Grant Morrison's Pax Americana, the JFK Assassination, and Comic Book Storytelling

 By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

Multiversity: Pax Americana. Grant Morrison & Frank Quitely

Kennedy's death has been a fascination of the pop culture kind. The actual aesthetics of it make the event all the more iconic. It brings us back to the infamous "back and to the left" scene in Oliver Stone's JFK (1991) movie where District Attorney Jim Garrison replays the video of Kennedy's head bursting after the kill shot, over and over again, to an audience gripped by horror. The video came courtesy of Abraham Zapruder, an American manufacturer of women's clothing, and a Democrat, who got to Dealey Plaza early in order to get a good spot to take pictures of Kennedy's motorcade. Kennedy was going to ride through the plaza on his way to the Dallas Trade Mart where he was going to give a speech. Zapruder's video footage is often used to argue the existence of a second or even third gunman at the plaza that day (November 22nd, 1963), possibly located in the Grassy Knoll area (situated at the northwest side of it). It had a very clear view of the motorcade as it turned close to the Book Depository, where the official version has Oswald readying his rifle. But the film also gave us the final images of the assassination. In doing so Abraham Zapruder gave American culture an universal template for political assassinations.

     Zapruder's home movie is basically an incomplete anatomy of the assassination. It gave investigators visual entry into the crime scene, if only in part. It also gave comic book writers, cinematographers, and artists a visual point of reference from which to work from. Artists, writers, and comic book creators usually explore the actual trajectory of the bullets, the ones that end in kill shots in particular, in order to better sell an action or an assassination sequence. This opens up new storytelling possibilities and makes for a sense of authenticity when representing or recreating a political assassination.  President Kennedy's assassination can still be argued as the visual standard for this.

Stracynsky's Sidekick is an example of the
JFK assassination as visual template.

     For example, the angle of the shot that produced Kennedy's fatal head wound, as Zapruder's video shows, suggests not all shots could have come from the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository Building, where it was said Lee Harvey Oswald positioned himself to shoot at the President. Officially, Oswald fired three shots that produced 7 wounds between Kennedy and Texas governor John Connally in addition to the head shot. And one of the bullets missed. That bullet, according to the Warren Report, hit concrete a little farther up the motorcade. This caused the concrete to splinter and hit James Tague, a Dallas car dealer who was standing a few feet east of the eastern edge of the triple underpass railroad bridge. The final shot would come shortly after. And with that, history gave popular culture a spectacular yet problematic set of images to play with.

     Perhaps one of the most recent reimaginings of the Kennedy assassination comes in Grant Morrison's Multiversity: Pax Americana. Illustrated by Frank Quitely, the comic book's opening pages see an American president getting murdered, while on a motorcade, in reverse sequencing. The President is seen to be grabbing a flag with the peace sign over his head, serving more as a bullseye than a symbol of more ideological connotations, while smiling to an unseen crowd. We are immediately reminded of Kennedy here, setting himself up as a reference point for Pax Americana's opening scene. The fact the president is holding a peace flag reminds the reader of Kennedy's 'ultimate diplomat' myth. Kennedy's death, it was quickly concluded, meant peace was off the table (at least in terms of public debate). It was as if Kennedy was peace's last resort, the answer to John Lennon's "Give Peace A Chance" plea. In a twist of historical fate, but mostly because of the Kennedy Administration's own foreign policy decisions, Vietnam started for real shortly after the assassination. There was an air of reinvigorated militarism in Lyndon B. Johnson's White House (the Vice-President who took over Kennedy's administration) and America was slowly being taken farther away from the mythic and utopic ideals of Kennedy's own version of peace (which historians are still unsure as to how it would have looked like).

The shooter is falling from the sky.

     Pax Americana's assassination scene, then, captures this highly problematic set of historic circumstances. The fact the assassination is played backwards here leaves the reader with a sense of historical revision that further adds to the mystery behind the actual shooting. We are shown the dynamics of the president's movements, his reaction to the kill shot first. As the opening panels pull back, we see the President has been shot from above, the bullet entering through the base of his head going straight down, shattering his jaw. It is an inversion of Kennedy's kill shot, where the final bullet (whose trajectory is inferred from Zapruder's home movie) comes from the President's right (some argue from the Grassy Knoll) and blows out the back of his head, leaving a gaping wound. Kennedy's death is bloody, shocking, and definite. So it goes with Pax Americana's American President in the opening scenes.

     The Kennedy assassination parallels do not stop with the head wound or the trajectory of the kill shot. In fact, it is in relation to the kill shot's trajectory that we see what can be best argued as an attempt at historical satire, done in a very subtle way. The shooter, which looks like a rogue superhero, is revealed as falling from the sky while aiming down the scope of a rather large silenced sniper rifle (or high-powered rifle). The shot actually comes from sky. At a simple glance, this can be taken as a ridiculing of the official version of Kennedy's assassination, which explains that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman responsible for 7 bullet wounds between the President and Governor Connally and the final head shot that culminated the killing. It is as if Morrison equates Oswald's sharp shooting skills with that of a superhero falling from the sky while hitting a perfect head shot. Reality's doubt makes for great comic book storytelling.

     The killer is eventually captured and his motives questioned. But we are left in the dark as to the true intentions behind the assassination. Instead, the comic turns inwards and explores the narrative mechanics of a post-Kennedy world trying to recapture lost American counterculture ideals as reimagined by a very problematic group of superheroes. And it is all set up by an opening sequence that invites us to revisit President Kennedy's death down to the last gory detail, even if it is meant as a very subtle critique on the controversies surrounding the death America's 35th president.

    
     It might be easier, more psychologically manageable  to believe that a lone gunman can kill the President of the United States, especially if he is falling from the sky equipped with nothing but a high-powered rifle and a parachute. But there is something oddly spectacular about imagining and reimagining the assassination of an American president. It captures an historic sense of controversy and mystery while reflecting on the death of an utopian dream.  That we automatically resort to Kennedy when thinking of such things speaks to the power of historical memory as a referent for creating fiction, especially when we want to get the violence right.

