All the Good Men Are Dead

In a book with bland, lifeless, passive, and straight-up unlikable characters, I think my favorite is Edgar Derby. Which is odd, considering he plays the most minuscule of roles in Slaughterhouse-Five. As far as we can tell, he has no significant bearing on Billy's state of mind, character arc, or the narrative at-large. He flits in and out of the picture, making brief inconsequential cameos whenever Vonnegut sees fit.

And yet, despite Derby's obscurity, I don't think I'm alone in admiring Derby and I think Vonnegut did this intentionally. Derby is a good man. Just on paper, he looks like a wholesome, everyday American - a teacher and a family man. And in person, his wholesomeness still holds. We see him volunteer to assist pathetic Billy Pilgrim when they arrive at the British camp, he assumes leadership of the American troops when no one else does, and he gives a rousing speech about American values and our unbreakable alliance with the Russian peoples (a sentiment our current President shares with him.)

It's not just the presence of benevolent actions that makes Derby my favorite, though. What's also significant is the absence of any shitty actions. Derby simply doesn't do anything that would explicitly make me hate him. In any other novel, that might be a pathetically low bar, but in Slaughterhouse-Five, a story with such characters as the bloodthirsty and idiotic Roland weary and a protagonist who cares about nothing and no one, Derby is basically eligible for sainthood.

It makes sense then, in this grand anti-war narrative, that Derby should be treated the way he is by the powers-that-be (that is, Vonnegut.) Despite what we may think of the Second World War and, indeed, American war in general, the battlefield is no place for a good man like Derby. His belief in American ideals, admirable career as a teacher, charming nuclear family to return home to, and all-around good nature, are horribly unbecoming of a military man. And thus, Vonnegut proceeds to take an enormous dump on him. His acts of kindness are received with no gratitude, his rousing speech about American-Russian brotherhood is met with an awkward silence, and, of course, he's shot for holding a teacup after surviving a firestorm that took tens of thousands of lives.

(It's not just that he's shot for holding a teacup, which is already an anticlimactic death in the midst of the Second World War, his death is also anticlimactic within the novel's own pacing. We know from the very beginning that Derby is going to receive this awful death. So we expect (or at least I did) a lengthy description of the event we've heard so much about. Instead, we get, "Somewhere in there the poor old high school teacher, Edgar Derby, was caught with a teapot he had taken from the catacombs. He was arrested for plundering. He was tried and shot." It's actually an anticlimax that parallels the bombing of Dresden itself, which is almost skimmed over in the midst of a memory (not time travel) after having been built up to for the entire novel.)

But then, the question should be raised, why not make Derby the protagonist? We seemed to have come to the general consensus that Vonnegut's intention is to blur the lines of morality and deromanticize the nature of war and destroy the idea that it's some awesome and heroic adventure. So then why not portray the futility of the hero?

One reason might be that protagonizing Derby (definitely not a word) would still be romanticizing war to an extent. Derby's trials and tribulations could be seen as a form of martyrdom. It might send the message that although war itself is gross, it creates heroes. Portraying any type of hero in war fails to reflect that Vonnegut and his companions, in the words of Mary O'Hare, "were just babies." Not heroes. Not martyrs. Not soldiers. Not Derby. Therefore, it would make sense for Vonnegut to avoid putting emphasis on him.

However, Vonnegut doesn't straight up deny the existence of people like Derby. He very well could. If Derby were gone, all that would be left are shitheads and it seems like Vonnegut views humanity as an enormous collection of shitheads, a common sentiment among anti-war narratives. But he includes Derby, showing that he believes in the existence of non-shitheads (otherwise known as good people.)  So maybe Vonnegut isn't that concerned with moral relativism. Perhaps he's concerned about Derby, and how he's affected him. Perhaps Vonnegut feels guilty about Derby's death.

Vonnegut is constantly mentioning "Poor ol' Edgar Derby." Though his appearances are quiet, they are frequent, with Derby appearing in nearly every 1944 passage. And even when he's not onscreen, his name pops up here and there, with Vonnegut casually name-dropping the man who was shot for stealing a teacup.

