Nerdy schlub schlubs his way through life, kicked by men, mocked by women, and generally whumped by the blunt end of life. Then, one day he is irradiated, blown up, lobotomized, and pickled. Also, his father dies. Suddenly he's big and strong and improbably muscled. He flies (or, bounces, or swings) his way through life, kicking men and pushing from him all the women who can't possibly understand his agonized and lonely quest. And yet, beneath that muscled exterior, does not the pale schlub still tragically and silently schlub?
There are some variations of course. The schlub can be a wealthy (and therefore,
ipso facto, an effete) dude instead, like Bruce Wayne or Tony Stark. But basically what we've got here is the iconic super-hero story, filled to bursting with self-aggrandized male wish fulfillment and little bearded invisible Freud-gnomes peeping out mischievously from between innumerable sculpted, spandexed butt-cheeks.
Peter Parker's father-figure dies…and Peter becomes the improbably-powered protector of his mother-figure. Clark Kent's father dies…and Clark becomes the improbably-powered protector of everyone. Matt Murdock's father dies and Matt becomes…well, you get the drill.
Not all male super-heroes have fathers explicitly offed on-panel, of course. Some, have to settle for taking their Oedipus complex internally. For Freud, fathers are all-powerful manifestations of the law. A little boy both fears his Dad's monstrous authority and desires it — he wants to become the arbitrary dictator. And…hey, presto! You have Bruce Banner, who both fears and (not all that surreptitiously) relishes the transformation into his own nightmarish infantilized vision of masculine dominance.
Or, alternately, you can have one of those ever-popular super-romantic-triangles, where Erika Earnest is torn between Captain Muscle and his secret identity, Peter Puny. Peter thus gets to play both parts of the Oedipal game; he is the weak child and the powerful father, and thus, in either identity, gets to indulge in incestuous consummation as the son who makes love to the patriarch's woman.
Of course , the classical Oedipal drama involved a significant amount of wailing and gnashing of teeth. The father inspires the son with guilt/fear/jealousy/desire – rich fodder for over-emoting. With great power comes, not only great responsibility, but great anxiety, and lots and lots of whining. You can't just take the father's despotic power and love it – then you'd be a super-villain! Instead, you have to deny or distance yourself from it. Some choose masculine apotheosis, and some have it thrust upon them. The Thing may have the thing, but he doesn't really want it; the
real Thing isn't the phallus; it's Ben, the lonely non-patriarch locked somewhere inside….
Freud, of course, considered Oedipus a universal archetype. The distance from power, the sense that even when you most embody masculinity, you're an imposter — that's what the Oedipus complex is about. The neurosis is the narrative; it's a feature, not a bug.
And so it seems to be if you're a super-hero. But what if, instead, you're a samurai?
On first glance, there are a lot of similarities between the martial-artists and swordsmen who populate male genre narratives in Japan and the costumed super-heroes who populate male genre narratives in the West. Both samurai and super-heroes have fantastic powers which allow them to wreak havoc on an extremely unlikely scale. Both battle similarly puissant foes in the name of defending law, order, and the weak. Both, samurai and super-heroes are, in other words, big daddies; upholders of the patriarchal order.
There are differences too, naturally. Samurai are expected to kill people, for example; super-heroes not so much (at least until recently, I guess.) Also, and more significantly, samurai don't generally have secret identities. The agonized split between wimpy nerd and powerful embodiment of maleness isn't a part of samurai lore. The samurai, and/or his contemporary cousin the martial arts expert, is always powerful. He's always the father.
Or is he? I'm far, far from an expert in samurai manga. But based on my limited exposure, it does seem like the samurai is, occasionally, bifurcated. For example, in Nobuhiro Watsuki's
Rurouni Kenshin, the titular hero is a fantastically skilled samurai, able to do all those impossible samurai things you'd expect – move so quickly he can barely be seen, defeat master swordsmen left-handed…that sort of stuff.
Yet, when he's not cutting a bloody red (but generally, in this case, non-lethal) swath through his enemies, he's all hyper-deformed and kittenish. His kind-of, sort-of love interest Kamiya Kaoro frequently bashes him hither and yon for minor infractions. The disjunction between undefeatable male and feminized cutey is even more clear in Rumiko Takahashi's phenomenally popular
Ranma ½. The star of this romance/comedy/adventure series, Ranma, is an unbeateable martial arts expert. However, when cold water is (literally) dumped on him, he changes into a girl.
Both Rurouni and Ranma, then, do have a kind of double life, in which they are by turns powerful and weak. But it's a double-life without the kind of anxiety and guilty secrecy that plagues your typical super-hero. Ranma does keep his sex-changes somewhat quiet, but overall he's a lot more blasé about them than you'd expect. And Rurouni Kenshin switches back and forth from unstoppable force to adorable weakling with seamless cheer. In fact, the bifurcation seems to be used less as melodramatic engine than as reassurance. Look, the super-masculine samurai hero isn't
really scary; he's got this cuddly feminine side too!
Part of the difference here is, of course, one of genre; the two Japanese titles I've chosen are a good bit more comedic, and a good bit more aimed at women, than their super-hero counterparts. But I think part of the difference is due to other factors.
Specifically, Japan is a lot more comfortable with, and a lot more recently connected to, its feudal past. Samurai and martial artists may be individually skilled, but they fit comfortably into an institutionalized patriarchal tradition which includes schools, armies, prescribed rituals of loyalty, and rigid codes of honor. There is still and always a gap between individual man and man-as-lawgiver, but that gap isn't a chasm – or at least, if it is, there are bridges across it. To be the father, Rurouni Kenshin doesn't have to be the biggest, baddest bruiser in the world; he's just got to follow the code. Thus, the fact that he, occasionally, is weak and cuddly isn't scary or dangerous. It's fine. It's cute. No worries.
In an individualistic society like America, on the other hand, being the lawgiving father is significantly more fraught. Patriarchy here isn't about honor or traditional privileges; it's about capitalism — which is to say, it's about winning. Without clear guidelines, being the father becomes a full-time job; it's never okay to stop. Hulk is the strongest one there is!" – okay, sure, but all the time? 24-7? Can't be done…so here comes weak, puny Banner, wracked with guilt and self-loathing, whining about how he wants to be cured. Just join a dojo, man. Embrace your inner patriarch.
Noah Berlatsky writes regularly for The Comics Journal, The Chicago Reader, and his own blog, The Hooded Utilitarian. He's also an artist of sorts.
A Pundit in Every Panopticon is ©2008 Noah Berlatsky