Batman is a Horror Comic

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

     Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, Grant Morrison’s Arkham Asylum, Scott Snyder's The Court of the Owls, all stories featuring an iconic character that is one step behind Dracula, Batman. Bruce Wayne, a gallant attraction that plays down his alter ego as an entity entirely detached from himself, is two fangs away from giving into the vices of the classic monster. But he is much more than just a variation of the vampire character. He is something else entirely. Batman is another type of monster, a creature that fights crime with something much worse than it, madness (the very thing that leads to it). This makes Batman a horror comic.

        When Doug Moench and Kelly Jones turned Batman into a bloodsucker, in Batman & Dracula: Red Rain (1991), the vampire metaphor seemed to hit too close to the chest. In fact, Moench and Jones played exactly into what we expected from a vampire Batman: Bruce Wayne finally becomes the Bat. He submits his last bits of humanity to it, letting the costume become the new skin. But he remains a crusader. The lust for blood only adds to the challenge of keeping justice and order under his control. There is no letting loose on Gotham’s innocent bystanders, his rules are never tested, and he remains a superhero, just with added powers. What he does do is embrace the death of Bruce Wayne, telling Alfred he has truly become the Batman. Gotham’s nights are now entirely his, regardless of him becoming a slave to them in the process. The character truly reveals himself as a weary knight in black armor, shedding any trace of the identity that could lead him back to his human form.

      And yet, his dark knighthood holds itself truer to horror when we realize his becoming a bat was no accident. It was a choice. The murder of Bruce Wayne’s parents was quite simply the waking up of a demon, willed into existence. It plays into the origin story of a man that could either embrace a Superman-like light or a darkness-induced decent into something worse. He chose the latter. And the terror that comes with that darkness is even more frightening when Bruce is accepted as the real mask, the actual suit.

     There is no batsuit. There is only a monster over a man. Bruce is secondary to the Batman, a walking alibi that enables Gotham’s monster crusader. Villains like the Joker, Two-Face, Penguin, and the Riddler stop being darker reflections of the Batman once we accept this. Instead they are the keepers of the bat faith. Their terrorizing the city can be seen as an act of adoration, a penance to be paid to be granted presence with the bat-lord. Alternately, these villains turn Batman into an aspiration, the standard for the horror they can impart. Again, their villainy becomes an act of worship, a pledge of allegiance to the Bat King, the night stalker, the victim the city spewed out as the hero it deserved. A monster built in its own image. 

      Gotham City adds to the horror by playing to the hero’s bleakness. Its buildings are more protrusions than man-made structures. They reach for the sky as if a gun is pointed at them. But it is Batman who holds the gun, the virus that creates the lesser monsters that terrorize it. Gotham may have created the monster, but the monster brought with it its admirers. It is a cycle that keeps the city under siege. Every new villain must be blessed by the Bat King as worthy of being one of his monsters. And to be blessed is to be admitted into Arkham Asylum, the temple of the bat-faith.

      But the Bat King is a complicated creature. He needs to submit one of his identities to the other in order to truly transform into the bat. In order to accomplish this, Batman turns Bruce Wayne in a protective shell, a cave, if you will, that serves the purpose of sheltering the monster during the daytime. In other words, Bruce Wayne becomes Batman's lair.

   Now, the fact Wayne surrendered himself to the bat to root out evil might keep the bat-monster in check, but it is in the darkness that surrounds his concept of justice that we find the true horror of Batman. For Batman, justice is horror (out of fear) turned into a weapon, a thing that plays to the strengths of its nature. Fear becomes a voice, terror a trap, horror the purpose. Batman’s history never falters on these principles. They turn the bat into a hero that demands the city remain dark, like a price to be paid for its safety.

     Fear becomes Gotham, it keeps it alive. Batman’s idea of justice means keeping the city hostage, his hostage. It is of no wonder, then, that so many worshipers, Batman’s rogues gallery, gravitate towards it. It is their home, a place that accepts them for who they really are. It has to. It would be unbecoming to reject those that so faithfully follow in the footsteps of the bat. They become acolytes, servants to the Bat King that pay their respects in pain. One must consider that every one of the Joker’s transgressions to Batman’s rule of law is done in the hopes of receiving the bat-monster’s blessings, manifested in the form of bruises and broken bones. And that is why Batman is a horror comic. Because its hero wants us to be afraid of him.

The Semiotics of Alan Moore

Fashion Beast #6, Alan Moore, Malcom McLaren, & Antony Johnston

 
By: Gabriel Alejandro

      Alan Moore, one of the most recognizable names in comics, is known for taking the medium to a whole new plateau. Whether you love him for his work or hate him for his rants, everyone can agree that his stories differ from others in the way they incorporate elements of myth, sexuality, and mysticism, to name a few. At the bottom of each instant lies a constant variable which is Moore’s understanding of language. In his 2005 documentary, The Mindscape of Alan Moore, he tells an anecdote of a bard who writes a satire as revenge instead of placing a curse. The satire’s strength and longevity on the victim depended on how “skillful” the bard was, meaning how well he worded it. Here, we get a glimpse of Moore’s working philosophy: a story’s power (or message) relies on the mastery and use of language by its bard (or author). But mastering a language does not stop at having proper syntax and grammar. No. It also implies having a commanding knowledge of language’s structural role in “magic” and story-making throughout recorded history. Thus, new stories acquire past symbols and experiences that make it relevant to the human experience and, on a more personal level, memorable to the reader.

Semiotics

      Every tale, epic, and legend since the early civilizations has survived in contemporary cultures with modifications by the different language structures around the world. These adaptations are possible due to “equivalents” in each language, words that point to more or less the same meaning. For the sake of argument and keeping this article short, I will not dabble into the untranslatability of language or the precision (or lack of) with which symbols approach their semiotic objects. These arguments, although real and worthy of hearing, would divert the article from the main subject and could extend it to dissertation-like lengths. Now, without getting too much into translation or linguistic theory, language itself is a system of symbols (letters) that, when put together, form other symbols (words) that stand for a thing, idea or concept. For example, the word “pencil” does not look or smell like an actual pencil, but it points to the physical object. It bears no similarity to the word lápiz in Spanish, except for the fact that they both point to the same object. The same applies to a logo that stands for a religious, political, or general belief. The image has no real connection to the ideal besides the one that has been bestowed upon it by people, history, tradition; you choose. This is one of the basic principles of Semiotics, the study of symbols (something that stands in for something else) and the relationship with their meaning. 
 

