Figure 1: Texturally rich costuming of Matt Murdock character in Daredevil.

Post by Piers Britton, University of Redlands.

How far are Marvel Studios’ film and television franchises visually coded for homogeneity? How insistently, that is to say, is brand identity maintained at the levels of design, cinematography, editing and post-production processing? This question seems worth pursuing in relation to Marvel’s Daredevil (Netflix, 2015), which has already been critically positioned as divergent from prior entries in the “Marvel Cinematic Universe” super-franchise. All the MCU films since 2008 have been rated PG-13, while the ABC television series Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (2013–) and Marvel’s Agent Carter (2014-15) are consistently anodyne, even at their darkest. Daredevil, by contrast, is already notorious for its frequent and intensely graphic violence, which earned it a TVMA certification, and for the conflicted nature of its anti-heroic protagonist. This shift in tone is not the only departure from the prior Marvel norm. Much more assertively than Agent Carter, and even more than the DC offerings on the CW, the new show emphasizes that its protagonist is one of Marvel’s “street-level” superheroes, with the action never straying beyond Hell’s Kitchen and the narrative focusing heavily on the socially disadvantaged and marginalized. While it is not the first Marvel property to introduce comic-book characters without their familiar costume trappings and idiosyncrasies of grooming, Daredevil has arguably gone further than its predecessors in this regard. For example, the series reduces the comics’ hirsute, flamboyantly coiffed and green-ulster-clad Leland Owlsley (Bob Gunton) to a deceptively avuncular elderly man with thinning hair and a short back and sides, dressed in earth-toned tweeds. Indeed, Daredevil even deprives Matt Murdock (Charlie Cox) of his red superhero suit until the climax of the final episode.

Showrunner Steven DeKnight has underscored the ways in which Daredevil differs visually from network series like Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., noting that he and his D.P., Matt Lloyd, “wanted to be able to do a show that was literally darker than what you would see on a network,” where series tend to be “very bright, very evenly lit,” and further that they “wanted to take more of the color palette of the classic movies of the ’70s, the Dog Day Afternoon and French Connection and Taxi Driver.” The series’ production designer, Loren Weeks, also emphasizes Daredevil’s departure from the sleek, well-appointed and technology-rich environments that typify Marvel’s cinematic tales of billionaire playboys, demigods and super-soldiers. Tellingly, Weeks claims: “We’re more The Wire than other Marvel movies. It’s not the stuff you see in Agents of SHIELD, it’s the stuff you see every day.”

Stress on the quotidian, invocation of the ultra-realist Wire, insistence on chiaroscuro lighting (with its inevitable noir associations), and reference to the subdued palette of dour seventies thrillers all serve to distance Daredevil not only from other Marvel properties but also from other broadly cognate television shows. They rhetorically position the series as something “grittier” than the quasi-realist narratives of street-level superheroes in Arrow (CW, 2012–) and The Flash (CW, 2014–). Indeed, if there is a DC comparison to be made, it is with the notoriously tenebrous and bleak Dark Knight films. So, if we are to take Weeks’ and DeKnight’s remarks at face value, how does the visual style of Daredevil fulfill the branding imperative of offering variety within identity and novelty within continuity?

A number of recurrent or repeated visual motifs both in Daredevil’s paratextual materials—posters, publicity stills, and so on—and in the episodes themselves serve to weld strongly to Marvel’s other film and television, and to its comic-book lineage. Use of strong color in Daredevil represents the most interesting variation on established Marvel brand elements. MCU style in toto is defined by chromatic intensity and richness (in contradistinction to the DC film and television “multiverse” that has gradually developed since Batman Begins). Dominant color values have varied, with Phase Two movies and the second series of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. frequently exhibiting lower values and lower-key lighting than Phase One. Even so, selective, punctuative use of high-intensity colors is endemic to Marvel’s television and film offerings. Only the environments and personnel of S.H.I.E.L.D. are stripped of high value and saturated color; otherwise, the heroes and villains and their worlds are as bright as the Marvel logo, and the comic-book pages we glimpse in the animated version of that logo that heads each film and television show from the MCU. In most cases, focal points of vibrant color are typically located one way or another on the bodies of the protagonists, from Iron Man’s scarlet and gold livery to Peggy Carter’s blue suit, white blouse and red hat (used so extensively in publicity materials for Agent Carter), and from Thor’s flaxen hair to the Hulk’s green skin.

