Retroactive Continuity: The LEGO Batman Movie

Near Apocalpyse of '09 Logo

Sorry this didn’t go up yesterday. I just plain forgot to queue it.

Seeing as we are in the midst of Superman: The Animated Series, which at least in its first season positions itself as a lighter alternative to the (relative) darkness of Batman: The Animated Series, let’s talk about another work that functions as a lighter alternative to a dark take on Batman: The LEGO Batman Movie.Much like BTAS (the existence of which it largely ignores), LEGO Batman positions itself as a hybridization of and successor to multiple past interpretations of Batman, declaring this most openly in an early scene where Alfred calls Batman out on numerous past phases of brooding and loneliness, with direct visual references accompanying the release dates of Batman v Superman, The Dark Knight Returns, The Dark Knight, Batman Begins, Batman and Robin, Batman Forever, Batman Returns, the Tim Burton Batman, and the 1966 Batman. However, it is not only a distillation of live-action versions of Batman: obviously, the film itself is a spinoff of The LEGO Movie, in which Batman appeared as a secondary character, and there are references to several goofy Golden Age villains, so comics and animation are included as well.

As a comedy, however, it is the ’66 Batman which is the most obvious predecessor, and both take essentially the same route to achieving their humor, focusing on Batman as a fundamentally ridiculous concept treated as such by the story, but regarded with unwavering seriousness by the characters. In much the same way that the ’66 Batman film uses this approach to mock institutional authority, especially the police, LEGO Batman uses it to mock toxic, fragile masculinity, and particularly the “angsty, badass loner” character type.

The groundwork for this was already laid in The LEGO Movie, where gags like Batman’s declaration “I only work in black, and very dark grays” (referring to building things out of LEGO) or his songs (“Darkness! No parents!”) laughed at the degree of self-conscious cool (a contradiction in terms) implicit in “darker” depictions of Batman. LEGO Batman, however, takes this beyond a joke, and actually applies a degree of psychological realism to it. Batman is, as we have observed many times, a child’s protector fantasy; what LEGO Batman does is show, again and again, what it is that it’s protecting him from: human connection.

This is where the fragility and toxicity of masculinity meet. Batman says it himself: he has no emotions other than anger (that he is willing to admit to). All other expression is denied, because masculinity is so easily lost: to cry, to express empathy, to do anything associated with stereotypes of women (especially anything which might imply sexual or romantic interest in men), is to lose one’s man card. Masculinity is hegemony; to be anything less than supremely powerful, the untouchable lord of the city who is better than everyone than everything, is to cease to be a man, and therefore to cease to be Batman. Vulnerability, by contrast, is weakness, and therefore any need or desire for help or support, anything other than the grim exercise of power, is emasculating. And so, in his constant desperate attempts to protect his masculinity, Batman hurts everyone around him: telling Alfred he’s not a father figure, telling the Joker he doesn’t need him, exploiting Robin, ignoring, minimizing, and actively disrupting the work of Barbara Gordon. Hegemony leads to fragility, which leads to toxicity.

But the film does not stop there; it digs deeper to get at the real source of these behaviors: fear. Batman positions his behavior as ultra-masculine, but in reality that’s an excuse to push people away, which (as Alfred observes early in the film) he does because he’s so afraid of losing someone he loves that he refuses to love anyone. This is a very common behavior in those who have experienced loss, especially people who lost a parent at a young age. One becomes hyperaware that all relationships have a deadline, frequently literally: every relationship, of every kind, is absolutely guaranteed to end. You will lose everyone you care about, whether to death, gradual drifting apart, or sudden schism. Probably not all at once, of course; but the fixation on that inevitable ending, and the awareness that it’s impossible to know when it will happen, makes it difficult not to treat it as having already happened. In that light, relationships become pointless exercises in unnecessary pain, and pushing people away is therefore instinctive.

Less obviously, that fixation on relationships’ endings makes it difficult to hold onto the awareness that others care; since the relationship is always ending, the positive feelings of being cared about evaporate almost immediately. Asserting–either in words as Batman does to Alfred early in the film, or through actions as when he sends the rest of the Bat Family away–that “I don’t care, and I don’t believe you do either” is a way of reconfirming that others do care, at least enough to be hurt or angry in response.