Although it's mentioned in a nonchalant manner, we've learned time and time again with Vonnegut that nonchalance isn't to be trusted. We've learned that, if anything, the most deeply troubling aspects of the war, are described with extreme informality. So Vonnegut glosses over Derby's death, likely one of the most horrifying events. But his guilt leaves us a clue, the constant repetition of Derby's name. It's almost like the memory of Derby is ringing around in Pilgrim's (or Vonnegut's head, unable to shake the fact that he, a dull optometrist got to live, while a good man like Derby died.

A similar phenomenon occurs with Wild Bob, whose trademark catchphrase, "If you're ever in Cody, Wyoming, ask for Wild Bob!" is repeated frequently in the final pages of the novel. Wild Bob, for the brief time we knew him, was only ever concerned with finding his men. He was, just like Derby, an essentially good man. And he dies ungloriously in a boxcar, never to return to be on call in Cody, Wyoming. And that kills Pilgrim/Vonnegut - a useless piece of shit old fart, who got to live and thrive while the heroes died.

Where Do the Mu'tafikah Fall?

Alright, so after the deeply clarifying (yet somehow still bewildering) chapters that were 52 and 52, we have a more fleshed out picture of the alignments in the war between Atonism and Jes Grew. On one side, we have Jes Grew, polytheistic African tradition, Papa LaBas (for the most part), improvisation, and joy.  On the other side, we have Atonism, Western Civilization, Judeo-Christian tradition, Moses, authority, and structured "high art."

Now, since I'm unable to discuss a topic without it being directly relevant to me, I posit the question (and this was what the blog post was gonna be about before arguing with Vikram): "Where does Islam fit?"

While we were reading the former half of Mumbo Jumbo, I generally assumed Islam fell on the side of Jes Grew. Although their relationship is tense, Abdul Hamid, the only explicitly Muslim character, is generally on the side of Papa LaBas and undoubtedly opposed to Atonism. Islam has often been associated with Black Americans, with the first Muslim Americans being African slaves as well as with many black nationalists rallying around the Nation of Islam in the second half of the 20th century. The Wallflower Order spoke a lot about the Crusades and Templars, in which the Atonists would have been vehemently opposed to (and massacring) Muslims. And Islam is just generally unapproved of by what is a predominantly Christian Western Civilization, making it an ideal foe to the Atonists and ally to Jes Grew.

This becomes complicated once LaBas gives his whole spiel revealing the long-winded history of Jes Grew and Atonism. Although Moses is commonly associated with Judaism and Jesus with Christianity (both figures of Atonism), they also play major parts in the Quran as well. And LaBas doesn't appear to make great distinctions between the Abrahamic traditions himself, indicating that Islam could very well be aligned with the Atonists.

Additionally, speaking from personal experience, orthodox Islam is no less regulatory and doctrinarian than its Christian or Jewish counterpart. Abdul Hamid's character also seems to fit this idea of Islam being more aligned with Atonism as well. Abdul Hamid is a strict traditionalist, unyielding in his rigid and sexist rules.

So then, where does that leave Islam? Before you answer, let me just throw another wrench into the works. Where are the Mu'tafikah? I ask this because Reed specifically chooses to use the Quranic word for the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, despite the fact that they show up in other Abrahamic texts. Those inhabitants were crushed by God in the texts of all three Abrahamic religions for performing acts of sodomy. They're sinners. And in Reed's novel, they're specifically sinners within the Islamic religion. Therefore, it seems that, regardless of where Islam stands, the Mu'tafikah are aligned against Islam.

So let's say Islam is on the side of Atonism as LaBas' tale suggests. This would make for a pretty satisfying explanation. The Mu'tafikah would consequently be aligned by Jes Grew, against Islam, which follows from their fight against Atonism. Islam would be aligned with the similar traditions of Judaism and Christianity. A few questions still remain with the case of the Crusades and Abdul Hamid, but overall it's a pretty tight narrative.

But let's also consider the possibility that Islam is on the side of Jes Grew, as much of the book seems to suggest. Then it appears the Mu'tafikah are consequently aligned against Jes Grew. This explanation also has some weight to it considering that LaBas seems to be at odds with Berbelang. Although the Mu'tafikah are obviously not aligned with Atonism, it appears they may still be hindering Jes Grew.

This is just a thought but in that case, Reed might be aiming at the younger, more radical generation of black nationalists, claiming that they are in fact a hindrance to the larger black population. (Perhaps a criticism of the Nation of Islam as a corrupted form of the actual religion.)

