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The Avengers (2012)
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If you are completely unimaginative, this article contains spoilers. However, those who are even mildly perceptive of the massive advertising blitz behind The Avengers should have figured out by know that the film ends with a large scale invasion of a major metropolitan area by a horde of anonymously evil aliens set loose by a razor thin supervillian of insurmountable puerility. You can guess what happens next: lots of lightning paced editing gone blurry to avoid the detailing required of 3D, a gaggle of egotistical heroes turned unlikely partners to help save the planet, and a myriad of toppling towers raining down on narrowly escaping pedestrians below, with the implication of large scale loss of life only insinuated by the brief flicker of a candlelight vigil and a remembrance wall amidst a flurry of TV screens in the ensuing post-waste denouement montage.


Since the film sprung from the exalted pen of Saint Joss Whedon, critics and fanboys alike have rushed to applaud the film’s witty banter and sharply-paced popcorn action. As an audience member, I concede that the film was thoroughly entertaining throughout. Like a good origin story, it focused the bulk of its narrative on uniting its disparate heroes, which excused the tin motives of the inchoate evildoers in the film, as well as the boulder-sized consistency holes scattered throughout. The Avengers delivered exactly what was expected of its summer fare without succumbing to the Traveling Wilburys syndrome of reverse-synergizing its collective franchising.


cover art

The Avengers

Director: Joss Whedon
Cast: Robert Downey Jr., Chris Evans, Scarlett Johansson

(Marvel; US theatrical: 4 May 2012; 2012)

Something didn’t sit well with me about that ending, though. It wasn’t just the devastation porn aspect of watching the collapse of an urban empire without a speck of blood or a single tear shed (making films like this or any of Roland Emmerich’s earth-raping romps a comfortable PG-13 you can take the kids to). Since Independence Day and, disturbingly enough, since September 11th, the American appetite for these images has held steady (and those who would like to think Joss Whedon’s megalomaniacal id is any smaller than Michael Bay’s should probably steer clear of what he’s capable of with an unlimited budget). The dark shadow of the collective unconscious’s death drive, though still disturbing, is no longer what shocks me about cataclysmic cinematic acts like this film’s “exciting” conclusion. What makes me feel queasy is that this kind of sweeping violence has been so completely normalized that it’s not the least bit shocking at all. In fact, it’s pretty much expected. 


The problem with this sort of destruction is that it’s not even earth-shattering, even when the earth is literally shattered. In fact, it’s just business-as-usual. Tearing down skyscrapers and overturning bridges is just the narrative glue the Randian supermen need to inspire them to work together, with Tony Stark as the heroic John Galt inventor/philosopher type using his ingenuity and cleantech motor to repower the world. At the end of the ordeal, order is restored and the heroes carry on as if falling just short of total ruination is some kind of win.


Comics and Sci-Fi have a long history of obliterating entire planets, their annihilation merely a minor setpiece to compound a bad guy’s already-established malevolence (think Krypton, Alderaan, or The Twelve Colonies of Kobol) or to illustrate the cosmic nature of said antagonist’s threat (Galactus, Ego the Living Planet, or Unicron’s planet-chomping capabilities).  Only in the age of CGI, though, has the destruction of a city, land mass, civilization, or planet become such a common trope that its emotional impact barely even registers when transpiring on the screen. 


Natural or man-made catastrophes so regularly haunt the fictional realm that it’s a wonder characters have not started fighting back against their authors. Fringe, an occasionally delightful slice of speculative pulp TV, enacts frightening new acts of bioterrorism or ontological malfeasance on its unsuspecting populations en masse every week, forcing its inhabitants to succumb to gruesome fates while the investigative “Fringe Division” of the FBI scramble to prevent said horrors from recurring. 24 and Lost set off nukes during the course of their runs and atomic explosions play into the plots of popular video games like the Fallout series and Call of Duty 4.  Films of the past ten years saw their share of earthquakes, floods, volcanoes, viruses, chemical warfare, and monster attacks. One has to wonder if the brutal carnage of the final act of Alan Moore’s Watchmen would even register with today’s audiences (the film, which altered the ending slightly, was such an otherwise clinical reproduction that it’s not really a fair measure of affectations). 


It’s perhaps unfair to equate Watchmen with The Avengers, though. Watchmen was a grim, novelistic tome that equated superheroism with psychopathology and The Avengers is prefab escapism. While The Avengers is not exactly crass—Whedon’s ability to construct a convincing rapport between archetypal misfits precludes this—it’s not above squandering all its character-building capital on a monster payload of pure explosive titillation. 


