Holy Unstable Hierarchy, Batgirl!

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In his study of the Batman TV show from last year, Matt Yockey argues that season three’s introduction of Batgirl (Yvonne Craig) carefully maintains patriarchal norms. Batgirl is always subordinate to Batman, Yockey says, and/or to her dad, Commisioner Gordon — or even to Alfred. “The implicit threat of the female crime fighter is contained by Alfred’s knowledge of her dual identities.” Batgirl gets to be somewhat heroic, but ultimately some guy in Gotham is always the boss.

This analysis fails to take into account one small fact. Namely, Season Three (or at least the first few episodes I’ve seen) is not an ordered hierarchy. Instead, it is a huge, staggering, lurching mess. The second episode in particular, with Frank Gorshin returning as the Riddler after a season long absence, teeters on the verge of utter incoherence, before plunging gleefully over the edge.

Seasons 1 and 2 followed a regular two-episode formula arc, from the introduction of the villain to the meeting with the commissioner through the cliffhanger to the escape and on to the defeat of the bad guy. But season three exchanges the two-parters for single episodes, and throws in the addition of Batgirl as an extra bonus crimefighter. The result is a plot that see-saws widely every which way. The Riddler pretends to be the prizefighter Mushi Nebuchudnezzer, drugs various prizefighters, wheels Joan Collins out as a super-villainness who sings a high-pitched note to mind-control other prizefighters, calls Batman a coward to lure him into a fight, uses magnets, tries to mind control Batgirl, fails, and connives with a sports reporter as the narrative veers back and forth between Batgirl running around and Batman and Robin running around, with a brief interlude for Dick Grayson’s aunt Harriet Cooper to explain that she’s been traveling abroad. The winking, knowing humor of the first two seasons dissolves into manic idiocy, summed up by Frank Gorshin bouncing and bobbing around the prize-fighting ring, looking punch-drunk one moment, walking into Batman’s fist the next, gleefully punching the magnetized Caped Crusader from behind in the third.

I guess it’s possible that the show’s creators were nervous about the threat of a female crime fighter and were trying to carefully maintain patriarchal order. But that’s not what happens. Instead, the introduction of Batgirl coincides with a show going utterly off the rails. Batman, who in earlier seasons has every answer at his bat-gloves’ finger-tips, now seems to be almost drowning in the whirlwind of plot. He doesn’t know who Batgirl is, and barely seems to know what he’s doing as he thrashes around in the ring with the Riddler until Batgirl demagnetizes him. In the next episode, (featuring Joan Collins again in a skirt so short it’s amazing it got past the censors) Batman, who has been resistant to the blandishments of all other villainnesses, has his Batbrain scrambled, and has to be rescued by Batgirl and Robin.

I wouldn’t say this is some sort of programmatic feminist message. But the first two seasons of Batman always carefully balanced celebrating the superhero as all powerful fuddy-duddy force of order and mocking him for being an all powerful fuddy-duddy force for order. In season three, the female crimefighter arrives, and the fuddy-duddy force for order experiences some sort of apocalyptic bat seizure. System disintegrates; super-villains profligately flock together, Bruce Wayne’s will, heretofore inviolable, is mushed by the exigencies of plot and the power of Joan Collins.

Most of the mix up is no doubt a simple the failure of capital, as cratering popularity and slashed budgets undermined the Wayne fortune and the shows’ shooting budget. But part of it is, too, the addition of that Domino Daredoll. Spending narrative time with the Batgirl-cycle may not topple the patriarchy, but it at least leaves it in massive disarray.
 

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TV Superheroines of My Lovelorn Youth

It took almost a half century, but Fox and Warner Bros. finally put aside their film rivalry to co-release Batman: The Complete Television Series last month. It makes me want to drag my parents back together and sit them down on my living room couch to watch.
 

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I had no idea why they were laughing the first time we watched the show together. It seemed like a pretty serious situation to me: Batman facing down that dastardly cowboy villain “Shame.” They were sitting with me on the couch in the den, enjoying the apparently hilarious subtleties of Adam West’s superheroic performance. If I can trust the episode guide I skimmed online, this is February 1968. Which puts me a little under the age of two. So maybe we were watching a rerun?
 

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Whatever my extremely prepubescent age, I’m sure I had zero idea what Eartha Kit was doing in that slinky Catwoman costume. Nowadays I squirm just hearing the late Ms. Kit’s “Santa Baby” rasping from my favorite Christmas mix. I assume Julie Newmar’s Catwoman was equally incomprehensible. No smoldering voice, but the same cartoon-tight faux leather.
 

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I don’t know when a kid’s sexuality kicks in (“When did you first suspect your might be straight?”), but I must have had a thing for good girls early on. Because Batgirl I noticed. Yvonne Craig in costume still produces an impressive Google search.
 

