Batman, Volume 5: Zero Year - Dark City (Review)

Batman, Volume 5: Zero Year - Dark City

The fifth volume of Scott Snyder's Batman epic, Dark City, concludes the Zero Year storyline in suitably grand fashion. I've pointed out before that one of Snyder's strengths as a writer is his ability to blend genres, and Dark City is perhaps the best showcase of this. It's a tricky thing to tell an unexpected story, especially with a familiar character. Yet Snyder continues to defy the odds by spinning a new and interesting origin story that hits all the right character beats, demonstrating just what makes the Batman a complex and serious literary character.

The previous volume, Secret City, was a fun, pulpy narrative that began with its foot on the gas pedal and never really let up. Those same high points of breathless adventure are present in Dark City, but here they're more subdued, and really occur toward story's end, where they function more like a traditional climax. Instead, the story opens with a mystery. One of my frequent complaints about the Batman character is that so often his "core" is lost. The character got his start in a pulp magazine called Detective Comics. He is given the mantle of "World's Greatest Detective." But more often than not, Batman stories—on both page and screen—tend to lose this element of his character. Batman is first and foremost a detective, and a darn good one at that. So it's a welcome thing to have this volume kick things off with a good ol' fashioned detective story.

We begin in the aftermath of Edward Nygma's attack on Gotham City. With Gotham in a blackout, first responders are working tirelessly to get the city's power back online. Things take a turn for the gruesome and bizarre, however, when the police begin discovering bodies with their bones having burst from the skin and twisted into something more like beanstalks. While Gotham's only honest cop, James Gordon, works the crime scene through proper channels, another detective begins investigating from the shadows. The Batman is a relative newcomer to Gotham City, and people are still trying to figure out his role in things. The current police commissioner, Loeb, is adamant Batman is a threat. Gordon isn't convinced, and continues to try and see the big picture.

Batman's investigation leads him to mad scientist Karl Helfern, who has taken the moniker of Doctor Death since his experiments to try and develop better bone structure in humans failed. Doctor Death is a nice throwback to one of Batman's original 1939 villains, and a clear indicator that Snyder is working to honor Batman's rich legacy as much as he is telling an updated origin story for modern readers. Batman's investigation into Helfern takes up much of the first half of the volume, and the story unfurls like a moody detective story straight out of the old pulp era. The shadows are long, the terror is real. But as Batman uncovers the true threat, the man behind Helfern's descent into madness—Edward Nygma, now calling himself "The Riddler"—the story changes gears into something unprecedented. When Riddler blows up the nearby reservoir, flooding the city, we jump forward some weeks in time to find that Gotham is now something more like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Batman is believed to be dead. Riddler holds the keys to the city, having cut off all access points, and controls things from an undisclosed location. Gotham City stands on a knife's edge.

But, of course, Batman must return, and he does so in glorious fashion to rescue the city from destruction. This is a story we've seen told a thousand times. Gotham City is threatened by a megalomaniacal super villain, and Batman must stand in the gap to battle the villain and ultimately save the day. In one sense, there is nothing special here, nothing new. In another sense, though, there is something to be said for a familiar story well-told. And that's what Snyder does here. In a way, this is Batman stripped down to his bare essentials. Gone are the gadgets that usually give him the edge in combat. When he can't solve the problem with his fists, he is forced to rely on his cerebral powers instead. Often forgotten is the fact that Bruce Wayne is a kind of genius, on top of being a physical powerhouse. In many ways, his mind is his ultimate weapon. You might beat him in fisticuffs this time, but he's always thinking, learning, calculating a way to turn the tables on you in the next encounter. Snyder understands this, and in Dark City he gives us a Batman who is as quick as he is strong, as sharp as he is deadly. Beating Riddler doesn't take much strength. It's hard to fight the man who would rather just drop a building on you than face you himself; on the contrary, it takes a brilliant mind to outthink the man who is always plotting ten steps ahead. You beat him by outwitting him—and that's exactly how Batman finally beats Riddler.

