"It's okay to be afraid. It's ok to fail. But to say that you're not even willing to try...that's unacceptable..."
-Nathaniel Richards to his young son, Reed-
Jonathan Hickman has only been in the industry for a few years now, but his stories are the big, big type that are why I still bother to read comics--tales of secret histories, utopias, about characters taking initiative and boldly building a future, any future, rather than meekly sitting on their hands and protecting the status quo. Not all of his stories finish as satisfyingly as they begin, but all that I have read are incredibly interesting and thought provoking. Knowing Hickman was a "big idea" guy (having read The Nightly News and Pax Romana) and also a high detail writer (his legendary "notebook" treatments are dwarfed only by apocryphal tales of those of Moore and Morrison), I was quite looking forward to his take on that quintessential Lee/Kirby collaboration, Fantastic Four.
Fantastic Four is a historically important though periodically stagnant title. Its importance stems from the fact that it is Marvel's initial superhero title of the modern era, and so the successful run of Lee and Kirby--the longest continuous run on any title until just recently (102 consecutive monthly issues of the same writer/artist team--somewhere in the neighborhood of ten years, if you count annuals), and certainly the most creatively prolific--ensured that Marvel would become an ongoing concern.
That seminal run established the M.O. for Marvel--the idea that heroes could have distinct personalities and conflicting interests and points of view turned the dramatic dial up a few notches for what had been a sleepy children's lit subgenre, and Kirby's all-out 200 miles-per-hour visuals set the bar for the next twenty years. Since that run ended, there have been a few brilliant and fun stretches (Byrne's, Simonson's, and the Waid/Werringo run spring immediately to mind), but rarely have the creative teams recaptured the spirit of optimism and adventure of a science-loving, cosmos-exploring family in the atomic age, each one so larger than life that none can occupy the same space without high drama ensuing.
Other than John Byrne's run in the 80s when the man had the midas touch (coming off of his Uncanny X-Men collaboration with Claremont), I never read the book much. It always seemed based on an incredibly outdated and corny worldview. Optimism wasn't "in" in the grim 'n gritty 80s, when The Dark Knight Returns, Watchmen, and all things Wolverine were king. Having since gone back and read much of the Kirby run, I'm astounded by how much of what's important, enduring, and distinctive about the Marvel Universe was laid down in those initial 100 or so issues.
I could never find a way "in" for the patriarch of the team, Reed Richards. He was old. (He had graying temples even in his first appearance, and smoked a pipe.) He was sort of jerky and condescending to everyone else in the book. He had stupid low-rent Plastic Man-style powers. Not only that, but he seemed more or less a living, breathing deus ex machina, as his brilliance was the solution to every problem. And all apologies, but a guy who neglects his friends and family because his idea of fun is to slave away in a lab will likely never be cool to the young. Like the narrative engineer he is, Hickman sets about solving this problem with a very "Reed-centric" story.
Things begin at the point of the Marvel Universe's "Dark Reign" baseline (i.e., immediately following the "Secret Invasion" event). The bad guys are in charge of things and looking to use their advantage to smear the reputations of all the good guys and take them out of the equation. Tony Stark is discredited, Nick Fury has disappeared, Captain America is dead, and evil nutjob Norman Osborne is running law enforcement. Reed is at an all-time low. He feels responsible, as he had a great deal of input leading up to this point, and based on outcomes, decisions he made in good faith made things worse rather than better. That's not how supergeniuses are supposed to work.
[SPOILERS GALORE AHEAD--PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK]
Try as he might, he cannot see how he could have come to any better conclusions than he did. The solution: to build a machine that gathers data from alternate realities, and pipe it into a device that extrapolates desirable and adverse outcomes, and their causes. The data leads him to a conclusion that is disturbing. Reed has discovered that in the timestreams where he collaborated with others, disaster ensued; in the ones where/when he acted unilaterally, positive outcomes were created, without exception. This puts a character already known for hubris in a bad spot. Whereas he'd be inclined to compromise with others to build consensus, he now has a moral imperative not to, as false humility on his part can cause loss of life on a massive scale.
He finds out that Reeds from 140 other realities have arrived at the same conclusion. In what seems like a sure nod to Alan Moore's run on Supreme, he discovers the Council--a place where these 141 Reeds meet and solve problems on a multiversal level.
At this part, I'll just take a moment to step back and acknowledge the scale of all of this. If Reed Richards is, as he describes himself, "the most brilliant mind in the universe," imagine the sheer brain power teaming with 140 other instances of himself would yield! The ambition of the story is well beyond any previous run that I have read on the book and approaches utopian fare like Miracleman and The Authority (not slight praise, I know!) Richards is going well beyond superheroics into universe building. Together, the Council can take care of Galactus (i.e., the Marvel Universe's analog for God) problems before lunch. Poverty and energy problems are things of the past, and with effort, they can save entire solar systems from extinction.
But as you'd expect there are flaws, and some pretty big ones at that. For example, all members of the Council handle their Dr. Dooms in essentially the same way. Not wanting to toy with such a potentially destructive force, the solution is to lobotomize them and put them in captivity. If that weren't enough to make Reed re-think his affiliation with them, he discovers something else they all have in common. True enough, each version of Reed has set about the goal of "solving everything," but with that each has also made the judgement that the only way to do so is abdicating their role in their family. As one member of the Council explains, "The work will consume you. How can we think about little things like our personal lives when the fate of all we know lies in the balance? Susan will stop understanding. Her patience will run out as she's forced to raise the family all alone...Doesn't she deserve better? Ben and Johnny will get angry and eventually move on...Your children will resent you because you work too much and love too little..All you will have left is this." It is then clear that "[t]he cost of solving everything is everything." And in a character-defining moment, Reed decides this is not his way, and he leaves the Council to go back home to his wife. The story ends with a very moving image: he returns and Sue, wearily, is still waiting for him.
Hickman has done his work and now I can really identify with Reed at this stage of my life. Certainly his is a talent not to be wasted. However, the events in this story have calibrated the character's priorities. There is work to be done, yes. He will be tugged this way and that, and even though he wants to hunker down and just do what he does best and see the results, there are others he must answer to as well. Unlike his peers on the Council and unlike his own father (who makes appearances in several interludes throughout the story), Reed won't accept the compromises and expediencies that become the excuses we diminish ourselves with. He won't take shortcuts (like lobotomizing Doom, or sacrificing time with his family for the sake of a greater sense of personal achievement). Most importantly, he won't accept the false dichotomy of either being Great (in the sense of achievement) or being good (in the moral sense). We can be very forgiving of this Reed. He carries a great weight, and even if he screws up by being aloof, or a workaholic, or short tempered, we know he's trying. He's trying to do the "have it all" thing, which we know is impossible but the trying of it is worth it nonetheless.
Later in Hickman's FF macrostory, other characters take their turns at center stage (as they should in an ensemble book). Throughout, though, Reed Richards is depicted as a mature man who shoulders the burdens of responsibility but stays young by embracing possibility. His family grows as he takes into his home those who need his help. He sees that through work and family he is building the future. We might think, "Man, I wish I had a Dad like that." But the far better thought is "I want to be a Dad like that."
Here's to you, Reed Richards. You're the man.
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