Remember that Roman Empire trend?  While guys were/are thinking about the Roman Empire, I’m pretty sure the ladies are pondering Regency England.

Looking Back At Neanderthal Ancestry

"What is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? You have made them a little lower than the angels and crowned them with glory and honor."

~Psalm 8:4-5

It may have been while I was in college that the news dropped that Europeans, Asians, and American natives are descended in part from neanderthals. At least, that's when I first heard of it, and the people talking it over seemed to think it was somehow earth shattering. I thought, "huh, I guess that would make sense."

I'm not caught up on my Ancient Ancestors lore, so I can't speak with any authority on what has or has not been determined based on the genomes and other scientific studies. But the news that select humans had "bred" with their genetic cousins appears to elicit different reactions depending on the audience - not all of them nice. A quick google offers suggested-searches of "does White come from Neanderthals?" and "what percent of Neanderthal does each race have?" Even the idea that "all peoples outside Africa have got a little in 'em," though maybe grounded in the data, lends itself easily to narrative spin. The official word appears to be, "Humans moved out of Africa and got it on with the neanderthals," yet based on the suggested searches above, there's a predisposition to lean into the "all races except the Africans."

One assumes (but look where assumptions get us!) that maybe there's a desire for non-Africans to have a little of the degenerate "race" in our genes. And from what I know of popular culture at least, there's the idea that the neanderthals were all killed off in an ancient genocide by their more intelligent human neighbors. One hopes that I am wrong is supposing this, but I suppose that such thought would lend itself to teleological lines of reasoning that elevate certain "races" over others.

Yet I also suppose (unsophisticated luddite that I am) that an alternate view is permissible: that we're all one race, and that our neanderthal cousins were simply another branch in the genetic tree that came out of Eden. We weren't breeding with the most genetically compatible ape-men; our forefathers (of the non-neanderthal sort) gave their daughters in marriage and took to themselves wives from other human neighbors, whom modern science has unkindly labeled "neanderthal." They worshipped God, or didn't, raised children, waged war, and mourned their dead. I should like to have met one, just to see what sort of Man he was and to hear his thoughts about the state of things. One imagines he could educate me a great deal in the ways of the hunt. Probably in architecture, too, and maybe introduce me to a surprising depth of philosophy. 

As GK Chesterton wrote about the primitive cave painters: all we can really say about them as people, is that they were artists.

 This photo brought to you courtesy of Google image search.

American G.O.D.S.

"Whom do you worship and to what lengths will you go to appease your god?"

These are the most significant questions asked in Jonathan Hickman's G.O.D.S., which is less a Marvel mini-series or event and more a collection of eight stories that are intricately linked.  Other reviews have lamented how the story is just a "sandbox playground" for Hickman's "vanity project" and I can see why: the multiple plots seeded throughout; self-referential world-building; worst of all, the inconclusive catastrophe-of-the-week that serves as the catalyst for the first issue, but is resolved off-screen somewhere between issues Seven and Eight.  Yet I think that this perceived narrative weakness is in spite of the story, not because of any lack of story.

What readers expect of limited series like G.O.D.S. is an event: the status-quo-upset seeded in the beginning, with the threat building up and escalating through the ensuing issues, and then fully realized and either averted or serving to springboard into another series.  G.O.D.S. delivers none of these, instead shoving that comfortable outline into the background and using it as a framing devise for the real story: the estranged romance of Reddwyn and Aiko (and to a lesser extent, the goals of their respective sidekicks Dimitri and Mia).  This romance in turn asks the questions "Whom/what do you worship" and "to what lengths will you go to either appease your god or to achieve your own ends?"

The source of Wyn and Aiko's estrangement is their allegiance to two different divinities of the Marvel pantheon.  But those loyalties are only surface level; Wyn's real allegiance is to Aiko, while her allegiance is to herself.  This plays out through the eight chapters as Wyn and Dimitri, Aiko and Mia each grapple with the overt stakes of various cosmic adventures, while indirectly dealing with the consequences of their own motivations.  On the surface, Aiko's machiavellian actions render great rewards: she is affluent and influential, always standing at the shoulder of the most important person in the room or else first through the breach to conquer some new frontier.  Wyn's actions, or inactions, seem to have the opposite result: he's a cosmic fixer in the tradition of Dr. Who, jovially relying on wits and intuition when resources are not readily available.  

