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.

Captain America: The Winter Soldier- Endorsing Good Wars

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Is World War II still the Good War? This was the title of an Adam Kirsch New York Times article exploring just that, the goodness of the Second World War. It came out in March 2011, when Iraq and Afghanistan had pushed Americans to question the extent of confidence a country could extended towards military might and strategy in the twenty first century. Militarism as a virtue, as a primary national value, seemed to be dwindling in representational prowess. The distance breached between morality on the home front and morality on the battlefield had broadened much to the disadvantage of war as an American ideal. Fighting in the Middle East made military conflict an impersonal experience, much detached from the cohesiveness of the American experience. More importantly, it became its own entity, with its own politics and its own history. In other words, it went opposite the Second World War’s route, that of war as the defining principle of American society. Kirsch will conclude that World War II will stay “good” so long as it stays living history. Living history, in turn, can instruct, it can still impart teachings of its own and tell people that there actually is a right way to conduct war. Of course, Kirsch explains that such histories need to take into account ambiguities and morally gray areas. But when memory is so highly elevated as to be considered near mythical, then, we have another thing entirely. War was “good” back then. Therefore, war can still be “good”. And Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) endorses just that idea.

      Captain America means many things, but most of them rely on his war to make sense. The Second World War lives through Steve Rogers the same way Steve Rogers lives through it. It might make the character unstuck in time and it might keep him from being a more universal metaphor for war in America, but it keeps the war’s memory fairly grounded in what Kirsch referred to as living history. The character’s many discourses have been touched upon before. He upholds conservative politics, endorses a continued state of war, exalts ultra-patriotism, and survives as a testament to the goodness of the Second World War. These things hold true in the movie. 

      Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo, Captain America: The Winter Soldier keeps with Captain America’s longstanding character conventions and gives us a fairly safe war movie. Rogers is now a part of SHIELD, just in time to watch it fall into the hands of HYDRA. In true sequel fashion, old enemies continue to haunt Rogers. HYDRA remains the Nazi stand-in par excellence (if HYDRA is not an offshoot of Nazism then nothing is), and is the main villain of the story. Captain America favorites such as Arnim Zola and obscure villains such as The Leaper pop up to keep true followers anxious for more. But it is the Winter Soldier that makes the movie stand above standard superhero fare. The character contrasts so starkly with Rogers that the whole HYDRA plot could have been scrapped so as to focus entirely on the Winter Soldier. In fact, the Winter Soldier is more a secondary story arc playing to the overarching plot that deals with war on a more general level. 

       The inclusion of the Winter Soldier could have been an interesting counterweight to the discourses of old residing in Rogers. The Winter Soldier, created by Ed Brubaker (who makes a blink-or-you’ll-miss-it cameo in the film) is revealed as Roger’s lost sidekick, Bucky. Brubaker broke one of the only rules Marvel comics resisted touching (only Bucky stays dead) to make Captain America face his war with an added sense of ambiguity that judges his sense of being as superficial and overtly simplistic. In the comics, when the long lost sidekick returns as a Soviet-trained super-soldier Rogers knows he not only faces Bucky but the war that turned him against America.

     Bucky’s Cold War turns history into a lesson that descends upon Rogers and lectures him on the darkness American history carried out of the Second World War. He distorts the idea of goodness in war by ridding himself of the conflict that grounded him in a bygone era that barely resonated later on. Captain America slept through the Cold War, conveniently frozen at the bottom of the ocean so as not to witness the United States fall into hysteria, anti-communist paranoia, and proxy wars that strayed farther still from the mythic principles of World War II. It was a time Rogers could very well find war to be at its most un-American. But the fact he slept through it meant his example, and that of the Second World War, did not shine bright enough to keep America from derailing into morally ambiguous territories. The Cold War could not be saved by the Good War because it was frozen in time, a memory that sought shelter rather than facing the realities of a world dictated by nuclear politics. So why not right that wrong with Captain America and a big silver screen production that pits him against a villain borne out of the Cold War?