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I sat through an entire episode of That Girl waiting for Marlo Thomas to open that secret compartment in her apartment wall and motorcycle out of the alley with her cape fluttering (I swore my mother had said the show was Bat Girl). But when Ms. Craig appeared on Star Trek as a green-skinned seductress who lap dances for Spock and lures Kirk onto a dimly lit bed, nothing in me recognized her. Apparently my pre-pre-adolescent id didn’t go for scantily clad She-Hulk types.
 

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“Spidey,” PBS’ mute Spider-Man mutation, premiered on The Electric Company when I was seven. I was too busy blinking at my first full TV crush to take notice of him. I’m relieved to report no nostalgic reactions to The Electric Company cast portraits I just scrolled through. I can’t even figure out which actress arrested my attention. Rita Moreno is my best guess. According to her online bio though, she would have been around forty at the time. I’m even more surprised looking back at the shows advertising slogan:

“We’re going to turn you on!”
 

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This may also be the year I started first grade, the year of my first crush on a non-TV entity. Her name was Marisa Moesta. Not quite as snappy as Lois Lane, but I understood the allure of comic book alliteration from an early age. I can’t picture Ms. Moesta, just the pink poodle key ring she gave me after I’d given her my own trinket of affection—what I can’t remember. But I carried her poodle in my utility belt for years. Though not, thankfully, to the Batcave of my current home.
 

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Wonder Woman premiered next, with Lynda Carter “In your satin tights / Fighting for your rights.” I had less interest in her underoos than my own. Ditto for Isis. Even I knew they’d only made her up to give the Shazam! Hour‘s Captain Marvel a girlfriend.
 

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My wife remembers Electra Woman and Dyna Girl, a female spin on the old Batman and Robin gag. I must have been too lazy to stand up and channel surf. Which is just as well since Dyna looks like she might have been my type. Those brunette ponytails. Electra’s Farah Fawcett curls still horrify.
 

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I’m sure I was continuing to miss subtleties, but my parents weren’t beside me on the couch anymore. When I set my smiley face alarm for cartoons one Saturday morning (Batman and Robin had recently guest starred on Scooby-Do), my mother was sleeping on the fold-out mattress in the den. I don’t know when they told my sister and me they were divorcing, but it was on that couch, the TV off for a change.
 

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When Batgirl and Robin showed up on a 30-second public-service announcement, it was some other guy in the Batman costume. Adam West was gone, desperate to escape his Caped Crusader’s shadow, a mission he would never complete. If Batman hadn’t been cancelled back in 1968, ABC would have broken up the Dynamic Duo anyway. Robin was to be replaced by Yvonne Craig’s more popular Batgirl. But bad ratings killed them all.

Congress had passed the Federal Equal Pay Act a decade earlier, but employers were still ignoring it. I don’t know if that included the University of Pittsburgh. After moving out, my mother got a job as an assistant in one of their research labs. My sister and I helped her feed rats on weekends. It couldn’t have been much above minimum wage. I doubt Batman: The Complete Television Series includes the PSA, but I remember every second:

Batman and Robin are tied to a warehouse pillar.

NARRATOR: A ticking bomb means trouble for Batman and Robin.

Batgirl swings through a window.

ROBIN: Holy breaking and entering, it’s Batgirl!

BATMAN: Quick, Batgirl, untie us before it’s too late.

BATGIRL: It’s already too late. I’ve worked for you for a long time, and I’m paid less than Robin.

Robin sneers.

BATGIRL: Same job, same employer means same pay for men and women.

BATMAN: No time for jokes, Batgirl.

BATGIRL: It’s no joke. It’s the Federal Equal Pay law.

ROBIN: Holy act of Congress!

Batgirl moves the minute hand forward on the ticking bomb.

BATGIRL (voice over): If you’re not getting equal pay, then contact the Wage and Hour Division, U.S. Department of Labor.

At least Yvonne Craig and Robin actor Burt Ward were paid the same for the commercial: $0. The PSA started airing in 1973, when Craig was thirty-six. My mother was thirty-four. Craig’s final appearance as Batgirl also marked the end of her acting career. When she couldn’t get parts, she moved on to producing and then real estate.

Lynda Carter held on to her magic lasso for four seasons, but it didn’t matter. The joke was over. The Incredible Hulk was the new, angsty breed of superhero. No camp, no gratuitous display of women in swimsuits and bodystockings, just the brooding Bill Bixby wandering away alone once a week. By the time The Greatest American Hero premiered, I’d already turned off the TV.
 

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I, Reboot

Most of us can generally agree that the treatment of women in fiction of the 1960s or earlier was by no means sublime.  Consider Lieutenant Uhura, of Star Trek, The Original Series, a Communications Officer aboard the bridge of the starship Enterprise.  Traipsing about the bridge in a short, short skirt, she contributed to the exploration of space by answering the phone and relaying messages.  Consider Barbara Gordon of the Batman comics, a part-time librarian in a skin-tight costume, who carried most of her arsenal in a handy batpurse.

