O is for Origin

Every superhero has an origin story. Peter Parker was bitten by a radioactive spider that turned him into Spiderman; Kal-El was sent to Earth from a dying planet and became Superman; Bruce Wayne vowed vengeance when his parents were killed, and years later the Batman was born.

Back in my teens, the heyday of my comic-book reading, one of my favourite superheroes was Wolverine. He was one of the Uncanny X-Men, a team of mutants who, under the wing of Professor Charles Xavier, fought the bad guys on a regular basis. Wolverine remains a popular character, judging by the relaive success of the films and many comics that bear his name, but back then he was a bit of a mystery.

Was Logan his real name? Who had laced his bones with Adamantium? He was known as Weapon X, but what did that mean? All these questions have no doubt been answered by now, the character given a definitive origin story, but in his case is it really necessary to reveal all? I liked that he was this man of mystery, the secrets of his past merely hinted at, drip fed for the discerning reader to piece together.

That said, there's great benefit to telling the origin story. Not only does it give us an insight into the motivations of heroes - "Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot," says Bruce Wayne, "I shall become a bat!" - but also villains. Take Magneto for instance, who as a small boy suffered under the atrocities of Nazi Germany. Knowing this, we can understand the reasons for his actions; it gives the character depth, almost making him into an anti-hero rather than straightforward villain, and helps to ask the question "what would I do if I was him?". Magneto goes about things the wrong way - he is a villain, after all - but his goals are understandable given his past.

Done well, an origin story can be superb. Take Doctor Who and Genesis of the Daleks, in which we're shown how the Daleks were created; it's one of the finest stories in the show's entire 50 year run, producing many fine moments of drama, depth and emotion. On the other hand, there's the second series of Heroes; what started so brilliantly now becomes a convoluted mess as bad guys are revealed to be the brothers of good guys (or were they? Do you know, in all the chaos I really can't remember) and a conspiracy unfolds to epic proportions.

I'm worried about Doctor Who. Showrunner Steven Moffat has promised that, in this the fiftieth year of the show, the Doctor's biggest secret will be revealed. Given that he asks "Doctor Who?" a lot these days, I suspect we'll get to know the Doctor's real name. Question is, do we really need to? Isn't it enough that he's a renegade Time Lord who shunned his society to go on the run? I'm concerned we'll get to know too much of why the Doctor left Gallifrey (I have a horrible suspicion he'll turn out to be Rassilon) and - like the creation of Darth Vader - it's something that's best left to our own fertile imaginations. Then again, we were never shown a regeneration as the start of the 'new' who, so could there be another Doctor between McGann and Eccleston, so could there be someone else in between that we don't know about? All pure speculation, of course, but that's the beauty of not knowing - we can theorise to our hearts content; it gives us something to talk about, other than having a like/dislike opinion.

M is for Midnight (And Me)

Two and a half years ago, my better half persuaded me that getting a cat would be a good thing. I shrugged and said ok; it made sense, as I was away during the week with work, and it would be company for her if nothing else.

Thus Midnight came into our lives, a little black cat that reminded us of the chat noir posters from Paris, where we'd spent my previous birthday. On her second day in our home, while I was away, Midnight vanished. She was found hiding behind the fire - somehow she'd clambered into its innards and got stuck in the chimney - the gas man had to be called out to dismantle the fire so she could be rescued. Not the most auspicious of beginnings...

When I came home that week, there was a timid little ball of fur hiding in the corner. She came out eventually, but it was clear that Tracey was Midnight's favourite; understandable, considering I wasn't around most of the week. I cared about her, but wondered if I meant anything to this cat at all - aren't they just sly, devious creatures out for themselves?

Six months or so later, I went into work after a week's holiday, only to be told I was being made reudndant. A package was offered, accepted, and off I went. I was understandably upset when I got home. I plonked myself onto the sofa and tried to tell myself that everything was going to be all right, although - that early into the shock - it certainly didn't feel that way.

While I was there, Midnight jumped onto the sofa. I expected her to sit next to me and curl up to sleep, but instead she decided to sit on my chest and look me in the eye, as if to tell me not to worry. She purred, a paw brushing gently against my cheek, like she was trying to soothe me. From that moment, I felt better, able to take whatever the world decided to throw at us; from that moment, I realised how much I adored Midnight.

She was company, all right, but mostly for me in the three months I spent looking for work. I could talk to her, even if she couldn't understand a word I was saying. I could laugh at her antics in the garden as she tried to chase anything that moved. I still do. Midnight's a source of laugher in our home, but for all the right reasons. Buried in all that feline nature is a little soul that we love and care for. She's our little ninja, someone who can sit on my knee and watch me while I type, as if she knows exactly what I'm writing about...

One last thing. I've never been a cat person, but I'm a Midnight person, up to the point where I named this blog after her. I was struggling for a title when she jumped on the table, turned around a presented her rear end to me. 'The Pencil Sharpener' was already taken, and so 'A Flash of Midnight' was born.