GRANT MORRISON
Through this terrible sense of oppression – in which we’re being watched constantly, we’re stuck on the internet, and we’re scared of everything – the superhero has surged up as an imaginative response; a reminder that there is a future: stop telling kids that the planet is going to die and start using your minds the way that superheroes use their minds and get us out of this.
It’s a positive moment for superheroes, though not necessarily for the comics that they grew out of. They are seen as an old-fashioned way of selling the superhero story. It’s an interesting progression how the concept has evolved and developed its way from two dimensions, onto a moving screen, and then into real life. But for those who have shepherded these characters for decades, the vast number of movies is not necessarily a good thing. The idea of doing Supergods was suggested to me. Originally we were going to put together a lot of the interviews I’d done over the years on the subject of superheroes and I thought, ‘That sounds really easy, no problem.’ I started it off in that way, and wrote an introduction. But when my agent saw it he said he really liked it, and why not just write something new?
It wasn’t what I’d intended doing, but obviously it’s something I’m passionate about. I just sat down and the whole thing came out without a lot of research. Most of my source material was available to me on the shelves a couple of feet away. I decided I wanted to just talk about the subject in the way that Nick Kent or Lester Bangs would talk about music. I felt that kind of approach would communicate with people who weren’t that into comics, but were familiar with the ideas because of movies.
The superheroes that endure, like Batman and Superman, are modern stand-ins for the old gods. Every culture has its own skyfather like Zeus, so we get Superman. And there’s always a god of the underworld like Hades or Pluto or the characters you get in Celtic culture or voodoo: Batman takes that role. Aquaman is the old Neptune and Flash is Mercury, the messenger of the gods. Those that persist are the ones who are simply those ideas in new clothes. They still mean so much to people and exist in symbolic dramas that teach us how to live. (As told to Brian Donaldson.)
Supergods: Our World in the Age of the Superhero is published by Jonathan Cape on Thu 21 Jul. 30 THE LIST 23 Jun–21 Jul 2011
SUPERGODS: EXTRACT
It was 1978 and I was determined to succeed in the comics business somehow, particularly after humiliation at the hands of my accursed careers guidance counselor, Mr. Shields. Seated in his claustrophobic office to discuss my future plans in that last year at Allan Glen’s, I proudly produced my artwork and announced my intention to make a living as a comic- book-artist-slash-writer. The work showed some promise and skill for my age, so I expected him to be impressed and full of praise for my industriousness. Instead, and without the slightest flicker of curiosity, he handed back my lurid Hellhunter pages and told me to stop wasting my time. There were talented professional people in America who did this work, and I, a foolish boy from Scotland, could never hope to join their ranks, he assured me. I would, Shields continued evenly, be much better off considering a job in a bank.
Grimly repeating the ‘Fuck you’ mantra in my head
didn’t seem to help; I was gutted like a cod. What if he was right, and I was deluding myself? My premature attempts to get work at Marvel and DC had resulted in polite ‘Thank you, but . . .’ letters. After the three-day weeks, the power cuts, the shit music, and the morbidly accumulating years without sex, Shields’ dismissal was the last straw. Hate, that great motivator, kicked in. Nihilistic defiance became the order of the day, and my personal contributions to the ongoing psychological war of attrition between pupils and teachers developed a new guillotine edge of cruelty.
I’d applied to the Glasgow School of Art, convinced
that my portfolio, based around comic-style illustrations and black-and-white graphics, would easily see me through. I couldn’t wait to get among girls and start living to draw and drawing to live. Naturally, painting and figurative work were in that year, and graphics were out.
My art school rejection letter arrived as a cold manila fist that closed around my fragile hopes. When I closed my eyes, I saw the title animation for my TV favourite The Prisoner: Patrick McGoohan’s scowling Buddha face inflating to fill the screen before two iron gates closed across it, eternally barring his escape. I imagined the walls of my room extending to the infinite horizon. I’d left a good school only to find myself washed up on the shingles of the dole queue. I was sure to die penniless, ugly, and a virgin. The Fear was practically edible. Nothing would happen unless I got out and made it happen. Then, as if handing me the keys to the jet pack, my dad bought me a typewriter and taped a message to the inside of its case: ‘Son – the world is waiting to hear from you.’ Whatever had gone wrong in their lives, however oddly I’d been raised in accordance with their pacifist principles, my mum and dad had always given me the praise, the opportunities, and the tools to express myself, and I didn’t want to let them down. And let’s not forget the most basic drive of all: I would die or go mad if I didn’t get laid. Reasoning that rich and famous writers were surely having sex all the time, I resolved to become one as quickly as I could.
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