But the facade is exposed in the details.  Aiko is a ranking member of an ancient and powerful illuminati and goes surrounded by people and resources, operating from a private cubicle in a glitzy and pristine workspace, but she is entirely friendless; in the only scene showing her interact with others of her organization, they curse her out for her laze-fair distain for the god that she really doesn't reverence.  As the story progresses, the only friendship she does develop ends in tragedy.  Wyn, meanwhile, blundering about like an eldritch hobo, knows everyone by name, easily befriends newcomers, and demonstrates genuine empathy.  Though sometimes expressing nihilistic anxieties, he places a premium on truthfulness and decency, virtues that Aiko flippantly regards as tools in her arsenal.  It's a shakespearean tragedy that leaves readers rooting for Wyn, admonishing and pitying Aiko, and shedding a tear for the ruination that comes of hubris.  Even the time skip in the eighth chapter, which suggests that some things have been set right, really only serves to show the brokenness of everything; that even with repentance, the consequences are lasting.

I suppose those are the final questions that Hickman broaches: what place has repentance in the Greek tragedy; what place has forgiveness?  And if you could go back and do it all again, would you? 

“Hey, Algorithm, I enjoy reading and illustration, painting miniature soldiers, and hiking, as well as learning about foreign cultures.”

The Algorithm selecting ads for my social media feed: “Good to know! But have you considered SPORTSBALL?”

Not Your Typical Superhero Movie, That’s For Sure!: A Review of the Supergirl Trailer

“That the dog returns to his vomit and the sow returns to her mire, and the burnt fool's bandaged finger goes wobbling back to the fire.” 

~Rudyard Kipling

“This movie is a wacky, irreverent adventure about a dysfunctional loose cannon protagonist with a love of dancing and 1980s pop music, who uses snarky humor to mask their inner pain and turmoil.  They’re not your typical superhero, that’s for sure.  But when they get embroiled in a world-ending conflict, they’re forced to team up with a group of likable misfits.  They’re not your typical superhero team, that’s for sure.  Our gang have to learn to put aside their differences and work together to save the day, and along the way our main character finds a new surrogate family in this crazy group of outcasts and learns that sometimes the real heroes are the friends we make along the way.  This isn’t your typical superhero movie, that’s for sure!”

This is the summary that kicks off a review by The Critical Drinker for a superhero movie that may or may not be the brainchild of James Gunn, the doubtful talent behind such hits as the Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy, Suicide Squad (2021), and Superman (2025). “May-or-may-not” is to acknowledge what The Drinker’s review spells out: all of James Gunn’s superhero movies share the same core themes and styling to the point where it has become impossible to tell them apart.  So even though Supergirl is not actually Gunn’s movie, it has the look of “the most James Gunn movie that ever James Gunn’d,” in The Drinker’s words.  I agree.  There’s the 1980s pop music, the quirky retro-futuristic aesthetic, the irreverent humor advertised in the movie’s poster (“Truth. Justice. Whatever.”) and Krypto the super-dog’s sloppy on-screen urination over a newspaper that features a front-page of Superman saving the day.  

It’s all summed up in the portrayal of Kara Zor-el, Superman’s little cousin, whom The Drinker describes as “Not your typical superhero, though: she’s a drunken, cynical, messed up party girl who likes to cut loose and do her own thing.  She’s definitely not here to live up to your expectations, that’s for sure!”  She’s kitted out like a Star Lord fangirl in trench coat and puffy pocket earphones, and drops “funny” one-liners like “this does not look like this is going to end well…for you guys!” (da-da-tzz, Kara Zor-el, everybody!) and truth-bombs, wearily telling a curious sidekick that Superman “sees the good in people; I see the truth.”

Sigh.

