Season 5, Episode 3: Flash! Bang! Pow!
So I'm back, with more ruminations on pop culture (no surprise there).
For the last few years or so, superheroes and hero/villain culture has been seemingly everywhere. Half of my friends are die-hard Avengers fans, and of the other half, I'd say 90-95% of them would argue that Batman and the DC comics are better. All this to say, there are very few college students who don't have some knowledge of superheroes, myself included.
I've never been much of a comic book person myself--while I can appreciate the artistry and the ridiculous amount of outlining, preparation, and development it takes people to create plots, characters, and entire universes that weave seamlessly into each other, I've always been more of a "give me lots of words and I'll visualize the rest of the details myself, thanks" sort of person. But, I love the plotlines, as most people do. Even the most anti-superhero-movie human admits some satisfaction in the plots of these comics, tv shows, and films, because in the end, it always comes down to a triumph of good over evil (a recurring theme I've talked about before, see: Traitorous).
As someone who's always preferred fiction and fantasy novels, the same plotlines (particularly in superhero films) tend to be satisfactory to me as well. There might be depth missing from a character that I could've gotten in the comic books, but at least in my case, I didn't go to see Endgame to watch Nebula's internal struggle about family loyalties. I came to see the good guys kick butt. These movies fall into the "feel-good" type for me, because I know that in almost every scenario, the ending will make me feel hopeful, or empowered, or just pleased to see the issue resolved in a way that seems to follow a proper pattern of justice and fairness.
One of my favorite aspects of books, though, has always been character development. When I read a story or series, I want to see growth and atrophy, I want real depictions of emotions, I want believable reactions and age-appropriate dialogue. Which, when you think about it, should most definitely transfer over to my analysis of superhero movies. I mean, if you're going to present me with a scenario where a relatively arrogant, wealthy surgeon gets into a car crash and then ends up being able to manipulate time and space, I should hope there's something realistic to ground the rest of that story.
But I've got a pretty active imagination, so I don't always search for that. I'm able to take the circumstances at face level and say "well, it's a different universe, so of course so-and-so can swing from spiderwebs during the day and not have detention constantly for skipping class" and so on, and so forth.
All this to say, I'm well-versed in suspending reality to enjoy a program about hobbits, or witches and wizards, or tributes, or superheroes--and I normally don't mind.
For the last few years, a show has aired on the CW called The Flash. As someone who spent plenty of time watching CW shows in middle school, high school, and college, I didn't have too much hope for it. Not that their programs aren't decent, but they're generally...overly dramatic, to say the least (*cough cough The 100, Riverdale, Supernatural cough cough*). Plus I know next to nothing about the DC comic universe--a sad but true fact--which made me less inclined to want to watch a program featuring one of its heroes.
Anyway, I've been following it kind of indirectly for years, initially because I liked one of the main actresses in it (Danielle Panabaker, for all those curious) from her time on Disney channel, and later because I found out that one of the actors from the Harry Potter films had joined the show's cast. As stated previously, I know very little about the DC universe, but I'd wanted to check out the show for a while and just hadn't found a pressing desire to do it, so I didn't. That changed this weekend.
The last few weeks have been busy, as I've finalized last-minute changes to my schedule, had a full week of classes and meetings and trainings, and have fully started to process that I'm graduating in...107 days. This weekend was the first time I've fallen back into my pattern of resting weekly, of taking time away from all other facets of work and school and responsibilities to do something that's relaxing for me.
Which somehow resulted in me spiraling down the rabbit-hole of The Flash. I'm a very all or nothing person, so maybe it doesn't surprise anyone that I sped through (no pun intended) the entire first season in two days. But I've observed some things that I've really enjoyed--and that I wasn't expecting to enjoy-- that I wanted to share.
I won't go all in on the plot for you, the first five seasons are out on Netflix, and season six is set to premiere in October, but suffice it to say, I've been impressed.
Mainly this comes from the characters themselves. Over the course of 23 episodes, we get decent backstories for our major characters, and adequate ones for the supporting players.
