Those wearing the mantle of heroism have taken a lot of hits lately. Lance Armstrong crashed on his bicycle in the Tour de France yesterday. As with so many other star athletes-Barry Bonds, Marion Jones, Tim Montgomery among them--his reputation has also been clouded by accusations of drug use. Despite the plucky courage of Pfc. Jessica Lynch, Iraq has seen an upsurge in goats, ranging from Lynndie England of Abu Ghraib notoriety all the way up to Lt. General Ricardo Sanchez, who has been accused of authorizing obscene brutalities from the very top. Farenheit 9/11 gave us the image of a dazed looking president Bush in a Florida classroom-or was that a mask disguising his steely resolve to patiently wait for instructions from Dick Cheney?
Sometimes our blockbuster entertainments open a window on the perpetual search for national heroes. I recall a jarring moment in the summer of 2002 when I saw the year's most popular movie, Spider-Man. It contained a New York fire scene in which our hero confronts cravenly fearful firemen and hostile police who want to arrest him--rather than permit his rescue of a child in a burning apartment building. He ignores the perverse cowardice of New York's Worst, and then escapes after fetching the baby. In this familiar riff on the superhero tradition, the innocent savior operates outside the law and in defiance of uniformed public servants.
The incident, which seemed insulting while the ruins were still being carted away from the World Trade Center, escaped remark by enthusiastic film critics. It struck against my hope that 9/11's ordinary heroism had helped the nation grow in its taste for stories to tell the next generation.
In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, I had been impressed with the compassionate creativity that flowed in the comics: the fantasy world of superhero rescue and triumph momentarily went into corporate mourning. Marvel Comics ran a special issue called Heroes on the real world disaster personnel that declared, "They can't stick to walls/They can't summon thunder/They can't fly/They're just HEROES." They followed with another magazine called Moment of Silence. Humbly contrasting the actions of "brightly clad superheroes" with those of rescue workers, police, and firefighters, Marvel "found that real world heroes went beyond the ideals of our imagination." The stories framed by this confession were wordless tributes to courageous individuals whose actions had limited the disasters of 9/11.
Marvel also released an eloquent Amazing Spider-Man #36 (contained in The Best of Spider-Man, Vol. 1, 2001) in which the sticky savior must helplessly view the WTC's smoldering ruins and face citizens who complain, "Where were you?!" "How could you let this happen?" Spidey admits that he had failed to imagine, that he has no answers. Framed by this embarrassing concession and the irrelevance of the superhero pose, #36 celebrates the courage, the compassion and sacrifice of ordinary human beings at the WTC and on Flight 93.
The independent comics creators also produced a remarkable fund raising book for the Red Cross called 9/11 Emergency Relief (2001). Each set of panels offered a perspective on the tragic events. One artist, obviously lacking a stake in the crusader franchises, depicts merchandisers gathering to ask, "How about a poster of a superhero with a tear on his cheek?" In another story, someone grouses, "Where are our Super-Heroes when you need them?" and answers his own question by recognizing the heroism of a nearby fireman.
Were these were the early signs of a decaying superhero tradition? Would our culture pay less homage to these fantasy characters who are too righteous to accept the roles of fully identifiable democratic citizens who vote, pay taxes, and run for office?
One answer came from Marvel when it got back to fantasy-as-usual in releasing a new series, The Call of Duty: The Brotherhood (2002) that features FDNY personnel. Its disdain for the ordinary powers that underlie all our essential city functions is already painfully evident, as one firefighter says to another, "Are you telling me you wouldn't want to be a superhero if there was a way?" His FDNY companion answers: "Mick, I am a superhero. I'm a New York City Fireman." Myth trumps history here, even when less than a year has lapsed since the greatest feats of ordinary heroism in America.
In our popular culture, the lens craves an individual human face that can become a bankable celebrity. It celebrates Lone Rangers rather than groups with connect-the-dots intelligence required for democratic decision-making and administration. In telling stories to amuse and inspire ourselves, shouldn't we remember the lessons about the ordinary capacity for heroism we learned in the wake of 9/11? The answer to my rhetorical question, of course, is "yes." American culture's answer, judging from the enthusiasm for Spider-Man and Spider-Man II, is "hell no!"
Spider-Man, vintage 2004, remains a superhero, but he is one more deeply torn between craving for intimacy and his continuing sense that he must remain a disguised outsider so that he can continue to rescue New York City from evil predators. Peter Parker craves Mary Jane's body and soul but realizes that love given to her saps the sticky powers that could otherwise save the city. Ever since Superman II (1980) we have known how debilitating coitus is for the superhero. In that film, Superman takes Lois to the Fortress of Solitude for love-making and discovers immediately afterward that a mere truck driver can punch him into disabling pain. He feels so ashamed that he later flies an American flag to the White House-which has been invaded during his private life as a lover, and sheepishly says to the president, "Sorry I have been away so long. I won't let it happen again."
So, for drama that Americans can get really excited about in the sumer of 2004, Peter Parker struggles with his troublesome sex-drenched identity. And Spider-Man once again highlights the incompetence of New York's uniformed personnel. When he goes into his "slump" of being a mere physics student and an ardent pursuer of Mary Jane, the newspapers tell us that crime is up 75% since Spider-Man has retired. The current Spider-Man does offer a gesture of respect for ordinary heroism in a scene where subway passengers assist the struggling superhero. But in the end, his secret identity and full powers as superhero are needed to rescue New York from the grip of Doc Ock.
Where do we stand then in the summer of 2004? In the last month our president has been deconstructed on Michael Moore's screen as a frightened servant of powers that do not care about our national interests. Spider-Man, apparently the star of the year in the marketplace for heroes, can at best offer comic book versions of social and political reality. It appears that saving democracy is a job for the rest of us-just the way it was meant to be before the imperial presidency and the ascent of the comic book heroes.
Postscript: No sooner had I posted this, than my friend Rex Stetson reported in his own take on Spider-Man II, which he argues persuasively is a kind of "national Rorschach." He has pulled together some conflicting intepretations that make his case. See http://www.rexstetson.blogspot.com/.
John Shelton Lawrence, a friend of Robert Silvey, lives in Berkeley, CA. With Robert Jewett he is author of The Myth of the American Superhero (2002) and Captain America and the Crusade Against Evil (2003). The website www.americansuperhero.com links up with discussions of their work on the superhero theme in American culture.
