Legendary Comics Writer Alan Moore on Superheroes, The League, and Making Magic

Wired: What's the significance of the superhero? What's interesting about the iconography or the archetypes?

Alan Moore: I don't actually think that anything is, at the moment. I don't really think that very much is interesting about the superhero as an archetype. I've been distanced from the whole concept for quite a while now, but I've been considering it.

It has occurred to me that the superhero really only originates in America. That seems to be the only country that has produced this phenomenon. Yes, we have had knockoffs of American superheroes originating in this country and presumably in other parts of the world, but they're not natural to this environment. They're an alien species. And I've thought about it and wondered why that was. And I wonder—perhaps this is being too simplistic, I don't know, but I wonder if the root of the emergence of the superhero in American culture might have something to do with a kind of an ingrained American reluctance to engage in confrontation without massive tactical superiority. I mean—does the term 7/7 mean anything to you at all?

Wired: Sure.

Moore: During the 7/7 bombings over here, it was announced a couple days later that as soon as the first two trains had gone up, all of the American forces that were in London were recalled to safe distance outside the M24 orbital motorway. After a few days, when they realized that it was safe to go back into London, they realized also that it looked kind of bad, sort of rushing out of the capital at the first sign of any trouble when the main reason for the bombing was England's support of America in the Iraq war.

It does seem to me that massive tactical superiority might be a key to the superhero phenomenon. That, if it's a military situation, then you've got carpet bombing from altitude, which is kind of the equivalent of having come from Krypton as a baby and to have gained unusual strength and the ability to fly because of Earth's lesser gravity. I don't know, that may be a simplistic interpretation, but that's the way I tend to see superheroes today.

That wasn't what it used to mean. That wasn't what it used to mean to me when I was a child. What I was getting out of it was this unbridled world of the imagination, and the superhero was a perfect vehicle for that when I was much younger. But looking at the superhero today, it seems to me an awful lot like Watchmen without the irony, that with Watchmen we were talking very much about the potential abuses of this kind of masked vigilante justice and the kind of people that it would in all likelihood attract if these things were taking place in a more realistic world. But that was not meant approvingly.

I have to say that I haven't seen a comic, much less a superhero comic, for a very, very long time now—years, probably almost a decade since I've really looked at one closely. But it seems to be that things that were meant satirically or critically in Watchmen now seem to be simply accepted as kind of what they appear to be on the surface. So yeah, I'm pretty jaundiced about the entire "caped crusader" concept at the moment.

If you remember back in the '80s, there was an incredible spate of monumentally lazy headlines in British and American magazine and newspapers. But also something along the lines of "Bam! Sock! Pow! Comic Books Aren't Just for Kids Anymore." I used to think those headlines were just irritating, but it's only recently that I've looked back and realized how incredibly inaccurate they were. Comics had not grown up, bam-sock-pow. What had happened was that you'd gotten two or three comics that had gotten, perhaps for the first time, serious adult elements in their compositions. This was judged as miraculous as a dog riding a bicycle back in the 1980s. It doesn't matter whether he's riding it particularly well; it matters that he's riding it at all.

I think that a lot of people, irrespective of whether they'd ever read a book like Watchmen, took it basically as a form of license. I think there were a surprising number of people out there who secretly longed to keep up with the adventures of Green Lantern but who felt they would have been socially ostracized if they had been seen reading a comic book in a public place. With the advent of books like Watchmen, I think these people were given license by the term graphic novel. Everybody knew that comics were for children and for intellectually subnormal people, whereas graphic novel sounds like a much more sophisticated proposition.

That sounds like the kind of thing a 30-year-old—or a 40-year-old, even—could be caught reading on the tube, upon the subway, without embarrassment. When I started work for DC Comics, I figured that my readership was probably somewhere between—they'd previously been 9 to 13 years old, and now they were around 13 to 18. The average age of the audience now for comics, and this has been the case since the late 1980s, probably is late thirties to early fifties—which tends to support the idea that these things are not being bought by children. They're being bought in many cases by hopeless nostalgics or, putting the worst construction on it, perhaps cases of arrested development who are not prepared to let their childhoods go, no matter how trite the adventures of their various heroes and idols.