This being a sequel to Gunn’s Superman (wherein a very drunk Kara made a cameo appearance) may be the inspiration behind these “creative” choices, but that heritage hardly absolves Supergirl of its all-too-apparent failings, and sets it squarely within the vision of its predecessor.  Maybe that’s what works for some people; I can’t say how often I’ve heard that Guardians is someone’s favorite MARVEL movie(s).  Now, mine may be the unpopular opinion here, but I never did take to that particular trilogy.  The aesthetic was entertaining, and plenty of the visual humor appreciated (I did laugh at the Sovereign drone fighters leaning into retro video game cliches) and at the time the 1980s references were fun; however, the humor and writing overall waffled between mediocre and dreadful.  Rocket Raccoon’s forced hysterics, juvenile human-anatomy jokes, and the overplayed and never-ending attempts at levity grate on the nerves and negate any sense of gravity or wonder.  Say what you like about Joss Whedon, at least his Avengers scripts land the jokes and also maintain the sense of impending doom that the heroes face if they don’t eventually get their crap together.  

Which is all to say that Supergirl, in keeping with Gunn’s style, has missed a huge opportunity to actually break from the mold and do something new, because it is based (at least in part) on a graphic novel that is one of the best I’ve ever read: Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow.

Now’s as good a time as any to commit to a full review of the Supergirl comic, but until I get to it, let me at least draw some differences to illustrate the opportunity missed.  First, Kara is not the main character; she’s the mysterious Stranger that stumbles (drunk) into young Ruthye Marye Knoll’s life as the latter is vainly seeking retribution for her father’s murder.  But where Gunn’s trench-coated inebriation appears to be the defining feature of his lovable rebel, Woman of Tomorrow’s Kara is drunk for a very specific reason, and trench-coated for a very specific reason.  For the rest of the book, she’s resplendent in red and blue, and the object of Ruthye’s curious awe—ignorant as the little girl is of Kara’s history—and thus a foil for Ruthye’s own hero arc from stubborn and petulant to mature and introspective and, ultimately, forgiving.  

Forgiveness, of one’s enemies and of one’s own survivor’s guilt, is the message of Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow.  The message of Supergirl: Truth, Justice, Whatever looks to be shaping up as something less redemptive and philosophical and more dysfunctional, quirky, and “heart-felt.”  Because as long as it’s from the heart, that makes it good.  Right?

Gladiator II and Weird Words

Allow me to indulge in a tangent.  Words are weird, especially words borrowed from other languages.  I got on this train of thought while watching a trailer for the new Gladiator movie, wherein a fighter enters the arena astride a fully accoutered rhinoceros.  This is likely an artistic choice predicated on tigers in the Gladiator of 2000, leading show runners to up the ante with regard to spectacle.  That said, historian-trained though I be, I do not think the inclusion of a rhinoceros in a third-century Roman death-match a necessarily unreasonable creative decision.  According to my limited knowledge of animals, the rhinoceros is said to be violent to a point, but mostly because he is easily startled, and is otherwise comparatively docile insofar as hulking wild animals are concerned.  Thus, the rhinoceros looks fierce and intimidating, but is not nearly so dangerous to the unassuming passer-by as is his neighbor, the hippopotamus.

Which brings me back to words.  “Hippopotamus” is a goofy-sounding word used to name a goofy-looking creature, which no amount of Greco-Roman plumage will ever render remotely as awesome in aspect as a perfectly naked rhinoceros.  Moreover, such a curious name, so famous among kindergarteners, is taken from the ancient Greek for “horse of the water”; in short, hippopotamus is a word that describes the beast as the ancient Greeks observed it, or maybe as they heard it described.  

Two thoughts spring to mind: Firstly, that the hippo’s predilection for breathtaking violence, verging upon the premeditated, makes the name “homicide horse” (as suggested by such luminaries as Casual Geographic on YouTube) more appropriate, because the hippo is far more ferocious than the rhino; Thought the Second: would someone not protest that the hippo looks nothing like a horse?  Indeed, quite apart from his exceedingly generous physiology, the hippo (like the rhino and the elephant) has toes!

