Nathan Kiehn is a blogger at Keenlinks, a contributor at Geeks Under Grace, and the author of "The Gray Guard" ebook trilogy on Amazon.
An Old Batman for a New Generation
Even heroes get old.
One of the most interesting aspects of comics is how publishers handle time. Characters such as Superman and Batman have been around for eighty years, yet Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne have not become centenarians. They’re still young, healthy, and in their prime. Comic book universes stretch out the aging process, keeping their prime characters as youthful as they can for as long as possible. Who’d be interested in reading the adventures of a ninety-year-old Spider-Man for the next ten years?
But even heroes get old.
Every so often, a story will veer off deep into the future, examining how our heroes would behave if they actually did age significantly. Old Man Logan saw an aged Wolverine swearing off his claws—at least momentarily. Spider-Man: Life Story examined how Peter Parker’s life would change if he aged as the years progressed. And there’s the father of all “old superhero” stories . . . or, maybe, the grandfather: Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns.
But Miller’s magnum opus isn’t just the tale of a wizened and worn Bruce Wayne. His series is an examination of the changing face of superhuman narratives and how the perception of superheroes themselves was morphing in the public conscience.
Miller’s story is heralded, along with tales such as Alan Moore’s Watchman and The Killing Joke (and, to an equally impactful but lesser publicized extent, Mark Gruenwald’s Squadron Supreme) as a lynchpin for darker, grimmer superhero narratives, particularly those over-the-top globs of excess which would dominate the industry in the '90s. Regardless of its legacy, TDKR remains perhaps the most well-defined Batman story of its or any other generation, a grim gaze into the face of Gotham and a redefinition of her endearing first son.
"Batman: The Dark Knight Returns" Credits
The Dark Knight Returns #1–4
June 1986–December 1986
A Dark Night Over Gotham
Miller’s first issue is, in my mind, one of the single greatest issues of comics I’ve read. It’s a perfect reintroduction to Bruce Wayne and the idea of Batman. Miller’s series was published at a time when the public perception of Batman was still associated with the color-infused TV series led by Adam West. *Returns* swooped in and shook that version up and dipped him in tar. No longer was Batman a gimmick or a goofy live-action cartoon.
What’s perhaps most impressive about the series, particularly in how Miller starts his story, is how it presents the Batman/Bruce Wayne dichotomy. “Batman” is frequently referred to in animalistic terms, growling within Bruce Wayne. Retired for several years after the death of Robin, Batman has been subdued, suppressed.
In one of the first issue's earliest scenes, Bruce finds himself drawn back to Crime Alley, where his parents were murdered before his eyes years before. As he ruminates on the past, he’s assaulted by a pair of thugs from the “Mutants,” a gang which has overrun Gotham. He doesn’t fight back. Despite the howling in his gut, Bruce ignores “Batman.”
Miller expertly pulls Batman out of retirement as the pages build; at first glance, some might believe he simply dons the cape and cowl to battle this new “Mutant” menace, but such an interpretation misses a key aspect: The Mutants are simply the method through which Bruce steers his righteous anger.
What brings Bruce back to the bat is the overwhelming sense of dismay and disgruntlement towards what his city has become, twisted with perhaps a touch of guilt. The impetus for Batman’s return is actually Harvey Dent, who, despite years of therapy to heal his internal turmoil and plastic surgery to fix his external scars, turns back to crime as Two-Face.
Years before, Bruce retired, gave in. And, over time, Gotham has fallen prey to darker minds. Batman returns to shove the darkness back. Yet it’s a newer world that Batman finds himself in, and Miller capably crafts a strong, realistic realm for our Caped Crusader to be reborn into. We’re sucked into an '80s-style era where the Cold War wages on, Russia threatens the U.S. with a giant EMP missile, and Ronald Reagan dithers on about unity and fortitude while hiding behind the safety of a television.
Media itself plays a massive role throughout Miller’s story. Television screens and newscasters pop up in supporting roles, always giving their spin on a breaking story. Humor and tragedy alike flicker across the screens, with Miller’s talking heads barely affected emotionally from any outcome. One newscaster placidly remarks they have footage of a bomb going off in a subway; two others who get into a verbal argument are shushed by a third, trying to keep tempers even.
A sense of bizarre realism weaves its way through the series, particularly in how news is disseminated. You’re treated, at moments, like an audience member, like a Gotham citizen tuning into the evening news. The broadcasts allow Miller not only a way to convey his personal rhetoric but to frame certain sequences; bits of plot and subplots are merely verbalized by news reporters, such as the fact that incoming GCPD commissioner Ellen Yindel has saved the life of a senator, an event hinted at earlier. Gothamites themselves are frequently on screen, describing their view on events.
