5 “So Go After the Big Green Guy or the Flag Waver.”: The MCU Reality Bridge

Ian Fitzgerald

The Netflix series Marvel’s Jessica Jones situates itself in a curious place within the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU). Like the series preceding Jessica Jones (Marvel’s Daredevil [2015–18]), and those that follow (Marvel’s Luke Cage [2016–18], Marvel’s Iron Fist [2017–18], and Marvel’s The Defenders [2017]), Jessica Jones relies heavily upon adult storylines and portrayals of sex and violence. This also separates the various Netflix series from those produced in conjunction with ABC (Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. [2013–20] and Marvel’s Agent Carter [2015–16]). Jessica Jones airs on a streaming service, rather than on a broadcast network, rendering Netflix closer to a cable or satellite channel in this regard. Yet within the Netflix section of the MCU, Jessica Jones is a series that differs by virtue of its position as a story centred around a female protagonist in a real-world situation that is both gritty and supernatural. Jessica as a character is a victim of violence and the driving force of her story is that of recovery, not heroic ambition. In fact, the source of her powers is unknown, and the investigation into them—which in many other origin stories would serve as the main plot—here constitutes a subplot that remains unresolved at the end of season 1. She is a shameless anti-hero, one that spends far less time than Daredevil being apologetic or contrite about it. In Jessica Jones, both the series and its main character are set apart from the rest of the MCU on both the big and small screens. The series is positioned as a bridge between the glossy, colourful fantasy world in which most of the MCU takes place and the dark but realistic world of Netflix’s Defenders. It is a series and a character of difference, and in that sense Jessica Jones links the two realms of the MCU.

How and Why Do Netflix’s Defenders Series Differ from the Rest of the MCU?

The primary reason the various Defenders series work as a place of difference within the MCU is because their home is on Netflix. This privilege allows the Defenders to narratively tell and visually show stories that would not be seen in the MCU, either on network television (ABC) or on film (Disney). Compared to the high-flying antics of the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., the Defenders acknowledge that in the MCU there are still actions that occur in the real world. While S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are chasing after demons and monsters, the Defenders deal with cops, private investigators, lawyers, and vigilantes as they fight day-to-day crime on the street.

Much like the subscription channel HBO and the cable channel Showtime, Netflix’s platform allows the network to produce television programs that heighten the violence and sexuality portrayed onscreen. Much of that comes from Netflix’s switch from a mail-order DVD library to a streaming service (Cronin 2014). The decision by the company to offer cinema-level aesthetics for a monthly eight-dollar subscription fee was an expensive one, yet Netflix has succeeded by producing high-quality shows, beginning with the American adaptation of House of Cards (2013–18) (Keyes 2013).

Netflix’s deal with Disney and Marvel was made in 2013, with the first delivery of product occurring in 2015 with Marvel’s Daredevil, a property that had just returned to the Marvel fold after being licensed to 20th Century Fox for years (Keyes 2013).¹ The Defenders universe is the brainchild of Marvel Television head Jeph Loeb, who envisioned an ensemble similar to The Avengers (2012) (Li 2017, 29). Loeb approached Netflix soon after House of Cards first aired, seeing the bingeable appeal of multiple intersecting series (Li 2017, 29). Daredevil was the natural starting place as the character had already been exposed to a larger population by way of the critically panned (Rotten Tomatoes n.d.) 2003 film.

Much of the criticism of the Daredevil film revolves around the perceived watering down of the property’s central characters, narrative, and aesthetics (Otto and Patrizio 2004). The problem with this criticism is twofold. First, genre cinema, for the most part, tends to cater to young, white, middle-class males (Grant 2007). In 2003, the superhero film was still establishing itself as a genre unto itself, rather than as an offshoot of action films, noir/crime films, or adaptations of comic books. Since the genre was still new and still inherently bound to the comic book—an object itself tied to childhood or “deviant adulthood” (Legman 1948)—the film had to be marketed to a younger audience of mostly teens and young men. The film could be violent, but not so violent as to alienate the parents of the under-eighteen audience or jeopardize film’s ability to garner a PG-13 rating (14A in English Canada) from the Motion Picture Association of America. The director’s cut, which earned an R rating, did not receive a theatrical release. That said, in the book Marvel Encyclopedia: Marvel Knights, Daredevil is named one of the most authentic comic book movies ever made, but only from the standpoint of fans of the comic from which it came (Kiefer 2004, 26).

