I promised myself I’d wait to watch Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice. Major critical reviews were scathing, but many graphic-novel fans wildly adored Zach Snyder’s latest, and I wanted to review the film at a remove from the hype either way. It might seem absurd to take the viewing of a superhero film so seriously–it’s just action fluff, right?–but the genre is so mainstream that I find these films offer a meaningful distillation of our major cultural concerns. Between Captain America: Civil War and Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice–two films dealing with superheroes in direct conflict–we can especially expect to see a) major cultural ideologies in tension, b) how our most immediate sociopolitical issues are being repackaged in accessible narratives for the widest possible adult audience, and c) how different franchises approach the same general themes.
Sure enough, on the surface, CA:CW and BvS:DoJ share a body of thematic concerns. Both foreground the problem of civilian casualties in superhero battles (a cipher for socioeconomic and military conflicts the world over). Both question the appropriateness of aggregated superpower (corporations, vigilante groups, specific nation-states) operating without bureaucratic, ostensibly democratic oversight. And both… all too predictably orient male choices and perspectives around the desire to live up to a standard of goodness embodied or otherwise influenced by female persons of note in their lives.
And yet, CA:CW and BvS:DoJ are staggeringly different beasts. Even months after BvS:DoJ‘s release, I found the film difficult to watch from a basic coherence perspective–the characters, from very early on, operating in bizarre relationships to cause and effect[1]–and I quickly had to adjust my sense of Snyder’s directorial priorities. Since the very first scene was part dream sequence, I decided that Snyder’s interest lay more with depicting raw emotions–vengeance, grief, helplessness, spiritual disillusionment–in all their self- and communally destructive glory, and thus approached the rest of the film as an impressionistic spectacle. (Imagine Terrence Malick filming a superhero film based on someone else’s source material, and BvS:DoJ comes pretty close.)
This approach to the film mediated most moments of ensuing bafflement with character actions and motivations,[2] but does not change the fact that Snyder’s film has a remarkably different relationship to the above list of thematic concerns than the Russo Bros’ Marvel flick. For instance, although both films address civilian casualties, and both films even use a grieving black woman to drive home the message that white-Western superpowers hurt others, CA:CW gives these same civilians narrative agency to retaliate and dismantle that power base from the inside out. In BvS:DoJ, there is an eerily False-Flag feel to the whole issue of civilian casualties, as time and again the film weaponizes victims or otherwise aligns them with covert government or private-interest plots.
Are there any real victims in this film? Maybe the average citizens that Batman seems to show no concern about terrorizing while he points fingers at Superman for his own impact on civilian lives. Even here, though, Snyder seems to side against the common people of Gotham, because he has a blind black man chided for being worried about “the Bat.” If you’re truly innocent, the counter goes, you should have nothing to fear from vigilante justice. Instead, Batman and Lex Luthor’s childhood victimhood, alongside Superman’s Christ-like salvation spectacle of victimhood, stand above all other suffering in this film, both in scope and narrative agency. This is a far cry from the Black Panther, in CA:CW, rising from the ruins of his ruling-class father’s death to sympathize, in the end, with the average citizen who orchestrated the film’s central plot because his own, average family died in the wake of a superhero battle.
CA:CW and BvS:DoJ also differ in their approach to bureaucratic, democratic oversight, with the former maintaining a slippery ambivalence in its ongoing working relationship with the UN, and the latter… blowing up the relevant (national) government structure, and thereafter disengaging with all notions of power being determined by anything but vigilante beings who bend agencies like the CIA and organizations like the prison system and Gotham’s police force to suit personal whims and agendas. Neither approach is ideal, but while CA:CW at least keeps the line open between real-world international governance and Marvel superpowers, BvS:DoJ amply hints at Snyder’s next major dream project, a remake of The Fountainhead, by firmly entrenching the exercise of legitimate power at the level of private enterprise, legal and otherwise.
When it comes to the role of women, though, CA:CW and BvS:DoJ are both mixed bags. It is, as I noted above, a bizarre facet of both films that male actions seem to be dictated by either bizarrely distorted notions of innate feminine goodness, or else by the trauma of female persons in male lives being harmed by other male persons. For Iron Man and Captain America, Pepper Potts and Peggy Carter respectively influence the critical ideological division these two men embody when confronted with the expectation of consenting to UN oversight. For Batman and Superman, trauma related to their mothers has a powerful, central role in driving them into (and out of) one-on-one confrontation. Of all the major players in these films, only Lex Luthor is otherwise directed, by a tyrant of a father-figure who supplies notions of Old Testament godhood that Lex longs to see murdered in all subsequent forms. Can any of these dudes establish a coherent ethical code from within? Can any modern superhero film establish a meaningful social contract built on anything outside the loss of beloved women?
