TV review: "The Cape" (Pilot)

January is a weird time of the year. The excitement of the holidays has faded, it's the month for studios to release their real turds, and it can be cold as balls (depending on where you live, of course). But it's also the return of a number of series, as well as debuts of a few more. NBC is rolling out some new stuff, including the new comedy "Perfect Couples"(review to come next week), and the noir-infused superhero series "The Cape", which premiered this last weekend.

The network is trying to cash in on the new trend of superheros that are darker and more human...did they succeed? Read on to find out!

Why Superman Shouldn't Be Relatable

By Aaron Ting

I'm conflicted. DC Comics has published a shiny new hardcover representing a bold path that I've been waiting for DC to embark on for years. It began with Marvel's Ultimate Spider-Man, a book series that set out to re-envision Spider-Man's origin story and early days (and an inspiration for the upcoming 2012 reboot movie). The series was an incredible success, taking everything great about the character and presenting it with a fresh, contemporary approach. Best of all, you didn't need to know anything about Spider-Man to read the series - the story ran completely separate from the rest of Spider-Man's forty-year history. I wanted Superman to be that approachable again.

For years, I watched DC characters like Superman slip into greater cultural irrelevance as Marvel enjoyed the fruits of a long string of highly successful film adaptations. Like Spider-Man, I felt Superman would need to be reimagined in comics before he could be successfully reintroduced to film. Bryan Singer's Superman Returns, while a very respectful movie, revealed the danger of dramatically disrespecting Superman's goodness...by making him a creepy stalker and a neglectful father.

Superman Returns had some cool imagery though.

I was thrilled when DC Comics announced the Earth One line - a line of direct-to-bookstore graphic novels that would provide contemporary reimaginings of their most popular characters. Building my anticipation was the news that DC had selected J. Michael Straczynski to write the book. Straczynski is a top-notch science fiction writer whose writing I was most familiar with through his television work and excellent run on Spider-Man. I was psyched.

But having read the book, my enthusiasm has been thoroughly washed away with conflicted apprehension. On the one hand, Superman: Earth One succeeds at retelling the origins of the character in a modern setting. Moreover, it's clear that Straczynski has devoted a great deal of thought to some of the classic ideas in the Superman mythos. Unfortunately, in trying to make Superman relatable to a new generation of readers, I feel Straczynski really failed to capture the point of the character.

To make Superman relatable, Straczynski had to turn him into the type of protagonist that is completely dominating our storytelling right now: a sensitive hipster with a soft personality, great hidden strength, and a relative fear of taking action (see 500 Days, Kick-Ass, and literally every Michael Cera and Jesse Eisenberg movie ever made). The problem is that while this archetype is generally endearing and relatable, it just isn't Superman.

The reason why so many Superman projects fail is because the creators fail to understand the character and the role he serves in human mythology. His personality isn't supposed to be relatable. He's a science fiction messiah sent down from another planet, raised by kind simpletons to be a virtuous, unbending symbol of hope. That isn't relatable.


It's like going through the Bible and trying to relate to Jesus - there are certain ideas and archetypes that you're not supposed to be able to relate to - and that's why they exist. As a character, Superman is meant to inspire because both his moral and physical qualities are so completely extraordinary that we could only hope to be like him in our wildest imaginations - which is why children grasp the idea of the character much more easily than adults.

You can relate with Clark Kent, the bumbling oaf who just can't get the pretty girl's attention. You can relate with Lois Lane, the skeptical reporter who is completely awe-struck by the arrival of someone so powerful and pure of heart that she sets out to learn everything about him. You can relate with Jimmy Olsen, the nerdy photographer whose biggest thrill is that the world's greatest hero knows his name.

But you can't relate with Superman. And more importantly, you can't set out to make Superman relatable, because Superman: Earth One is exactly what will happen. At best, you'll have an expertly-told story about a character who at no point ever feels like the hero he could and should be. A hero who is so incredibly powerful, but so unnecessarily insecure about himself that he can't just step up and do the right thing when people need him...and instead, spends several comic panels brooding across Metropolis, complaining about how difficult his life has become.