It’s a bizarre yet satisfying form of manipulation that Miller wields. You, the reader, are given glimpses into events as they actually happen—such as the return of Batman or his final fight with the Joker—while being readily subjected to the subjective perspective of regular citizens.
These Gotham City inhabitants are colorful and varied, offering a variety of outlooks, often contradictory, even to themselves. Interviews catch men and women behaving and speaking in ways contrary to how they frame themselves. Each segment flows into the overall plot, but Miller also makes these sequences engaging reading on their own. Not every moment is centered on Batman, but these moments add a well-rounded and lifelike feel to the narrative.
A Batman Made Better With Age?
“Time” and “age” are highly important themes. Miller's Batman is old, a little creaky, somewhat rusty as he restarts his vigilante career. Yet his bravery and endurance blossom as they did when he was younger, and even if his methods have changed, his mission remains the same. He uses a gun to save a little boy; he utilizes a tank to scatter mobs of Mutant gang members (don’t worry, they’re rubber bullets); he momentarily contemplates killing the Joker and ending their war forever.
This Batman is certainly darker, but he’s couched within his era. The world outside has grown darker while he’s been away; he must grow darker to match. Regardless, his purpose and identity remain as rigid as they’ve always been. He’s here to save Gotham.
Finality runs wonderfully through the entire series, especially as Miller sets up an alternate universe where anything is possible. His world doesn’t need to bend to continuity or the further adventures of our Caped Crusader. Though the series ends on somewhat of a cliffhanger, or at least a promise of tales to come, we see definite endings in various plot points.
Commissioner James Gordon retires, replaced by a younger, more capable officer. Batman and Joker’s battle is their last, with the Clown Prince of Crime dying at the end of the titanic struggle. Two-Face is healed from his scars. And a showdown between Superman and Batman is definitive, not hampered by fans quibbling over who’d beat who in a fight. Miller, free from the constraints of an ongoing series or maintaining continuity, is allowed to manipulate facts and definitions.
Miller makes interesting insights, especially when read in comparison to other stories published around the same time. Though written a few years before “A Death in the Family,” Miller utilizes the passing of a Robin to spur Batman’s early retirement—specifically, Jason Todd. Additionally, Miller lists Gordon’s wife as “Sarah,” a character he created a year later in Batman: Year One, foreshadowing the dissolving relationship between Gordon and his then-canonical first wife, Barbara Gordon.
Miller, particularly with his view on Robin, possesses the creative ability to rethink and restructure the world around Batman and his supporting cast. It’s logical that the death of a sidekick would propel Bruce into retiring the cape and cowl. It’s logical that Harvey Dent could be (at least physically) healed from his scars.
What makes TDKR so much fun is how willingly Miller leans into this alternate universe concept, making these historical alterations or logically presupposing certain changes. You never feel as if Miller has gone too far or is bandying about too many ridiculous, implausible ideas. These changes feel organic, and even if Jason Todd had never been murdered in actual DC continuity (and, yes, I know he came back), the idea of his death feels plausible.
It’s not like Miller introduces some bizarre notion that feels completely out-there—like, say, the Penguin becoming a point guard for the Gotham Knights or Mr. Freeze becoming a used car salesman. Miller seems to be asking, “If A, then B?” and then following through with an answer. “If Harvey was healed, would he be reformed?” “If Robin died, would Batman retire?” “If Batman came out of retirement, how would the Joker respond?”
All of Miller’s narrative and themes point to the altering landscape of superhuman fiction. This wasn’t the 60s, where heroes bopped baddies with a “BIFF!” Gotham is grounded, torn apart by slavering madmen and feeble politicians. Batman doesn’t swoop in on a bat-line to bring the Joker into the revolving door system that is Arkham Asylum. Here, the Joker dies.
Here, the public quibble over Batman as easily as they quibble over the particulars of their lives. Here, Superman has sold out and become a government stooge. Here, Bruce Wayne and James Gordon and Harvey Dent have reached the ends of themselves, supplanted by younger threats, younger monsters, younger cops, and younger heroes. Real change, typically ugly and grim, screeches at the reader like a rabid bat. Miller’s domain is fluid, altering, ready to change course at the writer’s whim.
Yes, TDKR made the Batman dark, but it did so by positing what the Dark Knight Detective could evolve into—or, as Miller seems to imply, what he *needed* to evolve into. Perhaps the problem moving forward, into the '90s, was making everything dark then and there, in the present.
Miller’s Batman is gritty from time, roughened and weathered with age. His is a world that has been beaten down, scarred, blistered, and broken. It certainly looks a bit like ours—people arguing on TV, citizens disseminating their opinions every chance they get—but maybe it’s supposed to be a tad worse. And Batman simply compensates for the urban jungle he trawls through, fighting fire with fire.
© 2021 Nathan Kiehn