Figure 2: Superficially neutral costuming of Wilson Fisk character in Daredevil

Daredevil largely displaces intense color from bodies, except in the case of the saturated red costume worn by the “ninja” villain, Nobu (Peter Shinkoda), in a watershed fight scene. As befits a faux-realist television series, and especially one that unfolds over thirteen instantly reviewable episodes, the devil is in the details in Stephanie Maslansky’s costumes; bold gestures are correspondingly few and far between. Thus Matt Murdock’s suits are mostly mid-value monochrome but his clothes are texturally rich—shirts, for example, are nubby oxford rather than smooth poplin—suggesting the blind man’s heightened reliance on tactility (Fig. 1). By the same token, wisecracking Foggy Nelson (Eldon Hensen) is also superficially neutral in his dress, but the printed shirt fabrics and animal-motif ties reward leisurely, close inspection and add a “quirky but not flamboyant” note – and so on. Unmodified strong color is eschewed in inverse proportion to the dominance of all these surface nuances, a choice that is most notable in the reimagining of principal antagonist Wilson Fisk (Vincent D’Onofrio). The white suits and ascot of the comic book Kingpin are relegated to an “Easter egg” joke in the fifth episode, while Fisk’s open-necked silk shirts and mohair-tonic, three-piece suits for the series are either black, gray or muted blue, the surface of the latter sometimes broken up with self-stripes that further mitigate saturation (Fig. 2).

Figure 3: Vivid lighting in Daredevil.

Vivid color is mainly a property of environments, and more specifically the illumination of environments, in Daredevil. Murdock speaks of experiencing “a world on fire,” and in addition to a couple of livid-red POV shots simulating this for the audience, the idea is echoed each episode in the opening credits, which show New York landmarks and finally Daredevil himself forming viscously out of a red haze. A no-less insistent leitmotiv is the acid yellow and green light suffusing the panes of the picture windows that are endemic to the various warehouse and loft spaces in which so much of the nocturnal action takes place — including Murdock’s own apartment (Fig. 3). This sickly glow can in most cases be rationalized as light pollution from neon signage and street lamps (the now celebrated hallway fight from the second episode is one of the exceptions), but this is ultimately beside the point. The device is surely used chiefly because the grid of glazing bars in these windows provides a strong, stylized, quasi-graphic backdrop to action – and perhaps because both the strong color fields and insistent linearity recall the simplified backgrounds beloved of comic-book inkers and colorists (Fig. 4).

Figure 4: Example of simplified backgrounds of classic comic books.

Figure 5: Netflix’s posters for Daredevil.

Very little of this disembodied color creates as potent an effect as Netflix’s Hopperesque banner and posters for Daredevil (Fig. 5), which feature a cityscape bathed in the super-intense blue that hyperbolically represents nighttime in screen media as well as some comic strips. It is in these paratextual images that the “Marvelness” of Daredevil is perhaps most economically and powerfully expressed. Even so, and notwithstanding analogies with The Wire and Dog Day Afternoon, Daredevil’s imagery consistently reflects the fact that, as Loren Weeks puts it: “We didn’t want to be too literal with the real. It is the Marvel universe, after all.”

Arrow (Premiered 10/11/2012)

Following the lead of the Superman-inspired Smallville, Arrow follows the adventures of a billionaire playboy-by-day, vigilante-by-night (no, not Batman), based on DC superhero Green Arrow. Reemerging after being thought dead for five years, Oliver Queen (Stephen Amell) returns to Starling City looking to exact his own brand of archery-based justice and reconnect with his estranged girlfriend (Katie Cassidy) and complicated family. [Andrew Zolides]

Andrew Zolides – University of Wisconsin-Madison

Coming from the same network, source material, and pilot director (‘pilot whisperer’ David Nutter) as Smallville, the comparisons between the two DC Comics superhero adaptations are bound to come up in droves. However, the tone, style, and even major plot points of Arrow fall more in line with Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins (and its sequels) moreso than the CW’s former ten-season Super show, and this is very much a good thing.

The hour-long pilot moves at a brisk pace: rather than overload the audience with backstory upfront, this episode moves back and forth between Oliver’s return home and the possibly not-so-accidental disaster that led to his castaway years. This is a wise move, as it gives the audience a mix of pre- and post-accident Queen, played convincingly if not a bit dryly by Amell. Clearly changed from his playful ways into a serious, hardened man, the cross-cutting lets the viewer fill in the missing pieces for this change in personality (and, apparently, in fashion and archery skills).

Yes, in the biggest departure from its Superman-show predecessor, Arrow ups the action considerably, wasting little time before Queen dons his hooded, Robin Hood-esque secret persona to start cleaning up the city, a task entrusted by his father who died in that shipwreck. While the production quality leaves a lot to be desired (so many punches and arrows land just off-screen, and off-sync with the sound), I feel this level of action is sorely missing from network television, and Arrow fills the job adequately.