 

It would be a mistake to consider these narratives, however, without the context of their time period.  While they might be offensive to some today, these female characters are progressive for their time in terms of what roles women play.  Uhura was hugely significant, because she was an officer who had a job that involved more technology and know-how than making coffee; Barbara Gordon was one of the first female action heroes who acted on her own.

 

It’s relatively easy to compare social values of the sixties and of the current decade, and conclude that the position of women has significantly changed.  What remains unclear is whether current treatment of women in fiction has improved proportionately.  Reboots, meanwhile, provide the unique opportunity to directly compare the treatment of those values in narrative while taking into account the context of changed social environment.  By taking the same story and telling it in two different time periods, one can easily juxtapose the treatment of values against said time periods.

 

Obviously, reboots often neglect to take advantage of these opportunities, recapitulating the social environment of the past instead of offering commentary on it, or updating it to reflect modern times.  Perhaps this is one reason why the recent boom in reboots, reimaginings, sequels, etc, is seen as stale and unimaginative.  In these reboots, the position of women relative to “current” society is exactly the same as it was fifty years ago.

 

However, there are some reboots in which the changed role of women in the narrative is not merely a recapitulation, but actually seems to be a regression.  That is, not only has the treatment of women in narrative not improved proportionately to the changed role of women in society; some of these reboots would seem significantly behind their source texts even in the sixties.  Christopher Nolan’s Batman reboot, J. J. Abrams’ Star Trek reboot, and to some extent Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who sequels and Sherlock Holmes re-imaging in some respects make female characters of the sixties sometimes look damn good.

 

Certainly, it is questionable to suit up hot girls in latex and show off their bodies as they fight crime, and certainly it is objectionable that a gal in a short skirt is a glorified secretary on a show about the future.  The reboots in question remove all that pseudo-feminism by portraying ladies as love interests and lawyers, while men retain their careers of kicking ass and fighting crime with superpowers.  The reboots remove those icky questions of motivation—in which girls only act because they’re daughters/mothers/lovers or because some guy tells them to—by simply removing female agency altogether.  In some of them—instead of females being somewhat questionable representations of the feminist progressive movement—females barely exist at all.

 

Nolan’s Batman reboot is perhaps the most radical repositioning of the female in narrative relative to its source text.  Although Batman’s early forms can be read as male-centric, there is no denying the place of Barbara Gordon as Batgirl in the overall Batman narrative.  Plenty of iterations of Batman, however, do not include Barbara, just as several do not include Robin.  Barbara’s exclusion in these iterations can be seen less as a commentary on her position in the narrative, and rather as subjection to the extreme complexity of the overall Batman story.  There are enough supplemental characters that it is difficult to include them all in any single retelling.

 

However, Nolan’s rendition is particularly interesting due to the heavy emphasis on men, particularly the relationships between fathers and sons.  Martha Wayne, Bruce Wayne’s mother, appears in several scenes, but has no lines.  Her impact on Bruce (and the film) is negligible in comparison to Thomas Wayne, Bruce’s father.  While the role is small, Thomas Wayne colors Batman Begins, establishing the father figure trope and demanding that it be filled in that character’s absence.  Thomas is of course replaced by R’as al Ghul, and when Bruce returns to Gotham, father figures are filled by Alfred, Jim Gordon, and Lucius Fox, with varying degrees of reproof and complicity.  Never is there the suggestion that any of R’as al Ghul’s daughters could possibly show up to ruin the neat pattern-making of prodigal sons and disapproving fathers, because the one significant woman in these films is Rachel Dawes.

 

As a feisty lawyer-type, Rachel Dawes not only suggests that women can have careers, but that they may have an active position in the plot, able to help Batman put away the criminals he catches.  While some might argue that this is progressive, this statement is little different than what Superman suggested even in the 1940s.  In short, Dawes is a rehash of characters such as Lois Lane, Vicky Vale, or oh, even say April O’Neil.  The only new social commentary is in Dawes’ profession as a lawyer, rather than a reporter, which suggests that women can take on still more varied careers, but still, this hardly seems as progressive as Barbara Gordon insofar as the role of women in today’s society.  After all, Barbara Gordon became a vigilante independent of Batman; there is no suggestion whatsoever that Dawes could possibly sustain her own narrative.

 

Nolan’s reboot more directly fails in regard to feminism in The Dark Knight, when Dawes dies.  This is Dawes’ most significant action; it is the crux that instigates all further action.  Her death causes Two-Face to emerge, and Batman to realize that his hopes of legitimate justice are inherently flawed.

 

The idea that a woman’s single greatest strength is self-sacrifice is a common trope in narrative.  It seems to fit in nicely with the idea that a woman’s only strength lies in the help, support, and nurturing of menfolk.  Giving of self is a strength many women do have, and take pleasure in actively offering; however, this is not their only possible form of action.  Self-sacrifice is often portrayed as the ultimate nurturing action (see The Giving Tree) and thus the ultimate strength (see Sucker Punch); a female sacrifices all of her agency so that others may have it.

