Heroic Love: The Profound Effect of Comic Book Relationships

I am writing this on Valentine's Day, which is usually derided as a ploy that marketing folks at greeting card companies created up long ago, but has been around long enough that whatever, we're stuck with it, so we might as well just accept it, like that forehead wrinkle you just noticed. It's there, it's not really going to ever disappear, so just…let's move forward, shall we?  Valentine's Day is supposedly about being in love, hearts and flowers, chocolates, blah blah–but I guess for me, since I have been in a relationship for awhile (especially for Los Angeles), and the holiday has become less about the blush of new love and more about taking a second to think about the relationship and appreciate it…and, of course, give flowers and that kind of thing. (Unsolicited advice: men, no matter what, always get flowers for your sweetie on Valentine's Day, even if they say they don't want them. They do want them, even if they don't know it. Even if they really didn't want flowers it's appreciated.)  And, after thinking about it for a few seconds, I realized that the comics I read as a kid had a bigger impact on my life than I could have ever imagined.

Of course, I wasn't always in a relationship, in fact, I spent a fantastic amount of time obsessing on trying to be in a relationship, and I realized, as I was thinking about what I would write this week, that a surprising number of "good" relationships were actually in the comics that I read, and that many of the traits of what I think of as an interesting, fun and stimulating relationship in my real life were inspired by many of the characters that I read about in my formative years.

 

Which makes, sense, right? Even if your parents were together when you were a kid, you certainly only saw a specific side of them, and you rarely, if ever, got a chance to see just why their relationship was good (or bad) from where you were sitting at the end of the dinner table.  I certainly never thought about my parents meeting, let alone dating–they were obviously together as long as I had known them, they supplied me with calories, resting areas, plumbing and encouragement–that was pretty much what I needed, most of the time. But since I was the oldest kid, I never really had an inkling of what it was like to begin a relationship, so I got most of my cues from TV, movies and comic books.  And given that I was born in an age before DVRs and even VHS players, comics were the only stories that I could read, over and over again.

 

I don't even remember when I started being interested in the social lives of my heroes. I just slowly started to care about the scenes in between the fighting, and, eventually realized that those pages were actually more compelling, in a way, than seeing the Rhino blow through some unreinforced brick wall again.

 

When I think about comic book relationships, my brain locks in on Lois and Clark. I can't help it. This pair of characters has gone through so many iterations: they have been lovers, they have been rivals, they have been casual acquaintances, they have been co-workers…they have seemingly been in every stage of every relationship one can imagine. And through it all, no matter what, Lois has always been a strong willed, creative, intelligent, funny, romantic and beautiful companion to Clark. When I think about this relationship, I realize that, in many ways, I hold it up as an ideal (by the way, I am totally just talking for me here, I am not saying that all guys think of this as an ideal relationship, ok?) you have a pairing of independent spirits who are drawn to each other, who have a bond with each other that outlasts whatever the universe throws at them. 

 

Even as a young kid, I always thought it was cool that Superman had a girlfriend. I knew that dramatically it just made for a better story, to have the love triangle between Clark/Superman and Lois, but I just liked the idea that Superman, who I just assumed could probably be with any girl he wanted, was taken by this super independent woman who, in the end, didn't necessarily need to be with Superman, she just wanted to be with him. While I was a kid, my mom was always busy at work, and I never thought of it as weird, really, I think, because Lois Lane worked too, and, like, didn't all women work? And when I look back at previous relationships, I see that I have always, almost without exception, been drawn to fiercely independent women who had lives of their own, professions of their own, adventures of their own. 

 

It is interesting–usually everyone's paying attention to the hero, male or female, in the book, and that makes sense, of course; that's the whole point of the book, is to tell the adventures of that one character or group of characters. But I think lost in the shuffle is just how important the secondary characters are, especially the love interests, because they provide a different, less obvious kind of inspiration. If anything, I identified more with the hero's friends, because they were me, you know?  I mean, sure, it would be fun to have super powers, but if I was going to get realistic, I'd probably be more one of Superman's pals than Superman himself, which was fine with me.  And while I admit I have been pretty harsh on what has been happening with Superman lately, I think the angriest I have been, and I think it made me less interested in discussing why the story hasn't been all bad, is how Superman actually threatened Lois a few issues back, how she was not going to publish the story about the factory polluting the local groundwaters.  Yes, okay, maybe Superman has been under some kind of crazy mind-control-induced depression, but it was so out of character that as grounded in logic as it might be now, it was such a departure then that instead of making me intrigued, it just ticked me off to the point of dismissing the effort all together. Jury's still out, but eventually Superman is going to come home and he's going to have to address the bruise he gave Lois.  

