Spoilers from the most recent issue (“Avengers Arena” #10) are discussed.
If there’s one book in Marvel’s NOW launch that was dubious from the beginning, it was assuredly “Avengers Arena” by Dennis Hopeless and Kev Walker. That statement is not to knock either creator, who are certainly talented individuals (which is something we’ll get to throughout the column), but looking at “Avengers Arena” presents you with a book that seems to just want to capture a trend based off a popular media entity and make money off it for a company while doing little else. It’s not the first time this situation has happened, ripe for snap judgements and snark — DC and Marvel both launched vampire books in wake of Twilight and True Blood‘s intense popularity (Gischler’s “X-Men” and “I, Vampire” respectively; neither really like Twilight or True Blood but you could see what was going on) — and it assuredly won’t be the last, but “Avengers Arena” seemed transparent: this was Marvel’s response to the popularity of the Hunger Games.
Can you blame them? Hunger Games went from a book no one knew about to a best selling trilogy all your friends had already read before being turned into a film that made new records for how much money it made in its opening weekend while somewhat making the career of its lead (JLaw was already doing pretty well, this just solidified her role as New Actress To Hire For All The Things). It’s a story that has wormed its way into pop-culture with a home and an audience, even if it does basically *just* ape Battle Royale and other dystopic genre stories of kids killing kids. So why not capitalize on what is obviously popular?
And if you have any doubt that this is the basic intent of the book if not the story, just look at the covers to the first few issues — #1 is the poster to Battle Royale, #2 is a version of a cover to “Lord of the Flies” (the most popular cover to the book, seen in high school classrooms around the world), a story about kids stranded on an island who have to fight to stay alive, and #3 is just a straight-up Hunger Games homage. This isn’t exactly subtle marketing. This book is simply an answer to the question of “What can we publish in response to what’s popular?”, and from the beginning it was assumedly not particularly shy or scared to be just that.
But if you write the book off for this or any other surface-level reason, then I hate to say it — but you’re wrong.
To start with, “Avengers Arena” essentially exceeds that from which it came. While I can’t speak to either original books having never read either, both the Hunger Games and Battle Royale have a single flaw in their film adaptations which makes them so exceedingly popular: when you watch either film you only care about a small handful of characters — and even then, it’s only the characters you’re supposed to care about anyway. You want Katniss to win the Hunger Games because she’s the obvious lead heroine, but you don’t exactly fear for her safety; she’s going to make it through and everyone’s going to get dinner. Everyone she encounters becomes secondary to her story, and when someone like Rue dies it’s not as effective as it could be because you knew Rue was always doomed — it’s tough to connect with someone obviously marked for death. Even with Battle Royale where there are a few leads, there’s only two possible outcomes (everyone dies, not everyone dies) and the film plays off that in a similar way to what Hunger Games also chooses to do. I wouldn’t go so far as to call either production inherently predictable, but on some level they basically are going through a few motions just through certain nods in the storytelling.
But when all is said and done, you know what you don’t think about with Hunger Games? Everyone that’s starving because Katniss won. Sure, her district is better of now, but they’re not the only district out there. All the kids who died for no reason other than to entertain the rich (which is a disturbing thought and certainly something worth its own form of discussion) are just dead without us ever getting to know them, and whole groups of people are now in a worse off situation than they were before the Hunger Games began, having lost both their children and their food supply. And we, the audience, do not think about this and do not care about this because these things do not matter; Katniss won. End of story.
Continued belowSo what “Avengers Arena” does at its most basic level is something neither other film or story can: it puts you in the character’s heads individually, one at a time, and it allows you to be aware of all the consequences. All of the children kidnapped by Arcade here (whether they are objectively good or bad) get an issue or so to shine, for their personalities to breathe and for you to decide where you stand in their personal journey. You really begin to understand who these kids are and while their situation is unfair you start to associate and believe in them — at the very least, you hope for or even against them. There is no Katniss in “Arena,” no Shuya or Noriko; there is only a wide range of characters, all of whom own the spotlight at once and all of whom connect to different people in different ways. They all grow, they all change and they’re all marked for death, one by one. “Arena” never forces you to associate with anyone, but you’re given enough time to make your choices and see if your bets pay off.
