1. Stephanie Walsh – 2012 1
With Great Power, Come Great Takings: Spider-man The Icon
Horror and comics can be paired up as sub-genres with a sub- cultural following. Horror may have
illustrious roots that metaphorically travel as far back as the European literary tradition of the
nineteenth century, but it remains associated with gratuitous violence, gore, nudity and splatter
despite some of its best literary and cinematic offerings providing a glimpse of the actual tragedy
upon which it may hinge. Comic books in their turn are associated with spotty, indolent youths up to
no good, regardless of the message they may try to convey. Yet, the dubious chasm between literature
and genre as created by critics throughout the decades has grown less deep as popular culture and
literature started to commingle and show common traits despite their supposed ingrained differences
and purposes.
In 1954, Dr Fredric Wertham published Seduction of The Innocent, a study of the influence of comic
books on the day’s youth. Wertham was particularly concerned with the overtly sexual. He claimed
that forms of female nudity could be made up in the muscle mass of most characters, that Wonder
Woman was a lesbian with a penchant for bondage and that Batman and Robin were, of
course, homosexual. The industry at large laughed out loud at these preposterous claims and
went even further when many characters were seen mocking Seduction from the pages of their
own “crime comics”, as Wertham called them. Only one genre, porn, lies below horror and comic
books, yet all three are perfect examples of extremely socially powerful pulp fictions that
have proved perennially popular, in their own distinctive ways, among (beyond and, ultimately,
above) all changing fashions.
No matter the quality of their work, comic book artists are not going to be regarded on the same level
as artists in more reputable art forms any time soon, if ever. Stan Lee may be Marvel’s genius, but
he is not going to be revered like Leonardo. Yet, both artists have displayed work that is
highly innovative and original. Furthermore, it is not a super-human leap of the imagination that
puts Spider-man on a par with Mona Lisa; everyone knows what Spider-man looks like, just as
Mona Lisa’s smile is instantaneously conjured up at the mere mention of her name.
The transition from pulp paper hero into glossy movie superstar is one that does not affect simply the
visuals related to characters that once inhabited large-grained paper, but the perception of the values
associated with a phantasy world that strives so hard not to look so fantastic after all. Therefore the
hero is often in the middle of an intrigue that hinges upon questions of ethics and morality and that
proves how the parallel universe of the comic book is just as multi- faceted as the real one. This is a
cry to be taken seriously at all costs, even when the most far-fetched storylines are injected with a
degree of emotional and moral credibility that effectively succeeds only in amplifying the daft
surrealism of it all. Yet, all that the movie going public expects is nothing more than the socially
acceptable understanding of what comic books represent and stand for (not a lot) and what they
provide (mindless entertainment). Or is it?
Dr Wertham may have been overestimating the corrupting qualities of comic books, yet his
discussion of gratuitous violence within them was not entirely without merit. However, with the
exception of the Blade trilogy and of The Punisher (2004), the transition from pulp paper to silver
screen sanitises a world that is otherwise far from subtle in representing physical power. The horror
splatter that typifies the comic book is almost entirely wiped out. It is not the environment itself that
suddenly becomes aseptic; unreal cities remain ugly under a permanent brown fog, but the burning
that takes place within them is entirely sanitised of the horrific visual shock factor. Fights are
entertaining extravaganzas the public looks forward to, not unsettling blood fests that have people
fainting, as has been reported with some performances of Titus Andronicus. This is a necessary
morphing; much as these new comic book movies strive to be taken seriously as they leap into new
realms, part-pulp paper, part-real life, their most important target audience remains youngsters who
can watch these 'family movies' with the blessings of mum and dad. While the creative forces behind
them explore ways to upgrade the comic book hero to the level of post-modern philosopher so to
appeal to the older substrata of the audience, the core of the targeted spending public is still expected
to be the PlayStation-playing, post-MTV section which must not be barred from the movie theatre
under any circumstances. This is the reason why an R-rated Spider-man or Batman movie should not
be expected any time soon.
The Spider-man trilogy is a perfect example of all of the above. The once cocky and amusing guy is
transmuted into the nerd next door who doubts himself and his mission and who often gets beaten to
near-death while hardly bleeding. When the first instalment was released in 2002, the once smiling
New York skyline had just had its two front teeth knocked out; all scenes featuring so much as
a glimpse of the Twin Towers had to be removed from the trailer of the movie because they were
deemed “sensitive material” that could have upset audiences. It is inevitable to wonder why the

2. Stephanie Walsh – 2012 2
American film industry seems so sensitive in the aftermath of real-life disasters, only secretly to pen
scripts as the ashes of tragic happenings are still warm.