The second problem with the criticism of the 2003 film is that the genre was still trying to figure out its own rules, both aesthetically and narratively. In the mid- to late 2010s, superhero films played around with the workings of genre much easier because superhero films came out so rapidly, such that the workings and aesthetics easily evolved from piece to piece. Each installment in the Captain America trilogy differs slightly in style and story: Captain America: The First Avenger (2011) is a historical piece telling Cap’s origin story during the Second World War; Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) is reminiscent of a 1970s conspiracy film wherein alliances and institutions are questioned; and Captain America: Civil War (2016) is more of a third Avengers film than a third Captain America film, featuring both old and new members of the MCU in a fun but epic showdown. Regardless of these differences, the three films still function as related parts in Captain America’s cinematic arc. Opposing this is something like 2016’s Deadpool, which criticizes and parodies an entire genre in a single piece. This self-awareness is not always present in superhero films. However, the number of superhero films being released in any given year requires a degree of experimentation on the part of creators to keep the films fresh and innovative in a genre that can easily become static.

The emerging superhero genre had to find its footing by creating expectations for its audience back in 2003. Daredevil stands as something different within a world of more straightforward narrative films that follow characters like Superman, Batman, the X-Men, and Spider-Man, especially with regards to their origin stories. Apart from Tim Burton’s take on Batman (1989, 1992), the genre was still quite light, so even the aesthetics of the 2003 Daredevil seem dark by comparison. Peter Coogan explains that, prior to the early 2000s, superhero films were silly and pure fantasy (2014, 9–10). The advent of the Spider-Man films and their preference for computer-generated imagery over prosthetics, costumes, and makeup allow for “realism or believability” (Coogan 2014, 10). Daredevil as a narrative was odd in 2003; by 2015, the Netflix series, while still dark, could fit within the superhero genre, regardless of its quirks. In Hollywood cinema, the genre wouldn’t fully accept dark superhero films until 2005’s Batman Begins, even if there were occasionally silly films with lighter themes (e.g., the Fantastic Four films from the 2000s).

Throughout this evolution, the superhero genre tended to cater to the “average” audience of young, white, middle-class males: the MCU is in this regard no different. Both MCU films and TV series look like ones that could be viewed by youth and adult audiences alike. The ABC series that are part of the MCU continue these aesthetic and narrative choices by way of more traditional, serialized storytelling. The violence and dark narrative set the Netflix series apart, and this is again tied to Netflix being the producer rather than ABC.

Using HBO as an example, networks that exist outside the confines of broadcast television allow for a broader spectrum when it comes to storytelling, whether in the form of violent or sexual images or just more complex, indirect narrative perspectives. With regard to violence, network television tends to avoid the topic, since network programs tend to be more accessible to younger audiences, and for this reason a debate about violence on TV and the impact it has on children has been going on since the 1950s (Fowles 1999, ix–x).

HBO was created in 1972 by Chuck Dolan. It was the first successful American subscription channel (Defino 2014, 4), and as a subscription service, HBO was exempt from the Federal Communications Commission’s prying eye and control (Defino 2014, 4). Originally showing unrated comedians and R-rated films, HBO soon turned to creating its own programming that reflected cinematic and realistic R-rated film aesthetics (adult situations, language, nudity and sexuality, and violence), beginning with the prison series Oz (1997–2003). As Defino writes, “As the general public has become more tolerant of relaxed content standards—thanks in large part to the success of HBO original programming—we have seen something of a bleed-over into broadcast and basic cable” (2014, 5). This is reflected in Netflix’s original programming. But Defino extends the “HBO style” to other television narratives as well: “the network has introduced a level of narrative, character, and thematic sophistication that has spread across the channel spectrum” (6). Elements such as unlikeable but watchable anti-heroes, “brooding strangeness,” “mythical complexities,” “existential darkness,” postmodern feminism, steamy romances, manufactured crises, realistic villains who reflect people we know, dark comedy, tolerable affection, and grand, large-scale epics told through short-form storytelling are all elements that Defino sees as reshaping narratives across the board in the wake of HBO’s move to original programming (6).

