ain't got the power
As you must all have realised by now, I list "superheroes" as one of my Low Reprehensible Passions. This is not really the only reason why I rather liked Ang Lee's Hulk, which was a good movie for its first two-thirds despite being a truly dire one for the last third, and which moreover had its interesting character arc and cinematography effectively punched in the stomach by its sadly, soggily plastic special effects. As promised, I went and saw The Incredible Hulk today in a spirited of inquiring comparison.
Huh. Still punched in the stomach by the special effects. They will persist in (a) making Hulk himself too big, too ape-like and waaaaay too plastic, and (b) making the arch-Nemesis more of the same, only worse. Didn't care for the spines, either. I liked the casting - Edward Norton is always watchable, and does a beautifully battered, world-weary turn in which his physical slightness is a lovely counterpoint to the hulking of Hulk, and I persist in being fond of Liv Tyler in the teeth of most of the internet. Nonetheless, the film failed utterly to spin me out of the cinema on the requisite dizzy superhero high that even the saccharine candy-froth of Fantastic Four can generate. I'm not actually sure this is the fault of the director or scriptwriter: I darkly suspect it may be the fault of the myth.
The problem with Hulk, I am forced to conclude, is that he's not actually a superhero. That "hero" bit in "superhero" is there for a reason. The effect of superheroes on the imagination is epitomised in the moment where Superman rips his shirt open to reveal the golden 'S' - access to secret powers at precisely the appropriate moment, so they can be applied at the pivotal point of the disaster to save the day, or the damsel, or the world. Superheroes are a vicarious experience of instrumentality, the more-than-human ability to actually make a difference in a chaotic world where the normal individual is insignificant. They are superheroes not only because they are superhuman, but because they act heroically, in the sense that they become the point and focus of the narrative, the symbol of effective action. Even when they're broody and angsty like Batman, by definition they must rise above that to act, to intervene, to impose their heroic will on circumstances.
Hulk is not a superhero because he's a victim. His superhuman abilities do not empower him or make him effective, but instead remove his instrumentality; his hulking green persona is not an expression of power, but of powerlessness and frustration. All his focus, his desperate effort, is applied to saving those around him from himself, not from any external threat. He has no control, and it's that control which we most expect from superheroes. His battles are grunting smash-fests which destroy wholesalely instead of rescuing, and while he might bludgeon to the ground the mutated monster du jour, he is powerless against the actual villain, the military who sees him as a superweapon - again, an object, not an instrumentality. Superheroes should reassure us that enormous power can be controlled, focus and used to save rather than destroy. Hulk teaches us exactly the opposite. His tragedy is cyclical - all he can do is escape each particular instance of his rage, and the best possible outcome is minimal damage rather than saving the world. He can never co-operate, never be part of a team, hell, never even get laid, and if superpowers aren't sexy, what's the point? His ultimate rescue will come only when he learns to reverse the genetic meddling which has made him what he is, and when he does, he becomes normal, powerless, and we lose interest. The narrative can never be his.
So, yes. Hulk is a downer. Unlike most superheroes, he's actually more interesting as Bruce Banner than he is as Hulk, and we have to dread the expression of his power rather than, as with other heroes, looking forward to it with a childlike willingness to suspend disbelief. His strength doesn't inspire, it has no style, it's brutal and clumsy and a little pathetic, and no-one fears it more than he does himself. He's a curiously Victorian construction, the blood brother of Frankenstein's monster and Mr. Hyde, and shares with them the ability to embody Victorian fears about the basic, unbridled animal behind the civilised man. I don't think we fear that in the same way that the Victorians did: we fear our technology, giving us Tony Stark, or our angsts, which Batman and Spiderman have covered, or our society, as the X-Men do. Hulk is a poor little monster, gauche and out of his time.
(These musings, incidentally, typed while jiggling, as I acquired the new Fratellis album today. More of the same, which suits me fine - bouncy, laddish, ridiculously catchy. I still persist in detecting an aftertaste of Beatles.)
Huh. Still punched in the stomach by the special effects. They will persist in (a) making Hulk himself too big, too ape-like and waaaaay too plastic, and (b) making the arch-Nemesis more of the same, only worse. Didn't care for the spines, either. I liked the casting - Edward Norton is always watchable, and does a beautifully battered, world-weary turn in which his physical slightness is a lovely counterpoint to the hulking of Hulk, and I persist in being fond of Liv Tyler in the teeth of most of the internet. Nonetheless, the film failed utterly to spin me out of the cinema on the requisite dizzy superhero high that even the saccharine candy-froth of Fantastic Four can generate. I'm not actually sure this is the fault of the director or scriptwriter: I darkly suspect it may be the fault of the myth.
The problem with Hulk, I am forced to conclude, is that he's not actually a superhero. That "hero" bit in "superhero" is there for a reason. The effect of superheroes on the imagination is epitomised in the moment where Superman rips his shirt open to reveal the golden 'S' - access to secret powers at precisely the appropriate moment, so they can be applied at the pivotal point of the disaster to save the day, or the damsel, or the world. Superheroes are a vicarious experience of instrumentality, the more-than-human ability to actually make a difference in a chaotic world where the normal individual is insignificant. They are superheroes not only because they are superhuman, but because they act heroically, in the sense that they become the point and focus of the narrative, the symbol of effective action. Even when they're broody and angsty like Batman, by definition they must rise above that to act, to intervene, to impose their heroic will on circumstances.
Hulk is not a superhero because he's a victim. His superhuman abilities do not empower him or make him effective, but instead remove his instrumentality; his hulking green persona is not an expression of power, but of powerlessness and frustration. All his focus, his desperate effort, is applied to saving those around him from himself, not from any external threat. He has no control, and it's that control which we most expect from superheroes. His battles are grunting smash-fests which destroy wholesalely instead of rescuing, and while he might bludgeon to the ground the mutated monster du jour, he is powerless against the actual villain, the military who sees him as a superweapon - again, an object, not an instrumentality. Superheroes should reassure us that enormous power can be controlled, focus and used to save rather than destroy. Hulk teaches us exactly the opposite. His tragedy is cyclical - all he can do is escape each particular instance of his rage, and the best possible outcome is minimal damage rather than saving the world. He can never co-operate, never be part of a team, hell, never even get laid, and if superpowers aren't sexy, what's the point? His ultimate rescue will come only when he learns to reverse the genetic meddling which has made him what he is, and when he does, he becomes normal, powerless, and we lose interest. The narrative can never be his.
So, yes. Hulk is a downer. Unlike most superheroes, he's actually more interesting as Bruce Banner than he is as Hulk, and we have to dread the expression of his power rather than, as with other heroes, looking forward to it with a childlike willingness to suspend disbelief. His strength doesn't inspire, it has no style, it's brutal and clumsy and a little pathetic, and no-one fears it more than he does himself. He's a curiously Victorian construction, the blood brother of Frankenstein's monster and Mr. Hyde, and shares with them the ability to embody Victorian fears about the basic, unbridled animal behind the civilised man. I don't think we fear that in the same way that the Victorians did: we fear our technology, giving us Tony Stark, or our angsts, which Batman and Spiderman have covered, or our society, as the X-Men do. Hulk is a poor little monster, gauche and out of his time.
(These musings, incidentally, typed while jiggling, as I acquired the new Fratellis album today. More of the same, which suits me fine - bouncy, laddish, ridiculously catchy. I still persist in detecting an aftertaste of Beatles.)