Everyone’s Special: “The Incredibles” (2004)
You may have noticed that I stole the title for this project from this movie. Particularly this scene. I’ve used the phrase to reference superhero costuming (ie. the visual iconography of the superhero genre), as well as the suitability (what I call “narrative facility”) of each crisis that a superhero confronts. Rewatching The Incredibles for this project, I’m so pleased to have nabbed my title from this movie, 'cause… damn, it’s still a really great movie.
It really holds up after a decade, because it both speaks to the relatable (mundane) experience of being part of a family, and is so familiar with the narrative and visual patterns of the superhero genre.
Before we take a closer look at The Incredibles, let’s familiarize ourselves with the genre. (Besides, it’ll be a good palate cleanser after Catwoman.) Back in the introduction, I defined a superhero as “a character who undergoes a transformative experience, then uses extraordinary means to fight injustice.” Several superhero movies we’ve examined so far have been origin stories, depicting the character’s transformative event and first attempts to battle injustice with newly acquired superpowers.
The following films follow the origin story narrative pattern: Superman, Supergirl, The Rocketeer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Crow, The Mask, Spawn, Spider-Man, The Powerpuff Girls Movie, Daredevil, Hulk, The Punisher, and Catwoman. (Which is actually not that many, when you consider that these are only 13 out of the 53 essays I’ve now posted.) Batman Forever and Batman & Robin also fit this format, for Robin and Batgirl respectively.
The other common narrative patterns are: sequels, team-ups, or – oddly – in media res adventures.
Sequels explore the consequences of a hero’s actions (like the release of Zod and Luthor in Superman II, or Wolverine’s departure to learn about his past in X2: X-Men United); examine a character from a different perspective (ie. Superman’s “evil” version in Superman III or the visual innovations of Blade II); or sometimes both (Spider-Man 2 sees Peter cope with lying to Harry and Mary Jane, while considering a life without superpowers).
Team-ups are similar to origin stories, except the transformative event brings a group of superheroes together, rather than granting an individual character the means or motivation to fight injustice. Mystery Men innovated this narrative format onscreen, followed by X-Men and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.
And finally, in media res adventures begin with the superhero already operating, with the origin story either ignored or embedded as backstory later in the film. Most team-up movies resort to this narrative format for its individual characters. Batman, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Phantom, Blade, and Hellboy all begin with the hero (or heroes) already established.
The Incredibles is best described as a superhero team-up narrative, depicting the transformative event that made a superpowered family into a crime-fighting unit. I listed all those links, partly ‘cause I’ve been doing this project for almost two years now and I’ve got a lot of essays to share – but also 'cause by the time The Incredibles came out, the superhero genre was well-formed. There were lots of images and narrative structures for it to reference.
Yet, somehow, the filmmakers found new territory to tread. (That, I believe, is going to be a common theme, as this project tackles the subsequent decade. The superhero genre is remarkably malleable, capable of inserting its narrative structures into whatever iconography it chooses.)
What precisely is that new territory? You might suspect that it’s mundane suburban drama. Superman III sent Clark back to Smallville and Spawn concluded with a showdown in a suburban living room, but The Incredibles lets the drama of a nuclear family play out in a superhero format. The ongoing argument between the parents, the anxieties of their children, and the family unit’s struggle to integrate into the suburban lifestyle all play out in a mythic and a mundane arena.
And while that aspect of The Incredibles is terribly well executed, the true innovation lurks in how it meshes that suburban drama with the 1967 James Bond film, You Only Live Twice.
Many details indicate that The Incredibles take place circa 1967. The film takes place approximately fifteen years after superheroes were declared illegal, and Edna Mode cites several heroes who were active in the early 1950s. Firmly planted in an era evocative of You Only Live Twice, the film offers Syndrome’s Project Kronos – a sinister plan to launch a rocket into orbit from a vast volcano lair, just like Blofeld’s plan in the Bond film. Michael Giacchino’s score, with its staccato horns, is deeply reminiscent of John Barry’s iconic James Bond scores. Edna Mode even functions as a stand-in for Bond’s Q, offering gadgetry that will be uniquely suited for the crises ahead.
So there are effectively three modes intersecting in The Incredibles: the suburban drama, the superhero team-up myth, and the spy adventure. This is the film’s true innovation: its versatility. (This was also a strength of Superman, yet that film separated its genres from act break to act break. The Incredibles manages to blend them all at once.)
The versatility of The Incredibles really stands out when it reconstructs moments from previous superhero movies. When Mr. Incredible seemingly defeats the Omnidroid for the first time, he throws his back out. “My back!” he groans, as the Omnidroid resurfaces. This is, in fact, the same gag that appeared in Spider-Man 2. But The Incredibles doesn’t use the joke to simply humiliate its hero; it’s used to raise the stakes (now he must face the Omnidroid while injured) and to develop Mr. Incredible as a character who is prideful and out-of-practice, traits that play heavily in the formation of this film’s superhero team.
The film doesn’t recycle those moments to brag about how much better it can execute them; it’s using imagery and plot points and gags from previous superhero films as an extension of its deep familiarity with the genre. Two characters in The Incredibles embody that familiarity: Buddy and Edna Mode.
As an aspiring superhero sidekick, Buddy familiarizes himself with the powers and roles of his idols, particularly Mr. Incredible. When his hero rejects him, Buddy grows up to build the Omnidroid, a robot that learns as it battles superheroes. It is, in other words, a Narrative Facility Crisis machine, uniquely suited to combat every superhero.
Buddy’s foil is Edna, who designs Jack Jack’s supersuit with a generic set of defensive capabilities (ie. bulletproof and heat-resistant). “I didn’t know the baby’s powers, so I covered the basics,” she explains. And she can recall from memory the date of every superhero who died in a cape-related incident.
Because The Incredibles is so demonstrably aware of how superhero stories work, unusual tropes stand out. For instance, when I wrote about The Powerpuff Girls, I observed how rare it is for superheroes to enjoy their powers. (Spider-Man whoops with joy as he web-swings, but he always gets punished for missing mundane things while he’s superhero-ing. Another example is Captain Marvel, who grins every time bullets bounce off of him, but he then proceeds to commit really problematic violence against foes who can’t hurt him.)
For the past few decades, it’s been fashionable to treat superheroes as freaks or outcasts. Through Dash Parr, The Incredibles is a sea change moment, where cinema starts to embrace superheroes as escapist figures. We’re allowed to empathize with these characters’ powers, rather than fear them; we’re encouraged to perceive superpowers as metaphors for our own skills and talents.
