As the TV show “Smallville” has repeatedly pointed out, any time he’s out there pretending to be an ordinary human, he’s lying. He’s hiding who he is from his alleged closest friends, keeping secrets from the people he claims to love. That’s got to be rough on a guy who wants, more than anything else in the world, to do what’s right and be loved for it.
So if you ask me, along with everything else, he wears that suit under his clothes to remind him who he is—that he’s never really Clark Kent; he’s the freak, the alien, the Superman, who can’t let himself go for an instant, who can’t trust anyone, who can’t let anyone trust him, who must always be on guard—but who still has the comforting presence of his baby blanket, reminding him that once, as a baby, he did have the unconditional love of a mother, and the calm certainty that he was safe.
I can’t begrudge him that small comfort, I suppose. After all, he’s saved the world repeatedly, and is doing everything he can to make it a better place.
But jeez, I wish he washed that thing more often.
Peter Parker’s Penance
Originally published in Webslinger
Consider two boys.
The first is a lad not yet in his teens who sees his beloved parents gunned down in the street by a petty crook, and who is helpless to do anything to save them.
The second is a teenager whose beloved uncle is gunned down by a petty crook, and who realizes that he could have prevented this by stopping that same man earlier.
By lucky chance, both boys have exceptional abilities. Both swear to fight crime, so that other innocents will not suffer as they have. Both youths train themselves, both equip themselves with a miniaturized high-tech arsenal, both put on lurid costumes, and both go out on the streets, taking the fight to the foe.
Except the first boy becomes a grim avenger, a creature of the night, a humorless, relentless, obsessed crimefighter, so focused on his unending war against evil that even his best friends sometimes doubt his sanity.
And the second becomes your happy-go-lucky, fun-loving, wisecracking, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, always ready with a smart remark.
How does that work?
Logically, shouldn’t Spider-Man be just as grim and driven as Batman? Or even worse? After all, he really is partly responsible for his uncle’s death, where there was nothing young Bruce Wayne could have done to save his parents, yet there Spidey is, web-swinging happily through the streets and tossing off quips as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Isn’t that a bit, well, heartless of him? What happened to all that guilt, all that angst over his uncle’s death? Is Spider-Man just laughing through his tears?
Y’know, it really doesn’t look like it. It looks like he’s having a fine ol’ time out there. Oh, maybe not when he’s face to face with Galactus, or having the snot beat out of him by the Hulk, but when he’s tackling the sort of street-level thug who killed Uncle Ben he genuinely seems to be enjoying himself. Webbing guns out of their hands, hanging them from lampposts—come on, he’s playing.
That just doesn’t seem right, does it?
But wait! What about when he’s not Spider-Man?
Ah, that’s an entirely different picture. Peter Parker is not exactly Mr. Excitement. In fact, he lives a life of worry and turmoil. It does not look like he’s having fun. He looks miserable. He’s got a gorgeous wife, a glamorous job, a satisfying secret life, but he clearly considers himself a loser.
How’s that again?
Say, what’s going on here?
Let’s leave Spidey for now and look at Batman again for a moment, shall we?
Ah, yes, the Batman. When he’s not obsessively fighting crime, he’s Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy, majority stockholder in Wayne Enterprises, chairman of the Thomas Wayne Foundation. Envied and admired by most of Gotham City’s upper crust, he’s got it all—looks, money, fame, respect, power.
And he doesn’t care. That’s the thing—“Bruce Wayne” is a front, a role he trots out now and then just to keep up appearances. It’s not who he is; the wealth and glamour is just a disguise, a tool. His real identity is Batman, the avenger, the dark warrior, the humorless obsessive. Wayne Enterprises exists to supply him with the money and equipment he needs to continue his relentless battle against evil. The Wayne Foundation exists to try to cut crime off at the roots by fighting the poverty and injustice that drive people to desperation. His money is just a necessary fuel for his secret life. He has no real family, no love life, no friends as Bruce Wayne; his only friends are people like Alfred, Robin, Oracle, Commissioner Gordon—his companions in Batman’s war against crime. Everything he does, everything he is, is targeted at his crusade. It’s all he wants, all he lives for. Bruce Wayne or Batman, it’s the same guy underneath, and that’s Batman.
But for Spider-Man, Peter Parker isn’t just a front. Peter Parker is his attempt to have something resembling a normal life. It’s who he really is. It’s who he was before the radioactive spider sank its fangs in him, and who he still wants to be. The child who was Bruce Wayne is gone, leaving only Batman, but Peter Parker was a little more established, a little more certain of his identity, and he’s still Peter Parker, not Spider-Man.
And Peter Parker is generally pretty miserable. He certainly isn’t rich or famous or handsome or successful, like Bruce Wayne…
But—why not?
Why does he consider himself a loser, and behave accordingly?
Before that spider bit him, before Uncle Ben was killed, Peter Parker was on track for a pretty good life. Maybe he didn’t think so, but he was. Really, think about it.
Yes, he was an orphan. Yes, he was a nerd. But so what? That was high school. It wasn’t real life. He had a loving home, even if it wasn’t with his parents, and he had a brilliant scientific mind. His classmates mocked him, but his teachers didn’t—they respected and encouraged him. Science nerds may be looked down on in high school, but ten years later, when the captain of the football team is selling shoes, the nerds are pulling down six-figure salaries from major corporations—or perhaps running major corporations, like Steve Jobs or Bill Gates. The jocks look back on high school as their glory days, but the nerds look back on graduation as the beginning of everything important in their lives.
And maybe Peter Parker wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man in high school, but he did all right. Betty Brant and Liz Allen were fighting over him, for heaven’s sake! Later on a hot blonde named Gwen Stacy adored him, and in the end he wound up marrying a model. A smart, funny, utterly devoted model. As Mary Jane herself put it—face it, Tiger, you’ve hit the jackpot. Clearly, Peter Parker had the right pheromones; even when he wasn’t trying, he attracted women.
And why not? He’s not ugly. He’s smart and witty and modest—what’s not to like?
Brains, family, friends, charm, health—so why didn’t Peter Parker wind up rich and happy?
He tells himself that it’s because he’s just naturally a loser, an unlucky guy, and that the need for Spider-Man interferes with everything else. Uh huh, sure. Being a superhero is such a thankless chore.
Then why does he look like he’s having fun when he’s Spider-Man, and like his puppy just died when he’s Peter Parker?
I’m not buying his explanation. It just doesn’t fit the facts. What really went wrong for Peter Parker, and right for Spider-Man?
What went wrong? Well, first, he didn’t stick with his plan for a career in science. He became a freelance photographer, and even though it was originally intended to be a stopgap