Return of The Dark Knight

Let me set the stage for you, to show you the circumstances that led me to The Dark Knight Returns: I got off work on Wednesday night, and made my miserable way to the library to work on my final Theater presentation. I’d like to say that this presentation is a thorn in my side, but it is more akin to a poisonous javelin shoved through my kidneys. Through various means, I came across The Dark Knight Returns, a graphic novel by Frank Miller which I’ve been meaning to read. I decided to keep it on the desk as I worked and maybe read it intermittently.

Let me say a thing or two about comic books: they’re always over-the-top. They’re bright, they’re usually ridiculously violent, and they retain a certain childish quality, no matter how “dark” or “gritty” they profess to be. I never feel like a great intellectual when I read them. However, reading comic books makes me happy in a very pure, youthful way, and The Dark Knight Returns was no exception.

The story is this: Bruce Wayne has been retirement for twenty years, a retirement that was prompted by the death of his sidekick Robin, and Gotham City has fallen into near-mayhem. A gang that calls themselves The Mutants is slowly chipping away at Gotham’s fragile government and police force, and, with seventy-year-old Jim Gordon on the brink of retirement, there is little hope for the citizens of the collapsing city. Bruce Wayne is a borderline alcoholic and is haunted by his past mistakes and his parents’ death. Finally, the constant pressure snaps him, and he takes up the cape again, fighting the heinous crime of Gotham and fighting his personal demons.

The Dark Knight Returns is certainly one of the best graphic novels I have read. It was dark, yet entertaining; it contained a host of familiar Batman characters (including the Joker); and there is an amazing fight scene contained within the pages that is quite literally a comic book fan’s dream. I don’t want to give anything away, but let me just say this: consider my mind to be blown.

Do I feel more intelligent after reading this book? No, I can’t say I do. But it did give me some much-needed relief from a wretched week, and it also offered respite from my other literary exploit of the time, A Prayer for Owen Meany (which is good, but over 600 pages, 30% of which is a rant about how corrupt Ronald Reagan was).