Hey Wisecrack, Jared here. Today we’ve got a self-­aware, fourth­-wall-­breaking spectacular
for you. That’s right, we’re talking about Deadpool.
Deadpool is experiencing unprecedented popularity in mainstream media. The film is the highest
grossing R­-rated movie ever, and the biggest opening for Ryan Reynolds, but I guess
that part isn’t a surprise. How has this film achieved such success despite shirking
the traditional superhero formula?
"Bob? I haven't seen you since-"
"Jacksonville."
Fighting for the greater good? Nope. Selfless?
Not really. Fun for the whole family? Uh...
"I'm touching myself tonight."
No.
For a Marvel character who is an overt ripoff of a DC competitor that constantly makes fun
of the medium that he inhabits, the merc with a mouth is doing pretty well for himself.
Deadpool’s popularity represents a trend in media that may be gaining steam lately,
but is otherwise quite old. And it all has to do with a 400 year old book, sort of.
I’m an arrogant asshole and welcome to this Wisecrack Edition on The Philosophy of Deadpool.
Part 1: Achieving Fuck It
There are a few defining features that set Deadpool apart from the rest of the Marvel
universe. He’s an inveterate wiseass,
he knows he’s a superhero and is, as a result,
constantly breaking the fourth wall and commenting on comic book tropes and culture.
Deadpool takes nothing seriously.
Even the ad campaign for the film was imagined in an entirely Deadpoolian fashion.
The film’s Valentine’s Day ads were simultaneously a great way to troll soon­-to-­be
furious partners and a set­up for a self­-referential joke. They even created a Tinder profile.
Perhaps the best way to describe Deadpool is as a postmodern work. Let me explain.
Postmodernism is a movement in the arts and philosophy that typically rejects the kind
of grand narratives used to make sense of the world in the good old days. For instance,
the battle of good against evil, democracy against communism, the inherent promise of
technological progress, science or divine salvation, the very idea of “the good old days”.­
You get the idea. Postmodern works are quick to thumb their nose at tradition
and have a tendency to embrace being “meta” and self­-reference.
Deadpool is hyper-­aware of himself and his place in the superhero genre.
The film is full of Ryan Reynolds jokes, like the reference to the cinematic abomination “The Green Lantern",
his face on People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” or the face of his vastly more
appreciated counterpart ­ also on People Magazine.
If the grand narrative that permeates superhero films is the triumph of good over evil, Deadpool,
in good postmodern fashion, says “fuck it ­ let’s go bowling,” I mean, killing.
Wrong movie - same idea. There is no grand battle of good over evil, just a guy out there
killing a bunch of people for revenge and love.
This tension, between the old world and postmodernism, is played out in a couple different ways in
the film. Colossus is constantly asking Deadpool to cut out the shenanigans and join the X­Men,
as if to rope him into the role of a good superhero, family friendly, righteous, and so on.
Likewise, the Dopinder subplot subverts classic narratives of courtly love. Win the
heart of your beloved through chivalry and compassion? Nah. It’s more effective to
to just kidnap her current lover and stuff him in the trunk. Even Blind Al is essentially
a deranged version of a classic narrative. Deformed protagonist who takes refuge with
a benevolent blind benefactor? Yep sounds familiar, except this time…
Not to mention that the apple of our hero's eye isn't a fair maiden. She's a prostitute turned stripper.
In this way, Deadpool can be seen as a spiritual successor to a 400 ­year-­old novel that
also made fun of the heroes of its eras, employed meta-narratives, and is called by some a proto­-postmodern
work: Don Quixote. Remember that the story of Don Quixote is the tale of a fictional
author who discovered the fictional accounts of Don Quixote, a story within a story, way
before The Blair Witch project. Don Quixote understands he is being written about,
and the fictional author retelling his tale constantly breaks the fourth wall.
At one point in Don Quixote, the story just cuts off when the fictional author claims
the rest of the story was lost. We’re not saying this parallel is intentional, but it is
worth noting that Deadpool kills Don Quixote in the comic books.
To understand Don Quixote’s relation to Deadpool, we have to understand its historical
context. Don Quixote was written at a time when radical skepticism of the existing order
started to bud in popular society. It was written just before the Enlightenment gripped Europe,
which would respond to this skepticism by touting the virtues of rationality and science.
But Don Quixote wasn’t setting out to invent a new ideology: he just wanted
to have a few laughs at the expense of Spanish society.
Deadpool signals a similar disenchantment with all those old righteous narratives in
our society. But this time it’s a little different, and whether or not it’s a good thing is up for debate.
Part 2: Ironic Distance and Cynicism
In a recent interview, Joss Whedon, the man behind such self­-aware titles as Firefly,
Buffy and the Avengers, finds in Indiana Jones a microcosm for all that’s wrong with today’s culture.
In the original Indiana Jones film, our protagonist famously deals with a gratuitous display of
swordsmanship with a modest display of marksmanship. In the Temple of Doom, we’re confronted
with a similar scene but, oh my, there’s now two swordsmen. Indie reaches for his gun,
but it’s not there. He delivers a shit­eating-­grin to the audience, as if to say, “see what
I did there? You saw that last movie, and I made an inside joke about it. I’m so glad
we had this moment together, now that you feel like you’re in on this collective joke
that doesn’t even make sense because Temple of Doom is a fucking prequel.”
That moment of self-­reference for the sake of self-­reference, Whedon says, has engulfed our culture.