Where the show fails, however, is in the acting from most of its players, relying on overly dramatic, wooden performances from nearly everyone, including both Oliver’s family and his former/future(?) girlfriend Laurel (Cassidy). What will be most intriguing are which elements the show emphasizes in the future? While an end-tag promised more ‘soap opera’ shenanigans from Oliver’s possibly evil mother (Susanna Thompson), the tease of several DC villains (like the assassin Deathstroke) bodes well for the future of costume-clad action on the CW.

Jenna Stoeber – University of Wisconsin-Madison

The shadow of the Dark Knight lies heavily over the series premiere of Arrow. Our hero, Ollie Queen (Stephen Amell), shares plenty of qualities with his contemporary Bruce Wayne; both are super wealthy playboys with abs of steel who fight crime on the side. Yet the many wonderful ways in which DC comics has differentiated Ollie have been discarded. For example, in the comics his playboy personality, unlike Wayne’s, was not an act. In Arrow, instead of a frolicking socialite with a tendency to overindulge in liquor and romance, we get a brooding, traumatized hero bent on revenge.

The changes seem mostly motivated by a desire to transform Ollie into the dark, Christopher-Nolan-esque superhero in style these days, but the character suffers for it. The choice to bolster Ollie’s repertoire with some parkour skills was smart, adding a layer of interest and believability to an otherwise relatively action-less superhero. However, the show deeply undercuts the fact that the Green Arrow is a bow–based hero. Although we are treated to some fantastic shots of him jumping over obstacles and doing flips, we almost never get to see him actually shoot his bow; all the neat tricks are performed off-screen.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the romance between our hero and Dinah “Laurel” Lance (Katie Cassidy), a plucky attorney from Ollie’s past, and another comic-to-TV change, reminiscent of Rachel Dawes of the Batman movies. Only, what is there to say? We’re supposed to view her as The Love Interest, in place for a love-triangle with Ollie and his best friend – and probable future enemy – Tommy Merlyn (Colin Donnell), but the stark lack of chemistry between Cassidy and Amell stopped this romance short before it could get going. Amell’s stiff portrayal robs the character of all his potential vivacious energy.

In the end, Arrow was a very familiar take on the superhero genre (two parts Robin Hood, one part Batman), with nothing particularly offensive or brilliant standing out. Viewers inclined to give shows a few episodes to get going will find enough questions laid out (what’s up with that mysterious island? What was the Queen patriarch involved in, and why does the Queen matriarch need to know?) to give them a reason to come back. Those less interested in the mysteries – or in the acting performances – might not be compelled to return.

Beauty & The Beast (Premiered 10/12/2012)

CW’s latest urban fantasy offering stars Kristin Kreuk as Catherine “Cat” Chandler, a homicide detective and “Strong Female Character.” Troubled by memories of her mother’s murder—and by the mysterious beast-like man who saved her life—she seeks to track down the assassins and happens to find her Beast, Vincent Keller (Jay Ryan) along the way. Vincent’s presence pulls her away from her partner, her sister, and her handsome, emotionally-available, doctor co-worker and into the dark and dangerous underworld of the city that he calls home. [Jenna Stoeber]

Jenna Stoeber – University of Wisconsin-Madison

There’s a lot to be said about the horrifying gender implications that are inherent in the Beauty and the Beast concept, but I’m going to side-step those discussions in favor of focusing on what this incarnation of the legend brings to the table.

Beauty and the Beast wastes no time in setting up several story arcs, a tactic that might help hold the attention of those audience members less interested in the storybook (literally) romance between Cat (Kristin Kreuk) and Vincent (Jay Ryan). Both characters’ tragic-pasts-story-arc get air time in the premiere. Cat has grown into a steely-hearted detective, afraid to let anyone get close, though you’d never tell by Kreuk’s friendly and compassionate performance. Her side of the story plays out in a standard police procedural format, which I was surprised to see carried out to completion. However, it wasn’t particularly well done, generally lacking in cohesion and believability. Perhaps the creators were banking on viewers to be so familiar with CSI-style police investigations that they could brush over the facts of the case. And indeed, I didn’t have any trouble following the conclusions they come to; it just wasn’t as compelling as it could have been.

I hope in the future, the show will find the right balance between the crime-procedural format that is Cat’s side of the story and the government-hit-squad that is Vincent’s side. As it stands, the main thrust of the show is focused on Vincent, which gives him ample chances to be the hero and save our beauty. It’s worth noting that Cat did not go down without a fight; I was quite pleased with the well-choreographed and intense fight scene in which she holds her own against three assailants. The action was exciting and well paced within the overall story.