I suppose I could just be, as Adi said, falling into Reed's trap. He sets before us this incredibly intricate narrative, supported endlessly by events that somehow seem to fit the ridiculous and clearly fictional puzzle. But it seems so real and fleshed-out that we think we can hold it up to a microscope, break it down to its barest parts, and have it all make sense. I've become the Guianese art critic - trying to make sense of it all, trying to cram it all under a single narrative, and analyzing it with an aggressively academic eye, when Reed's whole point is to not do that.

Why Does Doctorow Think He Can Write Women?

It goes without saying that a pervasive theme throughout Ragtime is donning the trappings of marginalized groups - from the elite class' poverty balls to Mother's Younger Brother's blackface. We see Evelyn trying to ingrain herself in the culture of Jewish slums, Younger Brother becoming a black (and later Mexican) revolutionary, and Jared/Daniel/Paul suggested that Houdini was a representation of blackface (though I don't buy that.)

It makes sense, then, with this extensive criticism of black-/poverty-/Jewish-face, that Doctorow himself avoids trying to portray black characters in the same way that he portrays white characters. It would follow from this criticism of blackface that he himself would not assume to understand the thought processes of a black person. Therefore, during Coalhouse's arc, Coalhouse is only ever portrayed through an objective lens, without ever diving into his mind. We similarly never go into the mind of Sarah, the only other major black character.

But if Doctorow, a white man, feels he cannot represent the mind of a black person, why does he feel he can represent the thoughts of women? Throughout the novel, he takes on the perspective of Mother, Emma, and Evelyn, presuming to know exactly what they're thinking (which might be a fair thing for Mother, being a character of his own creation, but Evelyn and Emma aren't.) If he is an avid criticism of blackface, why does he feel he can put on "womanface"?

One explanation might be that he doesn't. That perhaps he is satirizing the way in which men typically write about women - hypersexual, brutalized, and useless. It could be that his style of writing is, in its own way, a critique on the typical portrayal of women.

But that theory feels shaky to me. It's hard to articulate, but Doctorow feels excessively gratuitous in the pains he has women endure. There are points where I can't quite pinpoint the satire, where it feels no different than a misogynist reveling in the abuse of women. Particularly in the scenes of sexual abuse, like with Evelyn and Mameh, it's deeply uncomfortable. And it's not the uncomfortability of satire, where it makes you question your preconceptions - this is simply uncomfortable.

Another explanation could be that he believes the boundaries between genders aren't quite as strict as the boundaries between race, that white women and white men have much more in common with each other than white men and black men. He may perhaps be acknowledging that white women possess a great amount of privilege, even despite the patriarchy, and that that justifies his portrayal. After all, it appears that he specifically attempts to avoid portraying people from marginalized or oppressed groups, like black and poor Americans. So if he perceives Evelyn, Emma, and Mother as being more privileged members of society, it would follow that he would have no qualms about attempting to represent their thoughts.

Or perhaps it's the more obvious explanation: Simply that Doctorow's sympathy for other races does not translate to a sympathy for other genders. He treats the female characters in his book awfully, having them endure endless abuses and without the heroic redemption, he gives to characters like Coalhouse or Younger Brother. Instead, he revels in brutalizing them and cutting them down to uncomplex creatures. There is no sense that the women have any agency, they're simply enduring the storm. Not to mention that Tateh appears to be a victorious hero in the novel, despite his rampant sexism towards his wife and Emma Goldman.

Personally, that's the explanation I buy. For all of Doctorow's grand musings about narrative and American life he joins the tier of great artists who are unbearably shitty to women.

Morgan and American Imperialism

The turn of the 20th century saw many tectonic shifts in American culture, as we've seen outlined in Doctorow's Ragtime. One that has yet to be directly addressed (as far as I know at the time of my writing this) is the advent of modern American imperialism. Though imperialism was hardly something new to the country in the 1900s (America being the bastard offspring of the British Empire and having already decimated indigenous populations) the early 1900s was where we saw America really take the world stage in terms of its scope and where it began the global expansion of its power that we know so well today. During the 1898 Spanish-American War (which was heavily glorified by contemporaries) America acquired formerly Spanish-owned Pacific territories. This set off a sequence of wars in which America began expanding its power beyond the mainland, beginning to resemble the empire we know it to be today. The imperialism was not only justified, but seen as the natural course. America was the peak of human civilization, it was their responsibility to spread their values of freedom to every corner of the brown and savage globe.

