The
superman, as an ongoing protagonist in a periodical publication, presents
certain problems.
If
he can’t easily overwhelm most obstacles and overawe most adversaries, he isn’t
much of a superman. And if he can, you haven’t got much of a plot.
Among
the first writers to face this dilemma was Walter Gibson (“Maxwell Grant”), who
in 1931 was assigned the task of turning a disembodied radio narrator into the
crime-busting Shadow. Gibson knew that a man of mystery worth his salt couldn’t
appear on every page, but must strike decisively with breathtaking speed at key
dramatic moments. So Gibson let the Shadow’s agents, people like Harry Vincent,
handle the more mundane aspects of the plot, while getting themselves into
fixes only the Shadow could fix. A little later, Gibson had the Shadow muscle
the real Lamont Cranston into exile so he could adopt that millionaire’s
identity as a disguise.
The
considerable success of the approach prompted Gibson’s publisher, Street &
Smith, to launch a second superhero title in 1933. Clark Savage Jr., trained
from birth to human perfection in physical prowess, scientific knowledge and
moral awareness, had five goofball aides to carry the load. It was almost as if
Einstein had chosen the Three Stooges as lab assistants, but Doc Savage was
also immensely popular.
In
1938, the focus of superhero adventure shifted to the comic books. Superman and
Batman, like the earlier Zorro, solved the problem by maintaining secret
identities as ordinary people. The secret IDs gave them freedom of movement,
yes, but they also imposed limitations that could be useful in developing
suspenseful plots. In their civilian guises, they could not afford to be seen
to act with extraordinary power and ability.
Beyond
the comics and the pulps, the problem applies generally to any continuing
character who approaches superman status. Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes
needed his narrator Dr. John Watson to serve as a stand-in for the audience, as
mystified as we are by Holmes’ lightning-like thought processes. And Rex Stout
solved the problem handily by making his superman lazily obese. Wisecracking
Archie Goodwin had to do the legwork for Nero Wolfe, and is an example of that
rare instance in which a well-drawn sidekick becomes nearly as popular as the
hero himself.
Monk and Ham always acted like 10-year-olds. They struck me as idiotic, even when I was 12. Couldn't understand why Doc Savage would bother with them, unless it had something to do with his extreme emotional repression.
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