A razor-thin Wonder Woman offers the only portrait in BvS:DoJ of a superhero whose call to action arises, in keeping with her canon, from a simple need to fight against immediate forces of destruction. (Even Superman is presented in a much more emotionally partial light, and then bafflingly has the gall to criticize his editor, Perry, for his own biases. Is everyone a hypocrite in this film?) And here’s where BvS:DoJ especially fascinates, because Snyder’s been criticized extensively for his rewriting of major characters: Batman murders indifferently and to excess, a huge leap even over Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns (1986), Paul Pope’s Batman, and other deeply troubled portraits; Lex Luthor is a highly unstable billionaire-heir with angel, demon, and godhead fixations abounding; Jimmy Olsen is a CIA spy murdered very early in the film; and Superman’s just plain inconsistent in his use of his powers, conscience, and reliance on father-figures. And to what end? I sure as heck felt little to no empathy with any of the nihilism on display in these rewrites,[3] and felt little interest in each character’s aspirations as the film progressed.
Nonetheless, what stood out most was what didn’t change: namely, the canon for the female characters. I sincerely wonder if fans who defend this film’s relentless, estranging rewriting of Batman, Lex Luthor, Jimmy Olsen, and Superman would be quite as keen in their defense if the women in this film were rewritten to be just as ugly as the men. As it stands, Lois Lane remains locked in her original canon–another character even points out that what makes her such a good reporter is her ongoing surprise (in lieu of cynicism) at the world’s capacity to go bad–and Clark Kent’s mother is an abidingly loyal, gentle, Christian woman who just wants the best for her son, while Bruce Wayne’s mother is pure victim, as unmarked as the pearls ruthlessly shed in her death. If Lois and both Marthas turned as nasty as Snyder makes his male heroes, would this film have any emotional sway at all?
At heart, though, both CA:CW and BvS:DoJ are comic-book movies that celebrate their first mediums, so as much as I found BvS:DoJ incoherent on the level of character construction and progression, I vehemently disagree with criticism about the efficacy of Snyder’s cinematography. BvS:DoJ is absolutely a graphic novel spectacle–from its disarmingly subtle interweaving of dream sequences, to its pacing and plot sequencing, to the grittiness of its colour/light/texture palettes, to its casual leaping from local to far-flung settings with minimal transitional guidance. CA:CW also achieves a level of comic-book spectacle in its cinematography (most notable during major fight scenes, in the staging of specific superheros in formation or visual contrast; and weakest in its attempt to emulate fantastical superhero pursuits and combat cadence near the outset), but Marvel and DC are very different tonal vehicles. From a visual perspective, both films plainly honoured their respective points of origin; I don’t see much value in debating which perspective is better.
What matters more to me–that is, what leads me to reflect on both movies at a fair temporal remove from their release dates–is how differently the major crises of our time can be figured for the big screen. CA:CW is decidedly a secular film in this regard: the superheroes–goofy, inept, wise-cracking, inquisitive, sentient science/magic hybrids–are too plentiful to be regarded in light of Judeo-Christian mythology, with its singular dominant force lording over humankind. Rather, these superheroes are flawed, if also greatly enhanced beings negotiating appropriate limits to their individualism in a globalized society. Where the movie fails as a means of advancing a coherent message about our particular, real-world body of socioeconomic issues (if fails is the correct term; I’m not expecting a superhero movie to solve all matters pertaining to international war- and peace-time politics) is in reinforcing the primacy of that individualism without really earning it; by playing slippery, covert games with the dominant global bureaucracies right up to the movie’s close.