Only five years after 9/11, three high profile movies tackling the infamous day have been released
while countless documentaries have dissected the tragedy from all possible angles. One has to
wonder, given the magnitude of it all, about this senseless machine; one which establishes according
to some unwritten law that five years are considered long enough not to upset the viewing public, yet
five months unacceptable. Considering the historical impact and the world-wide broadcast tragic
spectacle, common sense would suggest that any representation of 9/11 would prove unsettling for at
least a couple of generations. Yet, while the American film industry is hypocritically puritan, it is also
acutely aware that people at large suffer from short-term memory loss. By contemporary culture’s
standards, five years is a positively Palaeolithic span of time; this is a society which
guarantees fifteen minutes of fame to many, only to relegate them to the déjà vu, moth-infested
drawer of the unfashionable once the minutes are up. The way to be is the future, not the historical
past, certainly not the distant past, even less so the recent past. Devoid of world-changing kudos
usually reserved for high-profile conflicts or lying politicians, whatever happened five or ten years
ago fritters away like the memory of last season’s it-bag.
This becomes extremely significant insofar as tragedies such as 9/11 are concerned. History
habitually sanitises horror. This is not to say that the tragedy per se is any less tragic as time passes,
nor that the loss of life and subsequent pain to those who remain becomes less notable or less worthy
of study, else there would be no experts left on the Holocaust, for example; a major shift in
perception, however, makes it less horrific, which, in itself, is a peculiar phenomenon. Horror is not a
free-standing, living, pulsating emotion that defines the world and sits at the forefront of the human
mind at all times. It suddenly surfaces, has its own fifteen minutes of fame, then slowly dwindles,
shrinks, then disappears, leaving behind tragedies whose once vivid, seemingly unforgettable
memories fade into misty watercolours. Witnesses often report that watching a tragedy unfold had an
unreal or surreal quality to it, as if time stood still and nothing but the horror itself existed. In parallel,
we find that history is more than a conglomerate of past events.
“We are making history here!”, “This is history in the making”, “We are witnessing a historical
moment!” are some of the cries blaring from television sets and leaping out of newspapers’ front
pages for happenings as varied and as unrelated as Concorde’s last flight, the destruction of the Twin
Towers, the Live 8 Concert and the latest Champions’ League final. But when do all of these
happenings become history? Is there such a thing as history in the making? Are we simply labelling
everything that makes the news as historical? An event becomes historical only through a
retrospective analysis that is usually conducted in a seemingly objective fashion. It seems that events
receive the stamp of historical approval by a set of experts, much like some individuals are made to
enter the religious hall of fame through canonisation.
Significantly, even canonisation (or perhaps one should say especially canonisation) cannot happen,
unless under exceptional circumstances, until a set number of years have expired since the death of
the individual. This is because it is impossible to make history unless the deed at hand is frozen in a
quaint, foggy past. This distinctive shock-wave is felt throughout popular culture at large: what is
now regarded as a literary classic was often both derided and despised in its own day. This is true of
everything written by Dickens, of most eighteenth century literature and of some horror novels by the
hand of Matthew Lewis or Anne Radcliffe. Fast- forward to our age and any basic English literature
course at university level will not spare us works by authors who seemed to have only just
discovered language and clearly thought that conciseness was for accountants, not for writers.
In our age, the Marilyn Monroe brand is alive and well, with its persistent, explosive mix of tender,
almost naïve sexiness, and enervating idiocy, yet in her day Monroe was not without her critics. Fifty
years after her passing, her faults are forgotten, her legacy on popular culture as effervescent as it
could never have been had she eventually wrinkled away and died in a non-sensational manner. Past
tragedies (affecting one individual or very many) are the stuff of legends. Once all witnesses of 9/11
will be no more, this tragedy too will turn its millions of digital pictures into the crumpled, black-and-
white prints of a sanitised, unlived memory. Happiness is often defined as expectation or as a fleeting
state of mind that, like trance, can only be identified retrospectively. History and horror, as well as
their combinations, share the same elusive quality as happiness: they are not experienced, they are
remembered in a fashion that is both clean and detached because life may only be understood
retrospectively but must still be lived forward. It is only sanitised memory that raises historical events
to the level of cultural legends.