   Promethea issue 17, page 22

      
Comics

      Comics are an art form that feature both images and words. A Semiotical analysis can be applied to the dialogue and to the scenario in the panels of a book. Like films, which start as a script full of text, comic books start as a script that often detail the colors, objects, and symbols to be drawn. This is where Alan Moore’s knowledge of past tales and rituals has been evident. The names, themes, and imagery in his work often range from Hebrew, Greek, modern, and even occult iconography. His League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (1999-present) series teams up science fiction characters from various renowned 19th-century authors such as Jules Verne, Bram Stoker, Robert Louis Stevenson, H. G. Wells, and more, to fight a common enemy. One of his most famous characters (if not THE most famous), simply named “V” from V for Vendetta (1982-1989), is a revolutionary hero who wears a Guy Fawkes’ mask, a member of the Gunpowder Plot attempt in 1605 London. The purpose behind never seeing V’s face is explained in a panel where he states that he (and his actions) is only meant to be taken as an idea of uprise and revolution. The meaning behind using a Guy Fawkes’ mask is also semiotical, since it points to another moment in British history when a group of people stood up for their beliefs. More recently, in our reality, the Guy Fawkes’ mask has become the official logo of hacktivist group Anonymous and the short-lived Occupy Wall Street movement.

More than Meets the Eye

      Beyond the visual realm, Alan Moore has also woven symbols of the past into the structure of his stories seamlessly. Although he often tells you what they mean or gives you a key to understand it, many do not follow because they see it as part of the fiction. These stories follow a path where the sequence of events emulate the structure of an ancient myth or ritual. Since it is better to show you than to just explain it, I will mention three scenarios that I consider most memorable where Moore applied this structural semiotic as I have come to call it.

I. Death of Baldur, Top Ten issue #7  

      Top Ten is a series about a police precinct in a world where everyone has a superpower. They answer the call of duty just as any regular police force would and in issue #7 of the first series, they receive a call from a bar named “Godz” about a homicide. Upon arrival, a man in white whose words are depicted in Nordic font explains the situation: moments before, a party had taken place at the bar, but was halted when the man’s son was murdered. Once inside they identify the body as Baldur Wodenson, the god of beauty, and an investigation ensues. Now, if you are not familiar with who Baldur is (or was), the events that follow will completely go over your head. But if you are familiar with this deity, then you would have figured out that the man, his father, is Woden (Odin), the all-father from the Norse mythology (which explains the font).

     The sequence of events that follow are just as if you were to insert yourself in the middle of an ancient story. Smax, the hot-headed member of the Top Ten crew, clashes with the egos of other deities before we see Baldur’s brother, who confesses to the murder and admits that the weapon, a mistletoe, was given to him by Lokk (Loki), the god of mischief. In the myth, Baldur and his mother, Frigg, had dreamt of the death and understood it as a prophecy. To avoid the prophecy from realization, Frigg persuades every object in the realm to vow not to harm Baldur. Every object makes the vow except, you got it, the mistletoe. The death of Baldur is also considered as the first step in a chain of events that lead to Ragnarök, the end and rebirth of mankind. In the comic, when Woden speaks of bringing about Ragnarok as a result of his son’s death, Smax is filled with rage and they both engage in an argument. Luckily, Peacock, another member of the Top Ten squad who is well versed in mythology, enters the scene and begins laughing after learning of the situation. When asked about the purpose of his laughter, he responds that gods, as semiotic symbols, are always present and that their stories are always happening. In that moment, Baldur wakes up and the party resumes only to end in his death over and over again. This circular time notion is common both in mythology and in Moore’s work
 

“Well, gods are eternally recurring symbols, Syn. They’re stories. The death of Baldur’s been going on since before time… and it will happen again tomorrow.”

II. Occult and Masonic Architecture of London, From Hell Chapter 4 

      In From Hell, Alan Moore gives a backstory to the legend of Jack the Ripper, a serial killer in 1888 London. By establishing that his alter ego was a physician and that the murders were linked to a royal conspiracy, Moore built a myth of his own over an already-existing one. William Gull (the Ripper) sees himself as doing a service to humanity. His acts serve to remind the populace of mankind’s fading knowledge of symbols and rituals. The fact that his victims were all women was attributed to the character’s misogynist beliefs and wish to destroy the symbol of the woman, which was acquiring power at the time (with women’s suffrage). By completing his work, his murders, he was certain that the symbol of the Ripper would be immortalized in the pages of history; and he succeeded. In reality, Jack the Ripper is known as the first “pop” serial killer. He wrote letters to the police which were published in local newspapers but was never apprehended. Many confessed to the crimes but were later released because of insufficient evidence. The legend inspired so many other copy-killings at the time that they blurred his trace and cops never found him.



      In Chapter 4 of From Hell, Gull asks his carman, John Netley, to drive him around the city of London. Netley did, in fact, exist, and is known for being accused of aiding the real Ripper by author Stephen Knight in a book titled Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution (1976). The purpose of the stroll is to show how the history of London reflects itself on the architecture of the city. Among the many, many historical facts, he pinpoints the location of events such as the death of Boudica, queen of the British Iceni who rebelled against the Romans, the pagan tribes that once lived in Hackney, and narrates the evolution of architecture from early Cretan and Mycenaean culture. Aside from the visual symbols of the building, the ride itself follows the path of a star which they draw upon a map after the ride. The star is the seventeenth card in a Tarot deck. It is interpreted as the integration of two opposite sides: the material and the subconscious worlds. The character of William Gull alludes to this during his dialogue with Netley: “All human brains, yours own included, Netley, have two sides: the left is Reason, Logic, Science […] The Right is Magic, Art and Madness.” Gull’s obsession with the ritual of symbols eventually leads him to madness after having a vision of the future and seeing what humanity becomes.