Conversely, BvS:DoJ is a deeply religious affair. It’s all about the necessary audacity of reaching for levels of exceptionalism that defy the seeming chaos of one’s universe (in the case of Batman), or accepting the exceptionalism thrust upon oneself, though it might leave one reviled by fellow man (in the case of Superman), or else raging against the domineering godheads of the past, and any who seem poised to fill similar roles today (in the case of Lex Luthor). Snyder’s world of men is brutish and sociopathic because, in this filmic universe, that is nothing less than the state of humankind–a cowering enterprise of might striking down lesser might ad infinitum–until a saviour figure emerges, to redeem through the ultimate personal sacrifice the hatefulness in Batman’s heart, and get him to concede that man has the capacity for goodness after all. Lex Luthor brings demons in many forms to challenge that goodness by the end of the film (and beyond), but any Justice League movie that stems from this effort is going to have a difficult transition ahead: namely, moving from Snyder’s narrative of godlike superheroes to a more complex interplay of terrestrial beings with varying powers, working to defeat a common foe.
As an effective analogy for the real superpower issues that plague us today, I plainly side with the narrative coherence of CA:CW. However, I suspect we’d all be remiss in not attending to the deeply emotive character of Snyder’s BvS:DoJ, especially in a year that has seen staggering shifts in political discourse towards a highly charged populist register guided by gut feelings of tribalist fear, outrage, and loss. These, too, are metrics of the real world. These, too, guide the shape of international, national, and local power structures. The emotional core of BvS:DoJ thus does not have to follow even an internal logic in order to be true to life–and as such, Snyder’s complicated film proves every bit as much a cautionary tale as CA:CW, when outlining the possible limits to (and unravelling of) global power structures and individual agency in the years to come.
[1] Bruce Wayne, tearing through Metropolis during Superman’s epic Man of Steel battle, calls his workplace to tell his employees to leave, but then we cut to one office floor, which plainly has a clear, proximate view of the battle, and yet for some reason the notion of evacuation never struck anyone until the boss called? The on-site manager only initiates evacuation because Mr. Wayne has called to tell them to leave (which resonates with the film’s overarching notions of human helplessness without the presence of individual exceptionalism). Not long after this, Bruce looks up from the devastation around his building to see Superman fighting Zod in the sky, and… immediately assumes Superman is the problem? How does Batman, a figure we later realize is similarly feared as a force of indiscriminate vengeance by average, helpless citizens, not even for one second entertain the idea that he and Superman are similarly misunderstood last lines of defense against those who sow chaos and destruction? This is all in the opening beats, so from the outset, Snyder’s film establishes human beings whose actions raise more questions than answers.
[2] I took notes throughout the film, in order to quell my bafflement. Here are a few of the other moments that raised more questions than answers: Why does the beat cop have a shotgun? Why is Batman a sociopath towards criminals? Why does Superman totally dismiss Lois’s concerns that love for her makes him biased at his job, instead of taking the charge seriously? Why does this movie treat all orphans as sociopaths? Why does Bruce Wayne have no qualms about the rest of Gotham being in a state of fear over the Bat? Where is his social charm? Why does the Bat brand have to lead to in-prison murder? Why do we need a literally emasculated man to drive home civilian consequences? Do penises literally need to be at stake if Superman is left unchecked? Why can’t Clark Kent use his super-speed to spit out sports copy and still pursue his other story, so as not to attract Perry’s ire? What in blazes was the point of that second dream sequence? Why is there a Bat signal in Gotham when average citizens fear him? Doesn’t that seem a bizarre policy on the part of the police, to openly invoke a force that makes citizens terrified, not reassured, about the night to come? In a movie where Lex Luthor and Batman are both mentally unstable, but Superman is a secondary presence in the narrative through-line, where are our loyalties as viewers supposed to lie? Why does Lex go to such incredible, unnecessarily elaborate lengths to frame Superman? Why would he need to, after the devastation in Metropolis? Why doesn’t this movie just pick up where Man of Steel left off, and escalate public pressures that way? Why is Superman only thinking about his earthly father? Where is Jor-El in all this angsting? Why is that alien ship so ridiculously accommodating of a human presence? Why is Zod worthy of Lex’s admiration and sympathy, when Lex seems to despise Superman? Why is Superman such a poor communicator on the battlefield with Batman? Why doesn’t Superman just pin Batman and talk to him while he has the upper hand? Why does the pair have to spin so excessively into “bro” territory over the inane Martha business? Why did Lex make a spare demon? Why must the ending drag on so much? When is this over?
[3] The only exception being Alfred, who offers a welcome reprieve from this film’s overall tone with his performance as a cynical, heavily drinking companion to Bruce: half-heartedly attempting to stop his employer’s next deranged impulse before prepping the Batman bling for subsequent use in the field, and sincerely mourning the end of the Wayne dynasty at every turn.