     That Rogers faces the Winter Soldier can be seen as just that, an attempt to save the Cold War after the fact. Captain America, unfrozen, looks back into the history that pushes the Winter Soldier into the will of HYDRA and sees an opportunity to once again prove his war’s might can save all wars, turn them good. All throughout the movie the audience is subjected to scenes of Rogers visiting museum exhibits dedicated to himself, his old uniform in display. Once we see the old uniform standing above a display of the Howling Commandos, we know that, in the end, Captain America will revert to that uniform (not a suit) and go into battle as a World War II soldier first and a superhero second.

     It is never clear which war weighs more on the Winter Soldier throughout the movie. Arnim Zola is the Winter Soldier’s creator in the film, more a Nazi than a Soviet, but the movie does stress his secret Soviet assassin past. The fact Zola plays Winter Soldier’s Frankenstein keeps the character between wars. He is the darkness between. The thing war is capable of but should not be. Either way, it falls to Captain America to prove that his war, one no one questions as being his, can save both the day and the idea that war can still be a virtue if not a moral responsibility. And keeping to our expectations, the day and war is saved, and very convincingly. Captain America in his old uniform explodes on scene as a war god, the ultimate authority on militarism and how Americans should interact with its war powers. So, is World War II still the Good War? The answer is obvious if you are Captain America. Can War, in all its dimensions, be Good forevermore? Yes, but only if it follows in the footsteps of the Second World War.

Batman #29: The Dark Knight Rises Again and Meets Gotham City

By: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

      Retelling old tales means, up to a point, updating myths. Making them make sense in the present. But it does not mean they stopped making sense in the first place. New generations deserve to know their heroes' origin stories. In them we find elements that bring us closer to the hero, fictional paths that coincide with real life, and personal parallels that speak to the similarities between us and the men and women whose feats we read about. Joseph Campbell, in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, says, “the effect of the successful adventure of the hero is the unlocking and release again of the flow of life into the body of the world.” Following Campbell’s words, a hero’s birth can be argued as the beginning of life, provided we acknowledge that a hero’s origin is not necessarily expected to begin at the actual biological birth of the character. Instead it most often comes out of a traumatic event that obliterates what the character previously believed was the absolute definition of life. Trauma in the world of the comic book separates the normal from the spectacular. But it also establishes that the spectacular has a price. So, from the ashes of the previous life the hero is expected to rise like a phoenix, carrying the original trauma and converting it into the new origin, the thing that gives the hero’s life purpose.

     Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s Batman run seems to have a deep understanding of what it means to carry trauma as a symbol close to the hero’s chest. In Batman #29 Snyder brings the second part of the Zero Year storyline, Dark City, to a close. After Snyder retells the origin of the Joker and Gotham blacks out after the Riddler turns the city into an actual riddle, Batman must face the possibility his humanity can truly interfere with his success as a superhero. And a superhero he is, although readers often forget the man behind the mask is no more super than the people he has sworn to protect.

     What is interesting with Batman #29 is that Batman is improvising. The road Snyder’s Dark Knight traverses is paved with mistakes. And those mistakes are never made by Bruce Wayne, the all too human alter ego of the Batman. Snyder goes lengths to show that the hero’s failures and mistakes belong entirely to the costume and not the man beneath it. As the Riddler plans to cripple Gotham and let an impending hurricane flood the city with no functioning security measures due to the blackout, Batman is seen catching up rather than meeting his opponent on an equal state of affairs.

     Zero Year, DC Comic’s reinterpretation of Batman’s origin, is framed up to this point as a set of circumstances that force a young Bruce Wayne to choose between two identities. One supposes a very limited approach to crime fighting (meaning staying as Bruce Wayne), and the other entails becoming an eternal symbol that haunts Gotham into submission and forces it to embrace order (becoming Batman). Now, what will shape this new identity is how Batman/Bruce Wayne relates to Gotham City. DC’s current run keeps Batman’s official origin mostly intact. Martha and Thomas Wayne are murdered in Crime Alley after a mugging gone wrong leaves Bruce a rich orphan. Crime Alley is the “birth place” of the Batman, the place the new life begins and where its traumas make Bruce become a Bat. In this new life Gotham City is Batman’s new father, creating the hero it needed out of the violence the city itself enabled.

