In the new Justice League movie, Batman, Wonder Woman, and other superheroes from DC Comics join forces to (what else?) save the world. While Superman is not a leading character in the film, it all takes place in his shadow. If last year’s Batman v Superman depicted a world coping with the fact that Superman’s existence is a magnet for apocalyptic villains of all stripes, the new movie shows that his absence attracts malefactors, too.
Whether present or absent, Superman, it seems, is a problem. Perhaps no fictional character is as well known a symbol of America, even if in recent years he has dropped his mantra of “truth, justice, and the American way.” (And is not that dropping representative of the unfortunate loss of American self-confidence over the last decade or so?) Yet he is a singularly poor exemplar of the American way. Superman represents excellence as bodily perfection wedded to good intentions, a combination that is positively illiberal: It makes Superman a busybody who without license interferes in others’ affairs, not infrequently with disastrous results for the community.
To see just how perverse Superman is, contrast him with Lex Luthor, Superman’s archnemesis of long standing. It is no accident that Luthor, a man distinguished above all not by his criminality but his surpassing genius, is Superman’s foremost foe. For Superman, mind is the enemy. Superman himself—at least as he is typically portrayed—is to be sure not stupid, but the qualities for which he is consistently praised do not include anything reminiscent of brilliance. And the quality by which he is most distinguished—a disinterested love of humanity—is anything but a virtue.
The best articulation of the problem of Superman can be found in Lex Luthor: Man of Steel, written by Brian Azzarello and published in 2005. In the center of that work Luthor sets forth the danger of Superman, with a view to securing assistance to allay it, to a most skeptical audience: Luthor’s fellow billionaire Bruce Wayne. Luthor makes a two-part case against Superman, beginning with simple considerations of prudence: Whatever one may think of Superman’s intentions, it is sheer folly not to seek protection from an individual for whom the only fence against his global tyranny is self-denial: “What if tomorrow he wakes up believing he knows what’s best for us? That it’s not enough to protect the world, when he can rule it? The only safeguard against that happening is his word. And I say—his word—is not enough. Even if you believe it, does it make sense to accept it?”
But, Luthor continues, Superman is not merely a threat for what he might one day do to mankind; he is also the driving force on the path to Nietzsche’s last man. By making everything mere humans can do seem insignificant, Superman destroys all striving and aspiration:
In a wonderful dramatic turnaround, we bear witness to the conversion of Superman’s closest comic-book ally to the side of his greatest nemesis.
Whatever problem Superman represents to humanity is exacerbated by his orientation to it: He aspires to love humankind as a whole, which makes him a peculiarly unattractive individual. We can put Superman’s shortcomings in the clearest relief by contrasting his example with that of one of his companions in the comic books, a truly admirable being: his dog, Krypto, the last canine of Krypton.
Consider the storyline in The Coming of Atlas, a brilliant 2008 story written by James Robinson that highlights Superman’s seemingly Olympian indifference to the personal and individual and contrasts it with Krypto’s love of the particular. The story is—at least for the world of comics—deceptively simple. Superman’s unscrupulous father-in-law, General Sam Lane, has manipulated the timestream to bring Atlas, a magical being with the power to challenge Superman, to the present. On the verge of being defeated, Superman is brought back from the brink by the intercession of Krypto.
We readers are shown Krypto’s thoughts—and those thoughts, both in form and content, show him to be a model dog. Krypto thinks only in the present tense, employing—to the extent possible—one-syllable words with concision; that is to say, he thinks as one would imagine a dog thinking. Moreover, the content of his thoughts goes far toward explaining the old adage that dog is a Kryptonian’s best friend. Krypto is, as befits a good American dog, deeply concerned with his happiness—and what makes him happy, above all, is his master’s praise: “Good boy.” The first word of the story is Krypto’s (“Man”), as is the last word (“Happy”). And in between Krypto displays the cardinal canine virtues: loyalty, courage, and affection. Krypto loves his friends and hates his enemies. And his circle of friends has a limited radius. He has none of that easy and indiscriminate affection that diminishes the charm of a dog’s love for its master.
Krypto’s longest speech occurs when he explains why he is risking his life to help Superman safeguard Metropolis: “Man. This one hurt man. Krypto loves man—Krypto hurt this one. Man loves place. I protect place for man. Krypto good boy.” Superman is not unappreciative, but his appreciation reveals his inability to see beyond his own worldview, according to which all noble beings are motivated by nothing but heroic selflessness and universal philanthropy perhaps sweetened by popular adulation. At the end of the story—immediately after Krypto’s actions have enabled Superman to vanquish Atlas—Superman rewards Krypto by an impromptu speech to the gathered witnesses of Metropolis: “Can you hear me Metropolis? Can you hear me? You want to cheer a hero?! This is a hero! He’s my dog and you know what—now he’s your dog too.” So Krypto’s reward for risking his life exclusively for—and because of his love of—his master is to be symbolically given away by the selfsame master.
Robinson’s (and Krypto’s) critique of Superman may be summarized thus: The aspiration to love everyone makes it impossible, or virtually impossible, to love anyone properly. In The Coming of Atlas, Superman overcomes this unnatural indifference only when dealing with his wife, Lois Lane. With her he is an altogether different—and far more appealing—being. He shows a deep awareness of her needs and acts in a manner that befits a lover with his beloved. When she expresses a certain insecurity due to Superman’s dealings with a woman who is both beautiful and powerful, Superman—or rather Clark Kent—reassures Lois: “Yeah, she’s beautiful, but you are the most beautiful woman in the world, which I have flown across and around many times, so I should know.” Superman’s love for Lois distinguishes him from the doctor mentioned in The Brothers Karamazov: “The more I love mankind in general,” he says, “the less I love people in particular.” This doctor claims he would be willing to do anything for humanity, “would really have gone to the cross for people,” but is “incapable of living in the same room with anyone for even two days.” At least Superman has Lois—or does when he’s in his private capacity. But when in uniform, he is, as it were, uniformly tone-deaf.
There are any number of additional critiques of Superman that can be offered, but his alien indifference and the ways in which his immense power might diminish human aspiration should suffice to make the thoughtful reconsider Superman’s merits. Fortunately, a solution is ready at hand: In the comics and movies, he should never go anywhere without Krypto. Maybe in time the Man of Steel can learn a thing or two from his dog.
Steven J. Lenzner is a research fellow in political philosophy at Claremont McKenna College.