Again, I truly wanted to love Superman: Earth One. I still have a profound respect for the writer and I'm terribly impressed with the risk that DC was willing to take to put this hardcover on the shelves. It's a well-told story, but it isn't the Superman story. Superman is a touchstone of American mythology, and while myths will be retold and reimagined over and over again, successful retellings only work if they are able to capture the idea of the character - in this case, the messiah-like symbol of hope. Earth One just doesn't do that.

If you want to know the difference - if you want to know how an out-of-date ideal like Superman can be successfully reborn in a modern world, read Geoff Johns' Superman: Secret Origin when it hits bookstores in hardcover this December. It tells the story of an uncertain man moving to a hostile city and trying to realize his mission in life. It beautifully captures the heroic value of Superman and shows why his cornball goodness is more important than ever (it also gives a respectful nod to Christopher Reeve's portrayal). As I fearfully await Zach Snyder's rebooted Superman films, I desperately hope he looks at Secret Origin and leaves Earth One on the shelf.

Bottom line, Superman writers need to stop worrying about making Superman relatable and just focus on telling a good, fun Superman story. It's not about leaving your mark on the character - it's about respectfully servicing a legend for a new generation.

Waiting for the Man of Tomorrow

By Aaron Ting.

I met a writer recently who told me there are only two types of people: Batman people and Superman people. I was a Batman person. It was just cooler to like Batman – or at least, as cool as it can be to idolize any imaginary person who wears tights and a cape. Batman was noir: dark, edgy, and mature. Superman was none of those. Superman was boring, corny, and utterly un-relatable. He was a Power Rangers episode. But for really old people. 


But maybe getting older allows us to recognize the beauty of something timeless. After all, it wasn’t until I grew up that I, too, found myself waiting for the Man of Tomorrow. The idealistic hero story.

I'm not waiting for Superman. I’m usually aware that he isn’t real. No, I’m waiting for the idea of a 'superman' to find its way back into our stories.


I'm getting tired of 'artistic' stories that tell me 'the world is cruel', and present that idea as the only mature, sophisticated conclusion of life - especially since these stories keep winning Best Picture. Sometimes those stories actually are sophisticated, but it's getting tired because less and less of them are challenging us to believe the world in that movie could be improved. It’s gotten to the point that the protagonist who doesn't just accept the cruelty of people as the concrete status quo is considered impractical or naïve. By application, stories of idealistic heroes must also be impractical and naïve. Which is probably why the Dark Knight couldn't even be nominated for Best Picture.

Our past is littered with stories about archetypical heroes - extraordinary characters who conformed to unbending ideals. Today, however, the hero is you or me. A flawed, ordinary person who indulges in the extraordinary and absurd. And when he or she indulges, it’s supposed to be heroic. That was the premise of Kick-Ass – and that was my only criticism of it. It maximized that self-indulgence, but none of it felt heroic. 

Viewed strictly as a movie, it can be entertaining and funny. Viewed as a representative for a genre of our imaginations, it’s very troubling. I know it’s supposed to be a satire. But it fails as satire. Satire attacks a human shortcoming by highlighting its ridiculousness. The problem with Kick-Ass and its inevitable copycats is that it attacks the noble conception of the ideal hero by ridiculing it with a much more shameful human shortcoming – our own vanity. We've fallen in love with the idea that we, with all our flaws and weaknesses, can still be the ideal hero of the story. This idea works if your hero is like Peter Parker, and he’s striving to be a good person. But it’s really messed up if your heroes are Kick-Ass, Punisher, or the idiots in Inglorious Basterds. 

