supergods

  • Bucky:what the fuck is with all the food in this century. why would you take the caffeine out of coffee. why does coke taste wrong. you shits. you bastards. i can’t even smoke in the goddamn restaurants. this century is terrible
  • Sam:*replaces all the soda in the house with diet* *switches out the coffee with decaf* *leaves passive-aggressive pamphlets on the dangers of smoking everywhere* oh wait until you find out what we did to hotdogs
Adults…struggle desperately with fiction, demanding constantly that it conform to the rules of everyday life. Adults foolishly demand to know how Superman can possibly fly, or how Batman can possibly run a multibillion-dollar business empire during the day and fight crime at night, when the answer is obvious even to the smallest child: because it’s not real.
—  Grant Morrison, Supergods

Gerard Way, the lead singer of the band My Chemical Romance, was a very different kind of entertainer, a New Jersey art-punk rocker who’d been an intern at Vertigo back in the days of The Invisibles and a fan of my Doom Patrol run, although we’d never crossed paths.

In mid-2006, with Final Crisis on my mind, I caught the video for his band’s song “Welcome to the Black Parade,” a searing slice of punk psychedelia I was primed to like anyway. What really made me sit up were the outfits the band was wearing.

Dressed in black-and-white marching band uniforms as they led a procession of sexy walking dead through a bombed-out city, My Chemical Romance looked like a glamorous postmortem Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. They had fused the images of two opposites—the tough soldier and the frail emo kid—to create an image of what was to come. Nor was the sound morbid or dark; it was triumphal, chiming, imperial rock. The new psychedelia would learn to make friends with darkness. It would come from the Goth and alternative frontiers of the last twenty years into the mainstream, laughing at cancer as it put a beat to the Dance of the Dead and began to have fun again, however dark that fun might seem to grown-ups.

That fall, I listened to The Black Parade over and over and over again, to inspire cosmic mortuary scenes for Final Crisis and Batman’s mental breakdown. MCR had shown me a picture of the new superhero, posttraumatic, postwar, the hero with nothing left to believe in. The supersoldier was home from the front, jumping every time a car backfired, staring at his hands.

Neil Gaiman put me in touch with Gerard, and we met in Glasgow before a gig, forming an instant connection. He led a new young generation of musicians who had grown up with superhero comics and had no qualms about saying so. He walked the walk too, with Umbrella Academy, his own award-winning re-creation of the superhero formula with artist Gabriel Ba. It was a kaleidoscopic tour de force. There was no shaky start, no cramming of balloons with words (a common tyro error), and none of the familiar missteps that dogged so many other celebrity-fan forays into the comics biz. Umbrella Academy was the end result of years of reading and thinking about superheroes and science fiction: Funny, scary, cerebral, arty, and violent all at the same time, it harvested all the fruits of Gerard’s own “iconography tree.” The heroes of Umbrella Academy were a group of outsider kids who grew up to be the world’s greatest superheroes. It was the story of his band. It was my story too. It was a premonition of where we were all headed.

—  Grant Morrison - Supergods
We tell our children they’re trapped like rats on a doomed, bankrupt, gangster-haunted planet with dwindling resources, with nothing to look forward to but rising sea levels and imminent mass extinctions, then raise a disapproving eyebrow when, in response, they dress in black, cut themselves with razors, starve themselves, gorge themselves, or kill one another.
—  Grant Morrison in “Supergods”, his book about super hero comic culture. For an introduction, this is ridiculously good.

In Wetham’s diagnosis, then, children were too underdeveloped to separate the outlandish fantasy in their comic books from everyday reality, and this made them vulnerable to barely concealed homosexual and antisocial content.

I tend to believe the reverse is true: that it’s adults who have the most trouble separating fact from fiction. A child knows that real crabs on the beach do not sing or talk like the cartoon crabs in THE LITTLE MERMAID. A child can accept all kinds of weird-looking creatures and bizarre occurrences in a story because the child understands that stories have different rules that allow for pretty much anything to happen.

