Inside Out

What, then, were the main contributions of the Claremont and his collaborators' work on the X-Men during the 1980s?  Certainly, the series is focused on pain, both physical and psychological.  The frequent costume changes involving leather teddies, spikes, and dog collars introduce an element of bondage and discipline erotica that is hard to deny, but the connections between "bad girl" accessories and the emotional torment of the women who wear them point in a different direction. There is a voyeuristic element that functions on multiple levels, with Claremont exploiting both the inherent features of the comics form and the undeniable predilection for kink that is evident throughout his work. There is an appealing unity between form and content, external presentation and subjective experience, costume and selfhood.  These women's inner states are literally inscribed on the increasingly over-the-top outfits that their artists clothe them in.  Yes, their spandex outfits and accessories evoke both S&M and B&D, but perhaps Claremont's X-Men is not so much bondage porn as it is trauma porn.

Great moments in kink: two minor white characters, who had already been magically transformed into Native Americans, now with fetish gear

I use the term "porn" advisedly, because it is as provocative as it is appropriate.  "Trauma porn" is a derogatory term for entertainments that invite a voyeuristic enjoyment of the characters' suffering and humiliation, and the use of the phrase argues that the storytelling is less about a profound exploration of human hardship than it is about an exploitation of the audience's choice or compulsion to not look away.  In the best traditions of melodrama, Claremont keeps his readers hooked through an unrelenting exploration of his characters' pain.  Superheroes (especially Marvel superheroes) had suffered before; look no further than Spider-Man, who spend most of the sixties and seventies as an anxious, neurotic mess.  On the whole, however, superheroes' emotional states tended to be reset to their default after a few issues.

This was not the case with Claremont's X-Men.  His virtually uninterrupted seventeen-year tenure on the book meant that new writers weren't pressing the reset button whenever they were brought on board.  Claremont's readers often focus on his tendency to let subplots simmer for years on end, sometimes with little or no resolution, but his real innovation was less about plot than it was about character.  Claremont's approach was all about continuity, both his own (the opportunity to play the long game) and the comic's, but for him, continuity was an opportunity to explore emotional and psychological consequences.  Trauma was not a substitute for character development, but a springboard for the extended examination of his heroes' emotional travails.  His rescue of Carol Danvers from her misogynist send-off in The Avengers was emblematic of the difference between Claremont and so many of his colleagues.  Where Shooter, et al, barely acknowledged the damage Carol suffered at Marcus' hands, Claremont demanded a reckoning.  Claremont's "strong women" were more than simply a fantasy of (literal) female empowerment; they faced science-fictional, superheroic analogs to the abuse women confront every day, and they persevered.  There is no doubt a voyeuristic element to the extended depictions of these women's suffering, but Claremont established his own "heroine's journey," extending through victimhood to an eventual triumph. Even accounting for the occasional death and resurrection, the women of X-Men always survived the experience.

Next:

Chapter Four: Grace Notes: The Early Comics of J.M. DeMatteis