Review

Culture

Film & TV

7 August 2024

9 min read

Deadpool and Wolverine admit there’s only one story worth telling

Here's why a knowing take on post-modernity's void strikes a chord.

James Lawrence

James is Canon Missioner at Blackburn Cathedral. He researches technology and theology at Oxford University.

Two superheroes, deadpool and Wolverine, stand and crouch respectively, in a desert like place.

'A desert of criticism and a wasteland of cynicism.'

Disney.

Can Marvel Jesus save a dying cinematic universe? That's the key question for the latest film from Marvel Studios and, it would seem at least from the box office, that the answer is: yes!

Deadpool & Wolverine, the snarky buddy comedy odd-ball team-up between Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman, made over $590 million in its first week. That’s the sixth biggest opening of all time.

What follows is not a traditional review, you can find plenty of those online already. Instead, I want us to consider Deadpool & Wolverine as a cultural artefact that displays some of the key themes of our society. The stories that we tell, including the films that Hollywood produces, can act as a mirror to our culture, giving us an opportunity to see trends that we might have otherwise missed. 

As a mirror to this cultural moment, I want to suggest that Deadpool & Wolverine presents us with a cynical and nihilistic take on the end of an era in which all the protagonists can do is barrage the audience with an endless stream of jokes and quips.

The third instalment of the Deadpool trilogy is the first to be set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) since Disney acquired the rights to 20th Century Fox for $71.3 billion. Until now all the X-men movies, the Wolverine movies, the prequels and the Deadpool movies have been produced by 20th Century Fox. But it’s the start of a new chapter for the X-men franchise.

The Disney executives hope for a new lease of life for the MCU, which has been struggling to find its way ever since the epic conclusion to Avengers: End Game. Of course, ordinarily, this sort of corporate back and forth would be irrelevant when thinking about the themes of a movie, but, in this case, the business backdrop is effectively a major plot-point of the film.

A significant portion of the dialogue is spent discussing the acquisition of the X-men franchise by Disney. Deadpool talks about what Kevin Feige (president of Marvel Studios) will and won’t allow in his films. A major action set-piece takes place next to a ruin of the 20th Century Fox logo. Deadpool jokes with Wolverine that he is joined the MCU when they are in a bit of a slump, and, when Deadpool is asked to save the universe, he takes this to mean that he should save the entire MCU franchise describing himself as ‘Marvel Jesus’. The movie knows that this film is the product of a business deal, and it wants its audience to know that too.

So, this film takes place at the end of an era and to highlight this throughout the film, a series of high-profile cameos are made by actors and characters from the last 24 years (no spoilers here). They are brought into the movie so that they might be given a final send off. A heroic on camera action hero death, one last valiant fight before the curtain falls. In a sense, Deadpool & Wolverine is a eulogy to the comic film industry, an era has passed away, we live only in the ruins of a once great edifice and all we can do is joke around and reminisce about the good old days

Deadpool’s is a dark humour, laughing death in the face, traipsing around the trash heap at the end of time incessantly spouting one-liners.

The scepticism Deadpool and Wolverine exhibits about the movie industry, correlates neatly with a post-modern disposition to be suspicious about the role of power. Deadpool knows, and points out to his audience, that it is only the vested interests of corporate power that allow this film to take place, and he revels with delight when these corporations seem to be failing. He is under no illusions that the studios are benign entities who merely hope to make worthwhile art - Deadpool is a cynic, the jester, who takes great satisfaction in declaring that the emperor has no clothes.

Coupled with this is the constant breaking of the fourth wall. This is one of Deadpool’s foundational characteristics, he has been breaking the fourth wall since his earliest appearance in the comics and the previous two films. Deadpool uses this ability to deconstruct and point out some of the quirks of the superhero genre. For example, in the first film when a villain jumps into the scene from a great height, Deadpool says to the audience: “Superhero landing. She's gonna do a superhero landing… You know, that's really hard on your knees.” (This joke is repeated in Deadpool & Wolverine).

The deconstructionist tone contrasts sharply with Marvel’s previous movies, particularly the grand narrative which spanned 22 films and culminated in Avengers: Endgame- an unashamed mythic narrative about the defeat of evil and the triumph of good over bad. Yes, there were jokes and subversive elements in the MCU before Deadpool, but in the main the characters like Captain America are sincere and the movie takes them and their motivations seriously. Deadpool in contrast delights in deconstructing the narrative: Marvel’s grand narrative is over, Fox’s cinematic universe is over, and it is unclear if they will be able to successfully tell another epic mythic story.