 
     Snyder’s Gotham is a dangerous victim as opposed to being another criminal keeping its citizens under the influence of its vices. Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns (1986) falls towards the latter. More directly resembling New York (Twin Towers included), Miller’s Gotham is an accomplice to crime. It reminds an old Bruce Wayne that it needs Batman’s supervision or it will relapse into chaos (which is what happens in the book). Miller’s Batman accepts his responsibility as a psychological necessity that feeds both him and the city. Gotham’s rain, Miller’s Batman says, “is a baptism.” And with it he is born again.

     On the other hand, Snyder’s Batman becomes the city’s savior. He still cannot claim Gotham as his, a thing Miller’s Batman does, but saving it means it will be in his debt. Snyder’s Gotham delves into crime just enough to create the hero it needs and not the other way around. Saving the city, then, becomes a rite of passage that turns Batman into Gotham’s sole keeper. Accepting responsibility for it is one of the ways Snyder’s Batman will soon possess Gotham the same way Superman possesses Metropolis. When the Riddler succeeds at exploding Gotham’s retaining walls, for example, and the ocean’s water floods the city in the middle of a hurricane Batman lays the blame on himself. He let the bomb’s signal jammer get lost in a fight against another villain called Doctor Death. He was too late to solve the riddle. But most importantly, he failed to live up to the symbol, to the bat. Being Batman meant Gotham City would be safe. Failing keeps Batman further away from his connection to Gotham. While destroying the machinery that boosts the explosives’ signal Batman says, “I should’ve listened, Gordon! I should’ve taken the call! There’d be no death! There’d be none of this! It’s my fault Gordon! I saw it wrong! You hear me!”

     In the frenzy of Gotham’s imminent destruction it is important that Batman accept the consequences of his initial failures. They are not final yet. For when he saves Gotham, and Gotham will be saved, his failures will become that which brings Batman and the City closer to each other, creating a sense of dependency that both defines and gives each a sense of belonging. In the end, Gotham will be Batman just as Batman will be Gotham. Gotham created the Batman so it could survive. Batman, when he earns the city, will reshape it in his image so that his new reality, the beginning of the new life, can find everlasting purpose, a justification for continued existence. One cannot exist without the other now. And Batman knows that his life ends when Gotham falls.

El héroe post-9/11: Ex Machina, superhéroes sin capas y el lamento por la caída de las Torres Gemelas

Por: Ricardo A. Serrano Denis

     Todo evento traumático conlleva un periodo de lamentación, de luto y de confusión. Cuando las Torres Gemelas cayeron el 11 de septiembre de 2001 el lamento fue inmediato y vino acompañado de interrogantes dirigidas al porqué del ataque. Una de las preguntas más interesantes que nació de ese lamento, que también surgió tras el ataque japonés a Pearl Harbor, fue el siguiente: ¿cómo se permitió que esto ocurriera? La pregunta sugiere una acusación de negligencia militar. Estados Unidos tenía la tecnología, la malicia, para contrarrestar no solo ese ataque pero cualquier otro que se dirigiera contra la nación. Sin entrar en mucho detalle, la respuesta más o menos corrió por antiguas avenidas discursivas de guerras pasadas. Estados Unidos era un gigante durmiente que el Medio Oriente acababa de despertar. Pero llegar a esa respuesta (la misma que se dio en la Segunda Guerra Mundial) conllevó un tiempo prolongado de lamentación y de luto. Lo mismo pasó en el mundo de los comics.

      Un mes después de la caída de las Torres, Dark Horse, Image, DC y Marvel publican una serie de libros conmemorativos donde sus héroes explican el por qué no pudieron parar el ataque contra las Torres Gemelas. Lo hicieron porque sabían que no podían engañar al lector o ignorar el evento, mucho menos cambiarlo. La mayoría de los héroes de Marvel viven en Nueva York. Spider-Man sólo podía parar el ataque sin mencionar que los Fantastic Four también viven en la ciudad. Pero no ocurrió, y los comics no podían pedir una suspensión tan aguda de la credibilidad de sus historias al hacer que sus héroes interviniesen en los ataques. No quedaba más que lamentar.