Film, television, literature ­it’s all becoming that moment.
This self­awareness is increasingly taking a cynical tone. It’s almost everywhere you
look. In the new Tarzan trailer, a reboot/remake/adaptation of a film nobody asked for,
Jane overtly references the fact that she’s playing the tired role of a damsel in distress.
Now what really chaps my ass about this is that the film is recognizing that it’s using tired recycled tropes, but
instead of doing something new, it simply apologizes for it, and expects us to perceive
this self awareness as something clever and new. The end of Star Trek Into Darkness is
just an excuse to say “Hey ­remember this great scene in cinema? Now it’s opposite day!”
22 Jump Street is the same exact plot as 21 Jump Street, but it’s ok, because
we can collectively identify with Ice Cube for calling them out on their bullshit.
Or, as South Park frames it:
As if to out­-meta each other, this cynical attitude has transcended self­-reference
into self-­effacement. Hollywood, that decrepit machine fueled by the ideas of yesteryear,
is always stuck referencing itself. In an effort reinvent itself while still remaining
the same, it gleefully acknowledges its lazy cliches, with a wink and a nod, like in Tarzan,
or by employing irony to undercut a dramatic moment.
Deadpool does both.
It breaks the fourth wall to let us in on the joke and it avoids serious drama like
the plague. Hollywood still employs familiar structures and tropes, but distances
the audience from any kind of sincerity so that it feels new.
Is this Hollywood version of #sorrynotsorry gratifying for the viewer,
or have we just come to terms with the fact
that there is nothing new to say?
Deadpool’s humor is largely driven by this sense of cynicism and ironic distance. Whether
he’s being tortured, or about to be gruesomely maimed, Deadpool remains unphased in the face
of what would normally be considered high stakes situations. Even the tension of combat
scenes are undercut by self­aware humor. Also ­he can’t die so that probably helps.
If Deadpool is immune to criticism, it’s because he is defined by his cynicism. He
relentlessly deconstructs any trope that would endow meaning to film. Deadpool is more or
less Wade Wilson’s journey to become hot again, itself a shallow endeavor, even if
to reclaim his lost love­ or really lust. Deadpool evades criticism become he has no moral scruples
or values to defend,
his identity is purely reactionary.
He risks nothing. He just makes fun of everything. Deadpool doesn’t claim to be a good guy.
The film also has 0 fucks to give. Its ad campaign doesn’t take itself seriously and
the movie points out its glaring flaws: The overuse of superhero tropes,
or the obvious budgetary constraints.
I mean, Negasonic Teenage Warhead is the Marvel Universe equivalent of a Walmart
bargain bin DVD. But just because the movie is aware of, and sort of apologizes for, it’s lacking qualities,
does that make it good?
I have to admit, I’m conflicted here. On the one hand, I find Deadpool’s self­reflective
edgy commentary to be undeniably enjoyable. At the end of the day, Ryan Reynolds is damn
charming, the action is awesome, and the jokes are disarming and quite fun. But then again,
should we really give so much praise to a movie that essentially functions like an Honest
Trailer for other comic book movies?
Therein lies a danger with this trend: it never creates anything. An obsession
with being meta that devolves into an endless spiral of meta.
In this way, Deadpool isn’t
entirely dissimilar from another cultural movement: one that ironically loves the cliche,
endlessly recycles culture and constantly positions itself against the mainstream­­-hipsters.
As Douglas Haddow once aptly noted, the danger of the hipster is the end of Western civilization
itself, “a culture lost in the superficiality of its past and unable to create any new meaning.”
Deadpool isn’t reinventing the superhero genre, it can only exist to make fun of the genre.
Here’s the real problem with Deadpool and other films like it. Bashing the system
may feel good, it may make us laugh, but it’s ultimately powerless­ it doesn’t change
the system at all.
As our old friend and alleged Mark Hamill body­double Slavoj Zizek notes, “cynical
distance, laughter, irony, are, so to speak, part of the game. The ruling ideology is not
meant to be taken seriously or literally.”
Hipsters fancy themselves
members of the counterculture by drinking PBR and having ironic mustaches. Deadpool
fancies itself a countercultural movie by celebrating its own played-­out cliches and
an overused storyline, the cinematic equivalents of gross hipster mustaches and non-­prescription glasses.
This cultural impasse reflects a society that doesn’t quite know what to do with itself.
We beat the Commies, our music, film and literature dominate the world market, and as a society
we’re not exactly on the brink of collapse ­ despite what political pundits are telling you.
If Deadpool can say “Fuck it,” it’s because he doesn’t fear death. How can he
take anything seriously when there are no consequences? Can life be sacred when it has become
limitless? Hell, if the superhero genre survived these dumpster fires, then maybe it can’t
die either­ so fuck it. Why not break all the rules?
Interestingly, the very sanctity-­breaking of the comic book was inspired a similar problem.
Except, rather than feeling that Deadpool the comic was uncancellable, they felt it
would be cancelled at any minute. What ensued was a similar attitude of “fuck it,” if
the comic was already dead, why not write it like nothing mattered?
If we, as a society, can say “fuck it,” perhaps it’s because death or really any real existential threat
has become either so
distance, or so close that we no longer care.
So where does Deadpool land in our cultural landscape? Does it just use the fourth wall
breaking to put a shiny makeover over the same old shit? Is it the ultimate cynical
film? Or does it actually achieve something new? Let us know what you think in the comments.