I think the same themes of American exceptionalism and imperialism can be found in Doctorow's portrayal of JP Morgan. Morgan's narrative arc across the two chapters is that of a man who has amassed so much power (having conquered the world) that he wonders what is left to do. Such was the state of 1900s America which, having finished expansion in its mainland territory, set its eyes on the Pacific and beyond. And so Morgan, similarly dissatisfied with the massive power he’s accrued, attempts to explore new territory. There is a direct parallel in that he begins traveling the world, appropriating other cultures in the age-old “white man finds himself through brown man’s world” journey. But his primary new territory is that of mysticism. Having transcended the earthly dimension, he turns to the metaphysical for new conquest, learning of myths and gods.

But it is not just this mentality of expansion that Morgan shares with American imperialism, but the impression of a divine right to this expansion, to this power. With Morgan, this divine right is quite literal, since he sees himself as a reincarnated pharaoh. When the reader comes across his descriptions of said divine right, of greatness being his destiny, the words “manifest destiny” may come to mind. Like his country, Morgan believes his exceptional nature makes him deserving of this power and of ruling over every dominion.

It is also worth noting that, in addition to the novel’s setting, Doctorow’s time period was also one that dealt heavily in imperialism. In the immediate aftermath of the Vietnam War, there was widespread criticism of America overstepping its bounds in an attempt to spread its ideals. Doctorow may have had those sentiments fresh in mind when painting his portrait of Morgan, displaying the vanity and arrogance that leads to this mentality of expansion.

But Doctorow’s imperialist portrait is not simply a discussion of amassing power, but also of power’s relation with time - whether a great empire (or entrepreneur) will stand the test of time or cave to it. Morgan is constantly aware that everything he built may one day collapse, that he, too, is mortal. After all, he has a big red reminder in the middle of his face making sure he never forgets that very fact. This is where Morgan’s obsession with Ford comes in. Ford represents a potential continuation of Morgan’s capitalism. Youthful and on the rise, if Morgan can recruit him perhaps there is a potential for his legacy to live beyond him. It is no mistake (on Doctorow’s part) that Morgan sees in his potential protegee a resemblance to Seti I, a pharaoh whose well-preserved body has managed to endure the ravages of time.   But it is also no mistake that Doctorow mentions Seti I’s son, Ramesses II, famously the subject of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias”. “Ozymandias” is about a traveler who comes across the shattered statue of a once-great king. The poem shows that even the largest empires fall victim to time. With this allusion, Doctorow suggests that Morgan will inevitably fade into oblivion. Morgan’s obsession with reincarnation similarly introduces themes of legacy, since the legends he’s perused suggest that greatness never goes away, but is constantly renewed.

With this discussion of mortality, legacy, and the relation between time and power, Doctorow posits the question: Will America last?

Will the empire inevitably cave to the pressures of time? Morgan, is, after all, a founding father of industrial America and generally an icon of the country. So is his ultimate failure in recruiting Ford and Morgan’s old age (which Doctorow emphasizes by acknowledging his out of date clothes and physical appearance) indicative of an America ready to topple?

Or will the empire continue to grow and find new avenues by which to expand its power? Does Doctorow foresee a continuation of America through reincarnation? Does he foresee Ford as the new Morgan, set to take the reins and usher in a new age of capitalism by which America can thrive? One less concerned with the extravagance and trappings of wealth (like Morgan was) and more heavily focused on efficiency and production?

Infinity War Trailer

Disappointingly, this is only the second post to live up to my blog's claim that most of these posts will be about superheroes.

So, yesterday, the Avengers: Infinity War trailer was released. The movie marks the third Avengers movie (I know, it probably feels like there have been fifty). It's a pretty significant milestone because, unlike the other movies, which have been planned maybe two to three years in advance at most, we've known about Infinity War for five. (Six by the time it's released). Thanos (the main villain) showed up during the first (they started having two per movie after the Avengers) end credits scene and the 11 movies since have been building up to his ultimate reveal. If you look up the definition of "slow burn" in the dictionary, Marvel Studios Creative Director Kevin Feige is there, smiling at you.