 

The Dark Knight, however, presents a much less active role; in The Dark Knight, it is not active self-sacrifice but rather passive death that forms the crux of all the rest of the action.  In fact, it is the very passivity of the death that motivates Harvey Dent.  She didn’t have a choice; it was all due to chance: the death of a perfect innocent.  Her earlier fumblings towards agency are thus redeemed; any specters of latex or objectified ass-kicking are thus removed.  In the context of the film, of course, it is a perfect tragedy.  In the context of this male-centric universe, juxtaposed the Batman narrative of the 1960s, however, it is—well.  Still a tragedy.

 

The complete eradication of Barbara Gordon occurs during the climax of the arc of Jim Gordon, police commissioner and traditionally, the father of Barbara Gordon.  Towards the end of The Dark Knight, Two-Face threatens the person Jim “loves most.”  Jim says, “Don’t hurt my family,” and Two-Face reiterates he will only harm the person Jim, “loves most.”  Two-Face chooses not Jim’s wife or daughter, but Jim’s son.  In spotlighting Gordon’s son—however briefly—at the expense of wife or daughter, the film narrowly avoids reference to any possible suggestion of Barbara Gordon and that whole feminist problem that she presents.

 

Canonically, Jim Gordon does have a son (or two), but his daughter Barbara has always been far more important to the Batman narrative.  It’s true that this scene attempts to parallel Rachel Dawes and James Gordon Jr, thus demonstrating that not only females, but children also, may passively die to instigate action.  However, I really admire the manly resistance to even throw fans a bone in this scene by refusing to allow Jim’s daughter—who is present—a name or any lines.  Doing so makes it impossible for fans to draw parallels between Barbara Gordon and Rachel Dawes, which might have resulted in the disastrous suggestion that girls are not bright shining forces of integrity, but may be morally questionable also.

 

Abrams’ recent Star Trek does not manage to avoid these issues quite so neatly.  The role of Uhura is significantly expanded in the reboot, as opposed to The Original Series, which gives us more time to question the treatment of female identity.  Disappointingly, said expansion is due not to an expansion of Uhura’s role on the Enterprise, but rather to her new position as a love interest.  Furthermore, in the source text, Captain Kirk’s various relationships with women showcases the show’s unwillingness to consummate the homoerotic overtones, and yet Kirk’s relationships never seem as serious or integral as the friendship between Kirk and Spock.  By providing the apparently sustained relationship between Uhura and Spock, the reboot further paints over the problematic issue of homosexuality.  The position of women aside, the reboot certainly reads as more heteronormative than The Original Series.

 

Uhura in The Original Series is never really treated as a love interest.  In one episode she falls for a man, in several, she has somewhat flirtatious conversations with Spock.  In another, Kirk kisses her, but the scene is appropriately problematized, because “aliens made them do it.”  Perhaps Uhura is never treated as a love interest due to her race, or perhaps she was never deemed important enough to “deserve” a romantic relationship.  However, she was a regular, important part of the crew and the show not because of any relationships she had, but because of her career, and that was significant at the time the show aired.

 

In some ways, it’s understandable that Uhura in the reboot is a love interest.  There are very few mainstream action and adventure narratives that don’t involve the central protagonists in some sort of romantic plot—though it is interesting to note that the ones that manage to avoid it tend to center around two male protagonists, complete with homoerotic overtones (see House, BBC’s Sherlock, Supernatural, and oh, anything without girls).  So maybe we can blame mainstream culture for its insistence on sexual overtones, without directly citing lack of feminist concern or insight for Uhura’s position.

 

After all, Uhura may not get to fight Nero, pilot a ship into a black hole, or participate in the climax of the film at all, but she does get to translate a Romulan message, which is somewhat pivotal to earlier action.  We also get to see a portrayal of determination, strength, and ambition when she demands that Spock change the roster so that she can go aboard the Enterprise.  The strength of this scene is somewhat negated by the fact that she uses her relationship with Spock in order to get ahead; however, it is possible that Spock did not initially place her on the Enterprise in order to protect her.  Thus Uhura’s demand is an insistence on not being treated like a delicate flower.

 

Overall, whether the role of the reboot Uhura is an improvement in terms of feminism on original Uhura is somewhat murky, both objectively and considering the context of the time periods.  Her position would be more clear if they had sacrificed her in a passive manner, as Nolan did with Rachel Dawes, and as Abrams does with Spock’s mother.  The death of Amanda Grayson, Spock’s mother, motivates Spock’s actions and furthers the plot; while it is a small point, the passive death of Nero’s wife also furthers the plot.  Nero, the villain, is a Romulan whose wife died when the star of Romulus went supernova; he is out to kill Spock for revenge.  Thus the central antagonist and one of the central protagonists act in response to women who were not seen to act themselves.