For all that he attempts to seem like the badass, angsty loner, Batman cannot ever be anything but a hurt and frightened child–and LEGO Batman portrays that fact more clearly and incisively than any other Batman film to date. In doing so, however, it becomes the first to move beyond that premise; in a precise inversion of his Mask of the Phantasm arc, this Batman grows to be part of a family, explicitly learns to let others in and keep them there. He learns to accept the possibility of loss and let go the need for control.

And yet somehow he continues to be Batman. There appears to be a contradiction here. If superheroes are defined by trauma, shouldn’t he cease to be one once he finds healing? If Batman is a child’s fears turned outwards, shouldn’t he stop being Batman once he confronts that fear?

But that’s just it: LEGO Batman was never Batman. In The LEGO Movie, the entire world, Batman included, is revealed to be the creation of a child playing with his father’s LEGO collection. In LEGO Batman, meanwhile, guns don’t have sound effects; instead, every time they’re fired, the voice actor for the character using the gun makes “pew pew” noises. Like its predecessor, LEGO Batman is a child’s game, and therefore even if Batman grows up, he remains a figure of play, a toy.

The more we try to treat Batman–who, as far as the DCAU and therefore The Near-Apocalypse of ’09 is concerned, is the ur-superhero from which all others derive–as something darkly serious, the more like a frightened child he becomes. The more we treat him like a silly toy, the more genuinely mature he can be.


Current status of the Patreon:

Retroactive Continuity: SuperZero Vol. 1

Near Apocalpyse of '09 Logo

Over the course of The Near-Apocalypse of ’09, three central concepts–pillars, if you will–have emerged. The first is heroic trauma, the idea that superheroes originate from intense personal traumas which fragment their identities, with subsequent adventures repeatedly reflecting back on their origin traumas. The second is the protector fantasy, that when we imagine superheroes, we are not imagining a more powerful version of ourselves, but rather that someone in power might care for and defend us. Finally, the third is near-apocalypse itself, that part of the role of the superhero is to defend the status quo.

Few characters exemplify these pillars as well as Dru, the main character of Amanda Conner and Jimmy Palmiotti’s SuperZero. A 19-year-old high school student (intelligent but poorly served by conventional schooling, she’s been left back multiple times) in a world devoid of superheroes, she is determined to become one, and hatches a series of increasingly elaborate plots to do so, based on the origin stories of Batman, Spider-Man, and the Fantastic Four.

Each of the pillars we’ve discussed is addressed in the early issues of SuperZero. Dru alludes to something all superheroes have in common, “that their home life isn’t great,” in converstation with her friend; using Batman as an example, she insists that his quest to avenge his parents is a superpower, “he has revenge in his blood.” Her friend, suffering from parental abuse, quietly counters that “I should be able to fly and shoot power rays already.” The link between traumatic experience and superheroes’ powers is essentially stated in the text.

Dru’s own fantasies of becoming a superhero may initially seem like power fantasies, but this is not entirely the case. Certainly they are fantasies in which she is powerful, but the comic takes pains to depict her life in ways that show what she’s really fantasizing about: she is listless and bored, underachieving and bullied, but she does nothing to change that. Instead, all of her energies go into her superhero project, which she bases on an elaborate mythology involving multiple past cycles of life on Earth, always ending with humanity self-destructing before emerging anew millions of years later. According to her, the Earth itself is sending signals into the human subconscious, trying to describe how to create a savior, and every religion contains parts of that signal, but “the most obvious thing ever created, the superheroes, well, the people that create these books have the most information.”

Just another conspiracy, except that here and there in the comic are hints that there is such a thing as the ability to subconsciously pick up subtle signals from somewhere, as when Dru’s father is somehow able to not only tell that Wax–the homeless veteran Dru hires to mug her parents in an effort to recreate Batman’s origin–is a vet, but what war he fought in, on sight, or Dru’s recurring dreams of herself as a hero dealing with an alien invasion, foreshadowing the final two issues. More importantly, this is Dru’s protector fantasy: that the world itself is watching out for her, that it will act to save her from her life. It is a power fantasy, but it is a protector fantasy as well, because she isn’t fantasizing about doing anything,  but rather that something will happen to her.