We may not be any way near this chronological stage, yet Hollywood has already canonised 9/11 at
light-speed: once cut from the movies, it will be as if the Twin Towers, with all of their unexpected
and unwanted horror, never existed in the first place. Yet, in this new New York City that does not

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smile any longer, their lack hovers above Spider-man like a thundering cloud, a sword of Damocles
that shadows the endeavours of a hero at loss with the very notion of heroism. What the World Trade
Center tragedy instilled in the human mind was a short-lived sense of impending doom, of prophetic
catastrophes, of danger ripping out of the blue sky. It is not by surprise therefore that this hero full of
self-doubt is so appealing to adults and children alike, with critics from weekly rags to the academia
raving about his merits: with all of his self- doubt, ethical dilemmas and acute desire for a simpler and
safer life, he could not be more contemporary.
Yet, it is a combination of tragedy and timing that has made Spider-man so in step with the cinematic
times. The first movie was shot in early 2001, as 9/11 was about to take place. It would therefore be
inaccurate to suggest that it inherited its sense of doom from the real life tragedy. However, the
subsequent climate of obsession with responsibility and catastrophic consequences which
characterised the first several months after 9/11 constructed a psychological environment receptive to
the movie’s theme of uncertainty. It was not the movie itself that spelt doom, but the people who saw
it while expecting doom. Gone are the days when the superhero was a 6’4” Mr Perfect with black hair
and blue eyes, who did not smoke, did not drink and told the truth fit for an aerobic-fuelled, yuppie
audience that could do no wrong: Peter Parker is the everyman superhero who perilously swings
through missing landmarks as he grows into his self-made super-suit.
What can be defined as one of the most important comic books of all times was published in the
immediate aftermath of the Twin Towers’ tragedy and a few months before Spider-man hit movie
theatres. The Amazing Spider-man 36, also known as 11 September 2001, is Marvel’s tribute to the
real-life heroes involved in the rescue operations. As Marvel was working on the Heroes project,
J. Michael Straczynski, the writer of recent Spider-man comics, was approached with a request to
write a 9/11 story. Initially, he declined on the grounds of potentially dumbing-down the tragedy, as
people at large do not regard comic books as any form of literature fit for paying homage to the dead.
He then reflected upon the possibilities that the popularity of the tragedy broadcast the world over
could offer to cultural history and therefore translated the story into an emotive prose poem whose
great pain was a manifestation of people’s love and affection for the landmarks, the city itself at large
and its multi-cultural landscape embodied by people of all races. At Ground Zero, Spider-man is
confronted with an apocalyptic reality that not even his own phantasy world ever envisaged. While
making his way through the ruins, he is confronted by ordinary men and women who ask him and
his super-hero colleagues how they could let the tragedy happen. They too, however, only have
questions but lack answers.
It naturally follows that the cinematic Spider-man’s sense of guilt is lyrical, yet universal (and
therefore so similar to the ever popular vampires that Rice brought into the world), his desire to be a
regular guy nothing other than the burning realisation that having it all is a fallacy inherited from a
culture that has given a monetary value to everything, including life itself. Spider-man is not the hero
that has it all, but the one that ends up doing it all, with the disastrous developments, by comic-book
standards, illustrated in Spider-Man 2 (2004). Newly at odds with his double-life, in the second
installment Parker juggles power and responsibility until, like the average office worker caught up in
the mind-numbing daily grind, he too embraces his own leave of absence with hedonistic abandon
under which a Puritanical sense of guilt simmers away.
This Jekyll and Hyde dichotomy for children (or for cinemagoers who have never read a book,
depending on how one wants to look at it), eventually develops Faustian undertones when the
perennial duplicity of human nature is explored in a rather watered-down version of itself in Spider-
man 3 (2007). Here the ever-responsible Parker is given a Hitler-like side parting and a smudge of eye
liner to indicate that the “battle is within”. Much as this irritated critics from both sides of the
Atlantic, it should be noted that the great success of the Spider-man movies resides in the effect they
had on a section of the press that would have dismissed these movies had they appeared in the
1980s or 1990s, when truly innovative phantasy plots were not at a premium. Spider-man has now
succeeded in fooling them all; as contemporary as he is, many have forgotten his nerdy origins and
geek-appeal. Turning Parker into a jerk that hits his girlfriend, dances like a bad Saturday Night
Fever cast-off, and still manages to throw a wobble at every given opportunity as if he were the star
of a South-American soap-opera for teens, is rather spot-on: this is the cringe-worthy yob version of
someone that remains, at heart and true to his pictorial origins, a geeky, science nerd that nobody
really likes. The Spider-man trilogy and The Amazing Spider- man 36 have demonstrated that great
heights of artistic development and sensibility can be reached through a stigmatised means usually
associated with sub-genre and sub-cultures. With them, Spider-man has flagged up the great impact
that recent history has had on popular culture and the influence that popular culture itself has on the
real world.

4. Stephanie Walsh – 2012 4