I don't think we often appreciate enough just what an outstanding cultural phenomenon the Marvel Cinematic Universe is. It has, thus far, spawned 17 movies (with 7 confirmed to be on the way) and 11 TV series. It's utterly unmatched in its scope by every possible metric.  It's the first franchise of its kind, where multiple series are strung together by a central overarching thread. The fact that the universe is made of incredibly distinct heroes, each with their own specific genre, makes it so that viewers won't feel it's become stale (and despite several complaints to the contrary, it hasn't, or else the Infinity War trailer wouldn't have become the most viewed trailer of all time just after 24 hours.) It enables the studio to release upwards of three movies a year, raking in billions upon billions for Disney. And it hasn't stopped. Every year, they release a movie that trumps records set in the previous year.

This is made all the more impressive by the fact that all attempts to replicate its success have been complete failures. In 2012, the same year Avengers was released, Sony released a reboot of their Spider-Man franchise which had previously ended in the disastrous and bloated Spider-Man 3. Two years later, in 2014, they released Amazing Spider-Man 2, which killed the franchise once again. ASM2 attempted to cram in two major villains while also including a romantic subplot and trying to set up for their anticipated villain team-up: Sinister Six, which features a collaboration between the fiercest of the web-crawler's rogue gallery. This was almost the exact same issue that killed the original Spider-Man trilogy, which tried to cram Sandman, Venom, and the Green Goblin into a single film. As a consequence of this mess, two years after ASM2, it was announced that they would share the rights to Spider-Man with Disney, allowing him to be in Captain America: Civil War. Disney inhaled an attempt to replicate their success, turning Sony's disaster into their new project. Kevin Feige is the Genghis Khan of big Hollywood.

Also in 2014, Fox, staggering along with their X-Men franchise (which had gained minimal steam after the success of X-Men: First Class in 2011) released X-Men: Days of Future Past, the events of which literally reset their timeline, enabling them to start their universe from scratch - a blatant attempt to, like Sony, replicate the success of the MCU. While Fox hasn't collapsed to the extent Sony did, its Avengers counterpart (the main X-Men storyline) took a big hit with the box office mediocrity and critical failure that was X-Men: Apocalypse. Apocalypse suffered from almost the exact same issues as the two fatal Spider-Man movies: Bloat. It introduced an enormous cast of fantastic, but far too weighty characters, including Storm, Jean Grey, Cyclops, Nightcrawler, and Angel, while also attempting to balance the issues of their original cast as well as the enormous task that is the Apocalypse storyline. Oh, and they tried to set up the Dark Phoenix saga, an infamous and enormous storyline that they attempted to tack on to the end of their already overstuffed plot. And while Deadpool and Logan were both large successes, they're undermined by the failure of Apocalypse as well as Fox's struggle to get any of their other projects off of the ground, like Channing Tatum's Gambit, which was supposed to have been released in October of 2017. (Not to mention the fact that Fox had originally been extremely resistant to producing Deadpool.)

Then there's DC. It started off alright with Man of Steel, which while not receiving mass acclaim, didn't do poorly enough to kill the universe before it even got off the ground. But it was quickly followed by Batman V. Superman and Suicide Squad, which suffered from, you guessed it: Bloat. Suicide Squad tried introducing this massive cast of villains and didn't even attempt at any sort of characterization. Batman V. Superman revolved around a Superman we had yet to care about fighting a Batman we had just met. Oh, and Wonder Woman was there? For some reason? It was all a poorly concealed attempt to set up for a Justice League which ended up being BLOATED.

(Wonder Woman was good, though).

It's not just superheroes either. Men In Black is reportedly creating a universe with 21 Jump Street. I've heard rumblings of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Transformers extended universe. Yeah. Both of them. Together. There's also the Dark Universe, which is supposed to be the overarching universe between Tom Cruise's new mummy movie, Luke Evans' Dracula, and upcoming Frankenstein movies. Finally, there's also the giant monster universe, (composed of kaiju like Godzilla, King Ghidorah, Rodan, Mothra, as well as King Kong) which I'm personally really excited for. Not because I think the story is going to be good (Kong: Skull Island had such a shallow plot it barely reached my ankles) but because I'm a sucker for giant CGI animals.

The only attempt at another cinematic universe that has gotten off to a decent start besides Marvel is the Star Wars Universe, which is also the only other universe run by Disney.

(Sidenote, but I really hope we end up having a Disney Princess team-up, because that would be awesome. Maybe that could be the endgame for all these pointless live-action reboots of classic Disney movies.)