Adults, on the other hand, struggle desperately with fiction, demanding constantly that it conform to the rules of everyday life. Adults foolishly demand to know HOW Superman can possibly fly, or HOW Batman can possibly run a multibillion-dollar business empire during the day and fight crime at night, when the answer is obvious even to the smallest child: because it’s not real.

— 

–Grant Morrison, Supergods.

anonymous asked:

My uncle wrote Man of Steel, so I'm sorry you hate it so vehemently.

if this is true and your uncle is in fact David Goyer, please tell him that Man of Steel shattered my hopes that he’d gotten all of his bad Batman writing out of him in The Dark Knight Rises. and that Clark Kent’s parents aren’t the the kind of people who are going to push a Randian “maybe you should just let the norms die” philosophy on their emotionally vulnerable alien son. actually, you know what, just have him email me, we can talk about why he’s so obviously embarrassed by the entire concept of Superman.

(also, because he has Christopher Nolan’s phone number, have him tell that android to spend at least three months in the company of someone with a pulse before attempting to write dialogue again.)

Rob Liefeld was the poster boy for Image…. He looked like his name should be Skip or Spanky…. With his baseball cap and his wide-eyed love of trash culture, Liefeld spoke for a new generation of American kids…. Their power fantasies were not of social justice or utopian reform, but of nihilistic, aimless hedonism or revenge. Like so many of my favorite punk bands, however, Liefeld’s enthusiastic, arrogant amateurism enflamed a generation of young artists. If Rob could get away with his barely original characters, his blizzard of crosshatched lines, the heroic legs that tapered to tiny screwdriver feet, and the multitudinous array of new muscles he’d invented for the human forearm alone, anyone could do it….

His drawings never missed any opportunity to inflict some elaborate new deformity upon the human physique. His ideas were secondhand, his research nonexistent, his vision eccentric and quite unique in every detail… [Background detail] would only get in the way of another shot of a clenched-teeth hero crashing through a window in a shower of unconvincing glass shards, to disembowel foes with names like Stryfe, Carnyge, and Myrdy'r.

— 

Grant Morrison on Rob Liefeld, Supergods (pg. 245-246).

Below: Rob Liefeld’s 1990s jeans commercial, directed by Spike Lee. Yeah, the ‘90s were that kind of a decade.

“We tell our children they’re trapped like rats on a doomed, bankrupt, gangster-haunted planet with dwindling resources, with nothing to look forward to but rising sea levels and imminent mass extinctions, then raise a disapproving eyebrow when, in response, they dress in black, cut themselves with razors, starve themselves, gorge themselves, or kill one another.”

-Grant Morrison, Supergods

We love our superheroes because they refuse to give up on us. We can analyze them out of existence, kill them, ban them, mock them, and still they return, patiently reminding us of who we are and what we wish we could be.
—  Grant Morrison
I tried to show the DC universe breaking down into signature gestures, last-gasp strategies that were tried and tested but would this time fail, until finally even the characterizations would fade and the plot become rambling, meaningless, disconnected. Although I lost my nerve a little, I must confess, and it never became disconnected enough.
This, I was trying to say, is what happens when you let bad stories eat good ones. This is what it looked like when you allow the Anti-Life Equation to turn all your dreams to nightmares.
—  Grant Morrison about Final Crisis, Supergods.

kaon4shi-deactivated20160722  asked:

I just want to say I think your Captain America tag is beautiful: "plant yourself like a tree by the river of truth." Where does it come from?

It’s from The Amazing Spiderman #537, and comes in what is arguably Cap’s most famous speech in the Marvel universe:

“Doesn’t matter what the press says. Doesn’t matter what the politicians or the mobs say. Doesn’t matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right. This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences. When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — ‘No, you move.’”

Gets me right in my robot heart, every time.