The Avengers
follows a group of heroes—some skilled warriors, some superhuman, and some
aided by technology—who were assembled to fight an extraterrestrial threat to
the Earth. That threat comes in the form of Loki, who was raised as a demigod
with his brother, Thor. Loki is, even by sight, different than the heroes whom
he is pitted up against throughout the film. He’s thin. He has an English
accent (you can’t call what Australian Chris Hemsworth’s Thor—bless him—spits
out a proper English accent). Loki has shoulder-length, slicked-back dark hair
that those of us who curled our hair in the ‘90s (and the ‘60s!) would say is
"flipped out." He wears a really dorky two-horned hat. He’s into fancy canes and
scepters. And when he makes an appearance as a civilian, he chooses a posh art
show in Stuttgart, Germany, and shows up in a suit with a long coat and a
fashionable scarf.
Loki contrasts with the male Avengers, all of whom represent
different facets of American machismo. Captain America/Steve Rogers spends his
free time boxing and is the very embodiment of World War II (the good old days
before the civil rights and women’s rights movements) white masculine
benevolence. Iron Man/Tony Stark represents an unpracticed intelligence, a
playboy sensibility that absolves him of his tight clothing and otherwise
too-groomed facial hair, and the idea that enormously wealthy defense
contractors will eventually have our best interests in mind. Hawkeye/Clint
Barton is a covert ops military man whose archery sharpshooting, choice of a
hunter’s weapon, and implied romance with Black Widow/Natasha Romanoff
establish his toughness. Oh, and those
arms.
The dichotomy of acceptable and undesirable masculinity
seems to be represented in both iterations of one of the Avengers: the Hulk. At
first blush, the “rage-monster” Hulk looks like the picture of dangerously
unbridled masculinity. The Hulk is a physical danger to everyone around him
because he’s supposedly an uncontrollable destructive force. The other side of
his personality is the unassuming, mumbling, shy scientist Bruce Banner—who,
aside from his meekness is still a desirable American archetype because of his innovation and expertise in what
we still know is a
largely male, white job field. But if you think of the Hulk and Banner on polar
ends of the scale of masculinity—a bullet-spitting monster versus a sometimes
suicidal and ineffectual brainiac—that spectrum seems to be um, smashed, at the
end of the film when we find out that Banner can control his transformations
more than we thought. Banner says he’s secretly “always angry,” so his weaker self
is bolstered by his hybridity—he always has smash-happy Hulk standing by.
The most direct comparison of Loki’s masculinity with his
Avengers foes has to be made with his brother, Thor—the Viking-inspired demigod
who wields a big hammer—and hilarious. Thor has long
hair like Loki, but it’s the Fabio-like blonde locks that grace many a
(similarly muscled) romance novel at your local CVS. But the similarities stop
there. Thor couldn’t be more different as a man.
Thor and Loki were raised on another planet, and Loki was always jealous of Thor’s strength. Because he could never rival Thor
as a warrior, Loki developed the skill of manipulation. On Earth, his scepter has the power to essentially reprogram people's brains into mental slavery. Through Loki, we see
the dominance that masculinity supposedly craves diverted from physical power
to dominance over men’s free will and very consciousness. And that’s a dangerous
refraction of masculine angst. In the form of this villain, we learn to fear
physically weak men much more than we fear strong ones—at least with the
latter, what you see is what you get.
The difference between and hierarchy of mental and physical power is clearest when the uncontrollable masculine force of the Hulk illustrates Loki's puniness. One of the most-loved parts of the film—at least the one that got the biggest
laughs in the two screenings I’ve been to—is after one of Loki’s many harangues
about how he’s the cleverest guy ever and how base and beastly the Avengers and
humans are. The Hulk responds by grabbing Loki and beating him into the floor
several times like a rag doll, after which Hulk utters his only line of dialog: puny god. This declaration comes after Loki’s emasculation is made phallic in jokes about
Loki’s “performance
issues” with his scepter.
If the Hulk is masculinity’s sheer force harnessed for good,
that masculinity violently puts the puny Loki in his place. Of course, it’s not
just that Loki is feminized. He’s also queered. He’s the only Avenger who
hasn’t been explicitly or implicitly depicted as having a heterosexual
relationship—in this film or in one of the other Marvel movies that led to this
mash-up. But he also has an accent that is often associated with effete
European men, and his dressed-down wardrobe is much more stylish and
metrosexual than anything the other Avengers wear, Tony Stark’s tight shirts
notwithstanding. But this subtext is made more explicit when Stark wakes up
from a death-defying fall worried about whether one of his fellow male Avengers
gave him CPR. Or in his words, “Please tell me no one kissed me.” So even
fast-talking, beardscaped Stark draws a clear line to distinguish himself from
queerness. Loki doesn’t specify any such aversion and is obsessed with his
scepter and submission. And that’s on top of his racial otherness—in Thor, Loki is revealed to be an orphaned
Frost Giant. So even though he seems like a regular old Aryan demigod,
underneath he’s ugly, blue, and up to no good.
Joss Whedon put together another smart, enjoyable film in The Avengers. He’s no feminist
novice,
which is why it's surprising that the men in this film reinscribe some troubling messages about masculinity
and sexuality. The mostly male team and their villain reinforce the notions that the feminine, the queer, and the other are to be feared and
quashed and that these traits need to be set up in diametric opposition to the idealized
male hero.