 

Kirk, meanwhile, is motivated by the death of his father.  His father, moreover, actively sacrificed himself to save his wife and child.  We have no idea what happened to Kirk’s mother, because after giving birth to him, she is no longer important to the narrative.  We also have no idea what happened to Number One, the woman who is canonically (according to The Original Series) second in command to Captain Pike.  She does not exist in the reboot.  One may assume that the alternate universe created by Nero’s intrusion on the timeline resulted not only in Kirk’s blue eyes, but the eradication of Number One.  This deletion conveniently removes concerns we may have had in The Original Series about her lack of a first name or Pike’s somewhat dismissive treatment of her in canon.  Without her existence, we need not be concerned with women in positions of leadership in Starfleet at all; there is nothing to cause us to question it or wonder.

 

Instead, there is Gaila: the green girl Kirk sleeps with in order to get codes to reprogram the Kobayshi Maru.  Considering her skin color, she is most likely an Orion, which—according to canon—is a kind of sex slave.  That she is in Starfleet at all is both progressive and problematic, similar to the original Uhura—or Tasha Yar, in Star Trek: The Next Generation.

 

Tasha Yar is the Chief Security Officer who spent her youth on the streets, avoiding “rape gangs.”  She is the 1990s commentary on the treatment of women, perhaps a reproach to The Original Series, which rarely showed women who could fight or wear pants.  Yar’s troubled past may have been an attempt to highlight her strengths as a warrior and survivor, but it fed into an unfortunate trope that women must overcome slavery, rape, or similar to be as tough as men.

 

Fortunately for the show, The Next Generation managed to eliminate the problem of portraying a warrior female with an icky past when the actress who played Yar demanded a larger part.  The show was left with females who portrayed their strengths through more nurturing functions (counseling and doctoring)—again, an important form of action, but not the only one of which a female is capable.  But because it was the main form of action for women on the show, The Next Generation in some ways seems a lot less progressive than its counterpart, The Orginal Series.

 

Gaila’s own history, however, is never addressed, as opposed to Tasha Yar’s.  Furthermore Kirk has sex with her in order to use her, thereby bringing all those issues that never achieved their full ick-capacity with Tasha Yar right up to the fore with Gaila.  The new Uhura receives a first name, which is more than the original Uhura or Number One ever got, though there is some question too as to whether those characters lacking a first name was somewhat progressive in its own way.  Gaila doesn’t have a name at all in the reboot; “Gaila” comes from a deleted scene.

 

Many other reboots besides these seem to not only lack progressive statements in comparison to modern times, but also in comparison to their previous iterations.  The new Doctor Who is not quite a reboot, since it takes previous canon into account, but it does provide the same sort of reflection on the previous series.

 

The central companions to the Doctor—all female—in the new Who kick a whole lot of ass, but I cannot help but notice that the first two, Rose and Martha, are both in love with the Doctor and seem to believe he can do little wrong.  While there is absolutely nothing wrong with being in love, the distinct power imbalance between the Doctor and, well, everyone else of his acquaintance, suggests that these infatuations are somewhat problematic.  The show, however, doesn’t problematize the power imbalance, only the fact that the Doctor apparently has feelings for Rose, but cannot be with her, and apparently doesn’t really have romantic feelings for Martha.

 

The next companion, Donna, is not in love with the Doctor, and seems positioned to critique his hubris and many, many questionable actions.  However, by the end of her arc she trusts the Doctor without reservation, and seems behind even his morally ambiguous behavior.  This, too, seems to highlight the power imbalance without asking any questions about it.

 

Donna’s arc ends powerfully; she essentially saves the world—but this she can only do by becoming the Doctor himself.  Because even the Doctor realizes the danger there being two of him prevents, he erases Donna’s memory completely, returning her to her former life as though he had never entered it.  This is particularly disturbing because Donna had very little motivation or agency before she met the Doctor; through her adventures with him, she found her strengths and gained some measure of power, even if it was only by means of the Doctor.  By leaving her with no memory of her experiences, Donna once again lacks confidence, and possibly continues the existence she later herself saw as shiftless and meaningless.

 

The Doctor’s most recent companion also begins in a similarly male-influenced, passive manner: as a little girl, Amy Pond meets the Doctor, and she’s obsessed with him ever since.  For two seasons, there is little to no reflection on the fact that Amy’s early beliefs and desires are influenced, even manipulated by a very powerful male authority; her later actions are all predicated upon the Doctor creating a strong impression on her as a child.

 

However, the most recent season expands the role of another female character, River Song, who—while somewhat problematic in her own right—is at last a female who at last can challenge the Doctor in terms of knowledge and power.  The recent season also problematizes Amy’s early relationship with the Doctor—which, for the sake of girls prevailed upon at an early age by male authority figures, is well.  Nice.