Why is it so naïve to believe in a hero with moral integrity? Is it so important to us to feel that WE are the ideal hero to the extent that we even reject heroes who live up to better ideals? We cheer any time little hero Mindy murders people in Kick-Ass, but does laughing at jokes that completely devalue human life really make our tastes more mature? Roger Ebert wrote something similar after he watched Kick-Ass:   

Big Daddy and Mindy never have a chat about, you know, stuff like how when you kill people, they are really dead. This movie regards human beings like video-game targets. Kill one, and you score...When kids in the age range of this movie's home video audience are shooting one another every day in America, that kind of stops being funny.

I love video games. Like most gamers, I think child-initiated violence is caused more by parental negligence than Grand Theft Auto. But I am also not disillusioned into believing that games which make entertaining sport of ending human life are sophisticated or artistic.

But I have a confession. I don't get Inglorious Basterds. I thought it had moments of creative brilliance, and I don’t question Tarantino as a credible filmmaker. But no one has been able answer for me the one question I had when I finished watching that movie: What was the point? I'm not asking for philosophy - I can be perfectly satisfied that even Starship Troopers had a point. Instead, I keep hearing in different ways, “Basterds was AWESOME. THAT is the point.” I suppose that answer is as well-reasoned to me as Basterds was as a film. Are my movie tastes less advanced because that rationale just doesn't do it for me?

We wouldn’t want to live in a world where people indulge in their most violent thoughts – so why do we so highly regard those stories that ‘realize’ those sick fantasies? On occasion, it can be funny for being so unabashedly shocking. But is taking pleasure in watching senseless violence a sophisticated reaction, or just primitive instinct?

These stories are stealing our time, money, and critical attention - and they're giving very specific and depressing answers to what people should find entertaining. In college, I started craving a palate cleanser. Something that felt more provocative than the ordinary blandness of ethical ambiguity and apathy. We get enough of that in life. I wanted stories of adventure, wonder, and fantasy (which is not the same thing as brutal wish-fulfillment). I started reading Superman.

The big secret is: Superman is mature storytelling. It’s simple and easy to say 'people suck' and 'the world is screwed.' It’s much harder to see all of that and still think that people can be good and the world can be better. Superman was conceived by Jerry Siegel, a person whose father was shot and killed by a robber. Reacting to the unspeakable evil of that tragedy, Siegel imagined a bulletproof man with uncompromising goodness. It takes courage to believe in what you can’t see. It takes imagination to think of what the unseen would look like...and how the writers of Lost might actually have a plan.

It takes hope.

That’s what Superman is; he’s hope. He’s the purest embodiment of an archetype that reflects our most innocent fantasies – of the qualities we can't see in ourselves, but like to believe might be there.

His story is our fantasy. An ordinary person capable of accomplishing the incredible. An outsider who values our lives more than we do. An immigrant who travelled far and reached beyond the zenith of human potential. This isn’t just science fiction; it’s very human ambition.

Timothy Dalton once said about James Bond, “You can't relate to a superhero, to a superman, but you can identify with a real man who in times of crisis draws forth some extraordinary quality from within himself and triumphs after a struggle.” This is what makes Superman so ‘super.’ It’s not about the powers or the cape; the point of Superman is that the world doesn't need a Superman – just a brave one who does the right thing. That itself is extraordinary. That's super.

So it doesn’t have to be stylish or edgy or Batman. It’s timeless. It’s universal. Today, a mirror might tell you that you’re an ordinary, bumbling Clark Kent who will never get noticed by Lois Lane. The superhero archetype - at its finest - challenges you to imagine the person you hope to see in the mirror tomorrow. Your potential.

That’s why Superman rocks. Because he makes it fun to imagine. Because his wholesomeness brings shame to our pessimism and brutality. That’s what I’m waiting for – for our stories to stop romanticizing the awful things we can see today. For us to be more certain of tomorrow's uncertainty.

Please. Let's stop indulging in the unrestrained and dishearteningly obvious. Dare to bet your optimism on tomorrow.

And look up in the sky.