“… symbols have POWER, Netley… Power enough to turn even a stomach such as yours… or to deliver half this planet’s population into slavery.” (From Hell Chapter 4, page 23)

III. All 32 issues of Promethea  

Promethea is, without a doubt, the most semiotically-conscious book I have ever read. Everything from the characters, plots, events, and even the settings stand as a reference to something else. Promethea is an Egyptian deity that dwells in the realm of “Inmateria” (non-material): dreams, stories, fiction, art, etc. In order to summon her and to become her, one only needs to manifest her in some artistic form like writing a short poem or drawing a sketch. Moore basically made a story about his views on writing. The author as the magician who casts spells or stories in order to create magic; the worlds, inhabitants, and situations in his stories. The plot thickens when Sophie Bangs, the new Promethea, leaves the material world to look for Barbara, the previous Promethea. Before she sets on her journey, she meets up with a magician called Jack Faust who trains her in the art of magic so she does not get lost. As I mentioned at the beginning of the article, Moore’s perspective of magic is mostly in a linguistic sense. Training Sophie in magic meant that she learned of a great number of myths since the beginning of recorded history and their meanings.

      The journey through “Inmateria” follows the structure and symbology of the Tarot deck. Moore dedicated issue 12 of the series to explaining the Tarot card by card so the readers would know where to stand in the story. Since the realm of “Inmateria” is the same as imagination, we get to see visual representations of mythological, science-fiction, and religious figures. We also see concepts such as death, language, salvation, and spirituality, among many more. The art is also key in every issue. J .H. Williams III explored different esthetics in each issue, giving every level of “Inmateria” a different feel through visual means. After the journey through “Inmateria,” the references continue to pour in different ways. My most memorable moment was right after the journey, when Sophie’s friend Stacie takes her to court over custody of the Promethea role (Stacie had filled in for Sophie while she was away). The court’s judge is King Solomon from the bible and he references it often by suggesting they cut Promethea in half so each girl could have a share. This is a direct quote from 1 Kings 3:16-28, in which Solomon judges a situation between two women; two harlots. The problem was that the two women lived in the same house and each gave birth a couple of days apart. The baby of one of the women died and the other survived. The mother of the baby who died claimed the living baby from her mother and thus the latter took her to court. The King then suggests they cut the baby in half in order to smoke out the real mother, who would object to it and prefer the baby stayed alive even if it was not with her. And it is exactly what happens, both in the bible and in Promethea. After the judge suggests it for about the third time, Sophie’s friend agrees to it but Sophie does not, citing that she would rather not be Promethea if it would mean so much trouble. Solomon declares Sophie as the sole Promethea after uttering “Every time. it works like a charm!”

      There are so many things that I may have left out from the books, Semiotics, and even Alan Moore. But the real joy in this is to experience it for yourself. When you approach a book, do more than just read it. Research every nook and cranny that appears in it, all the way from the names to the backgrounds. That is one of the perks of comic books. Many are quick to judge Alan Moore for his beliefs and how he portrays them in his work, but they do not see that every author does this. The late literary critic Terrece Hawkes once said that “All writing takes place in the light of other writing, and represents a response to the ‘world’ of writing that pre-exists…” (Structuralism and Semiotics 101). In other words, every author’s influences are present in his work, whether they be political or philosophical. Moore’s “world” of writing is that which constantly and eternally points to the past, seeking equivalents in different cultures and languages. If you want to know how he and other authors do it, or would like to do some of your own, then all you need is to learn magic and all will become clear.

War Talk: a short essay on the Vietnam War and its language

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Nightmare. Bloodbath. Massacre. Quagmire. Four words that not only sum up the American experience in Southeast Asia but also characterize the language of defeat in American military history. The Vietnam War turned these four concepts into synonyms of failure, adding them to the long list of consequences that engulf that war’s legacy.

     We refer to ‘nightmare’ when acknowledging the death of the American Dream in Vietnam. We turn to ‘bloodbath’ when discussing My Lai as a metaphor for the brutality of the Vietnam War. ‘Massacre’ we summon when we discuss the picture of General Nguyen Ngoc Loan shooting a shackled Vietcong suspect in the streets of Saigon during the Tet Offensive in 1968. And ‘quagmire,’ perhaps the most interesting of the lot, we reserve for those times we are asked to summarize the Vietnam War in a single word. Quagmire means to sink, “a bog having a surface that yields when stepped on.” In other words, quicksand (ironically enough, both words start with the letter Q).

      Tom Engelhardt, in his book The End of Victory Culture, calls ‘quagmire’ a “withdrawal word,” a sinkhole that could do little else other than suck American troops into the depths of perpetual combat with no favorable resolution in sight. To get to the point of saying the war has turned into a quagmire is to start thinking of calling the troops back home. Engelhardt tells us that in 1965, Clark Clifford (unofficial adviser to President Johnson) warned that Vietnam “could be a quagmire. It could turn into an open ended commitment on our part that would take more and more ground troops, without a realistic hope of ultimate victory.” To sink in war is to accept the inevitability of defeat, that victory cannot be a reasonable scenario given a quagmire situation. Victory, on the other hand, came to Vietnam as a word that Washington desperately wanted to include in its war talk. But victory belonged to another war: World War II. Different war. Different results. Different language.

     That Vietnam became the quicksand of American military history turned that war into an universal metaphor for war done the wrong way. It also made every other American war keep its vocabulary close-by, under heavy guard against Vietnam, hoping not to get infected with its linguistics of failure.

     American history textbooks (like The Americans, published by McDougal Littell for high school use) made sure not to mix Vietnam war talk with other American war talks. The Spanish-American War is still referred to as the “Splendid Little War,” World War I keeps its claims to being the “The Great War,” and the Second World War continues being remembered as the ultimate example of ‘victory’ and ‘liberty,’ as safeguarded by America’s “greatest generation.”

 

     The First World War’s case is interesting because, while ‘bloodbath’ flies around it more frequently than desired, it is mostly associated with the language of industrialism and empire. I refer, of course, to more popular interpretations of the war, mainly those found in survey books and high school textbooks. The same cannot be said of Vietnam. It only knows the language of death, defeat, and moral corruption, and history books have made sure it stays that way, on its own corner.

     The First World War had a clear resolution. The allies won and the combined forces of the ‘evil empires’ perished. That World War I industrialized killing and that around one million men were either killed or wounded in the Battle of the Somme alone did little to change the linguistics of that war. The allies didn’t sink or fall through a bottomless pit of combat with no end in sight. They won. Quagmire averted. Vietnam ended with people flying away in overcrowded helicopters off American embassies. The Americans left behind a destroyed countryside, crop burnings, a history of rape and civil rights violations, and a very public withdrawal of American forces. World War I? Victory. Vietnam? Quagmire. History, so it seems, forgets more than it remembers. And it has a worrying obsession with endings. They do more to structure the enduring meaning of a war’s language than any other event within the history of the war itself.