She also fantasizes about becoming the protector for others, being the savior the Earth is trying to create. To this end, she intervenes with her friend’s abusive father without consulting her friend; in real life, this is both incredibly invasive and an extremely dangerous thing to do, as there is a very high probability that the abuser will take it out on the victim. In the story, however, it works with sitcom-esque ease, ending with the father remorseful, the friend happy, and the family reconciled.

But then, that’s what superheroes do: they maintain the status quo. Getting the state’s child welfare services involved, or finding her friend a shelter, would be dramatic change, a permanent alteration of the power structures of her little world–which is to say, by talking to the father, she’s averted that local revolution, that mini-apocalypse. All this, along with her dreams, foreshadows the final issue, which is her true origin story.

Dru’s actual acquisition of superpowers brings together the three pillars. She is subjected to intense trauma–alone, helpless, betrayed by the people she thought would help her, in agony and expecting to die–which combines with and reiterates a prior trauma: the alien mentions her unusual reaction to their experiments is a result of “piperidine alkaloids” in her body. The compound being referred to is doubtlessly solenopsin, a piperidine alkaloid used as a toxin by fire ants. The table on which she’s strapped, the device scanning her, all echo the second issue, when she was bitten by fire ants while being x-rayed after being beaten by her classmates.

Faced with this experience, Dru decides to be a protector against impending apocalypse: she will destroy the alien spies and their ship, so that their species cannot use the intelligence they gathered to attack the Earth. She uses her newfound power–which even she doesn’t seem to realize she has until the last two pages, though she clearly demonstrates both superhuman strength and endurance–to protect the world, believing she is sacrificing herself in the process.

Dru is both a power fantasy and a protector fantasy; sadly there does not  appear to have been any continuation of the series published in the (as of this writing) nearly a year since the collected first volume came out, and so we are unlikely to see any exploration of how Dru would deal with the conflict between the two.


Current status of the Patreon:

  • Latest Near-Apocalypse article ($2+/mo patrons can view): Crisis on N Earths: Pokémon
  • Latest video ($5+/mo patrons can view): Vlog Review: Gravity Falls S2E19
  • Latest Milestone: $110/mo: One-time goal! Jed Plays Undertale Episode 2, in which I do a blind let’s play of the next ~40 minutes of Undertale.
  • Next Milestone: $120/mo ($10 away!): One-time goal! Jed Plays Undertale Episode 3.

Retroactive Crisis Story on Imaginary Earth Continuities: DC vs Marvel, Amalgam

Yes, you read that right. This is simultaneously a Retroactive Continuity entry, since some of what it discusses occurred outside the first year of STAS; an Imaginary Story, since it involves DCAU characters outside the DCAU; and a Crisis on N Earths, since it involves something entirely outside the DCAU or its characters.

Near Apocalpyse of '09 Logo

“Who would win?”

There is, perhaps, no question less worth asking than who “would win” in a fight between two fictional characters, for a host of reasons, starting that the question is fundamentally meaningless as it leaves out vital context: What are the victory conditions? What resources are they allowed access to–sidekicks, allies, secret lairs, equipment used in one “What If?” story 30 years ago? Where are they fighting? Why are they fighting? How well-rested are they?

Leaving out that context, however, is the point, because this question more than any other is where the juxtaposition between the collector mentality and toxic masculinity we talked about back in “The Main Man” can be found. There is no meaningful answer to the question, but for any long-running character with multiple interpretations (for example, any well-known superhero), there is an essentially endless supply of data to throw at it in pursuit of a meaningless answer.

The answer to the question is always the character for whose victory the conditions of the combat were designed, which means it’s really a question of who gets to set those conditions: who, in other words, is able to assert dominance. Generally speaking, this dominance is established by shouting increasingly obscure factoids about past stories at one another, which is to say, the contest will generally go to whoever has curated the greatest collection of such factoids.