 

Hopefully Moffat’s next installment on BBC’s Sherlock will progress similarly.  Sherlock, unlike Doctor Who or Star Trek, is not a reboot of a 1960s narrative, but a reimagining of a late nineteeth century narrative; thus it is no surprise that women do not play large or progressive roles in the stories.  It’s that very lack that makes me wonder at the sudden boom in reboots, reimaginings, and retellings—after all, historical accuracy is not only a convenient, but sometimes a perfectly valid excuse for sexism.

 

Sherlock, however, is a modernized reinvention of Doyle’s stories.  Admittedly, the space for females in the structure of the narrative itself, not just the Victorian time period, is somewhat confining; there has never been a large cast in these stories.  We know characters like Moriarty, Mycroft, and Irene Adler well because so many variations on the stories exist, but canonically, they do not appear very often.  Irene Adler appears only once—though we may applaud reboots for her use and reuse as an attempt to bring a strong female into the narrative.  But if one remains close to canon, there are only two central heroes, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and sometimes a third, somewhat lesser protagonist, Inspector Lestrade.

 

However, there is absolutely no reason the issue could not have been addressed in a modern adaptation by merely changing the sex of one of the characters.  Lestrade could have been a girl; there is no reason, canonically or thematically, that Lestrade has to be a man.  One might argue that Moriarity and Mycroft must remain men, as they serve as mirrors to Sherlock, though there seems very little reason why—in a modern context—a woman can’t serve as a parallel character to a man.  Lastly, there is no reason Sherlock cannot be a girl.

 

Sherlock Holmes is a quintessentially male character, but it is not due to sexuality, or physical strength, or other qualities that society tell us are overtly masculine.  Instead, he is masculine due to his phenomenal intelligence and social ineptitude with other people.  There is absolutely no evidence or rationale behind the idea that these traits are inherently masculine, and yet there are few, if any, characters in most of literary or media western canon which are as overwhelmingly intelligent and cerebrally inaccessible as Sherlock Holmes, who are also women.

 

The one reboot I will mention in conclusion is, of course, Battlestar Galactica, which does change the sex of one of the original characters, and reimagines other roles with females to fulfill them.  The reimagined Starbuck is singular not only because she is played by a woman, but because she retains many of the “masculine” characteristics so central to the original character.  She smokes, she gambles, she gets in brawls.  She is not, however, merely a male character with breasts, some of her plots and concerns are considered by society feminine, and other plots and concerns could only happen to a woman.

 

That is not to say that the entirety of Starbuck’s arcs are shining examples of everything a female character should be in narrative.  On the contrary, some of her characterization—like latex and batpurses in the sixties—is a reflection of the deficiencies of our modern times: the not yet perfectly equal role of women in today’s society.  And yet, like Batgirl and the original Uhura were in the sixties, I would say the reboot Starbuck is progressive for her time.  Her role is to ask the questions; we provide the answers.

 

I’m actually not a huge fan of Batgirl.  And I really, really enjoy Nolan’s reboot of Batman, as problematic as it is.  When considering these narratives, however, it’s important to look beyond the diegesis to the context of the time period, and ask questions regarding the situation of social values within the world of the story.  It’s important to do so in the case of reboots and reimaginings in particular, because it is so easy to neglect context not only in favor of the diegesis, but in favor of a context that is valid only to the source text, not the reimagining.  If these retellings do not themselves push boundaries, we are in danger not only of said boundaries remaining in place, but actually backsliding into the positions they so comfortably held decades ago.

Snap Judgments: Five DC Reboots

The comics blogosphere can’t stop talking about the DC Comics reboot in September. Some bloggers are cheering. Others are jeering. But anyone can offer a general impression. A true comics blogger explains why something sucks, and then explains how everything would be better if said blogger was in charge.

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Action Comics #1
Written by Grant Morrison
Art by Rags Morales and Rick Bryant

Pros
Grant Morrison has written great superhero comics.
And lots of people seem to really like Morrison’s All-Star Superman.

Cons
The unbearable Modern Myth/Super Jesus/Underwear Messiah garbage.
And All-Star Superman was incredibly overrated.

Odds That It Will Suck
High. In his 70+ year history, Superman has starred in about 5 good comics. The rest are about why the world “needs” Superman and his crappy merchandise.

How I Would Make It Better
Superman is an escapist fantasy about male potency, which is why Action Comics should be an adult comic. Every issue should be 22 pages of hardcore sex where Superman fucks his way through Lois, Lana, Lex, Jimmy Olsen, Martha Kent, Krypto, and consequently saves the world. Superman isn’t Jesus Christ. He’s Ron Jeremy-meets-Arnold Schwarzenegger.