     Much like the Korean War, which stays ‘forgotten,’ Vietnam came up with a language, a war dialect, that no one else was interested in speaking. But the wars that came after it had no choice but to fall in place with it. The current War Against Terrorism certainly did, with both The New York Times and The Washington Post adding ‘quagmire’ to the long list of words that fed their skepticism against Operation Iraqi Freedom. Eight days into the war and both newspapers were already comparing Iraqi fighters to the resilient North Vietnamese. That Saddam Hussein was overthrown just eighteen days later did little to no effect in shifting the linguistics Vietnam had firmly set in place.
 

    Vietnam spoke a harsh language, of strange realities and of the moral implications behind them. After the war, victory was to be a concept locked in between quotation marks (except in the case of the Second World War), and horror could not escape being set as the Vietnam standard. No war has been able to skip over its linguistics after it. To be labeled as a war turning into a quagmire not only means losing public approval, it means channeling the memory of the Vietnam War and its linguistics of defeat. And this speaks to the legacy of the Vietnam War: the quagmire. Vietnam turned war into quicksand, a swamp, a very deep bog. And in the process it changed the official definition of the concept, for quagmire now truly means “a war having a surface that yields when waged wrong.”

The Sacrament: Movie Review

 by: Gabriel Serrano Denis

Well, I got something to say
I killed your baby today
And it doesn't matter much to me
As long as it's dead

    -Misfits, Last Caress

     Economic crisis, religious fundamentalism, political corruption and social unrest have always been the source from which the deformed manifestations of horror cinema feed and nourish themselves. From Don Siegel’s “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers” (1956), through George A. Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” (1968), to David Cronenberg’s “The Fly” (1986), paranoia and fear (of communism, counterculture, and AIDS) acted as the catalysts for the iconic creatures that still haunt and remind us of the political and emotional turmoil of their times. These “real” horrors, like the teenagers running from the monsters with chainsaws and knives of the 1980s, have forced American citizens to make terrifying decisions at their own peril decade after decade. Most recently, in 2011, a man called Richard Beasley posted a job advert on Craigslist in search for a watchman for his Ohio farm, offering $300 a week and a trailer home for free. Dozens of desperate workers suddenly stripped of their comfortable middle-class status applied for the job, only to be shot dead upon arrival by Beasley and 16-year-old Brogan Rafferty. An American Dream shattered, characters in search of betterment, a flash of hope, and the sudden, arbitrary destruction of life in the guise of salvation; the fundamentals of horror filmmaking.

     Following this tradition, contemporary horror auteur Ti West has successfully bred horror narratives from the initial conflicts of economic struggle and social detachment. In both “The House of the Devil” (2009) and “The Innkeepers” (2011), it’s the phantom of capitalism that leads the way into an inescapable menace, slowly building to a supernatural explosion of terror and hopelessness. The former presents a penniless college student accepting the eerie request to babysit an old couple’s ailing mother for $400 only to be sucked into a satanic ritual at the end of the night. The latter takes us into the Yankee Pedlar Inn, a haunted hotel at the end of its run, and its two remaining employees (about to be made redundant, futureless) who are desperate to capture some actual paranormal phenomena before the hotel closes.

     As with the classics of horror mentioned before, West taps into basic social and economic distress to pit his characters against oppressive forces all too familiar to the working class people (a wealthy couple taking advantage of a poor college student; the inability to escape from the confines of financial crisis). However, West is not interested in making larger points about American society with these films, despite the pertinence of his characters’ inciting conflicts. Though forced to act within such culturally significant situations, West’s characters experience their horrifying ordeals on a more personal and emotional level. With his new film, “The Sacrament” (2013), West not only delves into a fact-based narrative, but he grounds the horror in reality, directly addressing everything wrong with the current cultural zeitgeist in the process. Unfortunately, the biting social consciousness and the hollow characters through which it’s supposed to materialize don’t seem to have much of a point.

     In “The Sacrament”, produced by horror filmmaker Eli Roth, a Vice magazine journalist and his cameraman (AJ Bowen and Joe Swanberg) travel with fashion photographer and co-worker Patrick (Kentucker Audley) to an undisclosed country in search of his sister (Amy Seimetz), now living in a commune known as Eden Parish and run by a mysterious figure only referred to as “Father”. Based largely on the Jonestown Massacre of 1978, the film follows the newsteam as they are welcomed into Eden Parish, despite some minor altercations with armed guards at first, and slowly discover the true nature of “Father’s” paradise.

     The first miscalculation on behalf of the filmmakers comes in the form of its found footage aesthetic. Though more a “faux documentary” than an actual found footage film, the approach to the material nonetheless feels wrong and distracting. By striving for an extreme sense of reality, the film does well to justify its beautiful cinematography through its suggestion that an actual, professional journalistic photographer is at the helm. However, this does not justify the fact that the footage is so calculated and logically edited. With films like “Rec” and “Cloverfield”, though obviously constructed to a point where the narrative makes sense, the jumbled and chaotic nature of capturing live footage remains intact, and thus adds immediacy to an already tense situation. With “The Sacrament”, one can’t help but feel that it should’ve been shot conventionally. In a scene where Sam (AJ Bowen) sits down to interview “Father” (Gene Jones, ironically), his cameraman Jake frames up on Father and then goes to Patrick (with his handy DSLR hanging by his neck) and asks him to film Sam’s reactions from the opposite side. This totally unnecessary scene only serves to distance us from the sense of reality the film has worked so hard to achieve. It merely justifies the opportunity for West to play with the shot/reverse shot in the edit and thus only stays in the mind as a necessity of the filmmakers rather than a natural occurrence within the world of the film.
  