We find out that Barry's mom was murdered in his living room when he was a kid, his father was framed for the crime, and that he's been living with Detective Joe West and his daughter Iris ever since. We discover that Barry's loved Iris since before he knew what love even was--and that it's unrequited (a big oof for anyone else who's ever had that kind of long-term crush on someone). We get all of this backstory (and more) on him, and eventually a similar one on his mentor of sorts, Doctor Harrison Wells.
What I like so much about these characters, though, isn't that Barry Allen is a CSI turned speedster (although to be honest, that's amazing), or that there's relatively organic seeming diversity (although again, much appreciated). It's that somehow there's real portrayal of human behavior going on behind the scenes of each episode's plotline.
Generally, the showdown between any ~villain~ that Allen and his team face is the climax of the episode, but I think the real value in this show (to me at least) has come from a very human portrayal of emotions. Allow me to give some examples.
We all know I'm big on patterns in literature and music and pretty much everything in between. I see them in everything, much to the chagrin of people around me who would love to just, you know, enjoy a song on the radio without me pointing out that this song has a variation on a theme from another song in the artist's album...Not that I'm speaking from experience there at all.
Anyhow, I love patterns. Repetition? It's important, it usually means something (Especially when you're looking in the Bible--the number of times I've had a mentor or pastor note "How many times does the author of this passage say ___" is higher than you'd think). So I pay attention to it.
The two major word patterns I've seen in this show so far are variations on "I promise you," and "I have to try." An interesting combination, in my opinion.
Even more interesting, the "I promise you," in almost every scenario that I can recall it being said, comes from one specific character--one that proves to be significantly untrustworthy, someone who breaks nearly all of their promises, or comes through in a way that's a manipulation of the original intent of the person who was given a promise. It's fallibility, plain and simple. This character may be able to do something, but they may not. They can't really promise a result, but they do, every time. And every time they said it, some part of me flared up in anger, thinking "don't make promises you're not prepared to keep, otherwise your word means absolutely nothing."
Have I mentioned I'm all or nothing? That's part of it. Meaning what you say is a big deal for me, so the first time I saw this character promise to bring someone home or get a result and it didn't happen, I was skeptical. But then they JUST. KEPT. SAYING. IT. We'll come back to this in a minute.
The other pattern I mentioned was "I have to try," which coincidentally, comes from the seemingly most reliable character in the show, Barry Allen himself. Throughout the first season, we see him rarely stray from his priorities and morals. The majority of his work is done in order to exonerate his father, to protect his friends, or to save citizen lives--even if those citizens are the "bad guys." He rarely shifts away from those priorities. He's a constant--an ironic fact since his whole character is based on motion--and at some times, it's frustrating how much of a constant he is.
For example, over a series of episodes, Barry ends up in situations where two alternate approaches for handling them are present. Repeatedly, he says something along the lines of "but guys, if I (insert some method of handling things here), I can clear my father's name," which for a while infuriated me to no end--especially because usually, the method he wanted to use would put one of his team members at risk and to me it seemed like he didn't care about them at all.
AND THEN IT HIT ME.
I know, all caps, always a good sign. It hit me that this was actually the most realistic interpretation of a hero I could've asked for. In story-writing, there's this concept of "Mary Sue" characters, which are loosely defined as characters that are too-perfect. They've got all of the boxes checked: they're attractive, brilliant, skilled in ways that are unbelievable or unrealistic for their age or position, and may even carry an air of mystery about them that draws everyone around them in. I say this because the "Mary-Sue" response in these scenes would've been for Barry to continually put his friends and family before his own desire (which, admittedly, he does later on, in a much more believable way) to free his father. But he doesn't, because he's a human. He's flawed, and his priorities are always going to be just that, his priorities, not those of his friends. And that doesn't make him a bad person or a terrible hero, in fact, it makes him probably a better one all the way around.
As I mentioned, he's the one who keeps saying "I have to try." Usually this line is given right after one of the members of his team says "But Barry...you've never run that fast!" or "Barry, we don't even know if that'll work!" (and yes, the line is that predictable--I didn't come on here to praise the show's writing lol). Shockingly, each time the line's been said so far, Barry's trying has turned into his succeeding, which I'm sure I could analyze as some sort of nod to self-confidence being a great motivator, but again, not what I'm here for.
