Did we really need Superman to be bisexual? Embedding queer stories into existing narratives is a cop-out

Devil’s Advocate is a rolling column that sees the world differently and argues for unpopular opinions of the day. This column, the writer acknowledges, can also be viewed as a race to get yourself cancelled. But like pineapple on pizza, he is willing to see the lighter side of it.

When Phoebe Waller-Bridge, writer of the latest James Bond film, was recently asked in the middle of a press meet, if the next Bond should indeed be a woman, she responded by saying she ‘doesn’t want to see a female bond.’ “I think Bond is  James Bond. We just need to cook up someone to rival him.”

So when DC comics revealed that in the upcoming edition in November, Superman’s son – aka the next superman – comes out of the closet , I was tempted, for a moment, to get washed up in the performative exuberance of this feat of inclusion . It is a prospectively progressive step no doubt, and in the rigid world of the white hero, it is nothing else if not brave.

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But a true feat of inclusivity and art, both, would have been accomplished if queer characters originated of their own volition and yarns. For these new heroes to be truly loved, they need not arrive, privileged with inherited power and popularity – in this case Superman’s – but with the soul and struggles of their own origin stories. I cannot imagine, for example, our own Nagraj to be rewritten or stretched to fit the new normal we all desire.

Superman has stood for many things, and has over the course of his 80-year existence, evolved to assimilate the progress of social discourse. He has, for example, even taken on White Supremacists. Amazon Prime Video’s The Boys , on the other hand, essays a scathing critique of Superman as narcissistic and naïve plaything. Brightburn imagines a similar alien superhero-turned-murderous psychopath. But to do that, The Boys has not just rewritten the alien into a new direction but invented its own world to critique what it believes is a clear flaw with the superhero psyche. Superheroes are loved because they are morally incorruptible. They have powers but cannot help but use them for good. Also, they are in strenuous relationships. It is not easy, let us just say, to date a superhero. There is a lot of make-believe that makes this world of fictional, immortal beings worth believing and caring for. None of that is that to say this world should manifest in oblivion, ignorant of the present day’s realities.

If Nagraj or his descendant were to come out as gay tomorrow, I am sure it will be an odd detour for fans – like myself - of the comic book. The Gupta brothers behind Raj Comics probably have no inclination of doing so, but if they were considering to accommodate this generational change, I would request them to invent a character we can like for ‘their’ story, and not for being the descendant of a cultural icon we all know and adore.

It is a bit of a cop-out if queer stories are embedded into existing narratives because you then save yourself the effort and energy to portray queer struggle and perspectives on the nature of the superhero itself. Clark Kent’s son coming out of the closet is notional given the cultural cache he has already inherited. Not to say these choices should be smooth sailing, but when you are the most powerful man in the universe, few can argue with it. Comparatively, a queer story should perhaps confront and contemplate its own world rather than that which a straight, white-male character will let it have.

[caption id=“attachment_10051691” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Nagraj is a fictional superhero in the Raj Comics universe who can spew venom, hypnotize, shoot snakes from his wrists among other things.[/caption] The origins of Nagaraj, perhaps the most beloved of the Raj Comic Book heroes, is sophisticated in itself. A royal descendant, an abandoned orphan, Nagraj is bad before he turns good. His evolution assimilates a whole journey that, in some ways, is as complete as it could be imagined in the do-good-be-good world of superheroes. Superman, similarly, has faced many an obscure obstacle, not to mention his romantic feat of reversing time to resurrect a dead Louis Lane. For the sake of ingenuity, it is a precious, heartening sequence from Christopher Reeve’s first outing as the character in 1978, that I cannot imagine being fiddled with for the sake of a cultural affirmation. I would instead wish to see the queer narrative have its own say on what language of love it wishes to adopt. Same for conflict. Comics writer Tom Taylor says that more people need to be able to see themselves reflected in the superheroes we have all grown up and loved. But rather than bend the narrative to suit the fibre, Taylor and DC comics would have done well to invent a new landscape, where queer superheroes build their own identities, write their own stories, and vouch for destinies that they have worked themselves to earn. Rather than inherit Superman’s crown, the affection he has earned for decades, not to mention the social and political baggage he comes with, DC should have changed the board rather than just flip it to usher in a cultural change. What you will now have is a queer superhero a whole two generations will not be able to help but compare with his predecessor, and make the redundant choice of which one is better. It is a choice we could have done without.

Manik Sharma writes on art and culture, cinema, books, and everything in between.