All of this, I imagine, sounds quite dystopian and that is not just how the film feels but also serves as the set piece for the middle section of the story. The misadventure of Deadpool & Wolverine lands both characters in “the void at the end of time” a place described as a Mad Max set, a barren desert where only the strongest survive by dominating the weak. In this hellish environment, Deadpool is completely unphased, he continues to make joke after joke, despite multiple characters in the movie telling him to ‘shut up’, and he displays zero remorse when his joking around results in other characters being killed. The humour of this film is the final element which makes it feel very post-modern and nihilistic. Deadpool and Wolverine are left in a hellscape and all they can do is fight with one another and make non-stop sarcastic quips. Deadpool’s is a dark humour, laughing death in the face, traipsing around the trash heap at the end of time incessantly spouting one-liners.

Paul Ricoeur, the French Christian and philosopher describes in his work two instincts in modernity: a ‘willingness to listen’ and a ‘willingness to suspect.’ The willingness to suspect is best exemplified by the three ‘masters of suspicion’, Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche and Sigmund Freud. Following these masters of suspicion, modernity has learnt to be critical and to criticise texts, narratives, motives and power. Ricoeur thinks that we need both instincts, we need to be able to listen and we should be able to suspect, but, he cautions post-modern society that it is possible to find yourself in a desert of criticism in which there is nothing symbolic, nothing sacred, nothing but power and will. I have never seen a better depiction of the ‘desert of criticism’ put to film than Deadpool’s void at the end of time.

Perhaps the film is doing this because this is, in fact, the only story worth telling.

All of this was bubbling around in the back of my head when the film came to its final climax. It is my experience of the finale that made me want to write this review of the film. After almost two hours of post-modern nihilism, in the denouement, our two protagonists are faced with the classic superhero choice to sacrifice themselves so that they can save their universe from imminent destruction. And, of course, like good superheroes, they go willingly into danger and give up their lives for the sake of their friends.

I had such a strange set of emotions as I watched this part of the story unfold.

Firstly, I thought “Oh, right, this is the moment when the hero sacrifices himself- that is obviously what comes next.” I have been conditioned by decades of superhero films to expect this sequence of events at the end of the movie. But secondly, I found myself thinking. “This is so out of place with the rest of the film, this is pure sentimental heroics, we’ve just had two hours of cynicism and fourth wall breaking and the climax of the whole thing is a traditional superhero ending?!” And then, lastly, I found myself wonderful, ‘Perhaps the film is doing this because this is, in fact, the only story worth telling- that everything up to this point has only been playing at cynicism because, at a fundamental level, the filmmakers realise that cynicism and scepticism aren’t enough to make a compelling story.”

Western society feels as if it has lost its narrative. It is as if, just like the MCU, our best story is behind us, and we are flailing to find a new story.

Deadpool & Wolverine is a strikingly resonant film, it has struck a chord with contemporary culture. The film offers us a mirror to the contemporary society in which we live and I think we must look deeply into the mirror if we are going to accurately diagnose the ills of our current cultural moment.

Many people today feel like they are living in a desert at the end of time, devoid of meaningful symbolism and sustenance for the soul. The hollowing out of meaning in post-modern Western culture has resulted in a tinderbox which is ready to combust at a moment's notice. “Over the last month we have seen riots breakout across England caused by an incident in Southport that sent sparks flying.”. Relatedly, contemporary Western society feels as if it has lost its narrative. It is as if, just like the MCU, our best story is behind us, and we are flailing to find a new story. Look at the average Netflix viewing figures to discover that many of us only enjoy watching re-runs of our favourite TV shows from 10 years ago.

The cynicism and scepticism of Deadpool & Wolverine resonates with many people in the contemporary West, and the film offers two ways of reacting to the pain of our cultural moment.

For most of the film Deadpool saunters through this nihilistic hellscape spouting a barrage of gags, sex-jokes and sarcastic quips- that is the first option, to laugh in the face of meaninglessness. But for the climax of the movie, it’s as if the writers knew that they couldn’t maintain the ruse. When the characters of Deadpool and Wolverine make the choice to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others they choose to live for something bigger than themselves. They admit in their actions that they aren’t the nihilists they were pretending to be, and the film acknowledges that in the final analysis there is nothing ultimately satisfying, nothing ultimately sustaining, in that way of being in the world.

Or, to put it another way, the only way that Deadpool could become ‘Marvel Jesus’ is by following in the footsteps of actual Jesus: by sacrificing his life for those whom he loved and by discovering that true life, resurrection life, is always and only ever found on the far side of death.