   Tyler Bates’ score also works against the filmmakers’ intentions as it permeates the entire film, leaving no doubt that something terrible and ominous is lurking within the commune. Since the film is presenting itself as a fake documentary, it makes sense to have a score, but then what does constructing the film as a documentary add to the overall impact of the story? It seems to me like it detracts from the overall experience as it is pretending to document something so similar to an actual controversial event. As such, the filmmaker’s distinct vision and take on the subject remains lost in the attempt to comment on reality and horror. With a subject and approach like this, where the story unfolds in less than two days time and the veracity of the horror is central, a bolder approach would’ve perhaps been ideal. As I was viewing the film I couldn’t help but think how certain moments would’ve felt had the score been entirely removed, if the camera had not captured many of the horrific moments, if we had heard or imagined more than what we actually see, if the camera wasn’t always on and thus harder and more jagged cuts would’ve signaled the passage of time and would’ve created immediacy. But then, it’s obvious that West wanted to experiment with the found-footage aesthetic by blending it with his particular, dreadful approach to horror.

     West’s films unfold with the slow burn of a bad decision coming into the foreground of consciousness, and this ties neatly into his care and attention to character and context. His films’ elegant and composed unraveling emphasizes mood and tension, very different from the commercial horror fare of visceral scares and buckets of gore. This elegance and careful planning of camera and blocking are present in “The Sacrament”, but it lacks the characters to sustain it. With “The House of the Devil” and “The Innkeepers”, West can withhold on the terror and the emotional payoff because we are following engaging characters with real, grounded stakes. Even as he sets up the conflict, the sense of dread is already present and building: something very bad is going to happen, it’s only a matter of “how” and “when”. But the “who” is already well established even before the dread starts to sink in. With “The Sacrament” all we have to invest in is the fact that Sam is a journalist and he wants a story. As he arrives at the commune, he suspects and doubts the validity of Eden Parish, confounded by the people’s complete willingness to live in such stripped conditions. Not only is this clichéd and contrived, but it also brings attention to Sam’s lack of personality. We don’t know what kind of journalist he is or aspires to be, only that he is a journalist and it’s his job to expose or find a story. We know that he has a wife and that she is soon to give birth, but this is a mere plot device that never heightens the emotional stakes. One even wonders why the film wasn’t centered on his friend Patrick, who has greater stakes in the matter and a conflict to resolve with his sister. As it is, West’s slow and calculated build-up to terror is wasted in the film, as we have no one to fear for.

 
     Despite all its flaws, the film is a natural product of its time. However, this relevance comes through in the sense that it explores the dangers of blind faith and extreme religious fundamentalism, and the untrustworthy American society from which it stems. Thus, the subject matter and realistic approach bring forth a film that speaks to a contemporary audience asphyxiated with school shootings, racism, homophobia, unemployment, poverty, international turmoil, mass murders, etc. All in all, “real” horror, not dependent on monsters or otherworldly manifestations to instill fear and shock. Sadly, the film fails to sustain its intent due to the lack of a distinct and personal vision concerning the idiosyncrasies of its subject matter. Though horrifying and shocking, anyone with a vague knowledge of Jonestown knows what’s coming. West structures his film smartly, withholding information and creating an atmosphere of uncertainty that leaves the audience anxious to know what it’s all building up to. But as the story progresses and every predictable beat is reached, it’s clear that West did not intend to alter or defy our expectations but rather to expose us to a “real” horrific event. And though horrific it is once it hits the screen (and it allows for some striking imagery), one can’t help but feel the lack of original thought, of a new lens through which to view the horror.

     Ti West has always been interested in people stumbling into horrifying situations. His characters enter unknown spaces in the hopes of finding something and end up being part of a grander, more sinister scheme. As an extension of his aesthetic and thematic interests, “The Sacrament” feels, in parts, like a genuine Ti West film. However, as a meaningful and powerful piece of horror filmmaking, West undoubtedly lost his way. In “The House of the Devil”, West opens his film with text detailing the influence of Satanic cults in the 1980s, where the film is set, finishing off with: “The following is based on true unexplained events.” So, as we follow the main character as she hears strange sounds in the house and slowly realizes what she’s gotten herself into, we know she’s the prey of a Satanic cult. In a Ti West film, the “what” is always spelled out for the audience. The “how” and the “when” are prolonged, withheld, manipulated, built up until they can’t contain themselves much longer. What’s missing from “The Sacrament” is the relevance of this build-up, the reason why we stick until the orgasm of terror pops up, the point of it all. This is partly because the “how” is as obvious as the “what”. We know what the characters are dealing with, how it’s going to end, who is going to die and who is going to survive; there is nothing for West to play with. And without a strong central character for the ordeal to matter, we are left in the cold watching as the “reality” unfolds.

A Marvelous Identity: Ms. Marvel and the importance of comic books

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis


    Storytelling, no matter how much it indulges in its fiction, can never truly escape reality. Social tensions, cultural anxieties, historical continuity, all of these things cling to fiction and demand that their presence be felt in comic books, film, and video games. The same goes with different genres. During the Cold War, Westerns dominated pop culture because they resonated most, in discourse and representation, with the ideological battle that the United States waged against Soviet Russia. The good guys (cowboys) were American bred, morally righteous, and white. The bad guys (Native Americans) were foreign to the ways of the good guys, antagonistic to American expansion, and red (labeled as such by the good guys and ironically compatible with the Soviet enemy). Who knew Native Americans could so easily fit into a metaphor for Cold War Communists? After Westerns, different genres took the mantle of Cold War politics and created stories that best reflected the different phases of said conflict (see Cold War science fiction and horror for some of the best examples), taking into account new developments and their wavering meanings. What was interesting was that each genre had its hero. Westerns had cowboys, combat films had soldiers, noirs had broken detectives, and thrillers had their spies. So, in a sense, one can say that genres define heroes the same way heroes define genres. But what of the heroes that stray from the classic formulas of Golden Age comics? What of those heroes of the post-9/11 world that are not a part of the Avengers or the Justice League? What of heroes that are Muslim, Latino, or Asian? What do they make of their genre, the superhero genre? And what does the genre make of them and their identities?

