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.

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.