It’s one industry in which the UK is becoming
dominant: exporting movie superheroes. And not everyone is entirely happy. The
announcement in February 2011 that Jersey-born Henry Cavill would soon be
fighting for truth, justice and the American way as the new Superman – joining
British Batman Christian Bale (b. Haverfordwest), semi-septic Spiderman Andrew
Garfield (b. California, raised in Surrey) and ex-pat X-Men McKellen, Stewart,
McAvoy and Fassbender in the fight against evil – sparked reactions ranging from
considered handwringing to outright consternation.
The Comic-Con contingent, inevitably, took to the blogs to bemoan this general outsourcing of caped labour; meanwhile, the pundits of reliably unhinged Fox News staple Fox and Friends floated a connection between America’s obesity epidemic and the inability to find homegrown actors capable of squeezing into Superman’s underpants. (As Bale landed Batman off the back of his weight-shedding turn in 2004’s The Machinist, maybe they had a point.) So why have we become the go-to nation for saving the planet?
As Cavill first caught American eyes as the
thrusting Suffolk on cable television’s The
Tudors, it’s possible that what we’re watching simply constitutes the
latest, most spectacular phase of the hands-across-the-Atlantic process that
brought many British actors – from Hugh Laurie on House to Damian Lewis on Homeland
– to US TV. The characters these actors created were ambiguous, compromised;
they chimed with America’s new-found definition of heroism, reshaped by years
of bruising, non-fantastical conflict. That clean-cut squarejaw thrust forward
by original Superman George Reeves could no longer do justice to the world’s
complexities.
And the latest wave of superhero movies – gloomy of
outlook, morbidly self-involved: perfect adolescent fare, in most respects –
are very serious indeed about the complexity they assume. With their
anti-heroes and tangled mythologies, “Shakespearian” is the word most often
tossed around with an eye to legitimising what might otherwise resemble
expensively ponderous exercises in dressing-up. Standing before the blue and
green screens that facilitate these films’ elaborate effects work, performers
are obliged to visualise space as though they were on stage – so why not recruit
theatrically-trained Brits?
An enduring idea of class may also be crucial here.
The wisecracking arrogance common to American Batmen – from Adam West through
to George Clooney – is intended as endearing, a manifestation of the nation’s
chipper, can-do spirit. In Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight films, Bale’s champagne-sipping, banker-like Bruce
Wayne instead carries aristocratic connotations: we’re meant to notice how only
someone this well-off could insulate themselves from the underclasses. Heath
Ledger’s Joker and Tom Hardy’s Bane register so strongly in these films because
they embody real-world grudges against unsympathetic elites; it’s apt, then,
that those representing the powers-that-be have Empire in their DNA.
Naturally, it helps that we’re relatively cheap.
Given how much summer event movies are now expected to spend on spectacle, more
affordable performers have become a book-balancing necessity. Yet there may
equally be wider sociological reasons for America’s decision to look elsewhere
for its heroes – and why that Fox and
Friends bulletin seemed so very anxious. An article published at
vulture.com at the time of the Cavill announcement suggested that many believe
America, busy fostering a generation of joshing kidults off-screen as well as
on, no longer has the capacity to produce believable supermen.
“I believe there’s been a certain feminisation of
the American male,” said John Papsidera, The Dark Knight’s casting director. “[In the UK], men are still raised as men.
Guys like Henry Cavill, there’s an easy masculinity to them.” An unnamed talent
agent went further: “By the time a kid reaches 12 or 13 in America, if he’s
displayed any talent, he’s steered towards athletics in high school. Kids who
want to do theatre… they’re immediately labelled wimps, or – worse – fags.”
Superhero dressing-up has perhaps become the ultimate test of one’s manhood.
Nolan’s trilogy, which concluded with the Batman
mantle being passed to a young American contender, suggested this trend may not
last: these characters remain potent symbols, whoever’s wearing the cape. Our
thesps are just as likely to be cast as supervillains – Tom Hiddleston’s Loki
in Thor, Benedict Cumberbatch in Star Trek: Into Darkness – and when it
comes to Marvel’s “sexy” next-gen Avengers, we’re batting zero for four, in
baseball parlance: their Captain America is that other, Boston-born Chris
Evans, whose six-pack remains regrettably unambiguous.
As we wait for Man of Steel’s CGI dots to be joined, it’s still possible Cavill’s Superman
will fly the Stars and Stripes higher than ever before. But it appears American
movies, casting directors and audiences are becoming more open to the idea of
British performers assuming the identities of all-American figureheads, just as
this new cinematic free-trade agreement enabled, say, Robert Downey Jr. to play
Sherlock Holmes, or Renee Zellweger Bridget Jones. Only with news Miranda Hart
is to play Wonder Woman will we know the movie world has truly spun in reverse.
Your move, America.
Man of Steel opens in cinemas nationwide tomorrow.