Star Wars was originally a strict series, following the story of the Skywalker family. While it had always been a much more expansive universe than the six movies we knew and loved, with hundreds of books and the critically acclaimed Clone Wars tv series, in terms of movies, it was strictly Skywalker. That changed with the release of Rogue One in 2016, which saw them follow the adventures of Jyn Erso. Rogue One was a critical and box office success and bodes well for the upcoming Han Solo and Obi-Wan standalone films, as well as director Rian Johnson's upcoming non-Skywalker trilogy. To be fair, Star Wars does have several factors working in its favor. It relied heavily on the world-renowned reputation of the Star Wars saga. But Rogue One was a sizable ensemble we had never seen before and they made it work because they took the time to work out each character and integrate them into the plot. It also helped that the movie was constantly trying to set up for another movie.

So why does it look like they'll succeed? And why is Marvel succeeding, where all others have failed so miserably? Well, to start let's look at what appears to be a pretty common thread: Bloat. Marvel doesn't suffer from that at all because their entire process has been an extremely slow-burn. They released five movies and waited four years before releasing their team-up film. This allowed each of their major team members: Thor, Captain America, Hulk, and Iron Man, to become established characters among the public before being thrown together. Justice League, although it was also released four years after Man of Steel, came before any movies for Aquaman, Cyborg, and Flash. Not to mention Batman and Wonder Woman were introduced in a team-up movie.

Marvel also makes sure their brand never goes stale. One minute they're releasing a standard classic superhero film like Iron Man then they flip it around on you with a political espionage like Captain America: Winter Soldier, THEN they'll hit you with a space western like Guardians of the Galaxy. And X-Men is at their best when they're doing the same, releasing weird comedies like Deadpool alongside old westerns like Logan. I've said this before and I won't stop saying it, superhero movies are at their best when they're not superhero movies at all, but genre films about superheroes.

In any case, check out Avengers: Infinity War, because it is the result of some remarkable entrepreneurship.

Originality

You probably haven't noticed, since I assume most people aren't constantly taking note of my various tics, but I'll occasionally make this "awkward" face, where I grimace and make my eyes dart to either side as if I'm avoiding eye contact. I do it on purpose, it's supposed to be comedic, pretending to tell the person that what they just said is deeply uncomfortable. I got that from Ethan Chen.

Here's another tic: Sometimes I'll jerk my neck muscles, pulling the corner of my mouth down into a sort of half-grimace. I started doing it after seeing my friend's dad do it once.

Another: If I'm walking and thinking hard about something, I'll tap my thumb against the rest of my fingers in a deliberate sequence. I got that from a character that appeared in a single episode of Fringe.

My weirdly posh and over consonated speech when I get heated? That's Schmidt from New Girl. The way I draw out certain letters and peculiarly extend words when attempting to sound authoritative or menacing? James Spader in Age of Ultron (also James Spader in the Office, but less). The specific way I hold my phone as I glance at it under my desk? From the pages of Van Gundersen. Stuttering and sentence fragmenting for comedic effect is a combination of Justin Roiland's characters in Rick and Morty along with some Amir from Jake and Amir.

The point is, my personality is and, for as long as I can remember, has been a hodgepodge of behavioral quirks from my peers, my favorite characters, and anything else I pick up along the way. I don't think there's a single aspect of my behavior that can't be at least partially traced back to another source. Which is a really strange thought. Am I an actual person with original thoughts and concepts and ways to be, or is every part of my identity just something I stole from someone else?

And I know I'm not the only person this applies to, so are any of us really our own people? Now, this might not be a bad thing, I kinda like the idea of being a sort of Voltron of behavioral traits, but at the same time, I want some things that are my own.

But is it even possible to have something entirely your own? So much of our lives are influenced by our environments, fancy science people have said time and time again that nature's impact is so minimal compared to nurture: The socioecnomic standing you grew up in, the emotional support from people around you, the media you consume, determines who you are way more than any sort of innate traits.

While I was thinking over this, a quote came to mind that often does when I start thinking about originality. It's from legendary director Quentin Tarantino and he says, “I steal from every single movie ever made. If my work has anything, it’s that I’m taking this from this and that from that and mixing them together.”

Now, anything that comes from Tarantino should be held in the highest esteem, obviously, but I hold this one in particularly high regard. Though he's specifically talking about art, I think this applies to us as well. I think what makes us who we are isn't so much who we inherently are, but what we choose to take from the world around us, and how much.