And when something happens to those characters, the audience — assumedly fans of the greater Marvel Universe — are aware of what these events mean, who they impact and how they impact. Every moment, no matter how big or how small, sets off a set of events along a chain that Marvel fans can connect to. There are no unknown districts full of starving people; we know exactly where those districts are and what parallel starvation has in the current situation, whether it be grieving parents and friends or something else. We know and see it all — we’re part of the matrix, at the center of the web feeling all of the vibrations. In this way, “Arena” becomes successful because it loses that sense of predictability by eschewing the stereotypical form of narrative that is usually inherent with books like this.
One of the main criticisms lobbed at “Avengers Arena” is that it is a book designed to torture and maim young heroes, but this seems a short-sighted criticism at best. Comic fandom can at times attach too personal a connection to characters that are new or younger in age, ones that they feel are “theirs” and theirs alone, and it’s easy to see how this criticism can gain quick momentum. But in reading and analyzing the material, this complaint is something that exists only in a rather shallow place; once you penetrate the book and go deeper into what it has to offer, you get to see the book for what it really is: an ode to why these characters matter in the first place. If you feel something in an issue like the most recent “Avengers Arena” #10 where popular Runaway Nico dies, it only means that Hopeless and Burchielli are doing their jobs right. You should feel something when a character you care for has something horrible happen to them, and too often in comics do we let things slide at a surface value rate, either decrying it as non-important or only seeing value in it via an agenda.
In many ways, this is pretty much exactly what works about nerd-god Joss Whedon’s work. The same constant and palpable use of pathos and ethos over a large cast, enough usage of tropes to be inside a genre but enough destruction of them to remain unpredictable, likable and fully-formed characters, killing off all your favorites at the worst possible moment … it’s all there in “Avengers Arena.” It may not necessarily be visible at a first glance due to the aforementioned reasons, but upon opening the first few issues, sitting down and really digging into the story, it very quickly becomes obvious that the book is so much more. It’s a book from the school of Whedon, and it’s getting a high grade in its execution so far.
Because of this, “Avengers Arena” actually becomes one of the single most important books on the market.
Looking at it from a completely objective and analytical standpoint, this is a book that makes you invested in its cast and delivers material that “matters.” There is a general disconnect when it comes to comic fans and the lives of the characters they read about, because if one thing has become clear in comics it’s that death doesn’t matter. Superhero books are a never-ending daytime soap opera that way, a place where the story just keeps going on and on and certain personal (or otherwise minor) aspects change but not much ever happens that really offers up some kind of lasting, permanent and meaningful change in direction. We’re not given too many stories that go from Point A to Point B, because most of the time creators are working to set up Point C for someone else. Therefore, we’ve become complacent in our reading because at some point it’ll all be OK again; status quo as you’ve come to know it will be restored because the disruption of the status quo doesn’t historically sell in a lasting form, only in shorter bursts, which is exactly why you get things like the death of Johnny Storm or Batman announced via national media the day before the book comes out (and not just CBR the day after the book comes out) before they eventually return one way or another.
Continued belowBut that’s not the case here. In “Arena,” the stakes are always high and the stakes are always life and death. It’s never anything less than that and you can feel it in your bones when you read the book. Anyone could lose the game at any time and in turn their life, being removed from the board permanently with no real hope of resurrection (outside of a twist ending where they’re in a virtual arena or something). And since these aren’t characters that have lasted 70+ years with movies and merchandise lines but are instead newer characters, it’s so much easier for the reader to develop an obvious personal attachment to that character — whether it be the Runaways that got stuck here, the graduates of Avengers Academy or any number of new or unfamiliar characters. You can care about them in ways that are more personal than how you care about Wolverine or Batman because Wolverine and Batman can die and come back within a year. If something bad happens here, you can expect it to last. And for some, that’s clearly too much.
