergone, specifically in Superhero narratives. They are initially icons who have �no sexual contact with mortals� (162) and live in repetitious, cyclical, serialised storytelling, making it �possible for the superhero to move from adventure to adventure without the restrictions of normal social relationships� (162). Characters like Superman and Captain America represent that formula perfectly. They receive their powers almost instantly and need to learn nothing new nor alter their strategy from one story to another. Punching the always-recognisable �bad guy� will do.
But when American culture changes, post-WWII, the heroes need to change, too. The Stan Lee/Marvel revolution produces superheroes who are filled with self-doubt, dislike violence, and who are often downright dysfunctional, like Spider-man or the Fantastic Four. Captain America is literally thawed from a block of ice that survived the war, and goes from �World War II Nazi fighter� to �na�ve stranger in a morally-ambiguous world.� The paper�s ultimate conclusion is that the American monomyth moves from a simple, static icon of universal values to a fluid, ambiguous hero who is willing to question his own morality (or even, presumably, to be a �she�!).
Lang and Trimble claim that �as the culture has grown and changed, the myth has changed� (169-170), which necessarily implies, perhaps a bit slyly on their parts, that there is no such thing as a �monomyth,� a universal hero�s cycle that represents eternal values. Instead, every heroic myth changes with the times in order to create the illusion of universality and immortality.
Parkin, Lance. Alan Moore. Herts, UK: Pocket Essentials. 2001.
I�m starting to find non-academic books oddly fascinating because their methodology is totally, completely different than ours, and I say that even knowing that �ours� consists of probably hundreds of variations.
What�s really interesting is to start to look at what the non-academic method is, because there is certainly a method, and a method that, I suspect, professional writers would be quite conscious of, because their job, often as not, is to stick to the format, as opposed to academics, at least post-X academics (post-modern, post-structural, post-colonial, etc.), who often take it as their job to deconstruct the format.
But I digress.
Parkin�s book takes the most basic, simple approach to explaining Alan Moore�s body of work: chronological and biographical. Details about his writing (the British Years, the DC Comics years, etc.) are listed alongside, even in the same sentence as, details about his life (the birth of his daughter, his three-way relationship in the 80s). More to the point, his biographical details are often cited or implied to be the impetus for his artistic decisions: �Having severed his ties with DC [Comics], Moore announced that, along with his wife Phyllis and their mutual lover, Deborah Delano, he was setting up Mad Love, and imprint that would publish his own work� (46). And it should come as no surprise that a book preoccupied with biography also consistently invokes artistic intent and control. The highest praise Parkin gives to Moore (and boy howdy does he ever praise him!) is to say that while writing Watchmen �Moore is clearly in complete command of the medium [�]� (41).
I don�t point out this causal relationship in order to deny that Moore�s life affected his work. I�m still not exactly sure where I stand on biography, though I�m far more certain of where I stand on authorial intent (i.e., who cares?). My point is, like Bender�s The Sandman Companion, this book doesn�t make a clear distinction between the artist and the art, and what academics might call the lack of distinction seems to be one of the major features of non-academic criticism. I don�t claim to be the first to point this out, obviously. Barthes pointed it out in �68 with �The Death of the Author.� By declaring the author dead he logically implied that there was one beforehand, and that author, in his deconstruction, is implied to have certain god-like qualities. The author-god takes on what Althusser might call the Subject (capital �S�) to which all other subjects (lower-case �s�) are subjected. Despite Barthes (and Althusser, and Foucault, and etc.), the author-god, the Subject, is still largely considered to be the focal point of the reading experience, and not the text, therefore, non-academic work on art tends to blur the lines between the two, present the art as if it�s a direct conduit into the artist�s mind, or soul, or whatever.