HBO’s The Sopranos (1999–2007) is an example of a violent narrative on a subscription platform breaking barriers, the first in a line that can be drawn all the way to Daredevil and subsequently to Jessica Jones. David Chase, the writer behind The Sopranos, expressed how the series could only exist on a network like HBO, and not just in regard to portrayals of violence: “I had just had it up to here with all the niceties of network television. . . . I don’t mean language and I don’t mean violence. I just mean storytelling, inventiveness, something that really could entertain and surprise people” (McCabe and Akass 2008, 87).

This ability to tell a story that otherwise would not be told on network television extends beyond series like Oz and The Sopranos, or more comedic and “feminine” narratives like Sex and the City (1998–2004). Oscar-winning film director Mike Nichols attributes the success of his six-hour television miniseries Angels in America (2003) to HBO: “It has to do with HBO, it’s simple as that. We loved the freedom that there is on HBO and the economic power . . . that affords us this freedom” (Edgerton 2008, 146). Says star Al Pacino: “[Angels in America would be] just too long, too artsy, too political, and too gay to be funded as a theatrical motion picture” (Edgerton 2008, 146).

Gary R. Edgerton agrees, stating that HBO—and I would include here Netflix’s original programing as well—allow creators to take bigger risks because of “a business model that is different from selling tickets to a target audience where two-thirds of the cohort is between twelve and twenty-nine years old, like the movie studios do; or carrying spot advertisements and product placements for sponsors, like the broadcast and basic cable television networks” (2008, 146). What develops instead is a platform that allows for not just adult television but more nuanced storytelling as well. The darker settings, the adult stories, and even the “slow boil” narratives are all elements of the HBO style that were adopted by Netflix series such as Orange Is the New Black (2013–19), Master of None (2015–), or The Crown (2016–).

How Is Jessica Jones Different Than the Other Netflix Marvel Series and Their Characters?

Moving beyond the nuanced differences between Netflix and broadcast television, even within the realm of the MCU, the character Jessica Jones is real, she is brutal, and she is different. Her reality makes her story one of otherness within the MCU as the character connects more with the audience than the other superheroes, and much of that might have to do with her gender. The obvious point to make here is that Jessica Jones is the only female among the other male leads on Netflix: Daredevil, Luke Cage, and Iron Fist. But the analysis offered here is much more nuanced than that. Jessica Jones was the first female superhero to lead any MCU piece, whether on the big or small screen, surpassing already established characters like Black Widow or upcoming cinematic leads the Wasp and Captain Marvel. The fact that Marvel’s Agent Carter premiered before Jessica Jones makes it the first solo female lead in the MCU; however, Agent Carter as a character is not definitively a superhero, even within the context of the MCU. Agent Carter has always been a spy of the Second World War and Cold War eras, and in this sense she is separate from both Black Widow and Jessica Jones. Black Widow is a spy from our own contemporary era. While Black Widow associates with the Avengers, Jessica Jones is more superhero than Black Widow, as she has special human abilities. In the series, Jessica’s strength is obvious, and as a character she describes her ability to fly as more jumping and landing. Jessica is somewhat invulnerable (Ruscoe 2004, 86), but her brains are what sets her apart (even if the Marvel Encyclopedia would argue otherwise) (Ruscoe 2004, 86). As a private investigator, Jessica has an eye for uncovering the truth, using her brain over her fists to solve problems, though she can fight if need be.