      En Amazing Spider-Man #36, escrito por Michael Straczynski, Spider-Man presencia la caída de las Torres. Al bajar a las ruinas, Spider-Man encuentra ciudadanos perdidos, dados al rencor de lo sucedido. De ese enojo nace el cuestionamiento del héroe, de su ignorancia. Spider-Man, contemplativo y derrotado, solo puede decir We didn’t know. Como única alternativa, Spider-Man pasa a ayudar a los policías y a los bomberos. En el proceso se da cuenta de que los héroes reales del evento no son seres con capas ni semi-dioses americanos. Son seres humanos que simplemente hacían su trabajo. Esta va a ser la fórmula de la gran mayoría de las historias conmemorativas del evento. Un héroe clásico reconoce, valida, el heroísmo del hombre común después de lamentar su incapacidad de no poder haber previsto el ataque a las Torres. De la falla del mito sale la validación del nuevo héroe.

 

      Ahora, quizás una de las historias más interesante suscrita a la fórmula le pertenece a Superman. Unreal, escrito por Steven T. Seagle, empieza de forma sencilla: recordándole al lector las habilidades de Superman. Puede ignorar los principios de la física, respirar en el vacío del espacio, volar contra todo sentido de lógica aeronáutica e inspirar a personas comunes a ser más de lo que son. Pero, en sus palabras, “the one thing I cannot do is break free from the fictional pages I live and breath…become real in times of crisis…and right the wrongs of an unjust world”. Estas líneas parecen reafirmar que el destino del héroe americano recae en un acto absoluto de lamentación, sin espacio para la acción o incluso venganza contra aquellos que hicieron de la nación una víctima.

     Es en este contexto que entra Ex Machina (2004-2010) de Brian K. Vaughan y Tony Harris, la historia de un héroe que repensó los límites de su trauma y los convirtió en una reacción de responsabilidad legal. La historia de un héroe que decidió asumir la responsabilidad que Superman nunca se atrevió tocar, la de ser alcalde de su ciudad.

 

     Según Jeff Geers, “the post-9/11 hero is stuck within the disaster (of the Twin Towers), working within the limitations of the system to rebuild and repair it”. De tal forma comienza Ex Machina. El comic cuenta la historia de Mitchell Hundred, un superhéroe que tiene la habilidad de hablar y controlar todo tipo de máquinas. Adquiere el poder tras encontrar un mecanismo extradimensional debajo del Brooklyn Bridge. El mecanismo explota y le da el poder a Hundred. Su origin story se atiene a lo real. Hundred se llama a sí mismo The Great Machine y su disfraz lo hace ver como un piloto. Usa un jetpack para volar. Su presencia en Manhattan crea el mismo debate que persigue a Batman, el de la necesidad de un vigilante que trabaje fuera de los parámetros legales del estado. Pero todo cambia cuando rescata una de las Torres Gemelas el 11 de septiembre de 2001. The Great Machine se convierte en el héroe que el 11 de septiembre nunca tuvo. Antes del evento, en julio 4 de 2001, Hundred se había revelado como The Great Machine y había anunciado su candidatura para alcalde de Nueva York. Los ataques hacen que Hundred regrese a su disfraz. Su intervención eleva su campaña y en noviembre de 2001 es electo alcalde de Nueva York.

     Regresando a Geers, el héroe post-desastre es esencialmente impotente: es incapaz de prevenir el desastre pero tampoco puede corregirlo del todo. En efecto, el héroe se rinde ante las limitaciones reales del ser humano. La narración de Hundred afirma este punto. Hundred dice:
 
     I made it back to Ground Zero ninety minutes after I diverted the second plane…I tried 
     to help everyone who was trapped by the fire. I tried to convince the jumpers to hold 
     on, but…but people don’t listen to the goddamn “Great Machine” the way…Whatever, I 

     tried to catch them, but there were so many. I’m not that fast, not that strong.

     Hundred prefiere recordar su intervención como una fallida en vez de una digna de la figura que representa. El que rescató una de las Torres no importa. El lamento por la que calló es más importante. Por eso Ex Machina sugiere que después de 9/11 parece irresponsable esperar que el superhéroe lo arregle todo. El héroe post-desastre no puede reparar una cultura traumatizada. Su ideal utópico cae ante la realidad de su humanidad. Matthew Wolf-Meyer dice, “superpowered attempts at utopia fail not due to a weakness of the superhero, but because the superhero is basically a representative of conservative social order”. 
 

