When Suits Meant Something

Take me back to the era of spandex and heart.

Returning to Sam Raimi’s original Spider-Man is, at this point, a lesson in nostalgia. Now over two decades old, Spider-Man is officially a film out of its prime, a relic belonging to cinema history, and it certainly deserves its spot amongst the greats. Heralding the next generation of blockbuster filmmaking, Spider-Man popularized the idea of an actually cohesive superhero film. Better yet, a superhero film that felt like an arthouse character study, but earned like a summer blockbuster. No one could get enough of the wallcrawler, consumer and commercial entities alike. Once again, it may just be the nostalgia talking, but returning to the film invokes inevitable smirks at the wholesome cheesiness, goosebumps from its grandiosity, and tears from its heart. More than anything, Spider-Man is about its story and the characters that populate it. Peter and Norman’s climactic battle may have been thrilling for the devastating punches, but it was made impactful by the erasure of a score, replaced instead by the pained breaths of academic inspirations turned super-powered rivals. Notice how my first inclination was to say “Peter and Norman” rather than “Spider-Man and Green Goblin.” Nowadays, do I speak of superheroes with the same reverence? The same familiarity or comfort? Iron Man isn’t Tony Stark and Captain America hasn’t been Steve Rogers to me since 2013. While the MCU deserves its credit for successfully adapting strong characters from comic to screen (at least in the beginning of its tenure), it is impossible to argue that the modern superhero film has more heart, personality, or character as the Raimi trilogy. 

This shift in superhero films, from focusing on the personal to amplifying the already popular, I find can be demonstrated in the treatment of character’s suits over time. While Peter was scribbling away designs for his original costume before hand-sewing it, Iron Man discovered how to magically bond metal to skin to brain between movies. There is a clear shift in how suits were treated both within and outside of the film’s diegetic boundaries from Raimi’s heart to Thor’s…whatever his recent outfit is, but the journey from character to costly is exhaustive.

Suits weren’t always adherent to their source material, a major contention for diehard comic book fans. For example, the costumes in X-Men have the cast of superheroes clad in head-to-toe leather in roles that necessitate flexibility. In attempts to make audiences more accepting of silly super powers, costumes took on a militaristic, gruff aesthetic that just screamed “mature.” Studios weren’t catering to the fans, but the general public, and it’s this desperation for mass appeal that has stunted superhero suits. In the era of gritty realism, successful adaptations came with characters who were meant to remain grounded, like Captain America in his first MCU outing. Batman in Nolan’s trilogy moves towards technologically advanced, but never strays too far from reality. Meanwhile, super-hero outfits that were comic accurate soon prevailed as the most popular approach in the public eye, but studios were still hesitant. Iron Man premiered with a comic accurate suit, but one contextualized as bulky and tangible, still within the militaristic aesthetic. However, as the MCU continued and heroes were introduced to mainstream moviegoing audiences, suits became an even more contentious topic. Now, these live-action representations were so popular that they had to include some relation to their comic origins to please the fans and bank on the oh-so precious resource of nostalgia. However, studios still feared the more general audience scoffing at a man in tights. From here, we enter the era of excess. More recent suit designs see the trends of adding random lines vaguely coded as “technologically advanced,” bits and pieces hanging off every available square inch of a hero, and a general sense of chaos to more recognizable suit designs. Worse yet, suits are hardly consistent amongst heroes or between films. While it may not matter to the audience that Ant-Man’s suit went under its fourth redesign for his latest film, it doesn’t matter to Scott Lang either, and that’s when the problems with this modern approach emerge. 

Notice how part of my measurement of a suit’s quality was how representative of that character the suit is. The militaristic Captain America worked not just because the suit looked great, but because it naturally demonstrated aspects of the character. Of course I want my costumes to be visually appealing; Insomniac's Spider-Man has taught me, customization is half the fun of being a hero. However, Batman has a symbol for a reason. Design choices aren’t mistakes, a superhero's suit, as all the best comic book films understand, are inherently charged with narrative meaning for its representational power. The recent Spider-Verse films prove just as much: Anyone can wear the mask, but that’s only significant when the mask means something. To me, Raimi’s suit is this notion distilled into an outfit. Whereas superhero suits in recent MCU and DCEU outings read more as disingenuous distractions, there was once a time where superhero suits were representative of their character and held a place in the narrative. There was once a time where suits meant something.

In the early days of superhero grit, audiences were often treated to the design process of these more tangible suits. Now barely even cloth, superhero suits hold less narrative weight than in the past; they are literally intangible and narratively invisibilized. In the original Iron Man, Tony Stark builds his first suit out of desperation for survival. With scrap metal and earwax, prettyboy Stark managed to tough his way out of foreign imprisonment. In this way, the suit itself becomes representative of his will to live and the recognition of his privileged position as the world's most dangerous weapons dealer. When returning to America, Iron Man’s half hour spent testing and perfecting his design for a new iconic red and yellow iteration is thus reflective of his character’s development: Tony is learning to hone his corruption into a weapon for good. Similarly, Peter’s transition from a homemade sweat suit to Spider-Man feels triumphant for the narrative weight it is allowed. Only after Peter learns that with great power comes great responsibility does he design the suit. Only after Peter has learned a valuable lesson does the suit come to mind - as a direct result of Peter’s positive development. The iconic Raimi montage isn’t just a stylish, delightfully hokey means of slipping past the explanation of how Peter can sew a suit that well, but a demonstration of growth. Unlike modern superhero films, where suits are either paraded for nostalgia bait or simply present for the sake of marketing and toy sales, the superhero suits of yesteryear were narratively charged devices used to communicate character development. 

Sadly, I’m not hopeful for the future of suit designs. While recent outings have made it seem that comic-accuracy is the new trend, that is only because it is what is currently most profitable. The second nostalgia runs out of fashion, so will Hugh Jackman in a bright yellow wolverine suit. It’s difficult to say if studios were correct in assuming some suits seemed too silly for the silver screen, but I don’t doubt them making the same leaps in logic once profits start to fall, and a new design trend is popularized for potential audience satisfaction. Grounded, over-designed, what’s next? Hopefully, whatever the next iteration is sees the suit becoming more than just an outfit.