      Like a direct answer to these questions comes Ms. Marvel, written by G. Willow Wilson and illustrated by Adrian Alphona. Ms. Marvel tells the story of Kamala Khan, a 16 year-old Pakistani-American from New Jersey who idolizes Carol Danvers, the first Ms. Marvel from the comic book world. Kamala Khan is the fourth character to take the name of Ms. Marvel, inserting herself into Marvel’s current Marvel NOW! series—a semi-reboot of the Marvel universe intended to pull in new readers. Kamala is young, of color, and a minority, two elements that not only dictate identity in a very fierce manner but also inform the social tensions that define the post-9/11 world. She is also Muslim, a character trait (come 9/11) that automatically communicates persecution and antagonism. This does not even have to be alluded to textually for the reader to comprehend the character’s current state of affairs. Kamala’s religion is inherently added into the mix of components that makes her identity so reactive.

     Now, being a comic that deals in identity so directly, it is important we recognize the elements that make that topic drive the character into being a superhero. Those elements come out of Carol Danvers, the first female character to take up the name of Ms. Marvel. Kamala Khan idolizes Carol Danvers. This idolization comes through her fan fiction writings in the comic. Kamala’s characters are all supreme metaphors for American values. Captain America, Iron Man, and Carol Danvers/Captain Marvel all make their appearances in her fantasy superhero stories. Captain America represents American war, Iron Man represents American freedom through economical gain and freedom, and Danvers represents a very traditional female image built into American conceptions of beauty and its power. She stands for a sort of female normalcy that plays second fiddle to male predominance in heroic deeds. It is of no wonder, then, that Kamala finds refuge in Danvers.

     Danvers is a white, blond bombshell that dresses in a skimpy black outfit with a yellow thunderbolt symbol across her chest. She was usually drawn the traditionally sexist way Marvel and DC drew (and continues to draw) their female characters, breasts bigger than her head and barely covered by a modified swimsuit (see most iterations of Wonder Woman and Elektra). This image extends well into the comic book culture of the 90s and early 2000s and makes up a sort of sexually misguided tradition that kept female superhero characters a step behind their male counterparts. They were objects readers could drool over instead of idols and examples they could follow or wish to become. Kamala falls under the second tier of followers by wanting to be Danvers in image, spectacularly sexualized though it may be. But Kamala’s intentions are far from sexual. They are cultural. They speak to identity, American identity.

      Ms. Marvel #1 opens with Kamala coveting, as she says, “delicious, delicious infidel meat.” She’s in a convenience store with friends when two, American, classmates come in and go through the now customary passive-aggressive culture bashing. We immediately meet a Kamala that desperately wants to fit in, to be “normal”. Of course, being normal means going out to parties and drinking with boys. The comic never directly associates normalcy with being American, but it is heavily implied. Kamala’s obsession with Carol Danvers further hits the nail on the proverbial coffin. Consider Kamala’s claim to normalcy after her very traditional father prohibits her from going out to an outdoor party:

     It’s just one party. It’s not like I’m asking their 
     permission to snort cocaine…Why am I the only one who 
     gets signed out of health class? Why do I have to bring 
     Pakoras to school for lunch?...Everybody else gets to be normal. 
     Why can’t I?

The discourses are simple enough: foreign girl wants to fit in. Her culture and the traditions that define her family’s identity hold her back. That she resists them is not only logical but expected given Kamala’s family is far away from home, and that sense of home cannot be expected to fully migrate into American soil intact. Kamala’s discursive rebellion follows an actual act of rebellion when she escapes to the party her father forbade her from going. At the party Kamala drinks, throws up, and is made fun of by the same classmates that teased her in the convenience store scene. She is ridiculed, making her identity stand out all the more. The stage is set for the transformation.

      As Kamala walks back to her house Terrigen mists descend upon Jersey City, swallowing up Kamala into a cocoon that transforms her into an Inhuman. The Terrigen mists are part of Marvel’s Infinity event, where the Inhumans and Thanos unleash a force that seeks out beings with Inhuman genes to encase them in cocoons that awaken their powers. Inside the cocoon Kamala is visited by three superhero hallucinations: Captain America, Iron Man, and Carol Danvers (now as Captain Marvel). They are the same characters that appear in her fan fiction. They question her intentions, her drive to be normal. They look like gods, speaking to their universal traits rather than their nationalistic ones. This is important considering the three heroes represent Americanism in one of its most intense forms. They are heroes we aspire to be. But they are heroes that never stray from their nationalities. Danvers asks the ultimate question: “What do you want to be?” To which Kamala answers: “I want to be you. Except I would wear the classic, politically incorrect costume and kick butt in giant wedge heels.” Kamala challenges her identity, reasserts her right to make up her identity as she pleases (a very American ideal should it stick to its utopic underpinnings), and makes the decision. Danvers answers, in a very wise manner, “It is not going to turn out the way you think.” Kamala wakes up, breaks out of the cocoon, and stands into the light a blond superhero in a skimpy black outfit, the same one she wanted. She became an American superhero.

      According to Thomas Schatz, in his book Hollywood Genres: Formulas, Filmmaking, and the Studio System (1981), genres are privileged story forms in which social tensions are brought to life in narratives and are ritualistically resolved. But popular genres, he explains, are those that can best animate and resolve social tensions through their metaphors. Comic books are popular culture products carrying within their pages iconic characters that proudly represent, and define, the superhero genre. Their power, the thing that makes comics matter, comes from the fact that the superheroes that live in the comic book pages can convincingly resolve social tensions, suppressing, if only marginally, the things that feed off of them. Superheroes are metaphors for a better way of life, for a way to do things the right way. That is why we want to be them, just like Kamala.

     Ms. Marvel is a powerful comic for various reasons, many of which I have explored here. But in the end, we find that Kamala is not so different from the average comic book reader. She wanted to be something different and she succeeded in doing so. Her reasons are complex, not too alien from things we have felt more than once in our lives. She becomes a superhero to fit in, to be a part of something that does not understand her. In looking for normalcy she further distanced herself from it. Her metaphor is one of change, of acceptance, and of diversity. She contemplates the possibility that equality is too naïve an aspiration. Instead she represents an alternative. In a world where identity can label heroes and villains too freely, Kamala speaks for diversity as a superpower rather than a weakness. For Kamala the word Muslim does not mean terrorist or not-normal, it means superhero.

Language and Myth in Comic Books

By: Gabriel Alejandro

"And in spite of current evidence to the contrary, actions do not rule the world... words do."