Superheroes

I think I've finally figured out why I like superheroes. Aside from the dope powers, I mean. And specifically the reason I enjoy the superhero multiverses of Marvel and DC. It's the same reason I love reading through the various works of the Star Wars Expanded Universe (even though they're not canon anymore. Thanks, Disney) and Tolkien's seemingly endless Middle-Earth mythology. It's why there are so many fanfictions written for the Marauders from Harry Potter. It's what makes Butler's flowcharts and Sutton's lectures so oddly compelling. ANd it's why the Marvel Cinematic Universe continues to be one of the most financially successful ventures in the history of cinema.

We love lore. Huge, fantastical threads, reaching back for centuries that trace to today. Stories are so much better, so much more substantive, when they have history. When the story does not truly begin where it begins, but when there are eons that have built up to this one point. Imagine if The Force Awakens was the first Star Wars movie ever released. It would still be a great movie, no doubt (if anyone ever tells you it's "just A New Hope recycled," cut that person out of your life.) But picture the final scene with Luke and Rey. The audience on opening night (which I attended 😎 ) wouldn't have erupted into uproarious applause. But because they have forty years of knowledge on Luke Skywalker, because he's built up this image as a cultural icon, because he is more than a character limited to this one movie, the scene hits hard. But, at the same time, A New Hope was still a great film.  And while the audience wouldn't have erupted into applause had The Force Awakens been a standalone film, there still would have been a sense of awe: "This is the historical figure there's been so much talk about this entire movie. That-- that's the guy! Whoa." Because we inherently love lore. There may be individual preferences when it comes to implied versus explicit history, but having a history at all makes it so that no action stands alone.

If, like me, you occasionally act, you know how deeply relieving it is to have a character history, whether it's canon or something you develop on your own. The more extensive the better. Every action, every verbal tic, every slight lean, every syllable of every word, is conscious. They are motivated by years and years of development and history. Each action carries with it the energy of that person's entire life up to that point and then some. And such is the case with stories themselves.

That's why I find superhero universes and superhero team-ups so fun. The Avengers would not have been the cultural and cinematic watershed that it was, had Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, Captain America: The First Avenger, and Thor (three cheers for white dudes!) not been released prior. Everyone of their choices hits with so much more impact and all have the potential to make you go, "Ooh! Ooh! That's because of X that happened in their other movie!" Same goes for The Defenders, but that doesn't excuse the fact that it was an utterly trash movie.

Guardians of the Galaxy, which had a team of characters that hadn't been introduced prior, was by no means unexciting (overrated, but that's a different discussion), but who are the raccoon, the green lady, the tree, and the white dude? Why should I care? And what I thought was the worst part about Guardians and, indeed, every team-up movie that didn't do what Avengers did, is how clunkily exposited each character's personal history is shoved into the plot. They literally have a scene where a guy lists out each member's rap sheet during a police lineup, one after the other. I am by no means a thorough (or professional for that matter) writer myself, but introducing your characters via lineup is like Chapter 2 in Lazy Screenwriting 101. C'mon James Gunn.

Superheroes are particularly fun because as opposed to Tolkien's or Lucas' tales, they take place in a world that's largely identical to ours. This means less room for intricate character histories, because Middle-Earth and the galaxy far far away have to be developed extensively before they can get to that. (Though the histories of worlds and universes are fun in their own right and the endlessness of the worlds adds a sort of spatial parallel to lore's temporal endlessness.) But superheroes get to put humanity on display at the individual level. You watch personal histories, personal conflicts and threads, which is far easier to connect to than the history of a nation-state or a planet. And since this is an industry that's been riding high for half a century, these histories reach way back.

These far-reaching histories get even more interesting once these separate threads have interacted for a while. Seeing Captain America and Iron Man interact in Avengers is awesome, but it's even more awesome in Captain America: Civil War Now, instead of just being motivated by their distinct histories, they're also motivated by their connected histories. "Ooh! Ooh! This conflict has been building up since The Avengers, when it was clear there would be a struggle in the power dynamic between the two, supplemented by their contrary values of protection and freedom which also caused conflict in Age of Ultron!"

It's kinda like having an inside joke with the stories you're consuming. A little wink and nod to something you both know happened. And while it doesn't define the quality of a work, it makes it pretty damn fun.