Honestly, the parallel between those characters and their token lines gets me. The character that I spent the whole season hating makes all of these promises that just seem...empty, meanwhile, the character that we're meant to love consistently presents his abilities as potential attempts rather than concrete guarantees. If anyone has the right to make promises in this show, it's Barry. He does it once, notably, and follows through on it (props to him for being a better person that they-who-shall-not-be-named). It's an interesting contrast, between reliable and not, and uncertain statements vs guarantees.
So I like that contrast, obviously. But I also really like another aspect of character development that the show presents: none of the main characters are one-dimensional.
There are two main female characters in the show, both of whom are more than just eye-candy for the male protagonist. They have backstories, they have their own goals and aspirations, they're not confined by the wants and needs of Barry or any of the other male characters. More than that though, they're strong. Both of the females experience some profound losses over the course of the first season. Their relationships seemingly crumble from a lack of trust, their loved ones leave--in a variety of ways--they're faced with difficult decisions and tough conversations.
They cry, and that's okay. It's never shown as a weakness, their tears. It's an emotional response, because those are emotional situations. They do what most women--what most people--do when they're faced with circumstances like that. They cry, they mourn, they take the necessary time to grieve, but they pick themselves back up and move forward--in many cases shoving their emotions aside in the moment so they can deal with the pressing issue at hand, before returning to normal steps to process after the fact.
It's so common to see women cry in pop culture, and then have them immediately be written off as incapable. A scientist cries, and suddenly no one trusts her to give them answers on chemical reactions because "she's just too emotional;" an athlete cries after being injured and she's "a pansy" or "not as good as a man;" a politician is dismayed by the vitriol spit at her and she "can't separate her emotions from the position." I know I said pop culture, did I mention this happens daily in the real world too? It's infuriating to me, because as a woman I know I'm more than what one glimpse into my emotions conveys. Even more infuriating when there's no happy medium between too emotional and emotionless, but that's another topic for another time.
The point I'm trying to make here is that no one in this show dismisses these women for having feelings--which is a perfect segue into my next topic.
Women! Aren't! The! Only! Ones! With! Feelings! (In this show and in real life).
Barry Allen is easily my favorite character so far, for a variety of reasons--one of which being the tentative mastery of his emotions that is displayed across the first season. The man cries. A lot. For good reason, sure, but it's more than I'm used to seeing in superhero culture. My expectation with those normally reads something like this.
That's all fine and good, sure, but also...the only emotion there is anger, which just doesn't track to me. Heroes, as strong and powerful and superhuman as they are, are in almost all cases human first, and then super. Human--a species which is marked by its ability to emote, to empathize, to process feelings. Not giving superhero protagonists the opportunity to express those emotions actually makes them seem less than human, not more than one. I'm sure that's a hot take for some people, so I'll let that sit while I get back to my point about Barry Allen.
He cries. I gave you a bit of his backstory already, and told you that nearly everything he does is motivated by the desire to free his father. Every time those attempts fail, he's upset about it. And it makes sense that he would be. He cries freely enough when he's with Detective West, or Iris, or his Dad and it breaks down some of the toxic-masculinity traits that are so often ascribed to superheroes. He processes emotions like a normal human, he reacts in the same way our strong women do, because--surprise surprise--all of them are humans! So I like him a lot for that.
My favorite part about him though, comes at the end of the first season and the beginning of the second. The important plot points you need to know are that at the end of Season 1, in the midst of a fight against evil, people Barry and his team were close to died. I won't say more for sake of spoilers, but that's how season one ends. Season 2 opens with a six-month time jump, where we see Barry operating on autopilot in a series of solo missions.
Supporting characters are seen asking each other "when was the last time you heard from Barry?" and exchanging sympathetic looks back and forth. The city gets a case and the members of his team all meet up in their usual location without him, and then Barry walks in. Looking taken aback, frustrated, and more than a bit unnerved by their presence, he says "All right guys, I don't want any of you here right now."
Seems like a bold move, doesn't it? You walk into a room of your friends and basically just say (and not all too kindly) get out? Not the most popular choice. Until you think about it. We get a bit more detail on what's going on here later in the episode, but essentially, Barry's blaming himself for everything that's happened. All of his other escapades have only resulted in his own insult or injury, but this one cost lives and he's (understandably) upset about it. So he decides to isolate himself, throwing himself into pet projects across the city and saving the citizens of Central City as a "lone ranger" because he assumes that if he does it on his own, none of his friends will get hurt. It's meant to be an act of protection and preservation, and wildly reminiscent (at least to me) of Holmes' assertion of "alone is what I have, alone protects me," in BBC's Sherlock.
