Comic books, as sequential art, are machines for novelty, but are also uniquely prepared to incorporate the visual motifs of other mediums from throughout history. In Fantastic Four #317, the Thing and Ms. Marvel (Sharon Ventura) share a passionate kiss, and the rendering of this embrace recalls Rodin’s The Kiss.
For Jose Alaniz, author of Death, Disability, and the Superhero, this moment represents a triumph for the character of Ventura: a journey from self-hating suicidal ideation to sexual acceptance and exultation. The rock covered bodies of the two figures already remind us of a sculpture, and even though their forms contrast to the classically sculpted bodies in The Kiss, we’re not intended to see anything less beautiful.
After reading this, I couldn’t help but wonder what other allusions to famous works are found within the pages of superhero comics.
Since my brain is haunted, the first example I could think of is the disturbingly gross 2009 event comic Ultimatum.
Before I get any farther, this is not an attempt at rehabilitating Ultimatum or the related Ultimates #6 (2002), both of which have problems that I may not exhaustively describe: this isn’t a full review of these comics. Also, just as importantly, I am not making any claims to authorial intent. I don’t personally believe the authors made the allusion I’m about to discuss on purpose (though who knows). Instead, this is an exploration of the way cultural narratives imbed themselves in art and fiction.
Ultimatum, written by Jeph Loeb and pencilled by David Finch, sucks, from what I and most people remember. It’s an event comic where the “event” is sudden, barely explained violence and suffering. The series begins as New York City suffers from Biblical flooding, and all of the characters who inhabit Marvel’s Ultimate Universe at that time struggle to react to the disaster. The first issue ends with the tagline “Next: It Gets Worse” and boy does it.
One panel more than any other has come to represent the depravities of this series: in issue 2 Hawkeye turns a corner while looking for the Wasp, and finds her, too late. What he sees is the X-Men villain Blob sinking his teeth into the corpse of the super-heroine. If you’re like me, the image already forever seared itself into your brain, so I won’t add it here, but I will briefly describe it: bloody entrails are hanging out of the Blob’s mouth and teeth as his hulking form leans over the Wasp’s body, eyes lifeless and midsection torn open. As if it wasn’t bad enough, the deranged cartoon man monster comes up with a pithy joke on the spot: “Tastes like chicken.”
We have a lot to unpack here — fridging, a patriarchal culture that equates women to meat — but in service of today’s discussion we need to look at what happens next, when the Wasp’s husband Giant Man sees what happened. In issue #3, Giant-Man has his revenge, and these panels, please forgive me, I will share.
A monster biting into the mutilated corpse of a person below him. A giant lifting that monster to his mouth and decapitating him. The giant holding the mutilated corpse of his family member in despair. All these images of violent devouring and grotesque body horror call to mind Spanish artist Francisco Goya’s painting Saturn Devouring His Son (the header image for this article).
Goya produced Saturn directly on the walls of his private residence, along with 14 other untitled works intended for private display, known as the Black Paintings. They remained there until Goya’s death, after which folks ripped them down, attached them to canvas, and catalogued them, the titles all based on interpretation, as Goya left no notes. The giant monstrous form holding the bloody torso could mean any number of things, but despite alternate theories the interpretation that persists is that it depicts Saturn (or Cronus in the original Greek) eating one of his children in a futile attempt to circumvent the prophecy that his offspring will supplant him.
The image is darkly seductive, as it hints at some primordial horror in the shadows of history, and it’s easy to see how it would influence anyone who views it. Guillermo del Toro confirmed that the Pale Man who eats fairies in Pan’s Labyrinth is based on Goya’s monster. The horrifying titans from anime Attack on Titan evoke the bloodthirsty figure (though the influence there as far as I can tell is unconfirmed). The image has become a bit of a meme, too, used by fan artists to add a bit of satirical depth to the properties at hand.
By calling attention to Saturn Devouring His Son you are viewing a relationship as cannibalistic and incestuous, where one participant overpowers the other due to insecurity, power imbalance, or some other insidious, destructive psychological or symbolic force.
The relationship of Giant Man and the Wasp is just such a relationship.
Hank Pym and Janet Van Dyne appeared in the early 60s during the period when Marvel began transitioning from horror and sci-fi stories to superheroes. They were founding Avengers in the team’s first appearance, and marry each other in the sixtieth issue.