Paul Ricoeur writes that ‘beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again’, called to a second, or post-critical naïveté. Naivete is a deliberately provocative term to use, no one wants to be considered naïve (even postcritically naïve!), so perhaps you might prefer to think of it as synonymous with restored or as experiencing a recollection of meaning. I think many people in the West today are waking up to the challenge of living in a desert of criticism and a wasteland of cynicism. The capacity to criticise is an important skill, but it has run rampant and left out society with a void of meaning in which nothing is sacred, nothing is enchanted.

Deadpool & Wolverine speaks of a culture desperately in need of a new story, a narrative within which meaning can be found. The film paints in vivid imagery the result of a society that has lost its narrative. And, in the end, Deadpool and Wolverine seems to admit that there is only one story worth telling: self-sacrificial death and resurrection.

Column

Character

Culture

Psychology

18 September 2024

1 min read

‘Yet All Shall Be Forgot?’ Saying sorry has never been more difficult

Acknowledging wrongdoing is vital for any society to flourish. So why do we find it so difficult to apologise, especially online?

Roger Bretherton

Roger Bretherton is Associate Professor of Psychology, at the University of Lincoln. He is a UK accredited Clinical Psychologist.

On a street, two men confront each other face to face.

Darwin Boaventura on Unsplash.

People in the UK don’t like to apologise. At least that’s what a recent poll reported by the Daily Mail claims. Of a thousand British people surveyed, about forty percent of them claimed they didn’t like to apologise because they were never wrong! At least that’s what the headline said. When you actually look at the survey itself, things get a bit more nuanced. 18 per cent don’t feel ‘comfortable’ making an apology. 15 per cent don’t like admitting they’re wrong. 23 per cent feel embarrassed at the thought of apologising. Sorry does indeed seem to be the hardest word. And Elton John seems to be the hardest person to avoid quoting whenever these things come up. Which they do - a lot!

We shouldn’t really be that surprised by the findings of this study. Contrary to the popular belief that the world is divided between goodies and baddies, upstanding citizens and immoral rotters, the ethical picture is much more complex than that. The line between good and bad, as Russian dissident Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn noted, runs through people not between them. Many moral qualities like kindness, forgiveness, gratitude, humility and so on, are trait-like. There are relatively few pure saints and absolute villains, most of us linger in the muddy moral middle, neither exceptionally good nor reprehensibly evil. And this is what the survey indicates. Despite all our reservations about apologising, the average 20 to 50-year-old says sorry about three times a week, totting up an annual total of 150 apologies per year. We may not like apologising, but we get there in the end.

Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as all that. Because while we may apologise, we don’t always mean it. If the need to apologise is a spectrum it not only includes those who NEVER apologise, but also those who ALWAYS apologise. If the non-apologisers sit at one extreme, the super-apologisers dwell at the other. These are the people who over-use apology, who never stop apologising for their existence. According to this survey, 41 per cent of us are first to apologise whether or not we think we are in the wrong, and 38 per cent apologise without meaning it. Ever found yourself inexplicably blurting out a sorry to the person who bumped into you at the supermarket? or gratuitously apologising for your emotions in an attempt to appease the workplace bully who caused them? I have. If that’s you, please pull up a chair and join me at the table of compulsive and unnecessary apologies- assuming you can sit down without apologising for taking up the air space.

With the wisdom of age most of us will learn to let things lie. Which is to say we will learn to forgive. Which is also to say we will learn to accept apologies.

It does seem, from this survey at least, that people are a bit confused about the nature of apology. ‘Sorry’, is a necessary part of the social vocabulary that makes community life possible. To say sorry is to acknowledge that we are embedded within a rich social network upon which we rely for our existence and without which human life would be untenable. It belongs alongside other basic words like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, that recognise our social dependence. This applies everywhere: at home, at school, in the office, down the high street, at church. When we say Please, we acknowledge that there are things we cannot do and cannot know without the help of others. When we say Thank You, we accept that even our greatest achievements were team efforts, not wholly down to us. And when we say Sorry, we accept that this community of trust, this web of promises and fulfilments, is fragile. We can act in ways that fray or even break the threads that connect us to others. Sometimes we don’t show up when we said we would. Sometimes we lie to avoid shame. Sometimes we take far more than we should from those who can’t afford to give. Sometimes we are rude, hurtful, even hateful. Saying sorry is the way we recognise, renew and repair our damaged connections to the people on which our lives depend.