Despite the loads of information the audience gets front-ended with, it’s not at all hard to follow, and the chemistry between Kreuk and Ryan is palpable and entrancing. The same cannot be said for the chemistry between Kreuk and the other participant in the prerequisite love triangle, Evan Marks (Max Brown). The show hurries past the Evan segments and lingers with Vincent, though this could be a reflection of where Cat’s own interests lie. In that vein, I was relieved to find that instead of being propelled by a Sudden Emotional Connection, Cat has a decent reason- wanting information about her mother’s assassination- to continue to put herself in situations with Vincent. I was worried this aspect of the show was going to be rushed- and there is still time for it to be- but for the time being they seem comfortable enough to build up the relationship the old fashioned way.

In the end, Beauty and the Beast has a lot of issues which could easily be fixed, perhaps by the next episode, plus the beginnings of what might be an interesting- if ever familiar and deeply flawed- romance.

Emily Owens, M.D. (Premiered 10/17/2012)

Mamie Gummer—Meryl Streep’s daughter—plays the eponymous character in this medical drama about a med-school intern (not M. D., as the title might suggest) in Denver. Emily is a bright, yet awkward young girl, who finds both her high school enemy and her med-school crush doing internships alongside her at Denver Memorial Hospital.  Thus, she must somehow find a way to retain her quirky idealism for life while dealing with interpersonal challenges at work, and adjusting to life after medical school. [Eleanor Patterson]

Karen Petruska – Northeastern University

I’m a Mamie Gummer fan.  Proof: I sat through more than one episode of Off the Map and also suffered through Evening.  Despite Gummer’s bumpy ride to what will inevitably be great fame, I was eager to check her out in the CW’s Emily Owens, M.D.

Though skeptical about the show’s “life as a doctor is just like high school” conceit, when Emily’s lesbian colleague Tyra walks her through the various cliques at the hospital, I got it (really, it is a funny and apt bit).  Emily is particularly troubled about having to return to high school since she wasn’t exactly cool back in the day.  To be honest, anytime I go to a new conference, I still feel 13, in the corner at a mixer. The thing about being an adult, though, is that even though I still can tell who are the cool kids, now I could give a crap about being a cool kid.  Emily, unfortunately, is not yet that enlightened.

That said, Dr. Emily so far wins hands down in the “who’s a greater model for modern feminism” match versus Dr. Mindy on The Mindy Project, a program that so far has made Mindy’s profession an excuse to create a rom-com. Sure, Emily has a crush on her med school colleague, and she has chemistry with her resident, but she also is a great doctor—competent, compassionate, and determined.

Gummer’s appeal extends beyond the fun of seeing her mother flash across her face (though that, too, is fun)—as Emily she evokes an optimism that is contagious (Emily is not a Grey-style twisted sister). At one point, the resident who is Emily’s future love interest prescribed some tough love for Emily, convincing her to hand over the Ring Dings into which she was crying by reminding her of patients with real problems. I was impressed that the CW took a moment to shatter the illusion in which their entire network operates—with characters free from financial care and a multi-ethnic cast who rarely acknowledge race as, you know, a thing.  Can you imagine Serena on Gossip Girl realizing that her white-person problems may not be so important, after all?   Even though Emily’s internal monologue can sometimes run a bit long, and even though the plotting can be clichéd and predictable, I’m not done with this show. I think there’s something there—and even if that something is just Gummer, that’s okay with me.

Lindsay Giggey – University of California – Los Angeles

Oh Mamie Gummer… I wanted to love you in Emily Owens, M.D. since I love you as Nancy Crozier, recurring character on The Good Wife.  Whereas Crozier allows her opponents to misconceive her as a girl-next-door when in actuality she’s a calculated opponent, Owens frustratingly lacks any such self-awareness.

Emily Owens, M.D. is a perfect C.W. show in the most frustrating way possible.  Whereas The C.W. (and The WB before it) have a long tradition of creating smart shows engaging with teen and adult audiences alike, Emily Owens, M.D. takes The C.W.’s young female demographic so literally that it misses the underlying intelligence of its predecessors.  It positions itself as Grey’s Anatomy for teens through its use of internal monologue as a narration technique and its blend of melodramatic relationship stories with case-of-the-week medical drama.  Moreover, Emily Owens, M.D. literalizes the “life is high school” trope played with by shows like Grey’s Anatomy, as Owens herself says as much several times throughout the episode.  In case we missed the connection, Owens’ high school nemesis is now her colleague, and the hospital itself is located directly across the street from an actual high school.

I should sympathize with Owens, since she’s smart and socially awkward, but I found myself frustrated with how consumed she is with her past nerdiness and how much she wants to be considered cool.  It’s telling that in the pilot episode, her strongest connection is with a teen girl patient as they talk about boys.  Whereas the show seems to want to show Owens coming into her own by the fact that she is clearly a smart compassionate woman, her accomplishments are undercut as she continuously acts and reacts like an unqualified girl.