Perhaps the most satisfying element of Dark City is how Snyder gives us a Batman who learns. Bruce Wayne is young, only in his mid-twenties or so. He's new to this caped vigilante business, and he makes mistakes aplenty. He fails to anticipate Doctor Death using Wayne's friend, Lucius Fox, against him. He fails to stop Riddler from flooding Gotham City. These are devastating, costly mistakes. But he learns from these mistakes, and that's what makes him dangerous. It's absolutely fascinating to watch this angry young man morph into a hardened crimefighter, learning all the lessons that will be crucial in his later battles. Most of those lessons come through in the story's quieter moments, which are easy to miss thanks to the pure spectacle of the action scenes.

For example, Batman learns that allies are necessary. He must rely on people like Lucius Fox and Jim Gordon to help him bring down Riddler. There is a subplot running throughout the story that focuses on Gordon, who is perhaps one of the most underrated characters of the entire Batman mythos. In a slight twist, it turns out that Bruce Wayne harbors great disdain for Gordon, believing that Gordon is just as corrupt as the rest of the cops in Gotham. But as the story unspools, it's revealed that Bruce has misread things, and that Gordon is anything but corrupt. He's stalwart and ineffably straight, a true cop who cannot be bought, bullied, or outdone. Snyder deepens Gordon's character, and makes a real case for the value of uncompromising virtue. In a world where pretty much every character has some serious flaw or psychological disorder, Jim Gordon is a constant. His unwavering commitment to justice as well as his will to fight in Dark City makes it clear why he will go on to become Batman's greatest ally in the fight to save Gotham for many years to come.

All these heroic feats make this story a comic book classic, but Snyder's most profound insight into the character of Batman comes at this volume's conclusion. In the weeks following Riddler's fall, as Bruce Wayne steps in to help rebuild the city, Gordon is finally made police commissioner, and the status quo we're accustomed to begins to fall into place, Bruce's trusted butler, Alfred Pennyworth, tries to set Bruce up with Julie Madison, an old girlfriend. There is a touching sequence in which Alfred envisions Bruce's life with Julie, where Bruce gives up being Batman and elects to settle down and raise a family, having finally escaped from the darkness. But Bruce rejects Alfred's attempt to reintroduce him to Julie and steps fully into his role as the city's dark protector. Batman, Bruce argues, must become a symbol for the city, to show people that they do not have to live in fear of evil men. And this, Bruce insists, makes him happy. Alfred counters his assertion by saying, "You say that because you don't know, Master Bruce. You don't. There are joys you haven't experienced. Deeper types of happiness." But his words fall on deaf ears, and Bruce simply, tragically, replies, "Not for me."

The irony, of course, is that Alfred is very right. He is the only one who sees the Batman for what he truly represents. Whereas Gotham City might look upon Batman as a hero, as a symbol, Alfred understands that there is a human being behind the mask. That Batman is actually Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne is a young man still traumatized over witnessing the death of his parents, still hurting at having grown up alone. Batman, Alfred understands, is not so much a hero as he is the manifestation of one boy's wanton act of self-destruction, a dark alter ego that Bruce indulges to numb the pain. If there is one complaint I have about this Batman story, it is that Snyder does not devote more time to exploring this notion. Alfred is noticeably absent for a good majority of the story's latter sections, and seems a bit underused. Then again, it could be his absence that makes his insight so profound. While Batman is off saving the city, Alfred waits alone in the darkness, for Bruce Wayne to reemerge and come home again. And when it's necessary, Alfred will step in and do what needs to be done to keep Bruce Wayne alive. He tells Bruce at one point, "I might not agree with you, ever...but I'll always be there to patch you up."