While a close reading of their relationship on the page reveals a lot of sexism, it wasn’t starkly different in that regard from other Marvel couples of the time like Mr. Fantastic and Invisible Girl. The turning point came in 1981, when in a story written by Jim Shooter and drawn by Bob Hall, Hank backhands Janet across the face in anger. Shooter would later claim that he never intended to portray Hank as an abusive husband, and that Bob Hall over exaggerated the story beat in his art. Regardless, this moment sealed Pym’s fate ever after. Readers saw him as abusive, and later writers only built on this.
This spousal abuse thread carried over into the Ultimates versions of the characters. In Ultimates #6, written by Mark Millar and pencilled by Bryan Hitch, Hank’s jealousy erupts into a violent physical argument that ends with Janet in the hospital after an army of mind controlled ants attack her. Right before the fight, we learn something different about the Ultimate version of the Wasp: while the public believes she gained her powers thanks to Hank’s experiments, in truth she’s a mutant.
The Wasp’s secret identity recalls many of Marvel’s silver age superheroes, where we can read it as a “passing” narrative: Janet’s powers and costume bring her closer to a white, able-bodied heteronormative ideal (see again, Alaniz’s book). It also trades in on the “mutant metaphor” often employed by X-Men writers, where “mutant” can stand in for any number of racial, sexual, or other identities.
The Wasp’s powers and appearance are all aesthetically acceptable to gender norms: a sexy form fitting leather outfit, the ability to shrink down in size, i.e. to take up less space, and even her wings are beautiful and elegant extensions of herself. These outward signifiers hide the less appealing feminized otherness that Hank despises. Pym says that Jan’s “personal hygiene” — forming larval nests, and leaving eggs in their bed — makes him sick. He insists Captain America — who Jan previously flirted with — would feel the same way, and lose all interest.
This signals to us that Janet’s own anxieties aren’t the only, or even primary, social pressure pushing her to assimilate in this secret identity passing narrative. Instead Hank’s fear and hatred influence her as well. Pym — we find out — owes his own powers to Janet’s blood, so that he too plays out a passing narrative: while Giant-Man epitomizes the masculine fantasy by growing in size, the origin of his power is menstrual and vampiric.
In the previous issue, the team faced off against the Hulk, and while Giant-Man was easily pushed aside, the Wasp played a pivotal role in defeating the rampaging brute. The entire world sees her standing over the defeated Banner, side by side with Captain America. In the opening pages of #6, Janet is excited to celebrate the Ultimates’s first victory. On the phone with Fury, she says, “it’ll be nice to dress up,” and does: Janet finds a level of self-fulfillment through gender performance, both as the Wasp and herself.
But Hank wastes no time tearing down at her appearance, rebuking any attempt of her to control her own image. Janet, sensing his insecurity, is initially supportive, but he will have nothing of it. He digs at her, word by word, until he decides to respond to one of her comebacks — where she says Bruce Banner is a better scientist — with a blow to her face. The entire impetus of the conflict is his own fear of being overshadowed by what he thinks of as his creation. Janet retaliates, then shrinks down to her Wasp size to attack, and hides underneath a desk when Hank gleefully sprays her with an insecticide. Pym sends ants in pursuit.
Hank coldly watches on as his ants scratch and claw at Janet. He says, “You shouldn’t have made me feel small, Jan. You shouldn’t have made me feel small.” Here we see the mad anxieties of of the titan Cronus, the fear that his own family will usurp him.
Flash forward years later to Ultimatum. While the abuse story of Ultimates at least left Janet with a degree of agency, here the Wasp only has one inconsequential line of dialogue, in a panel where Hawkeye — instead of Janet herself — reminds us of the events of Ultimates #6. The next time we see her it is as a wordless victim. She is now made into the lifeless corpse in Saturn Devouring His Son, a foreground prop to give weight to the hideous monster behind her. Giant Man may devour her devourer, but as he then holds Janet’s body in his hand, he appears just as culpable.
Like with Goya’s painting, Wasp’s ultimate fate leaves us uncomfortable and ill at ease. The story has gnawed down her flesh until she no longer exists, and the story itself is harmed by the act. Even as it eats, it warps itself. The painting points out the wrongness of the act, but even still, the violence happens.
— Ben Rathbone is the creator of this site, and its only writer. Don’t find him anywhere.
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