I have loved superheroes since I was little. I have a memory of finding a length of yarn at my grandma's house and begging my mom to tie it around my wrist so that I could have a spider web shooting out of it. If I recall correctly, I was bothered that she put it in a cute little bow, and the length left over wasn't as long as I had hoped, but I do know that I ran around, pretending to attach the excess yarn to the walls and swinging through my grandmother's home.
In the sixth grade, my world completely changed and Spider-Man, the cartoon show, debuted. And, just like that, I was hooked. (I would say "I was caught in the web from then on," but that would be cliched and too much of a dad pun, so I'll leave it at "hooked".)
The vast majority of my childhood--including up through my early college days--found me reading Spider-Man novels* (I still have them, and they fill up an entire bookshelf on their own) or writing and drawing my own Spider-Man fan-fic comics. In fact, I would take the paper from the old dot-matrix printer and, preserving the perforated part on the left hand side of the sheet, use that as my comic book pages. That allowed me to easily insert them into brad-lined folders for carting around.
Spider-Man in particular really resonated with me. I deeply identified with a nerdy boy who got miraculous, cool powers and was suddenly a benefit to everyone around him. I was the first part of that trope--the nerdy boy--but I could never get into the "benefit everyone" or "cool powers" category. Driving through Salt Lake City as a kid, I would fantasize what it would be like to web-sling about the (very limited) "skyscrapers" of downtown. For crying out loud, I named my first kid Peter. Obviously, Spider-Man was an important part of how I saw myself.
The first Spider-Man movie came out some months before my mission began, and I remember stumbling out of the movie theater, thrilled and dizzy with joy for what I had just experienced. Having rewatched that movie recently, I remember why it mattered so much to me--though I have to say that it wasn't as flawless as I had thought it was when I was 19.
All this is to say that, though there are bigger comic geeks out there (by a long shot), I consider myself a true fan of the medium. As I've grown older, of course, I've appreciated more complicated tales, ones with deeper messages and themes. None can touch Watchmen, which is still one of the most staggering pieces of fiction that the 20th century produced. If I pick up Watchmen, I usually can't write my own fiction for a good month or so, because I feel too inadequate.
In retrospect, I wonder if part of what I was drawn to was the contemplation of power. Alan Moore said (in an interview I'm too lazy to look up, so I'm paraphrasing) that any story of superheroes is a contemplation of power. I've started to see his point: Who can do what? Does might make right? The name of Moore's Watchmen comes from the Latin phrase "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" and it encapsulates the problem of superhuman beings. Films like The Incredibles also explore the theme, and I find it endlessly fascinating.
If Superman were real, would we be happy--or afraid? Logically, we would be the latter. But our own fetishization of power would likely put us in the former category. But maybe I'm being cynical.
Tangentially, part of the poison of a post-capitalist world is a lie that everyone buys into (pun somewhat intended): I can make it big. So many people (it seems) have become so rich! I can get that kind of wealth, fame, and, yes, power if I simply work harder, smarter, or better than the competition. But what about the kind of power that Superman wields? It is, essentially, a limitless kind of power (if you believe the analysis from the guys over at Death Battle).
But it is also unobtainable.
Most people know they can't become as rich as Bill Gates, but they like to pretend they could at least get up to, say, Mark Zuckerberg levels. Statistically, there is a chance--the odds, after all, are calculated with a one in the denominator. But the odds of being able to do what the Hulk does? Or Spider-Man? Any of the Fantastic Four? Nope. The odds aren't odds because it's a zero above that dividing line.
And that's why comics appeal to so many, so deeply. They aren't possible--but they make us think in ways that are profound and deep. The only area that plumbs similar depths would be religion, and the arguments about God can often be found in comics. But there are uncomfortable implications when looked that way--implications that don't bother us as much when they're dressed in patriotic colors and dynamic poses.
In some ways, comics appeal to me because they're a way of critiquing that which I couldn't normally approach.
And I like seeing muscles. I think they're cool.
----
* They gave me more bang-for-the-buck. I preferred them over single issues or trades; I liked having the whole story at a go, and I could never get a consistent enough flow of single issues--or money for trades--to get a full arc. That said, whenever I got a trade, I would read it repeatedly, often poring over the pictures and even trying my hand at them. Mark Bagley was my second favorite artist, only to Todd Macfarlane. I also liked Jim Lee quite a bit. *Sigh.* Aww, the nineties.