It's almost like he's thinking "you can't take/hurt what I don't have" about all of his friends, and it's a s sad thing to watch play out for a while there. But luckily, immediately after his claim that he doesn't want anyone in their meeting place, Detective West comes in with "Tough. You need your partners. You need your friends." And he's right, obviously. But this whole situation feels human and accurate-- painfully so, if I'm honest. How many times have I sat down and analyzed a situation and said, "well if I didn't have x or y or z, then no one could use it against me" and then sought to hide my love for books, or how excited I get about music theory, or personal insecurities? It's an almost fully natural response, fool me once shame on you, fool me twice...you know how it goes. If you could take away the ability to be fooled twice, would you? Some of us would say yes, others no. But that's exactly what Barry does here.
It's fascinating to me to watch his character because he's younger than most superheroes. Spiderman being excepted, I've always imagined most superheroes to be somewhere in their 30s. This guy, though, he's still largely a kid. He's 25 years old, he's not fully ready to handle everything that life can and will throw at him. So he tries his best, but sometimes he makes stupid decisions like pushing away everyone he loves in an attempt to protect his friends, but even more so himself. Because that's what it comes down to. He's pushing people away so he doesn't get hurt. And again, I've already said, he's too human of a character to always make the right choices, the selfless ones.
It's good to see. It brings superheroes back down to earth and levels the playing field a bit, but more than that, it provides some amount of hope for all of us watching at home. Because what we end up seeing is a young man with a great heart who cares about people deeply, who has a moral compass, who wants to do the right thing in every situation and still falls short. And that's about as human as you can get.
Signing off,
Amanda
For the last few years or so, superheroes and hero/villain culture has been seemingly everywhere. Half of my friends are die-hard Avengers fans, and of the other half, I'd say 90-95% of them would argue that Batman and the DC comics are better. All this to say, there are very few college students who don't have some knowledge of superheroes, myself included.
I've never been much of a comic book person myself--while I can appreciate the artistry and the ridiculous amount of outlining, preparation, and development it takes people to create plots, characters, and entire universes that weave seamlessly into each other, I've always been more of a "give me lots of words and I'll visualize the rest of the details myself, thanks" sort of person. But, I love the plotlines, as most people do. Even the most anti-superhero-movie human admits some satisfaction in the plots of these comics, tv shows, and films, because in the end, it always comes down to a triumph of good over evil (a recurring theme I've talked about before, see: Traitorous).
As someone who's always preferred fiction and fantasy novels, the same plotlines (particularly in superhero films) tend to be satisfactory to me as well. There might be depth missing from a character that I could've gotten in the comic books, but at least in my case, I didn't go to see Endgame to watch Nebula's internal struggle about family loyalties. I came to see the good guys kick butt. These movies fall into the "feel-good" type for me, because I know that in almost every scenario, the ending will make me feel hopeful, or empowered, or just pleased to see the issue resolved in a way that seems to follow a proper pattern of justice and fairness.
One of my favorite aspects of books, though, has always been character development. When I read a story or series, I want to see growth and atrophy, I want real depictions of emotions, I want believable reactions and age-appropriate dialogue. Which, when you think about it, should most definitely transfer over to my analysis of superhero movies. I mean, if you're going to present me with a scenario where a relatively arrogant, wealthy surgeon gets into a car crash and then ends up being able to manipulate time and space, I should hope there's something realistic to ground the rest of that story.
But I've got a pretty active imagination, so I don't always search for that. I'm able to take the circumstances at face level and say "well, it's a different universe, so of course so-and-so can swing from spiderwebs during the day and not have detention constantly for skipping class" and so on, and so forth.
All this to say, I'm well-versed in suspending reality to enjoy a program about hobbits, or witches and wizards, or tributes, or superheroes--and I normally don't mind.
