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Chapter 3: How Kirby Changed the Superhero
- University Press of Mississippi
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108 3 HOW KIRBY CHANGED THE SUPERHERO Heroes and villains Just see what you’ve done — BRIAN WILSON & VAN DYKE PARKS Thus far I’ve tried to untangle Kirby’s relationship with Marvel, the publisher with which he is most closely linked. Much of the lore and conversation of American comic book fans has to do with that relationship, because the Marvel of the 1960s was pivotal to comic book history and Kirby was pivotal to Marvel. By now it is obvious that Marvel did something important to comic books, particularly to superheroes—and the previous chapter uncovered the gradual process of how Marvel did it, making the case that Kirby was Marvel’s essential co-author. But, content-wise, what exactly is it that Kirby brought to Marvel, and thus to the superhero genre? This question invites a flurry of others, some about genre, some about Kirby . What was the superhero genre like prior to the Marvel sixties, and how has it developed since? How did Marvel become pivotal to the genre, opening new possibilities and straining to new limits? Regarding Kirby, how did his contributions to Marvel draw from his own talents and sensibility, and how did his subsequent work unearth that sensibility, teasing out elements or qualities first glimpsed at Marvel? How did that later work go on to influence the superhero genre? Finally—and here is a question for the remainder of this book—how did these changes in the superhero in turn spur Kirby’s further artistic growth, and thus set the terms of his subsequent recognition as cartoonist and author? To tackle these questions, I propose first to step back and reconsider the superhero genre as such, with and without Kirby. This may seem like a detour from our main interest; admittedly, it takes us far from Kirby’s narrative art. Yet it’s a step we must take, because, I will argue, Kirby reshaped the entire genre. This he did in pursuit of a kind of graphic mythopoesis, essentially an impromptu world-making that granted him a new sense of license, or new set How Kirby Changed the Superhero 109 of affordances, for his graphic imagination. To understand the impact of this, some consideration of the genre’s history and status is in order. First, the blindingly obvious: superheroes are still regarded by many as the core of American comic books. The best-known examples of the genre, the familiar Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, or X-Men, epitomize what fans know as mainstream comics, a designation that in itself shows just how much influence the genre has exerted. I’d argue that “mainstream” is a misnomer, given the degree of specialization now required to navigate the world of superhero comics; nonetheless, the clichés of the genre are very widely recognized, easily turned to parody, and ever ready for scrambling and revision on page and screen. The rise of corporate entities like Marvel Studios and DC Entertainment has cemented the general sense that comic books act primarily as superhero mills for other media (movies, videogames, etc.). Appreciation of the larger history of comic books, of which superheroes are but a fraction, lags behind knowledge of the key superhero brands. The genre, I submit, is neither as sorely limited as its severest detractors insist nor as malleable and promise-crammed as its apologists believe. Superheroes can do much, but I don’t share the faith, most fervently expressed by comics writer Kurt Busiek in Astro City, that the genre’s possibilities are “endless ,” that its symbols and metaphors are limitlessly adaptable, and that, in a nutshell, it can accommodate almost any kind of story (8). Rather, I think the genre, though rich and plastic, is thematically pretty tightly bound. The precincts of the superhero are definitely circumscribed. That said, much of the freedom Busiek finds in the genre stems from the expansive and transforming contribution of Kirby. Essential to the genre from the get-go, and still important now, are fundamental contradictions that are played out in ritualistic fashion, so that social and psychological conflicts are continually rehearsed and renegotiated. I take my cue here from John Cawelti’s notion that formula stories simultaneously excite and quell our anxieties, inciting uncertainty and intense feeling even as they offer reassurance via redundance and familiarity (15–16). Tension is the keyword: not only formal but also ideological. This may be why superheroes, as Richard Reynolds observes, can support various contradictory readings (83). Conflicting codes and...