But me? I felt horrible when Nico died. It was like something in the pit of my stomach, that moment when you know you’ve passed the point of no return in reading a book and you’re about to lose someone but you can’t turn around and forget what you’ve read. That’s not something that I get that often in any book anymore. This book essentially reminds me of why I ever invest in material like this in the first place — which, again, is something that Joss Whedon has done and has proven to work as a storytelling device. The more you build-up the characters the harder it is to watch them fall, and when there’s no obvious recourse available it’s that much more engaging as a reader to want to spend time with the characters and their story.
That’s pretty much the highest praise I can give a book like this. I’ve read Spider-Man comics my whole life, but when Peter died and Doc Ock took over for “Superior Spider-Man” I admittedly felt nothing. It’s not for lack of investment, mind you — I’ve always read Spider-Man in one form or another, and Peter Parker is the epitome of hero to me when we’re talking comics. But that whole thing? I felt literally nothing; it wasn’t because Dan Slott’s writing was bad or Humberto Ramos’ art didn’t click, but nothing about it caused resonance because of apathy based on basic superhero trends. No matter what Peter Parker isn’t going to be gone forever, and I have that assurance because as long as Peter Parker is the name of the main character in Amazing Spider-Man 2, Peter will find a way to come home in the comic. Dead does not mean dead.
But in “Avengers Arena,” for lack of better words, I just don’t know better. There is no Runaways movie, it is not a successful franchise — there’s no real impetus to bring back Nico in this instance or any other character who has died or been changed in the story because they’re all characters who only matter to a specific niche audience, who have no outward momentum to keep them alive. As a reader of this book, I fully invest in their lives and am terrified to see who may not make it past the next issue because all of them seem so fragile, so imperfect, on a precipice where they’re poised to fall and never climb back up. Their sacrifices mean something, their actions mean more; “Avengers Arena” pushes past the stereotypical notions of what will happen in a mainstream superhero book, let alone a mainstream teen superhero book, and it creates something entirely visceral.
Not only that, but Nico’s death nor any other death doesn’t feel like the stereotypical comic death, or even an example of “fridging” as many are apt to claim. It’s not fridging because Nico’s death doesn’t further anyone’s agenda other than the villain’s (also female) and her death isn’t done to fuel a male character — Nico’s death is that of self-sacrifice, one of value. There’s nothing arbitrary about it: she dies doing what heroes do, saving the lives of others. She does it selflessly and when she falls, her fall is not in vain; it is tragic, it is awful and it is devastating, but she saves the lives of everyone else. Compare this to the recent “Justice League of America” #4, in which Catwoman is shot in the head point blank just to piss off Batman, which is literally the definition of “fridging” — and Catwoman’s not even permanently dead, as she was confirmed to be alive a) for the upcoming “Forever Evil” title and b) for her own ongoing series!
Continued belowI’m not particularly advocating for any character to die, but if you’re going to kill someone off don’t make it trite. “Avengers Arena” inherently understands this, and good god, that last page is just brutal because of all of this and more.
What I’m saying is: superhero comics need more books like “Avengers Arena,” because “Avengers Arena” is one of a few books that offers up a traditional form of superhero storytelling without too many gimmicks or rules (outside of the obvious), and then gets what you’re supposed to do with the characters to make your readers actively invest in a series that could change at the whim of an editorial edict tomorrow. It pokes you and it prods you, but it gets you involved and then makes that involvement worthwhile. Dennis Hopeless is somehow still one of Marvel’s most underrated writers, and it’s mind boggling as to why. Hopeless utilizes some of the same storytelling devices and elements that made Joss Whedon popular from Buffy and beyond, and how “Avengers Arena” isn’t more acclaimed amongst fans and critics is confusing. With sharp and stylized writing wrapped up in beautiful and emotive visual package by Kev Walker, Riccardo Burchielli, Alessandro Vitti and more, this is the book to read for lapsed cape comic readers who are tired of books that don’t feel like they matter.
Whether any comic matters is obviously up for debate and there may still be a “it’s all OK in the end” twist waiting for us — this may just end up being comics’ biggest Dallas ever — but in terms of creating an emotional journey on a monthly basis, “Avengers Arena” nails it. It’s surprising to see how little that’s given appreciation.
(All that said, Hopeless and Walker kill off Cammi I may have to do some good ol’ fashioned tumblr ragin’.)
