Superheroes, Sexuality, and the Status Quo: Batman’s Ideological Function in American Cinema
By Joey Liu, Edited by Ella Kilbourne
In contemporary narrative history, perhaps one of the major allures of the superhero genre is its potential for multiplicity. This regeneration not only happens when writers engage in the active production of authoritative canons, but also when these stories and characters interact with the audience, who construct their own definition of a certain character. It is this constant reproduction of meaning which highlights the nature of the relationship between superheroes and their creators and fans, making them the perfect ideological vessel. Within the constantly expanding narrative universes (across comic/tv/film) and fan theories, one superhero character may develop various versions of its primary self, each reaffirming each other’s existence but also maintaining their own symbolic nuances within their individual story bubbles. It is without a doubt that besides Spiderman, no other superhero character has gone through as many reinterpretations as Batman. As of 2022, there have been a total of thirteen Batman live action films, 24 animated ones, and nine solo animated series. This paper intends to explore the evolving mythology of Batman and how the malleability and, paradoxically, the inflexibility of his ideological function highlights the indispensability of superhero narratives within the American cultural ideological state apparatus. By comparing and contrasting two monumental works in Batman’s cinematic history, Leslie H. Martinson’s Batman (1966) and Matt Reeves’s The Batman (2022), we will examine Batman’s ideological influence on the American consciousness, ultimately exposing the hypocrisy of the superhero trope’s progressiveness within American cinema.
Before we dive into a deeper discussion of the Gotham Knight himself, it is important to recognize that all superheroes are not only inherently ideological, but also more specifically, political. This, of course, is not only limited to subjects of government policies or the nation-state, but also any conversation of politics which a superhero narrative may inspire: sexual politics, economic politics, social politics, racial politics, etc. For a typical audience, this symbolic recognition happens most frequently when an impressionable iconography is ingrained into the collective popular imagination. For example, while the large ‘S’ on Superman’s chest is usually interpreted as a sign of hope, the blue-and-red color schema of the costume, reminiscent of the American flag, unavoidably underwhelms the symbol’s universality—or, to offer an even more visually astounding image: Captain America punching Hitler.
Although sometimes a superhero design may remain consistent throughout decades as a means of stabilizing the brand of a character, the production of superhero stories seems never-ending as each historical and/or cultural period elicit different creative responses from the same intellectual property (IP). However, as superheroes are primarily an American cultural product, there are limits to their ideological scopes. Most major works only respond to American specific histories that abide by the framework of an appropriate American value system at the time. Another layer of limitation is revealed as most audiences learn of superhero stories through movies created by major Hollywood studios that only value superheroes’ ideological strength if said strength has commercial value. In other words, superheroes’ ideological potential is largely confined by the American cultural sphere, and despite the fact that textually they often preach positive values, championing for justice, hope, and optimism, they are also extra-textually the victims of systematic oppression, mainly from the industry-entertainment complex representing, as Marxist philosopher Louis Althusser may say, ‘ideologies of the ruling class within the institutions that work to uphold and maintain said ideology,’ or ideological state apparatus (ISA) (137). For the sake of simplicity and precision, we will focus mainly on comic/cinema ISAs in relation to Batman.
First and foremost, the reason to use Adam West and Robert Pattinson’s renditions of Batman is to bring to attention the fact that our default impression of the Dark Knight–nocturnal, serious, and vigilant–is actually a more recent development. In 1966, the releases of Batman, the TV show and the movie, had successfully pushed the character’s reputation beyond the comic books community. With colorful spandex, cheesy sound effects, and excessive prop design, Batman was a fitting piece of popular media in the era of counterculture, a successful commercialized embodiment of camp and pop art aesthetic. On the other hand, The Batman portrays a young Bruce Wayne (Robert Pattinson) that is permanently sleep deprived and consumed by his personal vendetta—a perfect tribute to famous Batman writer Frank Miller’s writing principle: “Batman only works if the world really sucks” (Brown 64). The drastic change between the 1966 and the 2022 version was, however, not only motivated by DC Comics’ desperate effort in swerving the character away from a comedian’s path. In 1954, psychiatrist Frederic Wertham’s queer reading on the relationship between Batman and Robin had sparked direct response from the Comics Magazine Association of America, who drafted the Comics Code Authority (CCA), which strictly forbade any mentions of homosexual traits and characters from 1954-1989. Both the Batman TV show and movie were unaffected by this comic-specific policy, but they too could not escape “the painstaking re-heterosexualization of Batman” (Brown 22).