       Siguiendo lo expuesto por Wolf-Meyer, Ex Machina supone el reconocimiento de un superhéroe que no puede seguir representando el ideal utópico de seguridad continua al que se adscriben los héroes clásicos de Marvel y DC. Al representar un orden social conservador, el héroe tiene que subyugarse a una representatividad mayor encontrada en los mecanismos del estado y en los puestos que lo mantienen funcionando. En efecto, el gobierno es la única máquina fuera del alcance de los poderes de The Great Machine. Por eso el personaje acoge el puesto de alcalde como su nuevo alter ego. Sin él es un ciudadano más y como The Great Machine no puede realizar los cambios que la ciudad requiere. (Por eso, por ejemplo, la guerra que declara Batman contra el crimen es eterna, porque Batman solo reacciona ante el problema, no lo intenta cambiar a un nivel fundamental. Atacar el problema de raíz implicaría que Bruce Wayne se insertara en una posición de poder político. Significaría el fin de Batman.)

      Ahora, Hundred tiene una relación bastante problemática con sus poderes después de ser electo. En uno de los story arcs del comic, Hundred contempla cancelar una protesta anti-guerra convocada para el área Downtown de Manhattan. Después de 9/11 congregaciones sustanciales de gente en un lugar determinado se consideran una situación de riesgo, un posible blanco para un ataque terrorista. Hundred decide no cancelar el permiso. Cabe destacar que Hundred es pintado como un centrista bastante inclinada hacia la Izquierda. Entre las situaciones que desata encuentra el matrimonio de una pareja de bomberos gay, la legalización de la marihuana (que acaba de forma ambigua pero revela que Hundred la fuma) y la censura de una obra de arte que tiene la palabra “nigger” sobreimpuesta sobre la figura de Abraham Lincoln. Cada controversia resulta en una victoria liberal, pero los discursos desenterrados del diálogo gravitan más hacia el centro. Hundred mantendrá que todo es cuestión de balances. Unas libertades no pueden atentar contra otras.

 

      En el caso de la manifestación anti-guerra Hundred sufre la consecuencia de ser un liberal muy utópico. Una bomba de gas tóxico explota en la demostración y muere una cantidad preocupante de manifestantes. El ataque hace eco en las ansiedades que salieron del 11 de septiembre y Hundred ahora tiene que pensar como gobernante en vez de superhéroe. De ese pensar sale el que la ciudad, bajo órdenes de su alcalde, adopte una política limitada de surveillance. Cada estación de tren contiene una cámara digital que identifica posibles sospechosos. Pero el esfuerzo no rinde fruto. Hundred decide retornar a sus poderes como excepción a la regla que él mismo se impuso al ser electo, la de no intervenir como The Great Machine mientras esté en poder. Hundred atrapa al responsable, un residente legal de la ciudad que declara sus intenciones de culminar lo que Hundred interrumpió el 11 de septiembre. Pero el arresto del terrorista resulta en una victoria vacía, una repetición a menor escala del 11 de septiembre. Hundred no previene el ataque, su reacción viene después de la violencia. Tal parece que el espectro de la Torre que no rescató aun persigue a Hundred, estableciendo paralelos entre su incapacidad de prevenir otro ataque y la mentalidad que hizo posible la falta de acción que caracterizó los eventos del 11 de septiembre. La moral de la historia parece ser que después de 9/11 cada acción heroica es seguida por una reacción inversamente destructiva. El comic reafirma la impotencia del héroe y valida su decisión de abandonar el disfraz por uno que más fielmente representa los límites de nuestra humanidad.
 

      En fin, Ex Machina termina siendo la historia de un héroe que sale del lamento post-traumático de la caída de las Torres Gemelas. Sus acciones son medidas por traumas y ansiedades culturales que hicieron del superhéroe americano una víctima más del ataque terrorista del 11 de septiembre de 2001. The Great Machine fue un héroe más que fracasó. Un héroe que aunque responde al lamento de Superman de no poder salir de las páginas a rescatar a su lector reacciona ante la ficción de su condición al elevar su lamento a un nivel de autoridad más problemático. El héroe post-9/11 no tiene capa. Usa corbata y chaleco y es electo por el pueblo. Ahora es parte del gobierno y nace de un mito nuevo que exige que sus héroes sean víctimas perseguidas por las sombras de las Torres Gemelas.