In the sixth grade, my world completely changed and Spider-Man, the cartoon show, debuted. And, just like that, I was hooked. (I would say "I was caught in the web from then on," but that would be cliched and too much of a dad pun, so I'll leave it at "hooked".)
The vast majority of my childhood--including up through my early college days--found me reading Spider-Man novels* (I still have them, and they fill up an entire bookshelf on their own) or writing and drawing my own Spider-Man fan-fic comics. In fact, I would take the paper from the old dot-matrix printer and, preserving the perforated part on the left hand side of the sheet, use that as my comic book pages. That allowed me to easily insert them into brad-lined folders for carting around.
Spider-Man in particular really resonated with me. I deeply identified with a nerdy boy who got miraculous, cool powers and was suddenly a benefit to everyone around him. I was the first part of that trope--the nerdy boy--but I could never get into the "benefit everyone" or "cool powers" category. Driving through Salt Lake City as a kid, I would fantasize what it would be like to web-sling about the (very limited) "skyscrapers" of downtown. For crying out loud, I named my first kid Peter. Obviously, Spider-Man was an important part of how I saw myself.
The first Spider-Man movie came out some months before my mission began, and I remember stumbling out of the movie theater, thrilled and dizzy with joy for what I had just experienced. Having rewatched that movie recently, I remember why it mattered so much to me--though I have to say that it wasn't as flawless as I had thought it was when I was 19.
All this is to say that, though there are bigger comic geeks out there (by a long shot), I consider myself a true fan of the medium. As I've grown older, of course, I've appreciated more complicated tales, ones with deeper messages and themes. None can touch Watchmen, which is still one of the most staggering pieces of fiction that the 20th century produced. If I pick up Watchmen, I usually can't write my own fiction for a good month or so, because I feel too inadequate.
In retrospect, I wonder if part of what I was drawn to was the contemplation of power. Alan Moore said (in an interview I'm too lazy to look up, so I'm paraphrasing) that any story of superheroes is a contemplation of power. I've started to see his point: Who can do what? Does might make right? The name of Moore's Watchmen comes from the Latin phrase "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" and it encapsulates the problem of superhuman beings. Films like The Incredibles also explore the theme, and I find it endlessly fascinating.
If Superman were real, would we be happy--or afraid? Logically, we would be the latter. But our own fetishization of power would likely put us in the former category. But maybe I'm being cynical.
Tangentially, part of the poison of a post-capitalist world is a lie that everyone buys into (pun somewhat intended): I can make it big. So many people (it seems) have become so rich! I can get that kind of wealth, fame, and, yes, power if I simply work harder, smarter, or better than the competition. But what about the kind of power that Superman wields? It is, essentially, a limitless kind of power (if you believe the analysis from the guys over at Death Battle).
But it is also unobtainable.
Most people know they can't become as rich as Bill Gates, but they like to pretend they could at least get up to, say, Mark Zuckerberg levels. Statistically, there is a chance--the odds, after all, are calculated with a one in the denominator. But the odds of being able to do what the Hulk does? Or Spider-Man? Any of the Fantastic Four? Nope. The odds aren't odds because it's a zero above that dividing line.
And that's why comics appeal to so many, so deeply. They aren't possible--but they make us think in ways that are profound and deep. The only area that plumbs similar depths would be religion, and the arguments about God can often be found in comics. But there are uncomfortable implications when looked that way--implications that don't bother us as much when they're dressed in patriotic colors and dynamic poses.
In some ways, comics appeal to me because they're a way of critiquing that which I couldn't normally approach.
And I like seeing muscles. I think they're cool.
----
* They gave me more bang-for-the-buck. I preferred them over single issues or trades; I liked having the whole story at a go, and I could never get a consistent enough flow of single issues--or money for trades--to get a full arc. That said, whenever I got a trade, I would read it repeatedly, often poring over the pictures and even trying my hand at them. Mark Bagley was my second favorite artist, only to Todd Macfarlane. I also liked Jim Lee quite a bit. *Sigh.* Aww, the nineties.
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