The effort in trying to reinforce Batman’s heterosexuality is primarily demonstrated in two ways: one, the gradual removal of Robin from filmic adaptations and two, the character’s more frequent romantic and/or hypersexual encounters with females. The first sign of the “re-heterosexualization” process can be traced back to the creation of Batwoman as a love interest in 1956. As of Robin, the Boy Wonder has largely faded out of recent filmic canons, existing only as another martyred catalyst in Bruce Wayne’s journey of becoming the masked vigilante. And while his transformation into the broody guardian of Gotham warranted the IP much commercial success and popularity, the ruling institutions’ reaction to queer interpretations ultimately reveals an intent to confine discourses about sexual politics within ideologically comforting limits. The CCA had predestined the character to a life of “represent[ing] a very clear model of ideal masculinity in an obvious adolescent fantasy of empowerment” (Brown 47).
On the other hand, the character’s affiliation with gay culture was not completely severed and has resurfaced from time to time. There exists, in tandem to the contemporary reinforcement of the character’s hetero-masculinity, a history of cultural affiliation with queerness. Burt Ward, who plays Robin in the 1966 film and tv show, stated that Batman and Robin can be read as lovers in his biography. Gay director Joel Schumacher’s Batman Forever (1995) and Batman & Robin (1997) have sparked many speculations of the true nature of Batman and Robin’s relationship due to the two films’ homoerotic subtext. However, the more recent filmic adaptations (Christopher Nolan, Zack Snyder, and Matt Reeves) have shown a general trend of the push for Batman’s hypermasculine status. Interestingly, there exists an ironic tension between Batman’s original mythology and the mythology which the comics and cinema instructions wish to perpetuate. Film critics Jeffrey A. Brown explains in his book on Batman and multiplicity that because the character is constantly reliving the tragedy of “being ‘removed…from his stable, heterosexual nuclear family” (Brown 69) via his parents’ murder, Batman traverses across “a series of alternate all-male families” (Brown 69). The composition may vary from story to story, but the key components will always include a father figure (Alfred Pennyworth) and/or a young male disciple (usually one out of the four core Robins). The need to prevent any homosocial constructs from being interpreted as homosexual manifests itself in the character’s often tragic or unresolved heterosexual romantic relations. In Batman, Bruce Wayne (Adam West) falls in love with Russian journalist Kitka only to discover in the end that it was Catwoman (Julie Newmar) in disguise (Martinson). In Nolan’s The Dark Knight, the love interest Rachel Dawe (Maggie Gyllenhaal) is killed by the Joker (Heath Ledger) (Nolan). And despite The Batman not outlining an obvious romantic subplot for the protagonist, the film features an on-screen kiss between Batman and Catwoman (Zoë Kravitz) before the latter leaves Gotham (Reeves).
Besides an emphasis on heterosexuality, the recent filmic adaptations by Nolan, Snyder, and Reeves have solidified Batman’s white, rich, cisgender male identity. While some may argue that there are existing narrative universes in which Batman does not possess the aforementioned traits and/or that the characters within the ‘Bat family’ (Batwing, Nightwing, Orphan, etc.) can be seen as an ideological extension of the original, they do not pose any direct threat to the impression of Batman that currently occupies our collective pop culture consciousness. The fact that the imagery of a billionaire vigilante has remained historically fixed proves the character’s hegemonic ideological power. In media scholar Henry Jenkins’s essay on superhero symbols, he explains that “there is nothing inherently progressive about the pathway that leads from popular culture to the civic imagination” (Jenkins 39). Indeed, the set of traits attached to Batman dictates that any narrative variation may run the risk of preaching values that are at worst conservatively elitist and at best neoliberal and capitalist.