There is a bitter irony, here, in the history of comics. Fighting for attribution has been a long-standing part of the artist�s rights movements in comics. Siegel and Shuster, Superman�s creators, didn�t get an attribution in DC�s Superman titles (Action Comics, Superman, and Adventures of Superman) until the monumental success of the Warner Brothers� films in the late 70s were used as a way to pressure DC into it, and that was after literally decades of court battles between the co-creators and DC. There were, of course, many who were known quantities as early as Will Eisner, who always signed his work, and of course famous creators like Carmine Infantino, Stan Lee, Mike Sterenko, Dennie O�Neil, the list goes on.
That said, mainstream American comics (primarily, superheroes) have traditionally been character-based, not artist-based. A reader identifies as a Superman fan, or a Batman fan, or even an �X-Fan� (but only in the early 90s when Chris Claremont could supposedly do no wrong� what were we thinking?). That model changes in the 80s and 90s with people like Frank Miller and, of course, Alan Moore, and the fact that their names sold books, as opposed to the names of the characters that are in those books. As I�ve said more than once before, The Dark Knight Returns and Watchmen are probably the two most famous superhero comics ever written (famous within the subculture of superhero comics readers, that is; the most famous American comicbook of that era is probably Speigelman�s Maus).
So we moved from a predominantly text-centered model, in which readers followed certain characters, or groups, or even �universes� (the DC universe, the Marvel universe, the Shazam! universe, etc.), to a predominantly artist-centered model, in which readers followed certain creators, mostly writers, like Moore, Miller, or [excuse me while I suppress a dry heave] Todd McFarlane. I suppose it should come as no surprise, really, that for comics to even start to be accepted as a form capable of supporting �real art,� it has to be treated the same way that �real art� is treated, and the dominant model for �real art� is artist-centered.
All hail the author-god. He might just reign ever-lasting.
Every so often I have a little brainwave about the dissertation, what it'll look like, how it'll function, stuff like that. I don't really know what it's about yet, other than Moore, Ellis, Gaiman, and how metatextual they are ("Telling Stories About Storytelling"), but I've just been reading some of Ellis' net-based work, which is abundantly available at all times, and I've had an idea. The idea is fairly simple, but it's a good idea, so I feel the need to express it in a public forum.
Form should follow from function, and my function is not just communication, but symbolic action. It shouldn't just say something, but also do something. I'm really not sure what it's going to say, yet, but by looking at what I want it to do, I can put myself one step forward on the path toward actually writing the bloody thing.
So here's the punch line: each section will structurally reflect the subject of that section, which in my case is a particular author and/or the style that author employs. For Ellis and Gaiman, the appropriate structure is pretty self-evident.
Ellis is all about conceptual hyperlinking, lateral connections, and observing society as it exists (for lack of a better term) 'at street level.' Talking about his work should, then, consist of constant cross reference, quotation of his many and various outlets on-line (www.warrenellis.com, The Engine, his MySpace page, the Bad Signal email-outs, and on and on it goes). His thoughts and art become a mass of lateral references. He references himself, cross ways, and he constantly references other things he's seen on-line. His most recent Ministry column (careful, that link will only last so long before it refers to #7, not #6) pauses briefly over the idea of embedding URLs into comics so that the reader can flip to a Wiki entry for background information.
By the exact same logic, the section on Gaiman should employ, not hyperlink, but allusion and quotation. Gaiman, and I say this with love in my heart, is a Shakespeare nut. He wouldn't have written two issues of Sandman based on A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Tempest, respectively, if he weren't. His section should reflect a baroque feel, a narratively rich sense of unity in allusion and literary reference. It will, like Sandman all seem to add up to something, even if that something is diffuse, multi-faceted, and in fact doesn't contain just one eventual thesis.
So, whereas Ellis is an intellectual Frankenstein�s monster, Gaiman is a Renaissance man. One is fragmentary, but adds up to a whole that is arguably greater than the sum of its parts; the other is unified, but contains within it a labyrinth of ideas and images, not all of which are directly mutually supporting.
I have no idea what style Moore's section should be in. Perhaps I'll just glue a bunch of hair to the page or staple in some Tarot cards.
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.