For the last few years, a show has aired on the CW called The Flash. As someone who spent plenty of time watching CW shows in middle school, high school, and college, I didn't have too much hope for it. Not that their programs aren't decent, but they're generally...overly dramatic, to say the least (*cough cough The 100, Riverdale, Supernatural cough cough*). Plus I know next to nothing about the DC comic universe--a sad but true fact--which made me less inclined to want to watch a program featuring one of its heroes.
Anyway, I've been following it kind of indirectly for years, initially because I liked one of the main actresses in it (Danielle Panabaker, for all those curious) from her time on Disney channel, and later because I found out that one of the actors from the Harry Potter films had joined the show's cast. As stated previously, I know very little about the DC universe, but I'd wanted to check out the show for a while and just hadn't found a pressing desire to do it, so I didn't. That changed this weekend.
The last few weeks have been busy, as I've finalized last-minute changes to my schedule, had a full week of classes and meetings and trainings, and have fully started to process that I'm graduating in...107 days. This weekend was the first time I've fallen back into my pattern of resting weekly, of taking time away from all other facets of work and school and responsibilities to do something that's relaxing for me.
Which somehow resulted in me spiraling down the rabbit-hole of The Flash. I'm a very all or nothing person, so maybe it doesn't surprise anyone that I sped through (no pun intended) the entire first season in two days. But I've observed some things that I've really enjoyed--and that I wasn't expecting to enjoy-- that I wanted to share.
I won't go all in on the plot for you, the first five seasons are out on Netflix, and season six is set to premiere in October, but suffice it to say, I've been impressed.
Mainly this comes from the characters themselves. Over the course of 23 episodes, we get decent backstories for our major characters, and adequate ones for the supporting players.
We find out that Barry's mom was murdered in his living room when he was a kid, his father was framed for the crime, and that he's been living with Detective Joe West and his daughter Iris ever since. We discover that Barry's loved Iris since before he knew what love even was--and that it's unrequited (a big oof for anyone else who's ever had that kind of long-term crush on someone). We get all of this backstory (and more) on him, and eventually a similar one on his mentor of sorts, Doctor Harrison Wells.
What I like so much about these characters, though, isn't that Barry Allen is a CSI turned speedster (although to be honest, that's amazing), or that there's relatively organic seeming diversity (although again, much appreciated). It's that somehow there's real portrayal of human behavior going on behind the scenes of each episode's plotline.
Generally, the showdown between any ~villain~ that Allen and his team face is the climax of the episode, but I think the real value in this show (to me at least) has come from a very human portrayal of emotions. Allow me to give some examples.
We all know I'm big on patterns in literature and music and pretty much everything in between. I see them in everything, much to the chagrin of people around me who would love to just, you know, enjoy a song on the radio without me pointing out that this song has a variation on a theme from another song in the artist's album...Not that I'm speaking from experience there at all.
Anyhow, I love patterns. Repetition? It's important, it usually means something (Especially when you're looking in the Bible--the number of times I've had a mentor or pastor note "How many times does the author of this passage say ___" is higher than you'd think). So I pay attention to it.
The two major word patterns I've seen in this show so far are variations on "I promise you," and "I have to try." An interesting combination, in my opinion.
Even more interesting, the "I promise you," in almost every scenario that I can recall it being said, comes from one specific character--one that proves to be significantly untrustworthy, someone who breaks nearly all of their promises, or comes through in a way that's a manipulation of the original intent of the person who was given a promise. It's fallibility, plain and simple. This character may be able to do something, but they may not. They can't really promise a result, but they do, every time. And every time they said it, some part of me flared up in anger, thinking "don't make promises you're not prepared to keep, otherwise your word means absolutely nothing."
Have I mentioned I'm all or nothing? That's part of it. Meaning what you say is a big deal for me, so the first time I saw this character promise to bring someone home or get a result and it didn't happen, I was skeptical. But then they JUST. KEPT. SAYING. IT. We'll come back to this in a minute.
The other pattern I mentioned was "I have to try," which coincidentally, comes from the seemingly most reliable character in the show, Barry Allen himself. Throughout the first season, we see him rarely stray from his priorities and morals. The majority of his work is done in order to exonerate his father, to protect his friends, or to save citizen lives--even if those citizens are the "bad guys." He rarely shifts away from those priorities. He's a constant--an ironic fact since his whole character is based on motion--and at some times, it's frustrating how much of a constant he is.
