The comments on the mismanagement of Batman in the recent movies is exhaustive, but upon watching it...I had one more thing to add... I hate that he's a superhero. Let me explain. Batman is not super human. He's an ordinary human that's pushed his boundaries further than other ordinary humans have. He's not only the richest, but he's also has very high intellect and his physical prowess is so far above the norm it's understandable if anyone might question whether it is a supernatural quality or not. While this group of goodies is probably highly improbable in a human being, it's not impossible? And therefore we can say that Batman remains a man. But in this superhero zeitgeist, Batman is thrown in with people with actual super powers. He has to be shown to hold his own because it's a law of Hollywood that popularity increases applicability to any situation. The smart thing about Nolan's Batman is that Batman is aware of his mortal limits and instead of running into the middle of an open space and 1 v 10'ing a group of armed bad guys, he takes them out with a mixture of stealth, psychology, and brutality. He's still a man, it's just his tactics make him seem more than a man. In Nolan's work, Batman is a skilled ninja. In Snyder's Batman, he's superhuman powering his way through enemies like he's Captain America. Of course one can sit back and offer up all types of possible alternatives to this and christen them as "better", so I won't do that. I will, however, say that I don't personally want to see another superhero movie for at least ever, but if I had to watch one, I think it is important that every character have limits that they have to work around. Uncompromising limitations. That's the essence of being mortal- of establishing a connection between man and movie. This is the same reason why I felt Jesus was a very poor choice for a hero or example. He is fundamentally not human. Human's trying to be like Jesus is like a fish trying to be like an eagle. Not happening. Super hero's are poor icons to follow or envy because they are unrealistic and offer unrealistic solutions to realistic problems.
I grew up as a kid wanting to write my own world and my own story, but as an adult I realized that the kid was only mimicking what he saw- destined only to create a sort of spin on a well-established idea. As an adult, I've always had trouble with trying to create something truly new. If there is one single being that holds the majority of my awe and respect, it is the creator of the Dark Souls franchise, Hidetaka Miyazaki. There is really no amount of description that could do it justice- I believe that even with the praise he has received, his work is underrated and one of the most intriguing gems in fictional history. At first I wanted very much to copy in some way this style while twisting it enough to make my own. However, in the end, I needed something new and I wound up scraping it again and sitting in that white featureless room in my mind synonymous with the blank page of the beginner and wondering...how? I haven't found an answer yet. But I think I know where to find it. In madness. I don't think anyone could blame me. Most artists discover their depths through acts of seclusion or disengagement from the normal world. The religious guru's and the greatest visionaries usually have some ritual that facilitates this. Mines is the inevitable retreat into solidarity- the antechamber of discomfort...despair...the wild throes of the physical self rebelling against this unnatural act even as the portal of the spirit opens up in ones vision and the gates of wonder slowly creak open. The shades are drawn in my room and my families footsteps can he heard every so often moving too and fro. They haven't seen me in weeks and I can only guess my existence has become more and more a question than a definity, but even this thought is the echo of an echo on the very fringes of consciousness as I descended with great fear and a shaking spirit down the dark corridors of my consciousness. I descend, feeling madness slide around me like a misty shawl. I descend knowing that I can never truly ascend again. But I'm willing to pay the price. I go down further till it feels like I'm no longer descending...or even walking. The world is so dark I have lost all sense. I am floating...spreading...being pulled apart physically and mentally. And in my mind that bright light blossoms and in that light- searing- I can vaguely see something- even as if feels like it's burning away the last parts of me. I focus harder- ignoring my vaporizing sense of self- the anchor of my existence- leaning more into the revelation of this wonder floating in the void. The truth is there. It's the only thing that ever mattered. I struggle towards it with all my unwinding being. The answer creeps so close to the forefront of conscisousness- a hairs width away from explsive revelation- a trembling ecstasy on the tip of a spiritual explosion, and... Swoop. Nothing. All of me. All that was the world or any sense of it. Gone. Forgotten, as though it never existed at all. Perhaps...it never existed at all.
The impulse to create something new or genuinely different is an old one- an old puzzle. I've never gotten past the stage of writing ideas down and that's because most of the time I feel like I've created a new idea and then- boom- I see it expressed in someone else's work, and sometimes with so much more craft and finesse I feel awful and want to quit writing. But, for some reason, I never did. Instead, I suppose, I simply want to try and make a story- however it turns out. I'm almost assured that it will be obscure, but...what choice do you have? You can't choose the things you love. You can only deal with them.