Amanda D. Lotz explains that, prior to the rise of superheroine characters in the 1970s like Wonder Woman or the Bionic Woman, superpowered females exhibited traditionally feminine qualities. Shows such as Bewitched (1964–72) or I Dream of Jeanie (1965–70) tended to portray women in domestic settings regardless of their superhuman abilities (Lotz 2006, 68). By the 1990s, television series like Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003) and Charmed (1998–2006) were telling “women’s stories instead of telling stories about superheroes who happen to be women[,] . . . construct[ing] narratives about characters with psychological depth, while acknowledging evidence that characters continue to be drawn for the fantasy of male audiences” (Lotz 2006, 69–70). Lotz argues that these roles remained problematic in that sexuality was often used to lure in male audiences (2006, 71). Further, female superheroines were written as role models, with their job being to explain how a modern, feminist female could both kick ass and be nurturing, which at times also proved counterintuitive to the narrative (Lotz 2006, 71). The modern woman is a “superwoman” able to do it all and do it well, regardless of the physical or mental toll it can take on her (Sumra and Schillaci 2015). Before third-wave feminism, women rarely could subvert this role; those who did were interpreted as failures or somehow lacking.

As a third-wave feminist character, Jessica Jones goes against all of this. Starting in the 1990s, female heroines tended to follow a third-wave feminism “girl power” trope of being “young, hip, and alluring” (Early and Kennedy 2003, 3). Imagine, if you will, the Spice Girls with magic powers, and you get a light interpretation of the sisters from Charmed. Yet Jessica Jones dismisses all of this: she isn’t goodness and light incarnate; she doesn’t even wear a costume. Like Luke Cage, her daily street clothes serve as her superhero uniform; there are no star-spangled, colourful suits, web-decorated bodysuit, or elaborate suits of armour here. Dressed in a leather jacket, jeans, and combat boots, Jessica stands in opposition to DC’s feminized heroines (Wonder Woman and Supergirl have both worn more revealing costumes), or the sexualized and fetishized bodysuit of Marvel’s Black Widow or Watchmen’s Silk Spectre. Costume-wise, Jessica’s closest female comparison is Agent Carter, who attires herself in work-appropriate dresses or skirts, pants, and shoes. Luke Cage wears casual clothes (hoodies, jeans, T-shirts) or work wear (Carhartts). Agent Carter, Jessica Jones, and Luke Cage are all working-class heroes (Kaveney 2008, 84); their costumes must be affordable within the confines of their daily wages. Lacking the means to create an Iron Man suit, the characters must work with the clothing at their disposal, most likely clothes in their regular wardrobes. An excellent example of this working-class hero in the cinema is Spider-Man. Peter Parker comes from a working-class home; he is a minor who still relies on his aunt’s employment for income, and he only upgrades his homemade costume because Tony Stark gives him a new one. Returning to the character of Jessica Jones, Roz Kaveney explains that her lack of uniform makes her the “antithesis of the Good Girl” (2008, 70). Both her appearance and her actions go against the standard superhero qualities and visuals (Kaveney 2008, 70). Even in a homemade costume, we the audience still understand that we are looking at Spider-Man; but Jessica looks like an everyday hero in the same way that Agent Carter and Luke Cage do. On the surface, Jessica is one of us.

Further, Jessica never makes herself out to be a noble person: she drinks, acts and talks without a filter, does not care what people think about her, and is sexually active. While inherently good (we never question if she is a villain), Jessica is never as noble as other heroes in the MCU, such as the straightforward Captain America, or even the self-loathing Daredevil. At the end of season 1, Jessica has saved the day and defeated the villain; but it is Jessica’s love for Trish that ultimately causes her to react and become a superhero. Trish’s safety and security needs to be called into question for Jessica to react. Jessica must be forced; she does not act on her own devices. Jessica is an anti-hero: she has the physical abilities to be a hero but lacks the mental drive.

