Eric Kripke
The Boys

Homelander is omnipotent, a god on earth. But he is powerless in the face of a ****** who doesn't love him, a public that starts to detest him, and dwindling approval due to a video posted online. In that footage, the superhero is on a mission, coldly slicing the terrorist in half, but simultaneously mortally wounding a civilian. When he realizes this, he shrugs and rockets back into the sky after scratching himself.

In its opening moves, The Boys strikes deeply and decisively dismantles the superhero imagery of these years, derailing the train and disorienting us. We no longer know what narrative anchor to cling to. But soon it becomes clear that these heroes are something else, much more. They crystallize many aspects of society, religion, American politics (and beyond). They are almost priests of Western supremacy, guardians of the concept of justice, tolerance, truth. They are the spearhead of a collective media offensive aimed at destroying free will, channeling the love and anger of the masses to unleash them against chosen targets and enemies for mere economic interests or simply to further fuel their power.

They are invincible; the greatest concern is managing their image, securing a major role in the upcoming movie, or preventing scandals from erupting over the many atrocities they commit behind the scenes. The Seven and Vought (their company, which meticulously manages every moment of their lives) decide what people should think, ingraining the truth into the minds of American and global citizens, yet they are also slaves to it. Their terror lies in no longer being loved; without idolatry, they are nothing.

The excellent narrative premises are enhanced by a maximalist approach that aims for accumulation: the media world, the military, medicine. Even the Nazis, in the end, because in the eternal vision of the battle between good and evil, they must play a part. The first introductory season fully convinces, precisely because of the shock of a reversed perspective: despite the profusion of films, no one reminded us that heroes (and so with stars and leading politicians) in the end are businesses, the real person and their public image cannot match. The transition from the Marvel utopia to this far more cynical reality, depicted in the comic by Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson, is astonishing. It's like being reborn to a purely contemporary vision of 21st-century cinematic epic, which, in its attempt to refound an epic, thought of shaping heroes who are, in fact, ancient, anachronistic, mythological, and thus impeccable. Here, with one great leap, we move forward a few millennia and face tremendously modern heroes: plasticized, commodified, mass-produced in the lab, and manipulated like puppets by an obscure parent company. The concept of a hero as a condensation of the Zeitgeist.

Everything is perfectly contemporary in this series, which, in the end, doesn't say much about superheroes; it speaks mainly about the audience that adores them and the trends it follows, the truths it believes in blindly or reluctantly swallows after careful media bombardment. There are countless themes, but it makes no sense to foretell them here. However, I can tell you that thematic maximalism has strengths and weaknesses: on one hand, it amplifies narrative dynamics because power is no longer just force but also the ability to reverse public opinion (with a clip, a document, a vial). Homelander's laser eyes cannot change the growing antipathy towards him: he wants to cut everyone down with a neat slice, he craves it, but he cannot. Because his joy, despite what he says, lies in being adored. He was educated solely to be the Patriot, the strongest man in the world. And without the world, that man would have no meaning.

On the other hand, this broad liberty to shoot at everything and everyone risks becoming tiresome and rhetorical. I mean: by accumulating so many themes, there's the risk of tackling them only superficially, delivering harmless slaps left and right without injuring anyone. The church, the pharmaceutical companies, the excessive militarism which leads to empowering terrorists to have greater liberty in executing daring military actions. Creating a terrible enemy (super-terrorists or super-villains? There is even a discussion on the name to impose on the media) for more power and money. More fame and idolatry. These are glimpses that work great to introduce this narrative universe, but without a basis in reality, they end up in generic chatter and prepackaged disgust.

It's no coincidence, therefore, that with the second season, the narrative focus shifts elsewhere, towards far more reassuring shores. The frontal assault on the mainstays of American society and politics is diverted towards more plot-oriented settings, featuring different types of villains with different agendas, the inevitable Nazis, and the family matters of the protagonists. The sex of the hero and the blood of the innocents. The hookups and the masturbation. In short, perhaps the bait of iconoclastic confrontation has already revealed itself because even Amazon can't afford to bite the hand that feeds it generously.

Some caustic points remain, like the Lgbt issue, used by Vought as a political pry without any roots (notably the manager's instructions to avoid surpassing the public's tolerance threshold regarding gay themes). The "meta" section where heroes play themselves in the upcoming blockbuster is amusing, but each is solely interested in their own image, thus trying to sway the script one way or another. The portrait of screenwriters-directors derived from this is dismal and buffoonish. The choice to insert the terrifying Patriot in a sentimental plot is surgical, ultimately another effective metaphor for the American father's sentiment towards the new generations.

This second season is slightly less effective in the overall construction of the plot: the "human" protagonists fighting against the superhero system are somewhat sacrificed in not-so-effective subplots, and in general, all the characters of the group "The Boys" seem a bit less brilliant. On the contrary, the psychological care used for the Seven is magnificent, truly a kaleidoscope of assorted mental disorders. From the egomaniac to the closeted suffering lesbian, there's the newcomer StormFront with a sharp tongue and a dark past, the drug-addicted speedster, the sex-crazed amphibian who turns to a Scientology-like group to clean up his image. There's the light heroine who is sexualized against her will, and her mother, who constantly instills in her a faith that's more like religious fanaticism.

Credit goes to some actors like Antony Starr and Karl Urban, and for the unrestrained use of violence and blood. There's something liberating about these massacres perpetrated without concern for collateral damage: it's not a sadistic pleasure, but simply the opportunity to finally cross the detestable barrier of flawless heroes fighting in the void to avoid harming civilians. It's been years since this childish and ridiculous slope has been taken. I hope The Boys doesn't do the same to conform to success.

The series hasn't yet reached the status of some productions for specific reasons. Directorial style isn't so refined, the music is somewhat predictable, and especially there's a ballast weighing down a large part of the dialogues. The writing shows a clear gap from leading works; it alternates between brilliant incisiveness (Lgbt issues, the media mania) and several poorly crafted parts, with many banalities and insistence on obvious or secondary aspects. Also, for this reason, human protagonists may appear a bit dull. There is, to my mind, no deep identification with any of them, so emotions struggle to emerge. The pleasure of viewing is exquisitely intellectual. Let's hope it doesn't turn into an innocuous farce.