There is a dimension of sacrifice to Alfred's character that goes unsung all too frequently. Alfred is understated, and remains at Bruce's side because of the sense of commitment he has to the Wayne family. He is a man of honor, but he is intelligent and caring enough not to play into Bruce's delusion that Batman is somehow good for him. He understands that Batman is a choice, a choice Bruce makes to remain on life support, a choice that offers temporary relief, but does nothing to heal the pain. He speaks to Bruce of "deeper happiness," and I cannot help but think of C. S. Lewis and the "deeper magic" of The Chronicles of Narnia. Out here in the real world, we all must face our personal tragedies. And in the process of doing so, we run the very real risk of putting on a cape and a cowl, of convincing ourselves that sometimes our darkness is the best we can hope for. And that darkness doesn't necessarily manifest itself in stereotypically bad ways; in fact, most of the time our darkness works its way out in glittering vices as we indulge the things we like. These are the things that keep us on life support, the things that keep us numb to our pain, the things that keeps us from a deeper happiness—happiness defined as a thing that doesn't always wear a beaming smile. Following Jesus Christ is not always a happy venture. As any honest Christian will admit, it's usually one marked by a deep sense of loneliness, profound loss, and great and terrible pain. But there is a kind of resoluteness to Christianity, a strong resolve to make the hard but necessary choice to let Christ tear into our wounds in order to heal them.

See, our tendency is to think that Bruce makes the heroic choice by choosing to remain as Batman and forfeit his chance at a normal life with Julie. But the truth is—and Alfred sees this—the choice to remain Batman, for Bruce, is the easy way out. It's just another way of closing himself off, of remaining numb, of avoiding the human element. This truth is what makes the Batman such an important and profound character. He has as much to say about the human condition as any of the great literary figures throughout the ages. And like the best of those characters, Batman provides us with a strong warning. We, like Bruce, need allies in the midst of our own little battles, each and every day. It's not impossible to go at it alone, and in many ways we would prevail. But the real cost, the loss of the human element, ensures that the darkness that will eventually consume us is one of our own making. This is the great warning Alfred puts before Bruce. It's the great warning that Batman puts before us all.

With the Zero Year storyline, Scott Snyder tells a rollicking tale that seems tailor-made to be adapted for the big screen, offering up big, bombastic action sequences over against quieter character moments that are easy to miss. As always, the art by Greg Capullo is second-to-none. Batman has never looked better. And no small amount of credit goes to inker Danny Miki and colorist FCO Plascencia. The colors splash and electrify in hues of purple and red, and there are some truly stunning panels that plaster a silhouetted Batman against a sky marred by forks of lightening. This story is sure to go down as another classic, as Snyder continues to outdo himself with each subsequent volume. I'm eager to see where he takes the character from here.

Hokum with Heart: Hercules & Xena

As I've worked from home over the past couple of weeks, I’ve had two TV shows alternating in the background. Hercules: The Legendary Journeys and Xena: Warrior Princess are icons of the 1990s television landscape. With record-setting syndication statistics, at one time these shows were some of the most-watched the world over. A strong cult following remains, but by-and-large both have fallen into the annals of history, reduced to little more than punchlines to corny jokes by the standards of popular culture today. However, as I've visited them again, I've been struck by just how good-natured these shows are. Sure, they're campy and over-the-top, but there is an earnestness to them noticeably absent from the movies and television of today. Both function as throwbacks to the old swashbucklers of classic Hollywood, and for all their flamboyance, Hercules and Xena have a clear moral compass and ethical grounding; both of them try to have something to say.

Kevin Sorbo as Hercules

Both shows are set in the same universe, with Xena (Lucy Lawless) originally introduced as a villain in Hercules, but after she is redeemed by Kevin Sorbo's swaggering-cowboy take on the iconic Greek hero, she strikes out on her own, which is where her series picks up. Every episode of Hercules is basically a fable, with a clear lesson to be learned and redemption usually at its core. Xena is the more mature show, due to the darker nature of her character, and it usually deals with more complex moral issues and ethical conundrums. Taken together, they function as two sides of the same coin, forming a fascinating whole.

Hercules is the more optimistic of the two, and the harder one to do well, because the show sometimes borders on sentimentality. Sorbo's take on the legendary demigod is at odds with nearly every other conceit of the character, because he plays Hercules as a soft-spoken and easy-going man of honor, more in line with the white-hat cowboys of old Hollywood than the bombastic warrior of other portrayals. He is reluctant to identify himself with his semi-divine status, because in this universe the gods are petty beings who enjoy disrupting the affairs of men simply because it's a Tuesday and they have nothing better to do. He doesn't have a shred of pride to him. So Hercules tends to function more like the classic westerns, each episode serving as a self-contained fable that tries to teach a life lesson. The outlandishness evokes the feeling of an old storybook you'd find on a kid's bookshelf.

Lucy Lawless as Xena

Xena, on the other hand, leans into the elements of fables and fairy stories that serve as cautionary warnings for adults. Both shows deal heavily with the theme of redemption, and where Hercules suggests to us that no one is ever really too far gone, Xena utilizes an older, sometimes wiser approach to remind us that, sometimes, redemption comes at a cost. And for some people, that cost is too high a price to pay. Because of these more mature themes, Xena is a sexier, more violent show, probably why it surpassed Hercules in popularity.

Both shows, to some degree, seek to answer the question “Can violence be redemptive?” And both shows answer, “Sometimes.” But how either show nuances that plays out a bit differently. Hercules says, “It can be, but it’s best to be avoided.” Xena says, “But sometimes it’s the only way.” Both of them deal strongly in the hope that even the worst of people can change and the past can be overcome, but what that costs is examined from two different angles, through the lenses of two different protagonists.

Hercules and Xena have the makings of modern antiheroes because of their pasts. Hercules’s family is unexpectedly wiped out by his wicked stepmother, Hera. Xena used to be a ruthless warlord who left many orphans in her wake. But the key difference between Hercules and Xena and the antiheroes we tend to worship today comes in how they choose to deal with their trauma. Though he initially swears to battle Hera to the end, Hercules chooses not to avenge his family, and instead helps people who are in need—that’s how he ends up redeeming Xena, who comes to see the error of her ways, and then carries on the legacy of helping people on her own moral quest to atone for her past sins. And every now and then the characters come together for a crossover episode. Hercules will turn up in an episode of Xena and vice versa. And when the two are on screen together, it’s absolutely electrifying. Both Sorbo and Lawless are understated actors, and Hercules's plain, awe-shucks demeanor is the perfect counterpoint to Xena's quiet, simmering intensity. They are combustible, but when they finally link up with a common goal, you get the feeling that they're an unstoppable force.

As I watched the two series, I began to wonder what the landscape of television would be today if shows like these were still being made. Modern television laughs at and lambasts shows like Hercules and Xena for their moral fortitude and commitment to rehashing the same old stories, week-in and week-out. Today, a show like Hercules or Xena would be mocked for its archaic ideas and preachy tone. But one must wonder if these are, in fact, the heroes we need now more than ever. Both characters are the antithesis of the modern antihero, which is so commercialized and trendy right now. Hercules and Xena take their darkness and turn it around to find ways to help people who have been forgotten by society and the petty gods of ancient Greece. They don’t lose themselves in their own darkness, but find ways of redeeming it through simple things, like small acts of kindness, or spending time with close friends without the pressure of pretense. It's a far cry from the cynicism of popular movies like Taken or TV shows like House of Cards.

That's the irony of Hercules and Xena. They are didactic, instructional hours of television without the pretentiousness of today's popular high-concept series. But they play their cards straight and fair, and because the actors genuinely seem to be having a good time and don't try to take themselves too seriously, there's an easiness to these shows that make them not only watchable, but likable. It helps, too, that the lessons these shows teach us actually are good lessons to learn. There is a clear sense of right and wrong, good and evil, heroes and villains. And pop culture today recoils against those notions in favor of "moral complexity" and "gray areas," a lack of commitment which is often little more than moral cowardice. Recoiling so hard, in fact, that these older, goofier, simpler shows suddenly become new again, their preachiness becoming good, teachable lessons just waiting to be rediscovered.

Lilo & Stitch: More Than Ohana (Guest Post)

As is usually the case in a small seminary, you tend to end up taking multiple classes with the same people. That's how I got to know Esther Medina. A Georgia native, Esther is finishing up her MA in Media Arts and Worship at Dallas Theological Seminary. She's my current rival for the mantle of worst pool player on campus—that's probably because we end up talking more about our mutual interest in stories and films when we're trying to play than actually focusing on the game. After a handful of these conversations involving Disney's Lilo & Stitch, I wanted Esther to further explore her unique perspective on this particular film. So I was very glad when she agreed to write this piece for the blog. A photographer, writer, coffee addict, and reigning queen of the scratch, you can find and follow Esther on Instagram and Facebook.

Here is her insightful reflection on this underrated modern fairy tale.

Lilo & Stitch: More Than Ohana

by Esther Medina

Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind.

Stitch was introduced to the world in 2002, and the world fell in love with his chaotic nature. Lilo & Stitch does so many things right, even down to the watercolor backgrounds the artists were forced to use for the first time since Dumbo (1941), in efforts to save money. Disney’s original vision for this movie changed when the artists were sent to the Hawaiian Islands, the film’s primary setting, for concept art. Being on the ground and interacting with the people, ohana (the uniquely Hawaiian cultural construct of “family”) became the heart of the film. How could it not? It’s the heart of the people.

The movie centers on Lilo (Daveigh Chase) and Nani Pelekai (Tia Carrere), who are sisters. Cobra Bubbles (Ving Rhames), a social worker, visits the sisters to determine whether Nani qualifies to remain Lilo’s guardian. What he encounters is the messy life of two sisters who have recently lost their parents in an accident. He understands that they are still adjusting to such a terrible transition, and grants some time for Nani to take responsibility as the adult.

After Cobra’s first visit, Nani and Lilo have a yell fest later that night, like any normal siblings. Nani, being the older sister and stepping into her role as adult, brings a peace offering to young Lilo: food. They don’t have a long heart-to-heart, but they do apologize, and the first thing Lilo says is, “We’re a broken family, aren’t we?” Nani bridges the gap with food, like I’ve done plenty of times with my siblings, and they get straight to the root issue by acknowledging that the transition they both have to navigate is a difficult one.

According to psychological studies, anger is a secondary emotion, usually a reaction to some other underlying feeling—in this case, grief. Nani and Lilo are both grieving the loss of their parents and their coping mechanisms reveal themselves in different ways. Nani seems scatterbrained all the time and is easily angered with Lilo. She never expected to have to step into the position of parent at this stage in her life. She prioritizes being a parent to Lilo over being a sister—Lilo even tells Nani she likes her better as a sister. Nani can’t even give herself room for herself. She uses the excuse of having to take care of Lilo to not date David (Jason Scott Lee), though she really likes him. Nor does she allow herself to grieve, because she has to keep it together for herself and for Lilo; if not, she could lose Lilo—something she refuses to do.

Lilo, on the other hand, feels desperately alone. She does what she can to fit in, in her own weird ways. She joins the hula dance group, but comes in late because, as she explains to her instructor, she had to buy peanut butter. Her reason being that she couldn’t in good conscience feed Pudge—a fish who supposedly controls the weather—a tuna sandwich. She carries her doll, like the other girls, but it’s one she’s made herself and looks like a voodoo doll. All of this is Lilo’s attempt at normalcy, but her own anger, stemming from her grief and loneliness, reveals itself when she’s confronted by Mertle Edmonds (Miranda Paige Walls) and the other girls, who only see Lilo’s weirdness. Lilo’s reaction is to fight.

So, in their attempt to find some semblance of normalcy, Nani takes Lilo to adopt a dog.

Enter Stitch (Chris Sanders).

We are introduced to Stitch at the beginning of the film, with the mad alien scientist, Dr. Jumba Jookiba (David Ogden Stiers), on trial by the Galactic Federation for creating illegal experiments in his lab. When Jumba reveals that his latest creation, experiment 626, the experiment Lilo will later name Stitch, is endlessly cunning and indestructible, the Federation orders that Stitch be destroyed. Stitch proves his maker right when he escapes and crashes his spaceship on Kauai, where he is detained as some type of malformed dog.

That’s when Lilo, the weirdest kid on the island, enters the shelter where Stitch is being held. Their mutual quirkiness ensures an instant connection, and she happily chooses Stitch as the “dog” to adopt because, like her, he’s weird. But Lilo soon realizes Stitch’s destructive tendencies. Using Elvis, she tries to teach him to be a model citizen, but things always seem to end with Stitch reverting back to his destructive self. This is what Jumba claims he created Stitch for: destruction.

626 was designed to be a monster, but now there is nothing to destroy. You see, I never gave him a higher purpose. What must it be like to have nothing, not even memories to visit in the middle of the night?

Stitch tries to be “good,” but nothing seems to work. This creates in him his own sense of loneliness, as he realizes that his destructive tendencies stem from his attempts to find a place where he belongs. As he tries to understand these emotions, he is drawn to Hans Christian Andersen’s classic fairy tale, “The Ugly Duckling.” Feeling as though he doesn’t belong with Lilo, he plans to leave, taking “The Ugly Duckling” storybook with him. But Lilo knows he’s about to leave, and we see her own loneliness bubble up again, even as she acknowledges that she can’t force Stitch to stay.

Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind, but if you want to leave you can. I’ll remember you though. I remember everyone that leaves.

As Stitch sits out in the woods that night, alone, he, like the ugly duckling, cries out, “I’m lost!” He doesn’t think he has any other choice but to leave. He’s had nothing, and suddenly all these things he’s never had just fall into his lap: friends, a family. He tries to adapt, he tries to make himself good. But he fails. And so he does the most selfish thing he can, and walks away.

But he and Lilo are connected in ways they do not fully understand. They are not only connected through their eccentricities and mutual weirdness, but also through their pain, and their longings as well. Lilo longs to have back what she’s lost. Stitch longs to have what he’s never had. Both grieve the absence of something—either something lost or something never present in the first place. Wisely, the film never asserts that either one of them can fill the void of the other. Stitch will always have to contend with his destructive nature, and Lilo will never be able to get back all the years with her parents she wishes were still there. But what the two of them can find is redemption.

Stitch finds redemption when Lilo is captured by the alien lawman, Gantu (Kevin Michael Richardson). Stitch’s natural tendency would have been selfish: destroy those seeking to capture him and flee. But he’s learned something—he’s learned that loneliness is often a choice, as much as it is a state of being, that, sometimes, loneliness doesn’t have to be. So he goes outside himself and fights for Lilo—his destructive tendencies and indestructibleness are finally redeemed because they now have a purpose. By stepping outside of himself, he learns he can finally be good, because he has found something that is good. Stitch perfectly sums up his own transformation when he says, at the end of the movie, “This is my family. I found it all on my own. It’s little, and broken. But still good. Yeah, still good.”

Lilo and Nani mirror everyone’s ohana in some way. We grieve together, but separately. We fight with each other, but still know we’re family. We see each other’s idiosyncrasies and find ways of dealing with them because there is a sense of obligation to each other, displayed in all sorts of ways. That is expected from family.

But Lilo and Stitch, on the other hand, display a facet of the familial relationship I would love to find more often in the real world. Both are wounded in some way, yet they come together not out of obligation, but through choice. Lilo and Stitch choose each other.

Don’t leave me, okay?

Okay.

Lilo could have forced Stitch to stay when he wanted to leave because, technically, she paid for him; she owned him. But because she truly cares about Stitch and about his need to find his own place, she knows that she must let him climb out that window. She gives him his space. She doesn’t expect him to stay. She cares too much about him to force him to stay in a place he might not belong. She wants Stitch to stay, not out of obligation, but rather by choice. She wants him to stay because he wants to be there.

There is nothing forcing Stitch to come back to save Lilo from Gantu. After all, the only thing Gantu wants is to destroy him. But Stitch chooses to come back for Lilo because he realizes, despite the brokenness within himself, he can be more than his chaos. His chaos doesn’t disappear, but he can be more. His indestructibleness doesn’t have to be used to destroy, but can be used to save, to rescue—the choice is his, and his alone. And by giving him the choice, Lilo ultimately rescues him from himself, freeing him to in turn rescue her. And together, they start anew. Not undoing the damage that has been done, but having given each other the freedom to make new choices and to build better lives.

Nani remains the scatterbrained sister-parent. Lilo remains the weird little sister. Stitch remains the loveable blue ball of chaos. The trio forming a perfectly broken little family. But this is the family that they have chosen; this is the family they want. And that makes all the difference in the world.

This is my family. I found it all on my own. It’s little, and broken. But still good. Yeah, still good.