The conservative ideals reflected in Batman can be best understood through his relationship with his beloved city of Gotham. Marc Dipaolo fittingly describes the character as “a feudal prince who happens to live in a democratic society” (DiPaolo 58). In other words, Batman can operate outside of expected social and political order not only because of his status as a superhero, but also because of his family’s legacy as one of the most powerful and influential names in the city. And when an indescribable amount of wealth and high-quality networking is mixed with a city that “is largely removed from a socio economic context” (Urcchio & Pearson 107), Batman is able to perform his vision of ‘justice’ without facing explicit and realistic moral scrutiny. In the 1966 version, this privilege is first expressed by the superhero’s extensive inventory of convenient tools such as shark-repellent bat-spray, a Batboat, and a Batcopter. The satirical and exaggerated tone also allows the story world justified favoritism towards its protagonist as a frivolous ending is defined as a triumph of justice. After sorting through the mingled dehydrated molecules of representatives from the UN Security Council, Batman is able to restore the members back to normal, only to discover the reanimation is not completely successful as each member starts speaking languages from other nations. Instead of acknowledging the severity of the mishap, the story chooses to end on an optimistic tone as Batman explains this “strange mixing of minds” will help lead to global harmony and exits (Martinson).
Compared to Martinson’s sunny Gotham that is only de-generalized by its eccentric villains, Reeves’s Gotham does offer a relatively great amount of socio-economic-political specificity. This grimier and more nihilistic rendition of Gotham is familiar with its litany of societal ills and also somewhat realistic in its constant reference of collective historical American trauma. One visually-symbolic example is in the finale: when the city is at the cusp of disintegrating into systematic chaos, Gotham Square Garden (an almost perfect replicant of Madison Square Garden) gets flooded. Reeves also sheds light on Batman’s oligarchic and fascist potential by placing him next to a technocrat villain, the Riddler (Paul Dano), who proclaims that he is inspired by the dark knight to target the corrupted politicians and businessmen. The revelation that Batman’s benevolent philanthropist father had hired criminals–Falcone (John Turturro)–during his mayoral election (Reeves) also effectively puts Bruce Wayne’s class privilege into question. Despite its attempt to expose the ideological flaws of its own protagonist, The Batman’s critique does not march beyond merely highlighting the faults within its own logic. Thomas Wayne escapes further condemnation when Alfred (Andy Serkis) explains Thomas did not know Falcone was going to kill journalists and had planned to turn himself in (1:48:11). In the end, after experiencing blatant proofs of wealth inequality, police corruption, and government impotency alongside the audience, Batman comes to the shallowly uplifting conclusion that he must choose ‘hope’ over ‘vengeance’ (Reeves). There is tragedy in The Batman’s impossibility to deliver any effective discussions on fixing the ills of societal structure because it too, like its predecessors, functions on the audiences’ unwavering belief that Batman is the key to the city’s salvation. His methods can be questioned, but our hero has to return to his status quo. The process of demythologizing the character is more extra-textually motivated by commercial marketability—-questioning authority within acceptable capitalist bounds, a digestible type of unconventionality (think Joker). All of the sophisticated thematic foundations within The Batman have to be forsaken so Bruce Wayne can march uncriticized and unchanged into the next sequel.
In retrospect, the title ‘Prince of Gotham’ seems much more ironic in a neoliberal, capitalist society where everyone is simultaneously obsessed and disenchanted by the power of wealth and class. While many other Batman filmic adaptations were referenced in this discussion on the ideologies of Batman, the primary focus was on 1966’s Batman and 2022’s The Batman, where we mostly explored the two movies’ implications on American superhero sexual politics and the IP’s fundamental inability to be truly progressive. Batman may be “infinitely malleable” but he is also ideologically inflexible. On the one hand, he will always be Gotham's guardian and a safe creative outlet for people to express cathartic violence against criminal injustice. On the other hand, his irreplaceability within the overall American cultural ISA means he can never truly break ties with the comics and cinema institutions, who package him as a radical agent of social and political change within bounds that will not endanger the character’s commercial attraction.
Works Cited
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