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Wonder Woman #1
Written by Brian Azzarello
Art by Cliff Chiang

Pros
Azzarello has written some good (crime) comics.
I like Cliff Chiang’s artwork, if for no other reason than it doesn’t look like everyone else’s artwork.
The new costume is a slight improvement over the last new costume.

Cons
Azzarello has written some terrible (superhero) comics.

Odds That It Will Suck
Super high. When it comes to crappy comics, Wonder Woman has an even worse track record than Superman. Nobody at DC knows what to do with this character.

How I Would Make It Better
I’m tempted to just write “make it porn” for each these. But in all seriousness, the only way that Wonder Woman would ever be good again is if William Marston came back from the grave. The next best alternative would be to find a writer who has a similar personality to Marston: feminist, polygamist, BDSM enthusiast, lesbian fetishist, furry, all-around pervert and political visionary, etc.

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Teen Titans #1
Written by Scott Lobdell
Art by Brett Booth and Norm Rapmund

Pros
Lobdell has experience writing teen superheros, going back to Generation X.

Cons
Generation X was actually kinda boring.
Superboy is not and will never be badass, no matter how many ‘tats he has.

Odds That It Will Suck
Very high. Teen Titans was tolerable for about 3 years in the early 1980s. Everything before and after was a miserable failure.

How I Would Make It Better
The core problem with Teen Titans is that it’s never been about teenagers, but rather what adult writers want teenagers to be. Superboy, Robin, Wonder Girl, Kid Flash – these kids revere their elders and try to emulate them. Fuck that noise. Adults don’t deserve reverence. Plus, teenagers don’t want to read about obedient, law-abiding teens, and adults reliving their youth don’t want to read about obedient, law-abiding teens. They both want sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll (or substitute in hip hop). The Titans shouldn’t be fighting crime, they should be fighting for the right to party, and generally reminding adults how much they suck.

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Batgirl #1
Written by Gail Simone
Art by Ardian Syaf and Vicente Cifuentes (cover by Adam Hughes)

Pros
Having a writer with an actual sense of humor never hurts.

Cons
Barbara Gordon can now walk again, which means DC eliminated one of the tiny handful of disabled heroes.
That Adam Hughes cover freaks me out. She keeps smiling at me with her cold, dead eyes…

Odds That It Will Suck
Medium. Batgirl is a fairly straightforward character who stars in straightforward adventures. No history of greatness, but no history of terribleness either.

How I Would Make It Better
Comics starring solo heroes often tend to be a dreary reads because the protagonist rarely has anyone to interact with. This leads to page after page of mind-numbing narration just so the writer can justify their wage. This book needs a big supporting cast, preferably other superheroines who accompany Batgirl on her adventures. So it would essentially be Birds of Prey with Batgirl. And like Birds of Prey, there should be plenty of lesbian subtext, because lesbian subtext improves everything.

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Swamp Thing #1
Written by Scott Snyder
Art by Yanick Paquette

Pros
I’m drawing a blank here…

Cons
Mediocre writer, mediocre artist, a character who is ill-served by being dragged back into mainstream superhero comics.

Odds That It Will Suck
Certainty. Alan Moore is a tough act to follow. And outside of Moore’s run, Swamp Thing doesn’t have a rich history to draw from.

How I Would Make It Better
Well, I probably wouldn’t make it at all. But if I had to, I’d shamelessly rip off the best parts of Moore’s run. At minimum, the comic should have purple prose, leftist politics, and psychedelic yam sex.

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

Vom Marlowe posted earlier today talking about the visual mess that is Brave and Bold #33 Among the pages she pointed out was this one:

Vom said:

I stared at this page and tried to figure out what the heck is happening. Finally, I decided that her bike flies between panel 4 and 5, although I don’t know why. Apparently so we can see Wonder Woman hanging onto the middle of the bike? I don’t even know.

David Brothers felt this reaction was disingenuous.

The Batgirl thing is similarly dishonest. We see street in the background, and then we see skyline. Two plus two: Batgirl is higher now than she was before. Next panel: the reason why.

This isn’t hard. This isn’t being steeped in continuity with no lifeline. This is basic stuff that is in almost every comic book ever made. You can find yellow pee lines in Peanuts. Done in Schulz’s style (thin lines, with maybe sweat marks around the lines), of course, but it’s the same effect. How did Wonder Woman lift the bike? By getting low to the ground and scooping it up, I assume, same way everyone has ever lifted everything.

I was talking this over with another non-superhero comics reader, and she said that she too couldn’t make heads or tale of the Batgirl sequence either. Whereas, I — who have read way too many superhero comics — parsed it instantly. I presume David’s experience was more like mine, which may be why he just assumed that others’ confusion was a put on.

This seems pretty interesting to me. I can’t necessarily point to anything in that sequence and say “well, this is why I followed it”, but I do wonder if there are tip offs you don’t necessarily even know you’re getting when you’re familiar with an art form or genre. I think things which “feel” natural and obvious can really not be at all.