For example, over a series of episodes, Barry ends up in situations where two alternate approaches for handling them are present. Repeatedly, he says something along the lines of "but guys, if I (insert some method of handling things here), I can clear my father's name," which for a while infuriated me to no end--especially because usually, the method he wanted to use would put one of his team members at risk and to me it seemed like he didn't care about them at all.
AND THEN IT HIT ME.
I know, all caps, always a good sign. It hit me that this was actually the most realistic interpretation of a hero I could've asked for. In story-writing, there's this concept of "Mary Sue" characters, which are loosely defined as characters that are too-perfect. They've got all of the boxes checked: they're attractive, brilliant, skilled in ways that are unbelievable or unrealistic for their age or position, and may even carry an air of mystery about them that draws everyone around them in. I say this because the "Mary-Sue" response in these scenes would've been for Barry to continually put his friends and family before his own desire (which, admittedly, he does later on, in a much more believable way) to free his father. But he doesn't, because he's a human. He's flawed, and his priorities are always going to be just that, his priorities, not those of his friends. And that doesn't make him a bad person or a terrible hero, in fact, it makes him probably a better one all the way around.
As I mentioned, he's the one who keeps saying "I have to try." Usually this line is given right after one of the members of his team says "But Barry...you've never run that fast!" or "Barry, we don't even know if that'll work!" (and yes, the line is that predictable--I didn't come on here to praise the show's writing lol). Shockingly, each time the line's been said so far, Barry's trying has turned into his succeeding, which I'm sure I could analyze as some sort of nod to self-confidence being a great motivator, but again, not what I'm here for.
Honestly, the parallel between those characters and their token lines gets me. The character that I spent the whole season hating makes all of these promises that just seem...empty, meanwhile, the character that we're meant to love consistently presents his abilities as potential attempts rather than concrete guarantees. If anyone has the right to make promises in this show, it's Barry. He does it once, notably, and follows through on it (props to him for being a better person that they-who-shall-not-be-named). It's an interesting contrast, between reliable and not, and uncertain statements vs guarantees.
So I like that contrast, obviously. But I also really like another aspect of character development that the show presents: none of the main characters are one-dimensional.
There are two main female characters in the show, both of whom are more than just eye-candy for the male protagonist. They have backstories, they have their own goals and aspirations, they're not confined by the wants and needs of Barry or any of the other male characters. More than that though, they're strong. Both of the females experience some profound losses over the course of the first season. Their relationships seemingly crumble from a lack of trust, their loved ones leave--in a variety of ways--they're faced with difficult decisions and tough conversations.
They cry, and that's okay. It's never shown as a weakness, their tears. It's an emotional response, because those are emotional situations. They do what most women--what most people--do when they're faced with circumstances like that. They cry, they mourn, they take the necessary time to grieve, but they pick themselves back up and move forward--in many cases shoving their emotions aside in the moment so they can deal with the pressing issue at hand, before returning to normal steps to process after the fact.
It's so common to see women cry in pop culture, and then have them immediately be written off as incapable. A scientist cries, and suddenly no one trusts her to give them answers on chemical reactions because "she's just too emotional;" an athlete cries after being injured and she's "a pansy" or "not as good as a man;" a politician is dismayed by the vitriol spit at her and she "can't separate her emotions from the position." I know I said pop culture, did I mention this happens daily in the real world too? It's infuriating to me, because as a woman I know I'm more than what one glimpse into my emotions conveys. Even more infuriating when there's no happy medium between too emotional and emotionless, but that's another topic for another time.
The point I'm trying to make here is that no one in this show dismisses these women for having feelings--which is a perfect segue into my next topic.
Women! Aren't! The! Only! Ones! With! Feelings! (In this show and in real life).
Barry Allen is easily my favorite character so far, for a variety of reasons--one of which being the tentative mastery of his emotions that is displayed across the first season. The man cries. A lot. For good reason, sure, but it's more than I'm used to seeing in superhero culture. My expectation with those normally reads something like this.