Now, I am frankly inspired by the notion of dignifying the bloody-minded hippopotamus with the moniker, “hippophonos,” so I’ll swiftly move on to the second consideration: don’t those toes give the lie to the idea that this could be anything like a horse?  Maybe my love of the ancient world makes me a sympathetic critic; in any event, I am inclined to think that, however inaccurate this hypothetical modern may think the name, I suspect this may be less a mistake on the part of Greek tourists and more an attempt by Greeks to describe a strange animal,  using words that they had ready-made.*  We do the same today, observing orangutans and gorillas, then introducing modifiers (silverback gorilla) or wholly new generalizations, like “great apes.”  Oh, I hear you!  “That’s just differentiating groups of things (bigger apes) from like-things (apes generally).”  To which I respond, “Thank you for illustrating my point.”  This “water horse” is thusly differentiated from horses more generally. 

(*It is worth noting that ancient Greek depictions of hippos were wildly inaccurate in parts, including references to horses’ manes and tales, and hides so thick that, when dried, could be fashioned into spear shafts; also, that Herodotus, at least, is perfectly aware of the bizarre aspect that he is attempting to describe.  Critics of the second mosaic in the north African Villa Nile are not necessarily wrong to point out the horrifying nature of that artist’s hippo, but can any of us be expected to accurately illustrate an animal which we’ve never seen—or even sketch out an acceptable profile of a common house cat?  Meanwhile the contemporary Egyptians styled the hippo “water ox,” which linguistic example is still akin to the Greek attempt, if more visually reasonable.)

“But the toes!” you say.  That is very true, yet let us not forget that there existed a whole prehistoric range of horses possessed of three “toes” or claws (interestingly, a quick Google of the dinohippus claims that some were monodactyl (single-hoofed), while others of the same species were tridactyl).  I hear you!  “Those breeds died out so many thousands or millions of years ago!  How then could a Greek who’d never seen a dinohippus or an eohippus or any other sort of tridactylite equine mistake a multi-toed hippopotamus for anything like the majestic stallions of Xenophon’s Peri Hippikes?”  In answer, let me first direct your attention to any one of the more exotic artistic reimagining of what these little stallions looked like; observe how extravagantly different they appear next to their majestic modern-day descendants.  Then let me ask what may strike one as odd: did the Greeks never see a three-toed horse?  

Absurd as one may think it, hear me out: the ancient Greeks lived in a world very different from out own, where stories of lions and anatomically accurate depictions of lions figure un-ironically in the cultural landscape.  I take the Middle Ages’ artistically-reinterpreted lions (seen in illuminated manuscripts and tapestries) as evidence of what happens when one has only a description of lions with which to work (as with Herodotus and the artist responsible for the walls in the Villa Nile).  But even the Middle Ages are a time remote from our own, where the things held true and normal seem fantastical to us today.  Take Beowulf, who brags about his clash with sea monsters while swimming the fjords.  In the 2007 film, our titular hero is accosted by many-tentacled monocular hell-spawn from beyond space and time, but in the tenth-century poem, it is “merely” orcas with whom he tussled; the classically heroic bit is that he was swimming in armor with a heavy sword in his hand, in anticipation of such an assault.  I hear you!  “Orcas don’t attack people in the wild!”  Yet we do know them to be fiendishly intelligent and prone to developing strategies for washing seals from ice flows, and we read about generations of orcas assuming temporary habits of attacking tourist vessels or donning dead salmon as hats; moreover, we see video of captive orcas giving in to frustration by pushing their handlers underwater and pinning them to the pool floor—exactly as Beowulf describes.

So I think myself justified in suggesting that the medieval, antique, and ancient worlds were very different from our own, and that horses with toes would be surely the least surprising anomaly.  Indeed, it is a certain kind of arrogance on our part to assume that we have even a reasonably accurate view of the past, especially the farther back we peer.  No matter how many manuscripts we decipher, or friezes copied, or artifacts recovered, our assembled depictions of the ancient past can only ever be a best guess; and like the technically accurate urban neighborhood of Vivarium (2019), there awaits an uncanny valley for any time-traveller from second-century Rome who attends a showing of Gladiator II.