 

So, yes, in terms of romantic relationships, I find myself gravitating to Lois and Clark because of the independence that each character embodies while being in a fulfilling relationship.  But there are other examples as well, of course. I think a lot about Barry and Iris Allen.  When I was really young, I remember enjoying just how hard Barry would have to work to be a part of Iris's life even while he was being The Flash, and the amount of work he would put into making sure Iris had no idea that he was The Flash.  I also remember, however, just how in love with Iris he was. Like, I was only ten years old or whatever and I remember being struck by his affection for her.  I mention this only because when I came back to comics years later, I remember being shocked and, I admit it, kind of upset, when I found out that Iris had been killed by Professor Zoom, who I was still calling the Reverse Flash.  Like, I remember when the guy at the story told me, I literally went, "What–are you serious? Iris is dead?" which was a little embarrassing, not only because it happened a long time ago, but, remember, these people don't actually exist–but, honestly, I held Barry's affection for Iris in pretty high regard.  In addition to wanting to be with a strong willed Lois-like woman, I wanted to be as devoted to her as Barry was to Iris.  And to hear that Barry had lost Iris just made me feel that loss even more. (Then I heard Barry was dead and I just left the store, sobbing uncontrollably.)

Mary Jane and Peter Parker has been a relationship that I've always enjoyed, and, I admit, I am not sure what it is about the relationship that I hold so dear, since over the past years it has been happening in two different universes, two different timelines (at least), but there are clearly consistencies that make this relationship special, no matter which version we're talking about.  We've got the archetypal high school relationship played out not only in the original Amazing Spider-Man stories but also in the more recent Ultimate Spider-Man, which has been weaved themselves into my psyche in a variety of ways.  The line about hitting the jackpot is the ultimate assurance, the ultimate manifestation of a long-for relationship becoming real, at least for me. The fantasy of finally that one person whom you have longed for actually choosing to be with you–all those feelings, for me, distill perfectly into that moment.  

 

And while the implementation of splitting Peter and MJ up will always be controversial, I think the follow-through of that story in Amazing Spider-Man has been very compelling, very poignant and a wonderful, if painful, exploration of a more "realistic" relationship, a relationship that so many of us have (or will eventually) experience, where there is a love there that just doesn't work out, for one reason or another, despite a mutual admiration and love for the other person.  There was a scene an issue or two ago where MJ was realizing how great it was to see Peter all happy, with a great job and a great relationship…yet she was not a part of it.  Good moment, and I am curious to see how the Amazing Spider-Man titles will treat one of comics' most endearing (and enduring) relationships in the years to come.

 

While I have always understood the mechanics of Peter and Gwen Stacey (thanks in no small part to Spider-Man: Blue), I had the feeling that that relationship was for another generation of readers, that it was not really "meant" for me, having happened so long ago.  I am grateful to Bendis for showing the relationship in a modern context with the most recent issues of Ultimate Spider-Man, especially lately, when Gwen admits to Peter that she loves him, yet cannot be with him.  It's good, it's difficult and it is refreshingly honest. I wonder, I hope, that teens are actually reading this book, it's just so damn good.  (I really never imagine teens reading comics these days, which is troubling and worth an article on its own.)

 

Of course, many of the most memorable relationships weren't exactly successful. For my money, the relationship between Matt Murdock and Milla Donovan was one of the most frustrating and painful pairings I have seen in recent comics.  I mean, even when the relationship began, you just knew, deep down, that it was doomed.  Still, they tried, and I remember those moments when the couple was happy so clearly, thinking to myself, "this is so nice, to see Matt smiling," and knowing also that it was just a matter of time before it all fell apart. Hank and Janet Pym are another couple whose story has been told in a variety of books, and is always painful and frustrating.  I might be misremembering completely, but I feel like the first run of The Ultimates was one of those books that dealt with their relationship more recently and I remember being really shocked and saddened by how it all played out. 

 

You could write books about relationships in comics, romantic or otherwise (the friendship between Superman and Batman has been, and probably always will be, one of the relationships I enjoy most), I just never really thought about how these relationships in these supposedly disposable forms of entertainments could make such a profound impact on how I live my life, whom I spend my time with, on defining the kinds of qualities I admire in other people, in the kind of person I want to be.  Part of it makes sense–there was more "romance" in comics than in any of the other books I was reading — the brothers Hardy never had girlfriends that I remember, and Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer looked upon most girls with a dark suspicion that seemed perfectly reasonable to me at the time.

 

Finally, I have to wonder if the visual aspect of the medium plays a part in this as well. While it's one thing to read about a relationship in prose, there are limitations of the most verbose third person omniscient narrator.  In a comic book, you see the all-important non verbal communications, you see how people react to one's words and actions in ways that even the best prose writers would find difficult, if not laborious, to describe.  Comics do silence really well.  Moments linger longer, more intimately, more intensely, than even film and TV.  Comics allow moments to breathe and it is those moments where relationships are really built, where they become real.  

 

It should come as no great surprise that the media that we encounter when we are young provides direction and inspiration for us as we get older. I do feel, however, that the lessons and inspirations that I discovered played against what my parents probably assumed I was getting from comics.  Sure, 35¢ certainly provided me with action, adventure and independence, but it was the quiet moments between the explosions and heroics that made the biggest impact.

 

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Mike Romo is an actor who is married to a strong willed, fiercely independent science reporter at NASA. Follow him on twitter or send him some email!