~scene start~
-- enter hero, stage right
-- hero sees that the love of his life has been slain in battle
-- hero screams loudly and throws things
-- hero punches (the ground? a wall? a person who entered with them?) in anger
-- hero steels face and goes back to battle "for revenge"
-- hero wins battle
----cut to funeral scene----
-- hero stoically stares at the coffin of the love of his life
-- hero lays a rose on coffin, turns and leaves cemetery
~end scene~
That's all fine and good, sure, but also...the only emotion there is anger, which just doesn't track to me. Heroes, as strong and powerful and superhuman as they are, are in almost all cases human first, and then super. Human--a species which is marked by its ability to emote, to empathize, to process feelings. Not giving superhero protagonists the opportunity to express those emotions actually makes them seem less than human, not more than one. I'm sure that's a hot take for some people, so I'll let that sit while I get back to my point about Barry Allen.
He cries. I gave you a bit of his backstory already, and told you that nearly everything he does is motivated by the desire to free his father. Every time those attempts fail, he's upset about it. And it makes sense that he would be. He cries freely enough when he's with Detective West, or Iris, or his Dad and it breaks down some of the toxic-masculinity traits that are so often ascribed to superheroes. He processes emotions like a normal human, he reacts in the same way our strong women do, because--surprise surprise--all of them are humans! So I like him a lot for that.
My favorite part about him though, comes at the end of the first season and the beginning of the second. The important plot points you need to know are that at the end of Season 1, in the midst of a fight against evil, people Barry and his team were close to died. I won't say more for sake of spoilers, but that's how season one ends. Season 2 opens with a six-month time jump, where we see Barry operating on autopilot in a series of solo missions.
Supporting characters are seen asking each other "when was the last time you heard from Barry?" and exchanging sympathetic looks back and forth. The city gets a case and the members of his team all meet up in their usual location without him, and then Barry walks in. Looking taken aback, frustrated, and more than a bit unnerved by their presence, he says "All right guys, I don't want any of you here right now."
Seems like a bold move, doesn't it? You walk into a room of your friends and basically just say (and not all too kindly) get out? Not the most popular choice. Until you think about it. We get a bit more detail on what's going on here later in the episode, but essentially, Barry's blaming himself for everything that's happened. All of his other escapades have only resulted in his own insult or injury, but this one cost lives and he's (understandably) upset about it. So he decides to isolate himself, throwing himself into pet projects across the city and saving the citizens of Central City as a "lone ranger" because he assumes that if he does it on his own, none of his friends will get hurt. It's meant to be an act of protection and preservation, and wildly reminiscent (at least to me) of Holmes' assertion of "alone is what I have, alone protects me," in BBC's Sherlock.
It's almost like he's thinking "you can't take/hurt what I don't have" about all of his friends, and it's a s sad thing to watch play out for a while there. But luckily, immediately after his claim that he doesn't want anyone in their meeting place, Detective West comes in with "Tough. You need your partners. You need your friends." And he's right, obviously. But this whole situation feels human and accurate-- painfully so, if I'm honest. How many times have I sat down and analyzed a situation and said, "well if I didn't have x or y or z, then no one could use it against me" and then sought to hide my love for books, or how excited I get about music theory, or personal insecurities? It's an almost fully natural response, fool me once shame on you, fool me twice...you know how it goes. If you could take away the ability to be fooled twice, would you? Some of us would say yes, others no. But that's exactly what Barry does here.
It's fascinating to me to watch his character because he's younger than most superheroes. Spiderman being excepted, I've always imagined most superheroes to be somewhere in their 30s. This guy, though, he's still largely a kid. He's 25 years old, he's not fully ready to handle everything that life can and will throw at him. So he tries his best, but sometimes he makes stupid decisions like pushing away everyone he loves in an attempt to protect his friends, but even more so himself. Because that's what it comes down to. He's pushing people away so he doesn't get hurt. And again, I've already said, he's too human of a character to always make the right choices, the selfless ones.
It's good to see. It brings superheroes back down to earth and levels the playing field a bit, but more than that, it provides some amount of hope for all of us watching at home. Because what we end up seeing is a young man with a great heart who cares about people deeply, who has a moral compass, who wants to do the right thing in every situation and still falls short. And that's about as human as you can get.
Signing off,
Amanda
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