Supergods Telling Stories

Supergods Review

“We live in the stories we tell ourselves” (Morrison xvii).

“Are you a god?”

If you’re talking to Gozar the Gozarian, answer yes.

If Gozar questions you further, use sections of Grant Morrison’s Supergods: What Masked Vigilantes, Miraculous Mutants, and a Sun God from Smallville can Teach Us about Being Human to provide some support for your hasty apotheosis. Although be warned that the divine powers which Morrison claims humanity possess tend to be better suited for mundane matters rather than celestial fisticuffs. If you still end up in a fight with Gozar, you might want to make peace with your preferred deity. You also might want to resist the urge to think of marshmallow icons.

Supergods, like its topic, possesses a secret identity. It addresses what superheroes can teach humanity, as promised in the title, by presenting its lecture through the structure of Grant Morrison’s biography rather than a formal jargon-laden academic treatise. While perhaps not living up to all the superlatives on the back cover, the book is engaging and contains some worthwhile thought-provoking tenets on superheroes and the nature of time and reality (these are the sections where the book becomes rather odd).

The 480 page trade paperback, sporting the cover of a cut-out Batman mask sized for a shrunken head, is divided into four parts: The Golden Age, The Silver Age, The Dark Age and The Renaissance. Of the four sections, the metallic partitions give a history of comics, focusing exclusively on the superhero and contain perceptive and thoughtful readings of Action Comics #1 and Detective Comics #27 (where the Batman first appeared…in case your inner fanboy momentarily forgot the issue number), and The Fantastic Four #1. Spider-Man’s origin and Peter Parker’s woes, along with highlights from a young Grant Morrison’s life, also haunt these initial veins of the book. The two parts historiography shift almost exclusively to Grant Morrison’s personal experiences as he relays his involvement with comics and the trends of comics from the 80’s to the recent present[1]. 

Of superheroes, Morrison posits some probing ideas. He readily acknowledges the limitations and repetitions inherent in reading comic-book superhero titles, yet instead of denigrating this element of the genre, he presents the repetition as “It’s not so much that history is cyclical, it seems to progress via recursive, repeated fractal patters with minute variations” (294). While noting and accepting how ultimately, nothing major really changes in a superhero’s comic, Morrison also focuses on the limited alterations that brush characters in their books through a span of time. These momentary shifts in how a character is portrayed (like when Batman was paralyzed, or campy, or grim, or insane) Morrison suggests can be used as a sign of the anxieties and desires of the society that rendered this version of the superhero. Some variations in the Superman stories also adhere to this pattern; Morrison notes how in the late fifties “The socialist power fantasies, the jingoistic propaganda and gimmick adventures, gave way to cataclysmic tales of love and loss, guilt, grief, friendship, judgment, terror, and redemption, biblical in their scale and primal purity” (63). Morrison describes a later depiction of Superman as “Freed of the baggage of the past, eighties Superman was no longer your dad but your big sister’s horny beefcake boyfriend. He snarled and got torn up a little” (215). This consideration of subtle changes helps guide a reader to become a closer reader of superhero comics, or at least to start asking questions of why certain elements of a hero’s mythos are given greater emphasis while the hero’s core identity remains intact. Morrison’s positive focus on one of the often lamented aspect of superhero books (nothing changes) serves as a refreshing response, and nudges comic-book superheroes close to the pantheon of ancient gods. Myths of the ancient Greek gods (and the stories of Buddha, Shiva, Krishna, Jesus, Mohammad, God, Gozar the Gozarian, and others) don’t regularly change on a monthly, annually, centennially, or millennially schedule, so if the superhero is viewed as a society’s mythology, why should readers expect the tales of superheroes to contain continual metamorphoses?

Morrison asserts superhero comics provide more than just escapist fantasy[2]. They have some important work to do for humanity that goes beyond killing some time with pretty colors; “It was time they [superheroes] got their act together and gave us something to look up to” (294).

That “something” Morrison wants superheroes to model are stories that “…emphasize our [humanity’s] glory, intelligence, grace, generosity, discrimination, honesty, capacity for love,  creativity, and native genius, those qualities will be made manifest in our behavior and in our works. It should give us hope that superhero stories are flourishing everywhere because they are a bright flickering sign of our need to move on, imagine the better, the more just, and more proactive people we can be” (414). 

Before engaging in a Lex-Luthor sneer and cynical roll of the eyes in regards to the previous quote, consider the findings reported in The Boston Globe’s article “Why Fiction is Good for You.” The article notes the metamorphisizing power of a good story: 

“This research consistently shows that fiction does mold us.…We are moved emotionally, and this seems to make us rubbery and easy to shape.…Fiction is often treated like a mere frill in human life, if not something worse. But the emerging science of story suggests that fiction is good for more than kicks. By enhancing empathy, fiction reduces social friction. At the same time, story exerts a kind of magnetic force, drawing us together around common values. In other words, most fiction, even the trashy stuff, appears to be in the public interest after all.”

Morrison’s view on heroes, giving them both the role to mirror society and to model a superior society through encouraging and empowering readers fits current studies in fiction. And while the static elements of superhero comics often become vexing, Morrison’s work reminds readers that there are variations (if only momentary) and creativity that occur within the boundaries and parameters of a superhero’s chronicle. For a subgenre of comics so often targeted for jokes and derision, these stories transcend the immediate plot and empower readers an opportunity to contemplate their society and adjust their views and behaviors so their souls can soar up up and away.

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[1] Somehow I missed reading Grant Morrison during my initial deluge of comic books during the late eighties and early nineties. When beginning to read I was a Marvelite feeding heavily on superhero fare (Thor, Ghost Rider, Punisher, X-Men, Namor, and (yes, although I cringe to admit it) even Alf). Obviously my reading sensitivity and interest in comics weren’t up to the antics in Grant Morrison’s writing. After a bowing out and return to comics a dozen years later, I somehow again missed his work. From the ideas and explanations in Supergods (and thanks to my comic store’s stock of collected trades) I’ve been reading his work on Doom Patrol while eagerly awaiting All-Star Superman. Surely an author’s book that causes a reader to buy more of that author’s work has to count as some sort of literary success…or an unique form of printed mind control….

[2] Continually I ask myself why I read comics, especially superhero comics. While at times, elements of escapism and nostalgia tinge my reading of the panels, more often it’s the generation of a sense of wonder and imagination comics (especially superhero and science comics…for me anyway) provide. Comics are crucibles of creativity, banes to the mundane and routers of soul-wearying routines. They contain sparks of the sublime. Comic books stand as pulp pills for astonishment.