The anti-hero as a character isn’t new to literature, pop culture, or even superheroes. Entire series (e.g., Watchmen [1986–7]) revolve around morally ambiguous heroes. Batman, for example, has always had one foot in the dark, especially in the films. Christopher Knowles argues that post-9/11 comics and superhero films called for lighter mise en scènes and themes, and that characters who were violent (like Wolverine) or vigilantes (like the Punisher) were too unlikable or deplorable to be taken into popular culture (2007, 11–12). Daniel Chandler, on the other hand, suggests that since the 1970s, stories about villains have changed genres, such that stories that show unlikely or unlikable characters are now viable and capable of evolving the genre rather than being a detriment to it (2020). Yet the ambiguous anti-hero seems to create a more complex and interesting story for the audience. Jessica’s complicated past and dark present make for an at times unlikable hero, but her evolution across the thirteen episodes of season 1 makes for compelling viewing. We see Jessica grow from a person who does not care to someone who does. Jessica’s lack of drive or call to action—something most superheroes otherwise revel in—comes from a clear place of pain. She is not a terrible person, although many of her off-the-cuff reactions indicate she is moody. Rather, Jessica is a victim of a difficult childhood and an abusive past that she deals with through inaction. Jessica’s passive-aggressive actions are meant to push people away, to keep them safe both from those who mean to hurt Jessica (such as Kilgrave) but also from Jessica herself. Jessica reacts instead of running away, but it takes time, especially when compared to others in the MCU who found their mission or call integral to their characters (see Captain America’s “I don’t like bullies” speech in Johnston 2011). Not all viewers will associate themselves with Jessica’s past traumas, but they will likely relate to her passivity and even her negativity. Jessica has bad days, she acts poorly, or says the wrong thing. Jessica has sex—she doesn’t just date or have love interests, she has sex. Elizabeth E. Lewis (2016) explains that this characteristic is also one of an urban fantasy heroine, while Roz Kaveney (2008, 78) writes that this is one of the human elements of Jessica’s character. Jessica is human and this makes her story relatable to the audience.

Even the location of the Defenders on the New York City streets of Hell’s Kitchen, contributes to this relatability. Kaveney likens Jessica Jones’s comic book series Alias to early Scorsese films (2008, 77), most notably Taxi Driver (1976). My first response to Daredevil was that it exists within the MCU, but the Netflix series take place in the dirt, the grime; it is about the people we so often overlook during instances of big-screen destruction. It is a working-class tale, and a relatable one. The Defenders have nothing to do with the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D., but that does not mean the Defenders are not affected by their actions.

In episode 1.04 (“AKA 99 Friends”), Jessica is tasked with following a philandering husband. Suspicious of the accusing wife, Jessica takes the case anyways, only to discover the husband with his wife rather than another woman. It turns out the entire case was a set-up: the husband and wife know that Jessica has superpowers, and the wife has decided to kill Jessica. The wife’s reasoning is that her mother was killed during the events depicted in the first Avengers film, and that being super-powered, Jessica is guilty by association.

At the climax of The Avengers, Loki opens a portal in the sky above New York City, thereby allowing hordes of aliens called the Chitauri to come to earth. The city is ravaged and many lives are lost. Beginning with the pilot of Daredevil (2015) the audience is told that the climax of The Avengers is referred to as “the incident,” a shorthand for what has already happened. When accused with being associated with the Avengers merely because she has superpowers, Jessica responds by saying, “So go after the big green guy or the flag waver,” before admitting that she was not even there the day of “the incident”—an event that Marvel Television head Jeph Loeb says inspired the inception of the Defenders universe as a whole (Li 2017, 29). After trashing the room Jessica, the husband, and the wife are in, Jessica makes a final point to the couple: she, too, has lost people and learned to live with it as best she can.

The Defenders represent a bridge between the more docile world of the MCU produced for the cinema and ABC and the more violent but human one of Netflix. Television allows for more complex and deep backstories than film since we are given the privilege of multiple hours and multiple seasons to discover characters’ past and present. While film as a medium can often do this, the average two-hour time frame of the typical movie constricts how much can be seen of events taking place outside of the narrative proper. So, Jessica’s home on Netflix allows for her role as an anti-hero to become more human and relatable as we delve deep into her traumatic past as well as her present. As an origin story, Jessica Jones reduces the stereotypical superhero backstory in exchange for the story of her real-world alter ego. Although not fully fleshed out by the conclusion of season 1, the character of Jessica remains more concrete than the origins of her superpowers, which are still quite opaque by the season finale. Her superhero persona is not part of Jessica Jones’s identity. Indeed, Jessica moves beyond being a hero or even an anti-hero and is simply human, flaws and all, thereby bridging the fantasy world and the real.

note

1. 1 It should be noted that these actions predate Disney’s acquisition of 20th Century Fox in March 2019.

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