So an entire event series built around the question (which the editors of DC vs Marvel assert it explicitly is in the second issue) of who would win in a series of fights between Marvel and DC characters seems like a terrible idea–and it is. Fortunately, even the writers of mainstream superhero comics circa 1996-7 aren’t completely incompetent, and so that declared premise is essentially abandoned a little past the halfway mark, as the event which is allowing the two “universes” to interact causes them to merge entirely–and, more importantly, causes the characters and their books to fuse. The result was a month in which “Amalgam Comics” published several #1 issues like Super-Soldier (which combined elements of Captain America and Superman), Amazon (Wonder Woman and Storm), and Dark Claw (Wolverine and Batman). In actuality, Amalgam was, as the name implies, a joint imprint, with half the comics published by DC and the other by Marvel. The next year, long after the event ended, they did it again, with significantly weirder (and, as a consequence, largely more interesting) combinations like Dark Claw Adventures (an all-ages comic spun off from the fictitious Dark Claw: The Animated Series), Lobo the Duck (Howard the Duck and Lobo, which is possibly the best combination of the lot), and Super-Soldier: Man of War (which “reprints” WWII-era Super-Soldier stories).

As a premise, there is far more to play with here. Sometimes it works: Green Skull, the villain of both Super-Soldier books, is a fantastic character, a fusion of Lex Luthor and the Red Skull into a weapons developer who tried to keep World War II running forever so he could profit off sales to both sides. Other times it doesn’t: the titular Spider-Boy combines Peter Parker’s motormouth with 90s Superboy’s insufferable “attitude” and even more insufferable jacket.

More important than what does or doesn’t work, however, is the inversion of how event comics had tended to work up to that point: as thinly veiled excuses to get characters who normally wouldn’t to punch each other. In DC vs. Marvel, the “vs” part is the thinly veiled excuse; the point of the story is a different kind of spectacle, a blurring of boundaries with the explicit goal of reassembling old elements into something new.

Much of the 90s in comics were spent catering to toxic masculinity and collectors. Characters like those in Rob Liefeld’s Youngblood–perhaps the most 90s of all 90s comics–are pure power fantasy, hence the degree to which they are essentially indistinguishable from villains. They exist to  hurt and punish, protecting no one. Meanwhile, gimmicks like zeroth issues, foil covers, and crossover events sought out a market of collectors–the former two by presenting themselves as objects which would one day be rare, the latter by presenting a challenge to the completionist urge.

DC vs. Marvel presents itself as an appeal to both impulses, being a crossover event based entirely on answering the question of “who would win,” but undermines those same impulses from the start. By making the outcomes of the battles subject to a reader vote, they denied the desire for dominance that is the root of the question. This confluence of masculinity and power is questioned in the text of the comic as well when, in one of its best moments, Wonder Woman sees Thor’s hammer, which had gone flying after Thor’s defeat of DC’s Captain Marvel, and reads its inscription. Her response: “‘…if he be worthy..?’ I don’t understand. ‘Worthy’ is an awfully subjective word. How does one determine worthiness to possess the power of [Thor?]” The last word is cut off by a burst of energy as she picks up the hammer, which is followed up the reveal on the final page of that issue, a full-page spread dominated by the image of Wonder Woman wielding the hammer, her costume modified to incorporate elements of Thor’s.

In the next issue, on encountering her opponent Storm, Wonder Woman immediately discards the hammer as an unfair advantage. There is an interesting contrast here: Thor, on realizing Captain Marvel’s powers were lightning-themed, used his hammer and its control over lightning to win the fight. Wonder Woman, on realizing Storm’s powers are lightning-themed, now discards that same hammer because it isn’t fair. The implication is that it would be wrong to keep the hammer, unworthy: her worth to wield the power of Thor lies in her willingness to throw it away. She is a reassertion of the protector fantasy over the power fantasy; it should be no surprise that this same issue sees the birth of amalgam, which replaces the question of “who would win?” with the far more interesting “how can we play with this?”

Whether the crossover or ensuing Amalgam comics are any good (they mostly aren’t) is not the point; the point is what this effort represents: a shift away from the shouting, hulking, murderous brute in the center of the story to the vastly more interesting things that can happen in the story’s fringes. Of course this is hardly new to comics; finding new things to say in the fringes of old stories and old characters is what Alan Moore did in Watchmen, Neil Gaiman in Sandman, and Grant Morrison in Animal Man, all a decade or more before Amalgam. But those were all “prestige” titles. Where Marvel vs. DC matters is that it marks the point where mainstream superhero comics finally, if only briefly, understood why those works are good, and tried a little of it on themselves.


Current status of the Patreon: