The Flash, Volume 4: Reverse (Review)

The Flash, Volume 4: Reverse

Francis Manapul's final arc of The New 52's The Flash is arguably his best—and that's saying a lot, considering the quality of his output thus far. It's also his most mature. After the wild sci-fi hijinks of the last two arcs, this volume marks a return to the more personal tale with which Manapul began his run on the title. The stakes here are much higher than they were when Flash battled Mob Rule, though, as this story moves with all the urgency and gravitas of a finale. There is a sense that Manapul and co-creator Brian Buccellato's run has been building to this; indeed, after a quick tease at the end of the last volume, Barry Allen finally comes face-to-face with his legendary nemesis, Reverse-Flash.

The classic villain's reinvention here is thorough, but done in such a way as to maximize the emotional payoff. Smashing the reset button and rewriting established character arcs and continuities is like playing with fire. Fans are just as likely to respond with positive reception as they are to make sure the new content tanks in terms of sales if they don't like where things are going. Because of the fickle fanbase, Manapul and Buccellato's handling of Reverse-Flash undoubtedly has its detractors. But even the most devoted comic book purists shouldn't let their emotions get in the way of reading and investing in this ripping good yarn that touts a surprisingly hefty amount of pathos.

Everything in this volume really does revolve around Reverse-Flash and unmasking his motivations. Revealed to be Daniel West, the brother of Flash's long-standing love interest Iris West, Reverse-Flash has been draining the energy of everyone affected by the Speed Force in an effort to tear through time itself and turn back the clock to kill his and Iris's abusive father. Though perhaps a little heavy on melodrama, the end result is nevertheless a pretty sympathetic villain with a clear and understandable ambition. The writers do some great character work with Daniel, who nearly succeeds in murdering his father, only for his plan to go horribly awry when a younger version of himself and his sister return home. Suddenly confronted by his own trauma, Daniel faces a crisis of choice when the Flash intervenes and suggests that altering time and murdering his father in front his younger self will cause more trauma to young Daniel than anything else. The solution, Flash explains, is not in running from or changing the past, but in facing one's ghosts and dealing with trauma as best one can.

The thing I most admire about Manapul and Buccellato's narrative is that it refuses to fall prey to sentimentality. Though Reverse-Flash is stopped, Daniel is unable to bring himself to fully let go of the trauma his father inflicted on him, forcing Flash to drain him of his Speed Force energy in order to set aright the fractured timeline. Though he is reunited with his sister, he remains embittered and vindictive, saying that he would try again to turn back the clock and murder their father if given the chance. Even after he's carted off to prison, Iris visits him and explains that she has allowed the pain of their childhood to drive her to become a better, stronger, better-adjusted person, but Daniel is too warped to see anything other than his own pain and anger. When Iris leaves him to his fate, one gets the sense that the prison he's held in is far better than the personal hell he has made for himself.

Barry, of course, revisits his own crisis in light of Daniel's plight. He has to come to terms with the fact that he now knows he can turn back the clock and prevent his mother's murder, but that to do so would come at too high a cost. If altering the past necessarily means altering the present, then he would be putting his own selfish desires above the multitude of those whom he has saved. Commander Spock would frame the conundrum in this way, "Logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." Barry's decision to not splinter time in an attempt to rescue his mother is also not airbrushed, and there is a cost. It puts a strain on his relationship with his girlfriend, and it means that he must continue to search for evidence to prove his father's innocence. It's a bittersweet but hopeful ending, one that suggests that even the most debilitating and emotionally crippling of childhood traumas might be overcome. It will not be easy—but it is not impossible.

Together, Manapul and Buccellato delivered a triumphant run on The Flash that stands as one of the best things to come out of DC's New 52 era. The synergy between art and narrative has made for a gorgeous comic book that positively simmers with the kooky and old fashioned spirit of the earliest works in the genre. It's nice to see Manapul's final chapter give the Scarlet Speedster a poignant, emotionally resonant sendoff. When reading comics is this much fun, what more can you ask for than a mature and clear-eyed final statement that nonetheless leaves readers with a renewed sense of hope?

Superman: Man of Tomorrow (Review)

The origin story of Kal-El of Krypton is perhaps the best known among the pantheon of modern mythic heroes. That little spaceship crashing into the American heartland is more iconic than the scattering of Martha Wayne's pearls. The story of a boy trying to grow up in a small town, all the while knowing that he'll never quite fit in, is quintessential without losing an ounce of relatability. And the image of the god-man descending from the heavens with an outstretched hand to pull up a floundering humanity from the dredges of existence is, perhaps, the most primal story ever told.

Superman: Man of Tomorrow (2020)

All of that basic, archetypal storytelling coalesces into the story of Superman, the original superhero, and the most popular of modern mythopoetic icons. Turn him over, and stamped somewhere on his bright red Kryptonian cape you'll see, "Made in America." Yet the story's plot, themes, and character archetypes transcend any one culture or time or place. Perhaps this is what makes the origin story of Superman worth telling over and over again.

With Superman: Man of Tomorrow, we are given yet another take on this familiar tale. For all intents and purposes, there's really nothing new here. In a sense, anyone with a passing familiarity with Superman (voiced here by Darren Criss) has seen all of this before. Yet writer Tim Sheridan has found a new way of packaging the story, a different means of delivery. For example, I really don't recall J'onn J'onzz (Ike Amadi) having played such a prominent role in Superman's early days. But he takes on an important role in Sheridan's version of events. The same goes for intergalactic hotrod bounty hunter Lobo, voiced by the perfectly-cast Sons of Anarchy alum, Ryan Hurst.

Lois Lane (Alexandra Daddario) gets a new haircut, but remains the intrepid reporter we all know and love. Ma and Pa Kent (Bellamy Young and Neil Flynn) still lead simple lives on the farm, always ready to dish out some good ol' fashioned, homespun common sense life advice on the fly. But the story has, smartly, been updated to appeal to modern audiences. When the Kents try and walk Clark through knotting a tie, now they're doing it over video call on a cell phone. These are the subtle ways that demonstrate just how timeless this story really is.

The actual mechanics of the plot are the usual comic book nonsense, but Sheridan at least attempts to imbue the proceedings with some heart. While Lobo is the first major villain encountered, and classic Superman baddie Lex Luthor (Zachary Quinto) remains an ominous presence throughout, the real villain is the lesser-known Parasite (Brett Dalton), a tragic victim of circumstance, having once been a regular chap named Rudy Jones, who just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. However briefly, the film also touches on themes such as mankind's innate fear of "the other," or "the alien," which might seem like ideas "ripped from the headlines," until you realize that most every Superman origin tale has touched on those same themes, some with more profound things to say than others.

Superman: Man of Tomorrow is not the greatest take on Superman's origin. There are too many characters at play, and some of the more compelling relationships are lost in the shuffle as a result. Yet this is not a particularly bad movie. The art style is simple and pleasing. The characters are fleshed out. And the necessary boxes are checked. Perhaps Man of Tomorrow is simply guilty of playing the story too straight, of not trying to add anything new to the tale. If you're not already a fan of Superman, this movie probably won't convert you.

But, when it comes to these sorts of classic stories, which we have read and watched and enjoyed time and again for the past eighty years now, there's a real sense of not fixing what isn't broken. And there are far worse sins to commit when retelling an iconic origin story than giving Lois a new haircut, and letting Ma and Pa Kent wrestle with how to work the camera on a cell phone.

The Flash, Volume 3: Gorilla Warfare (Review)

Continuing their wildly successful reimagining of the Flash, Manapul and Buccellato deliver some of their best work on the title with Gorilla Warfare. The story picks up where the previous volume ends, with Grodd's forces raining into Central City. Grodd has returned, believing himself the only one capable of wielding the power of the Speed Force, and he's not going to let anyone stand in his way. In many ways, this story acts as a culmination of the work the creators have done thus far, as it's all hands on deck with heroes and villains alike uniting against this unprecedented threat.

The Flash, Volume 3: Gorilla Warfare

Wrapping up the Grodd invasion story takes up the majority of the volume, though the back half changes up the storytelling a bit, offering a few smaller narratives. One in particular sees Barry temporarily losing his powers in the middle of a sticky situation, and being forced to improvise. But these are the kinds of risks that Manapul and Buccellato are willing to take as storytellers, which keeps things fresh and prevents the execution from ever becoming too predictable. Perhaps the book's biggest tease comes in the form of Reverse-Flash, one of our titular hero's greatest villains. First introduced way back in the 1940s as "the Rival," Reverse-Flash is the Flash's archenemy, and arguably his biggest threat. We get a look at the character's New 52 redesign in this volume, and—minor qualms about the character's look aside—the tease is pretty spectacular.

One thing I've noticed reading through the series is the story's deft pacing. Barry moves faster than anything on the planet, and the story zips along pretty quickly, never giving us time to lull into the absurdity of the story being told. Talking gorillas? Don't worry about that, the story says, just go with it. This lends the title a unique, pulpy feel that feels like the story could have been ripped from an older time. And that is, perhaps, why The Flash was so well-received by audiences and critics alike during The New 52 relaunch. Though this is a ground-up reimagining of characters that have been staples of pop culture for decades now, as firmly fixed in the public imagination—if not more so—as any classic character from literature or the early days of film, what Manapul and Buccellato have managed to do here is recapture the feeling of the era in which comic books were birthed.

There are well-documented connections between the decades of pulp fiction and the early years of comic book superheroes. Pulp characters like the Phantom, the Avenger, the Shadow, and Doc Savage were all prototypical superheroes, somewhat pure and distilled archetypes that formed the bedrock of what would become the modern mythological superhero phenomenon. These early stories were known for the ways in which they thumbed their noses to critics. This was not high literature, nor did it pretend to be. Pulp writers were working class people who didn't have the luxury of drinking bourbon and smoking thoughtfully on a pipe whilst waxing poetic until the perfect phrase came to them. They had a word count they had to hit, and if character development had to be sacrificed to tell the story, so be it. They could develop that character later, in another tale. All that mattered was plot, the driving force behind the narrative. These were tales aimed at popular audiences, not literature professors. And what critics lambasted, audiences loved, and comics book creators have spent nearly a century now trying to claw their way out from under those prejudices. Only in the past decade or so has the academic perspective on comic books really begun to change.

The Flash catapults us back to that earlier era of b-movie plots and outlandish characters all servicing the most zany stories a writer could dream up. Manapul and Buccellato clearly love the character and the genre, and the art continues to wrap this wild story in a gorgeous package that makes reading it not only feel like a rediscovery of something older and more primal, but also an absolute pleasure. For anyone interested in a modern comic book that has all the quirks and madcap trappings of a bygone era in storytelling, The Flash is a title you don't want to miss.

The Man of Steel (Review)

The Man of Steel

To say that Brian Michael Bendis arrived at DC Comics with no fanfare is like saying the moon crashed into earth and nobody noticed. For years, Bendis was one of Marvel's biggest writers, but in 2018, he made the jump to DC and landed on Superman. For months, I saw the posters in comic book store windows depicting the Man of Steel himself with the words "Bendis is coming!" plastered in big print. But before Bendis was given the keys to Superman, he first crafted this miniseries titled The Man of Steel.

Acting as Bendis's introduction to the character, The Man of Steel is everything that should be expected from bringing in a superstar comic book writer and putting him on a character like Superman, the original and most iconic superhero of all. It's a big, bombastic story that both oozes classic appeal and dares to revisit established Superman mythology in new and interesting ways.

The introduction of Rogol Zaar adds a compelling wrinkle to the established mythos, and acts as the inciting event that sets the plot in motion. Superman's backstory is widely known—born Kal-El, he's the last son of the distant planet Krypton, jettisoned from the planet moments before it exploded in a last ditch effort by his parents to save their infant child's life. With alien warrior Rogol Zaar, Bendis puts front and center the creature who claims responsibility for destroying Krypton. And he's just learned that Kal-El, the last son of Krypton, is still alive and living on Earth as Superman. Rogol Zaar arrives on the planet with a singular purpose: wipe out all remaining traces of Krypton.

By introducing Zaar as the one behind Krypton's destruction, the stakes are immediately raised and Superman's fight has never been more personal. Breaking into Superman's famed Fortress of Solitude and devastating a number of the Kryptonian artifacts there, Zaar is immediately established as an incredible force to be reckoned with, attacking Superman physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Bendis should be given credit for creating an imposing villain, but he wisely doesn't reveal every little detail. He doesn't try to force certain aspects of his story into the existing Superman canon. He gives Zaar motives, but those motives aren't fully explained, leaving room for further development in later stories.

There is certainly a "dark night of the soul" element to this miniseries, with Superman having to reckon not only with the emergence of Rogol Zaar, but also with the unexpected absence of his wife, Lois, and their young son, Jon. This crisis brings Superman to an emotional tipping point, and there's a particularly powerful scene that sees him finally break down in the Fortress of Solitude. It's an emotional and very human take on the character, and it really works on a number of levels. These are the kinds of honest character moments that imbue these inherently mythic and outlandish stories with a dimension of reality. The human drama transcends the cosmic conflicts to lend the story a literary quality that gives us a glimpse at what comic books can be when they're thoughtfully written. But the drama doesn't curb the classic appeal of superhero antics. There are heroic feats aplenty to be found within the book's pages, and Superman wears his trademark smile here much more than a frown.

This is not merely Bendis's book, however, and that's also worth noting. The art team compiled for this work is something of an all-star lineup, featuring the likes of Jim Lee, Ivan Reis, and Ryan Sook among many others. Superman looks absolutely phenomenal here, especially when drawn by Ivan Reis, his character design reminiscent of that vintage Jim Lee style, depicting him as a hulk of a man. Every punch practically sends shockwaves off the page. It's a marvel that the different art styles all come together and complement the singular story told by Bendis, and this is a testament to the quality of the book and the intentionality of all those involved to deliver a worthwhile Superman story.

Perhaps the best thing I can say about Bendis's work here is that The Man of Steel is compulsively readable. This is quintessential Superman: a fun, big story with high stakes, dealing in both tragedy and hope. The literary quality is a breath of fresh air, and makes me eager to see where Bendis takes the character from here.

Shazam! (Review)

Shazam! (2019)

I am a sucker for "coming of age" stories. It probably has something to do with my own warped childhood, which was a valiant attempt at the ordinary on one hand, and a catastrophic failure to acknowledge the twisted on the other. Stephen King's short story "The Body" and Rob Reiner's film version of the same story, Stand By Me, have rescued my psyche in profound ways, and probably in some ways I've yet to fully understand. So I have a pretty high bar for what a good story about the loss of childhood innocence entails.

I'm happy to say that David F. Sandberg's Shazam! clears that high bar, for the most part. The story begins in 1974, when a young Thaddeus Sivana (Ethan Pugiotto) is summoned by an ancient wizard (Djimon Hounsou) to test whether or not he is "pure of heart" and therefore worthy of receiving the mantle of the wizard's champion and the gift of his immense power. Thaddeus is tempted, however, by the Seven Deadly Sins, powerful demons imprisoned by the wizard, who seek a champion of their own. Thaddeus nearly succumbs to them before the wizard intervenes and deems him unworthy, sending Thaddeus away and beginning his search for a champion anew. We flash forward over forty years to the present day, and meet Billy Batson (Asher Angel), a troubled youth running from foster home to foster home, and the least likely candidate to receive the mantle of "champion" from anyone.

Billy is haunted by a particular memory, one that saw him losing his mother (Caroline Palmer) in a crowd when he was very young. He spends his time searching for his mother, determined to find her and restore what was broken by what seems to be freak accident. Billy's story is intercut with the story of an adult Thaddeus, now played by Mark Strong, who has spent the last forty years trying to locate the wizard. He succeeds, and chooses to become champion of the Seven Deadly Sins. The wizard, now desperate, finds Billy, and selects him as his own champion. With the utterance of the wizard's name, "Shazam," Billy is immediately granted the form of his fullest potential as an adult with superhuman abilities played with hokey charm by Zachary Levi.

And this gimmick, the superhuman with the mind of a child, becomes the central conceit of the film. Billy must learn what it means to be the wizard's champion, which is just another way of saying he must learn to become an adult. This kind of genre-blending shows the true potential of the superhero archetype. This isn't so much a movie about a superhero as it is about a boy who must reckon with his dysfunctional childhood and come to grips with his circumstances. I appreciate how the film refuses to indulge in sentimentality—there's no happy reunion between Billy and his mother, nor does the film take the easy way out and try to surprise us by revealing she's been dead this whole time. The truth is actually quite sinister, a fact made all the more pronounced when we realize that the truth is quite close to reality. Billy's mother simply left. She saw an opportunity to shrug off the burden of having to raise a child, and she took it.

