Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

Why does the form taken by a universe-altering crossover event matter? From a distance, of course, this does not matter at all.  We are talking about the periodic reshuffling of the worlds of corporate superhero comics.  But if we want to consider the workings of the corporate superhero comic as a set of texts at the intersection of art, commerce, and ethics, the signal failure of Flashpoint to meet the minimal threshold of a line-wide rebooting story reveals the underlying structure of such events, as well as providing important clues to the way the genre works as a whole.

The heroes' active, conscious involvement in the line-wide reboot demonstrates the fractal nature of the corporate superhero universe, transposing the fundamental ethical concern of the superhero genre--who should intervene in a crisis, and when--to the levels of continuity, fictional self-referentiality, and the roles of creators, readers, and editors. 

The superhero genre's built-in bias for action and intervention is so obvious that, most of the time, it hardly seems worth mentioning.  So many of the catchphrases developed by both Marvel and DC are precisely about the need to act:  "This looks like a job for Superman!";  "It's clobberin' time!" . This is not even counting the numerous calls to arms associated with so many heroes and teams, the less-than-edifying "Hulk smash!" and the oath recited by members of the Green Lantern Corps [1].  While these catchphrases are not the exclusive property of the Big Two superheroes (as attested by anyone humming the Mighty Mouse theme song, "Here I come to save the day"), they are nearly all declarations of intended actions. Again, this is no surprise: there is a reason DC's longest-running title is not called "Inaction Comics."

The emphasis on intervention is given a moral foundation by comics' most explicitly philosophical motto: "With great power comes great responsibility." Originally the closing line in Stan Lee's narrative captions to Spider-Man's first appearance in Amazing Fantasy 15, this adage about power and responsibility migrated throughout Spider-Man-related media until it eventually became retconned as a nugget of wisdom imparted to Peter Parker by his Uncle Ben. Once it was included as part of Uncle Ben's dialogue in the 2002 Spider-Man film, the phrase became a part of pop cultural history.  It is also the most explicit corporate superhero mission statement ever to achieve such indisputable memetic success.  The very existence of superpowers compels their bearer to put on a costume and either fight crime or commit crime.

You and me both, Doc

Only occasionally do the ethics of choosing to be a superhero become part of the story before the 1980s, when comics such as Watchmen and The Dark Knight Returns call the very idea of vigilantism into question at the same time that they (along with Art Spiegelman's Maus, whose origins and status are far from the industry of mainstream comics) manage to draw sustained public attention to comics as a mature art form for the first time in American history. That same decade is, not entirely coincidentally, when crises and reboots become a standard part of the corporate comics repertoire. 

If, as I have argued elsewhere, Marvel Comics in the 1960s was dominated by the ethos of pop science fictional humanism (exploring the nonhuman or superhuman in order to extoll the virtues of humanity), and in the 1970s, by both an emphasis on subjectivity (the characters' inner lives) and transcendence (the superhero story as the vehicle for spiritual growth), in the 1980s, both Marvel and DC move in a direction that combines continuity-obsessed solipsism with an interrogation of the ethics of intervention.

Both superhero vigilantism and continuity revisionism take a functional or utilitarian approach to the problems they pose.  Vigilantism flaunts its impatience with social and legal institutions that are inadequate in the face of crime and corruption; what on the surface is mere escapism and wish-fulfillment ("Let's beat up the bad guys!") is implicated in a politics that readers might not as readily accept in the "real world."  Continuity revisionism implicitly declares the current narrative status quo irreparable within the existing framework: Something Must Be Done. The incompatibility of superhero vigilantism with the niceties of liberal, procedural democracy shares with continuity revisionism a frustration with the temporality of the world as it exists.  Both are predicated on the wish to cut to the chase and get a desire result.

They also share a complicated attitude towards agency and consequence. The superhero vigilante lays claim to an agency that has no clear external source, while the downstream ramifications of the vigilante's unilateral actions are only occasional explored, and usually within the context of a "mature" reexamination of the superhero idea. At the same time, superheroes have long been subject to the leftist critique that, even as they undermine institutions by acting outside of them, ultimately the entire point of all their efforts is to maintain the liberal capitalist status quo.  Why, after all, should we really care if a bank is robbed?

Continuity revisionism makes the superhero's dedication to maintaining the existing order both literal and metaphysical.  They are trying to stop something or someone from rewriting the rules and history of the world in which they live.  There is, however, a crucial distinction:  the ordinary superhero story nearly always ends in success, but the whole point of a continuity-revising event is to have the superhero fail.  Yes, they defeat the villain, and yes, they ensure that there is a universe (or multiverse) to protect once the adventure is done, but the cosmos they have known has been fundamentally altered.

Who is responsible for this alteration?  Here we come back to the multiple roles of readers, creators, and editors.  In most cases, the creators and editors began their relationship with comics as readers; this is one of the factors that helps maintain fandom.  The industry is filled with former fans, who, if they might no longer speak exactly the same language as current fans, are proficient enough to code switch.  Yet despite their common roots, readers, creators, and editors do not form a harmonious triad; if anything, their relationship is inherently antagonistic.  Some of this is an inevitable consequence of serialized narrative in any medium. For the story to continue to be viable, the storyteller has to succeed in intriguing the reader while failing to completely satisfy. The readers' frustration is not just a by-product; it is built-in part of the product they have chosen to consume.

Note

[1] "Avengers, Assemble!" "Titans Together!" "Teen Titans, Go!" "To me, my X-Men!" "Long Live the Legion!"  When Green Lanterns charge their rings, they recite the oath "In brightest day/In blackest night/ No evil shall escape my sight/Let those who worship evil's might/ Beware my power/Green Lantern's Light!"

Next: This Looks Like a Job for...the Editor!