In a way, The Avengers is the inverse of Watchmen. Both are tales of established superheroes who are from vastly disparate locations and temperaments who all need to be united to stop a common foe.  Both end with unspeakable damage to a city. However, whereas The Avengers are recent upstarts who’ve been sanctioned by a shadow government agency (S.H.I.E.L.D.), the Watchmen are retirees who’ve long been outlawed by the powers-that-be. The most significant contrast between the two stories though may be the absence of any kind of extrinsic influence on The Avengers. With the possible exception of Black Widow, all of The Avengers appear to wield their powers out of the virtue of their own nobility. The Watchmen, on the other hand, are an assorted gaggle of dogmatic extremists and barely-functioning sociopaths. In fact, the most virtuous among them turns out to be the most villainous, committing his heinous acts in the name of the same kind of plenary nobility that The Avengers regularly tout to their merit.


Perhaps the problem with the The Avengers film is that it masks its intentions, which is really pure spectacle and little else. It takes iconic figures we care about, forces them to interact in entertaining ways, and then squanders the goodwill the audience has granted by relegating the whole affair to window-dressing, just build-up to a money shot.


The term “devastation porn” associated with Bay and Emmerich is apt only from today’s perspective. Porn in its modern incarnation is not about arousal or fantasy. Rather, it’s about satisfying sexual desire by the most functional, efficient, and economical means possible. Contrary to the porn film’s origins as romantic memoirs of sexual liberation (however wrongheaded those films may have been), the form now mainly exists as nothing more than a means to end.


Like most post-millenial porn, the plot of a film like 2012 is an insult to those who came to drool as the site of the frustrating world that seems poised against them collapsing like a house a cards under whatever tenuous premise the languorous storyteller could muster. If 2012 were an art film that just showed a tortured earth’s wrath in the face of constant industrial abuse, it would probably be phenomenal. Instead, the protagonist is a failed science fiction writer from a failed marriage trying to rescue a couple boring kids and refusing to be swallowed into the earth like the rest of the planet. It undermines the film’s own rote sentimentality to pick a single (uninteresting) family to focus on while millions of other far more intriguing stories are coming to their end around them as backdrop. 


Destruction of this magnitude should not make us think of the unpredictability of the earth, nor of the fanaticism of the villain, but rather of the callousness of the author. One should resent authors who casually slay innocent people without showing the psychic consequences of these actions.  It’s not as much a betrayal of the audience as it is a betrayal of the world he or she has created. In recent years, television shows like Battlestar Galactica and Fringe have responded to this problem of authorship/ownership of disaster by having recurring characters (Gaius Baltar and Walter Bishop respectively) who are mentally crushed by the weight of the suffering they’ve (in these instances inadvertently) caused. The implication is that godlike powers do not excuse the mortal man from empathy or sympathy.


Of course, no one is saying that the promethean heroes of The Avengers, godlike creatures in their own right, are incapable of empathy. They are, after all, risking life and limb to save the world. In this sense, they are like Atlas, the Greek god who held the world on his back and inspired Ayn Rand to write her tale of titan capitalist tycoons, combined with Prometheus, the benefactor to humanity who stole fire from the gods for mankind’s benefit.  Superheroes share much in common with the gods of myth. Indeed, many were directly based off of them. In fact, the Clash of the Titans/Immortals genre of myth based action-fantasy, is practically a hybrid of the spectacle disaster film and the superhero movie, with its protagonists at the center of an epic struggle that holds the lives of the millions of anonymous commoners in the balance (Atlas Shrugged does this as well, as does the dystopian HBO fantasy series Game of Thrones and countless other works from literature, TV, and film). 


Like Greek Gods, the superheroes of The Avengers seem almost unconcerned with mass destruction. In fact, at a pivotal moment, Tony Stark/Iron Man (wearing an oh-so-clever Black Sabbath shirt) even confronts Loki with the tepid ultimatum that “If we can’t defend the earth, you can be damned sure we’ll avenge it”. Prima facie, this seems like a contrived bit of dialogue forced into the narrative to explain away the film title, which otherwise doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to those unfamiliar with the comic (what exactly are they avenging?).  But Stark’s comments are telling. They reveal that he sees The Avengers as existing outside of and beyond the rubble. Regardless of the fate of mankind, these superheroes will still be standing and they’ll at least make sure those bad guys pay when we’re all dead and gone. How reassuring.


Timothy Gabriele is a writer who studied English and Film at the University of Massachussetts at Amherst. He currently lives in the New Haven, CT region with his fmaily. His column, The Difference Engine, appears regularly at PopMatters. He can be found twittering @Wildcorrective and blogging at 555 Enterprises.


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