In 2019, that concept isn't nearly as taboo as it should be. It should shock us like it shocks Billy. We should feel as betrayed as he does. We don't, because this kind of behavior is a cultural norm. "I was seventeen," his mother tells him when they finally meet, meaning, "I was too young and didn't know what to do." So she gave him up. And I commend the film for not trying to lessen the blow, for not catering to the numerous mothers and fathers who have had children out of wedlock and were far too young and used this same excuse to sidestep their own responsibilities as parents. I appreciate that the film doesn't try and patch it all up, either. Billy recognizes his mother's decision, and walks away. There's no forgiveness here. There's great offense taken, the kind of offense one just doesn't shrug off and forget. When Billy returns the little compass she gave him as a child, the trinket that has defined his life and his search for her up to this point, she doesn't even recognize it. "You'll need it more than I will," he tells her as he leaves. She doesn't even realize what she's done, and can't see the damage she's caused.

The film balances this kind of earthy human drama with traditional superhero antics and a healthy dose of comedy. The kid-trapped-in-an-adult-body gag is appropriately played for laughs, and there's a particularly hilarious scene that sees Billy use his new adult body to acquire beers for himself and his best friend/sidekick Freddy Freeman (Jack Dylan Grazer), only for both of them to balk at the taste and decide to indulge in junk food instead. It's this kind of good-natured charm that makes Shazam! a joy to watch. It's certainly not the biggest film of the year, nor is it the best film ever made. But the point is that the film doesn't try to be. It takes an old Fawcett Comics character now owned by DC Comics and stays true to the character's campy essence while updating the conceit for a modern world. It's old fashioned and rustic in the best of ways, and doesn't try to push the envelope or reinvent the superhero genre as much as it blends one genre with another, showing how versatile and iconic the superhero archetype truly is.

Shazam! is a movie about the loss of childhood innocence and the mythic hero. It's about accepting the state of things without accepting the evil behind it all. It's about learning humility and sacrifice, and naming our sins for what they are. It's about a boy who is abandoned by one family, only to be found by another that acknowledges its dysfunction, yet tries for normalcy in spite of it all. I suspect for many young men and women, Shazam! will resonate with them more profoundly than they realize, even more than a large swath of the superhero films that have been churned out by the Hollywood machine in the past decade.

Titans: Season 1 (Review)

Titans (Season 1) (2018)

After watching the premiere episode of Titans, I was pleasantly surprised. As the flagship series of DC Comics's new streaming platform, DC Universe, Titans establishes a compelling story with a strong redemptive theme at its core, a story that isn't afraid to bend and even break established tropes of superhero lore. Even if DC Universe had failed (and it most certainly has not), the first season of Titans would still stand as a wildly imaginative experiment in reinventing a popular cartoon for an older audience. The show's themes are mature, the violence is sometimes alarmingly brutal, and the language can be unexpectedly crass. But unlike most shows that try for the edgier approach, Titans does not seem to make these drastic tonal changes for the sake of shock value alone, but intentionally employs these devices to deepen character development and further the show's themes.

What stood out to me in the first episode was the good casting and quality of the acting, in particular the performances of Teagan Croft and Anna Diop as tormented teen Rachel Roth and deadly amnesiac Kory Anders, respectively. Rather than perpetuate the punky stereotype that Rachel's character sort of embodies, or exploit Kory's character as ditzy eye-candy, both women imbue their characters with a gravitas that makes us take them seriously. Positioning Rachel as the driving force of the narrative is a brilliant strategy by the show's writers. The mystery of her backstory lies at the very heart of things, and watching Kory uncover her own past as it connects to Rachel's provides some of the most interesting and shocking plot developments throughout the season. The two of them are easily the most mature characters on the show, and provide perfect counterbalances to Ryan Potter's self-conscious Garfield Logan and Brenton Thwaites's standoffish Dick Grayson.

It would've been too easy to make the show a "grown up" version of the Teen Titans cartoon. Instead, the writer's give these characters scars and depth. Everyone is recovering from something, and that something usually has to do with some kind of familial dysfunction. In the premiere episode, Rachel learns that her mother isn't really her mother, mere moments before that woman is killed and Rachel is forced to flee from a mysterious organization. Garfield is a social outcast living with a bizarro family. Kory has no idea who she is or where she's from, and Dick Grayson has recently left his surrogate father, Bruce Wayne. The four main cast members are all orphans in their own way, outcasts and social freaks. They find ways to connect with each other through their own pain, and the way the characters balance the spectrum provides the show with a surprisingly strong emotional core.