-Jonathan Hickman, East of West issue 11

     Whenever we hear the word “myth” being used, it often conveys one of two things: a negative charge against another’s basis for an argument or belief; or as a reference to the Greek gods that once inhabited Mount Olympus. We often forget that at the core of every myth lies a reality which, after the process of “mythification,” acquires new dimensions for its target audience. What distinguishes myth from fiction is that its elements (characters, setting, events, etc.) often resonate with the audience’s life experience and thus can become a valid explanation for that which cannot be easily understood or explained. Myths began as oral traditions, with each narrator adding something from their own personal undergoing to the general mythos. This was and still is possible due to language (either oral or written) and its conventions, which allows for different versions to deviate from the standard and still be accepted as part of a whole. Today, the same language mechanisms that allowed for the dissemination of classical myths are alive and well in the comic book medium, thus granting them a special place in modern culture

Language theory

     In order to proceed, we must begin with the late literary critic Terrence Hawkes’ take on myth: “All myths, that is, have their grounding in the actual generalized experience of [ancient] peoples, and represent their attempts to impose a satisfactory, graspable, humanizing shape on it” (Structuralism and Semiotics 13). This refers to a tendency in human history to bricolage or, in other words, use a familiar word for something alien. Just try to remember those bad movies where a native from some jungle is taken to a city for the first time and refers to a car as a “metal horse.” The native, taken from his setting (and language), employs a defense mechanism of sorts, in which he tries to understand the new world by means of his own language. This mechanism, also used in myth-making, is a way of coping with unknown events through metaphorical language, or “... to deal with the world, that is, not directly but at a remove” (Hawkes 15). For a while it was also referred to as “the primitive mind” by language scholars and thus underestimated its historical value. It was not until the French anthropologist Claude Lévi‑Strauss’ study, which took myths beyond “child-like play” and into a more “sophisticated relationship with the world,” that scholars began to view myths as portals into the past.

Comic book mythos

     Lévi-Strauss study focused on how myths, and the language they are built upon, echo a particular point in time’s surroundings. His concern was “… ultimately with the extent to which the structures of myths prove actually formative as well as reflective of men’s minds...” (Hawkes 41). In this aspect, we can witness how the language –dialogue, names, and imagery– of myths reflect a particular social and/or historic context, depending on their moment of conception. Furthermore, we can also make the jump into comic books, where some of our most beloved characters were created out of historic events. In With Great Power: The Stan Lee Story documentary, Stan Lee explains the birth of many of Marvel’s superheroes. In all of these instances, the character’s raison d'être mirrored a particular language from the times: In the early sixties (1962), the Hulk was born amid nuclear fears and proliferation of words such as “atomic,” and “radiation,” elements with which Bruce Banner worked with and suffered from respectively. A year later (1963), Iron Man was first published among the hatred for the U.S. military industrial complex. The name itself, Iron, being a clear signifier of the struggle. A few more years down the road, The Silver Surfer (1966) was the answer to the flower power movement. A pacifist alien who mediates between a destroyer of worlds and its victims. The list goes on and on.

     It must be said that language is not limited to the written word. Images and symbols also figure into what is known as semiology, or the study of meaning-making. In one of the clearest examples, Captain America’s name stands for an infinite set of ideals of the North American nation. Moreover, his appearance in 1940, during the lead-up years to the U.S.’s involvement in World War II, made him a symbol for the inevitable. The first issue, which showed the Captain punching Adolf Hitler in the face, sold out immediately and was met with patriotic fervor. Beyond Hitler, the Captain battled enemies such as the “Red” Skull, shown with a swastika in the above picture. The Red Skull’s name is not only a literary reminder of the red scare that spanned almost four decades (from 1919 to 1954), but it is also a visual reminder of it.

Modern Times

      This language recourse is still very much present in comic books today. Recently, Rick Remender’s run of Captain America introduced a new villain called Dr. Mindbubbles, another post-Captain America super-soldier failed experiment with the particularity that the serum used on him was laced with the drug known as LSD. On this occasion, the semiology transports us to a time when drugs were not perceived as entirely evil and the U.S. government studied its benefits for personal gain. One may ask then: Is Remender fifty years too late with the character? The answer is no. Remender’s character comes at a time when the legality of some drugs is being contested in the U.S., and the language used in the arguments both for and against echoes the language of the past. The character is then validated by the previous and current historical contexts, or as Roland Barthes notes in his book Mythologies, “…the materials of mythical speech (the language itself, photography, painting, posters, rituals, objects, etc.), however different at the start, are reduced to a pure signifying function as soon as they are caught by myth” (113). This tool of language then allows for the myth to be accepted by contemporaries for its factual background and passed on to future generations for its historical value.

Popular acceptance

      The acceptance of these comic book myths also lies within the realm of language. Two basic concepts, the langue and parole, establish the glass through which these myths must be seen. In language, langue stands for language as-is, its rules and “correctness.” On the other hand, the parole stands for its everyday use, filled with mistakes, variations, and alterations. As with language, these myths stem out of a reality that can be seen as a langue. Thus, the variations, reinterpretations, and reimagining of past or current events lie within the parole. The public’s acceptance then comes of how close the myth can come to the reality without it actually being the reality. The more elements of reality the myth has, the better. If it has less, then it is just fantasy.

      Nowadays it is not even necessary to even purchase a comic book in order to know who Superman is, or how Captain America came to be. These characters have withstood the test of time, but they have not done it on their own. Every couple of years a new voice comes to carry the superhero myth in the form of writers. The “magicians” as Alan Moore would say, are tasked with the duty of breathing life into the characters and often take from personal experiences to shape their contributions. As with myths and their oral counterparts, comic book writers take from an established tradition to which they must answer to, but can also add to the story with some restrictions. The parameters are established by the language of each character at its moment of creation, which define its nature and myth. Writers then provide readers with a more updated language, one that reflects his or her contextual setting, and the public decides whether to accept it or not into the mythos. This, again, is possible due to language conventions and concepts such as langue and parole, which allow for an immovable canon to exist under unlimited variations of it. As time passes, the origins of our characters are questioned less and the focus shifts to where they are situated in the now. As long as there is a language to fill the pages with stories, comic book characters will continue to exist as an alternative to our reality.