In thinking about it more: the panel/panel/pull back and reveal move — that seems like something that’s done a lot in modern superhero comics. In this case, it’s done really confusingly; among other things, I think the horizontal movement of the panels works against the fact that the action is vertical. That is, from the panels, it looks like Batgirl is going side to side, but she’s supposed to actually be going up. I think this is in theory intended to make the reveal more surprising. In practice, though, it messes with the visual rhythms; it doesn’t feel from the panels like she’s going up at all, so even when you’re told (via the skyline) that she’s going up, you kind of have to convince yourself.

Rotating the angle of the bike messes with the rhythm too; the camera isn’t so much pulling back as it is swooping out and swinging around, though all in a single leap. It’s disjointed and clumsy; its like Cliff Chiang, the artist got to the bottom of the page and didn’t have enough panels, so he just cut out bits and hoped it would work.

And for me it does work — not in the sense of being a stylish or pleasurable progression, but in the sense that I can follow what’s happening. And I think I can follow what’s happening because I’ve seen it so often before. I mean, this is clearly somebody who loves Watchmen too, and who’s used to seeing comics imitating film movement more-or-less poorly, the way superhero comics these days tend to. I can follow the page better than VM not because I’m especially visually ept or because VM is pretending not to get it, but because it’s using tropes so familiar to me that I can parse them even when they’re not deployed very skillfully.

Another interesting thing about this to me is that, if I were reading this comic on my own, I don’t think I’d even notice that the tropes weren’t used very well. I’d read that page, understand it, and just go on. In some ways, being familiar with the tropes makes you see the comic less clearly. I can follow the images, but I wouldn’t have actually seen what they was doing if Vom (and David as well) hadn’t pointed it out to me.

Update: Telophase has a mess of fascinating comments (starting here) explaining the different ways in which manga and western readers read comics. Basically, manga readers look for clues in the art first, then if that doesn’t work go right to left; western readers go left to right first, and if that doesn’t work look for clues in the art. Telophase kindly marked up the page above to show how a manga reader (going left to right of course!) would parse the page.

The visuals at the bottom of the page end up to be particularly nonsensical, which might help explain why VM had such trouble figuring out what on earth was going on.

Why do I do this to myself? the Brave & the Bold #33

Wonder*Woman, Zatanna, and Batgirl

J. Michael Straczynski & Cliff Chang

It looked good on the stand in the Borders, I swear.  Three female superheroes, linked arm in arm, strolling over a bunch of fallen villains (including a monkey with a ray gun!).  How could I go wrong?

Well, to start off with, Wonder Woman makes yellow light explode out a man’s pants, and not in a good way.

First, I couldn’t tell which direction the yellow stream is even supposed to be going.  And what’s with the old duffer’s flying trucker cap?  Isn’t it enough to be disrobing one person per panel with unfortunately pee-yellow light explosions?

Grand Ballroom, this way to the yellow pants!  It’s like a Dr Suess, except not funny.

Anyway.  Zantanna pops by via a mirror and tells Wonder Woman she wants a ladies night out.  No, I’m not kidding.  Eight minutes later we watch Batgirl capture some purse-snatchers.  Purse-snatchers!  The cover promised me monkeys with ray-guns, dammit!

As Batgirl leaves the scene, we get this:

I stared at this page and tried to figure out what the heck is happening.  Finally, I decided that her bike flies between panel 4 and 5, although I don’t know why.  Apparently so we can see Wonder Woman hanging onto the middle of the bike?  I don’t even know.  Where the hell is my armed monkey, dammit?

Zantanna and Wonder Woman convince Batgirl that even supes need to relax or the stress puts them off their game.  They need to go dancing to relax!  I’m not making this up.  By now, I have resigned myself to never seeing the ray-guy monkey and to reading lame jokes about shoes, and in that respect, I am not disappointed.  Alas.

When the get to the club, Batgirl doesn’t dance, because her shoes are too tight, but she doesn’t want them magicked because her dad bought them for her.  Aw.  Or something.  Besides, no one asked her dance!

Whereupon the handsome fella below gets hit in the back of the head with a pink paintball and the action resumes and the monkey appears and–!  But no.  I’m afraid not.

Instead, as you can see, there’s some pathetic hipster dancing with a guy who might as well be wearing gold disco chains.  Blah, blah, blah dancing.  Blah, blah, blah girls eating fries in a diner.  Blah, blah, blah heartwarming talk about Batgirl’s dear old dad.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?  When Wonder Woman starts talking about “her people” the Greeks and how they used oracles as a kind of pretechnology super-computer for getting intel, I just wanted this stupid comic over.  I wasn’t getting my monkey, I wasn’t getting girl-group fighting, I got a comic book with family scrapbooking and a cheap plot twist at the end that made me roll my eyes.  You know it’s bad when the most interesting thing in the comic is an ad that appears to be for puffer-fish.