All of them bring a particular trauma to the table, and the way each character confronts their own unresolved emotions supplies them with a strong narrative arc that ensures no character in the ensemble feels wasted or underutilized. Dick becomes the surrogate father to the fatherless Rachel because he sees himself in her. Rachel accepts him in this role because she is haunted by the revelation that her true parents are a mystery to her. Kory becomes a kind of surrogate mother because Rachel provides the only clue to her own hidden past, and acts as a true emotional and sexual connection for Dick, who himself is closed off to the world after spending years living in the shadow of his own mentor and father figure. Gar completes the picture of this dysfunctional little family by providing Rachel with a trusting relationship akin to that of a close friend or sibling, and Dick and Kory accept him and his unique abilities despite his own reservations about himself. Titans is a fascinating study in family dynamics that, on paper, probably shouldn't work. I myself had written the show off as a cheap train wreck after that first trailer. But with the right actors and intelligent writing, the characters spark and the emotional tension is always fluctuating, making each episode an electrifying hour of viewing.

What the writers realized is that the show works best when it deals with family. That is really at the heart of what Titans is about. Rachel's journey to discover her true parents, Dick's attempt to get out from under the long shadow cast by his surrogate father, while simultaneously becoming a surrogate father to Rachel himself, are the two most prominent storylines here. The show seems bent on demolishing sentimental notions of what families should look like, even going so far as to position this demented nuclear family—the "perfect" or "ideal" family, consisting of a father, mother, son, and daughter—as formidable villains hunting down Rachel early in the season. It's not that the show rejects the notion of family altogether, but dares to poke holes in the more sentimental ideas that say family should be singularly about mild-mannered conformity and happy bliss.

Yet for all the solid writing for the ensemble cast, perhaps the most compelling characters only appear in two episodes throughout the entire season, showing up in an early episode and then a later one. Hank Hall (Alan Ritchson) and Dawn Granger (Minka Kelly) are vigilante lovers known as Hawk and Dove. They've spent years in the crime-fighting business and have very little to show for it other than some broken bones. Hank is an old bruiser type, a hulk of a man who favors the direct approach, and it's clearly cost him. His body's covered in scars, and the toll the beatings have taken on him is beginning to bleed over into his relationship with Dawn. She spends more and more time having to nurse him back to health after every encounter; he's beginning to feel like more of a burden than a boyfriend.

Dawn, on the other hand, is a consummate caregiver and partner. She's patient with Hank, encouraging, and above all, she's understanding. Kelly imbues her with a with a surprising balance of gravitas and whimsy, making her an immensely likable and sympathetic character. She's quieter and more reserved than her partner, but it's clear that she's the glue holding this relationship together. Hank would be self-destructive without her, and she sees something in Hank that helps him rise above his more brutish nature. It's actually a very compelling relationship, thanks in no small part to the high caliber of acting from both Ritchson and Kelly. To put it simply, I was more invested in these two characters than the protagonists despite spending a far shorter amount of time with them. Ritchson and Kelly generate a surprising amount of pathos as this hard-knocks couple who seem to be the only thing in each other's lives that keeps the other going. Few shows invest in their side characters the way Titans pretty much dedicates the entirety of the two episodes in which they appear to Hank and Dawn. I honestly wouldn't mind seeing an entire season dedicated singularly to them, they're just that good together.

By the time the credits rolled on the final episode, I was somewhat shocked by how invested I felt in these characters. As all comic book stories and their adaptations go, the storyline sometimes goes in hokey and even outlandish directions. That's part of this storytelling landscape, something that must be accepted in order to get into what the story is actually doing. But intelligent, smartly-written characters keep the show grounded and resonate. It's worth pointing out that the show's most stable characters are the women. Rachel, Kory, and Dawn are all three well-written and formidable women, and the fact that critics have not latched onto these particular characters in the current cultural climate is a travesty in its own right. It's probably something to do with the fact that Titans is far less interested in using its characters as mouthpieces for any one political agenda, and much more interested in telling a darn good story with complex, intelligent characters.

The first season ends on a doozy of a cliffhanger, and I'm eagerly waiting to see how some of these plot threads wrap up in the next season. When I first signed up for DC Universe, I was a bit worried I was wasting my money. Having seen what the streaming service offers, I consider my investment well worth it. The show seems to have caught all the right attention, as a second season has been announced, along with a plethora of other shows for DC Universe, an indication that Titans may very well be one of the most compelling and well-made shows streaming on any service right now.