One of the most interesting findings in forgiveness research is that as people get older they generally become more forgiving. Now we can all think of exceptions to this - we all know people who seem to have become bitter rather than better with age - but that’s not the rule of it. Most of us will mellow and become more tolerant as the years pass. Partly because the passing of time diminishes our energy for grudges and plotting petty retaliations. But mainly because the older we get the fewer friends we have left. If young adulthood is awash with weddings, then later life is filled with funerals. To put it bluntly, as we get older more people we know have died. We increasingly realise that our connections to family and friends are priceless and irreplaceable and hardly worth severing over minor grievances. With the wisdom of age most of us will learn to let things lie. Which is to say we will learn to forgive. Which is also to say we will learn to accept apologies.

Why say sorry if there is no hope of social connectedness? This seems to be the zero-sum game played out in our digital lives.

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This by contrast sheds some light on why it might be that some people (the maligned 40 per cent of the survey) simply do not apologise. Admittedly it is likely that the tendency to offer apology varies alongside other personality traits like Agreeableness- our general tendency to get along with people. Those high in Agreeableness are more sensitive to ruptures in their relationships and therefore more likely to resolve these with a well-timed apology. And given that women tend to score more highly than men in measures of agreeableness and social intelligence, it seems equally likely that the league of super-apologisers who say sorry too often (like me) is predominantly populated by women (unlike me). By contrast those who do not apologise are likely to be at the tough-minded end of the personality spectrum, more ferociously individualistic, less emotionally aware, and not particularly sensitive to the fabric of social life into which they are inescapably stitched.

The apologiser and the non-apologiser then inhabit different universes. If apology belongs to a social network that needs to be tended, then the refusal to ever apologise is to deny the relational fabric of human life. Why say sorry if there is no hope of social connectedness? This seems to be the zero-sum game played out in our digital lives. Anyone can trawl the elephant’s graveyard of our online history and find things we said or did in our least thoughtful moments. And if they do, no amount of apology seems sufficient to rectify the mistake. Online apologies cannot erase online offences. It’s hard to imagine a better system for teaching us the futility of saying sorry.

There‘s a timing issue too. Quite often people who do not like to apologise assume their apology will result in humiliation. If they admit to being wrong, they will be publicly shamed, not restored to connectedness but excommunicated. As a result, if they ever do get round to apologising, they do so reluctantly or halfheartedly or under duress or just way too late, and consequently receive exactly the kind of vicious reaction they assume apologies usually receive. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy: if we believe our apologies will be met with hostility, we tend to apologise in ways that make hostility more likely. It’s no wonder some people don’t see saying sorry as a viable social strategy.

To confess is to acknowledge and turn from our self-absorption, distraction, ignorance, inconsistency and whatever else detunes us from this heavenly wavelength.

It is a pity, because for those who care to look apology can address the deepest needs of the human soul. Apology restores us to the human community, reweaves the threads of trust that connect us to family, friends, colleagues, and neighbours. It assumes there is an invisible world we can rely upon, in which we can place our faith, and to which saying sorry can restore us. This is not just the logic of social apology but also the logic of spiritual apology, or to use the more traditional term, confession.

Just as we seem to be confused about apology, we are also pretty confused about confession. For many of us it belongs to movies where gangsters seek forgiveness for heinous acts through the screen of a confessional booth. Or even worse to the humiliation of being forced to publicly reveal our most shameful character flaws. But these are caricatures.

Confession, like apology, ultimately belongs to a benevolent view of reality. A view suggesting that, at all times and in all places we are in the presence of an utterly attentive, absolutely constant and unfailingly loving God. A God who is closer to us than we are to ourselves. A God who cannot help doing whatever it takes to close the distance between us, whose gentle presence hugs the contours of our lives the way the sea hugs the shore. And this divine reality is so permanent, so consistent that, like white noise, we live in complete ignorance of it most of the time. We tend to think that we are here and God is elsewhere, but actually it is God who is here and we who are absentmindedly elsewhere.

In this universe we don’t confess in the hope that our abject humiliation might possibly eke out a morsel of compassion from an otherwise indifferent deity. No. When we confess we acknowledge that while God may be unfailingly aligned with us we are less so with Him. We don’t seem capable of flying in formation with Him. If He moves in straight lines, our lines waver. To confess is to acknowledge and turn from our self-absorption, distraction, ignorance, inconsistency and whatever else detunes us from this heavenly wavelength. If apology restores us to a wider social reality than confession restores us to the deepest reality of all.