WARNING: SPOILERS FOR AVENGERS: ENDGAME. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.
I love comic book movies. I love them. I
know it’s not a controversial opinion to have in 2019, but I have loved them as
long as I can remember. I love the feeling I get when I sit down and get to
watch Captain America throw his shield around, or Spider-Man do a flip, or
Batman give some no-name thug permanent, life-long brain damage. It’s all a
thrill to me. Hell, even that Nickelback song at the end of the first Tobey
McGuire Spider-Man gets me where I need to go; that song is a banger and you
are wrong if you think otherwise. Also, you are wrong if you feel the need to
clap during movies. Or when a plane lands. Get it together, Karen.
This is all to say that I was one of those
fans that got their ticket as soon as they could to see Avengers: Endgame; the
culmination of an 11 year, 22 film connected universe that felt like it would
deliver every big moment that I could imagine a billion dollar company wanting
me to have. And I did have all those moments. I had a big, shit eating grin on
my face when Captain America got to wield Mjolnir, or when they got everyone
back for the final battle, or when Hawkeye got to say a line, because hey, he’s
there too and he’s trying his best. What I didn’t expect to see was their
characterization of Thor.
When we see Thor in Endgame, he’s driven
and motivated to cut Thanos’ head clean off his shoulders. And that’s exactly
what he does… in the first 20 minutes of the movie. Then we jump to five years
after that event and nothing has changed in the world. Half the population is
still dead, and the remaining have to learn to move on. So when we finally
reconnect with Thor, he is no longer the chiseled, Viking god that he has been
the past decade. No, who we meet is a Thor who is fat, who is drunk, who is
broken, and who is defeated in victory. Thor, to me, is one of the best
representations of grief and depression I have seen in a major motion picture.
As the movie progresses, several characters
make jokes about his weight, or his disheveled look, or his general lack of
apathy towards the events occurring around him. He’s a man who has given up,
and just accepts that the jabs and jokes are a part of that. We see the hero
that would once throw himself into any situation now cowering at the thought of
failure. Not trying would be better than the thought of the rejection of
failing. Not trying to get back into the fight, not trying to not let the
horrible feelings take you, not trying to ask for help from those that care
about you. I have been there, and the little things, such as the inability to
maintain eye contact, the half smile to reassure someone and the attempt to
change topics are all things that, as someone with depression, I have tried to
do.
See, the thing that is so interesting to me
about Thor in this movie is that, without beating you over the head with it,
they show you how much Thor has had to internalize his grief. Not just the
grief of not being able to stop Thanos before, but the grief of having to say
goodbye to his father, to have his mother die, to see his brother and his best
friend die trying to stop Thanos. Thor isn’t just burdened by destiny; he’s
burdened by tragedy. And it finally made sense to me why Thor became funnier as
the movies went on. He’s using humour to cope with his pain. And that’s when I
finally began relating to Thor.
The two scenes that really stuck out to me
happen, about, an hour apart from each other. The first is the introduction to
depressed Thor, as he is slovenly living in Norway with the remaining
Asgardians, playing Fortnite with Meek and Korg as he chugs down beers. When
Bruce comes to him, it’s initially played for laughs; Thor let himself go and
it is funny to see his big belly. Obesity is hilarious, kids. As Bruce tries
and tries to convince him, Thor brushes him off. Until Bruce mentions Thanos,
and we see Thor’s facade break. We see Thor presented with the source of his
failure, a reminder of his pain, and we see his vulnerability. He shakes as he
speaks, almost at a whisper to his friend, so uncertain if he will be able to help
to bring those they lost back, and whether he would be strong enough to help
them. It’s a scene that establishes his doubt of his own value, despite the
insistence of a friend.
The scene that I felt was, for me, the most
important scene for Thor was the scene with his mother, Freya. He allows
himself, for the first time in this cinematic universe, to acknowledge that he
feels weak. That he doesn’t know that he can do what he is supposed to, and
that he is not worthy of the title he has. It isn’t until his mother assures
him that it’s never been about being who you are supposed to be, but that you
need to be who you are, that you see his confidence grow. This culminates with
him summoning Mjolnir, and exhaling “I am still worthy.” I don’t know that
anyone I was with saw, but this moment had me choking back tears. It was a
moment that those who are suffering as Thor was, wanted to call for their own
Mjolnir and be able to affirm that they are also worthy.
Thor has always been the superhero, in the
Marvel universe, that we all wish we could be. He’s powerful, charming,
handsome, wields a massive hammer; you know, a real Chris Hemsworth type. And
for the past 10 years, that’s exactly how we have seen him. He’s the one, out
of the Avengers, who comes in and wrecks shit when they need the big guns. And,
as dope of a character as he is, and as fantastic as Chris Hemsworth is at
playing him, he was always the Avenger I had the most trouble relating to. What
Endgame did was truly remarkable for this genre of film; it turned a Norse god
into a real person.
I joked after the movie that Fat Thor was a
way of life; that I felt like I was watching myself. And that felt true. I’ve
struggled for over a decade with depression, and seeing the other Avengers poke
fun at his weight gain, or his declining appearance, it felt like Marvel was
holding up a mirror to me. I’ve struggled with being overweight. I’ve struggled
with feeling unbearably ugly. I’ve struggled with feeling useless and not
believing in my own worth. And, most importantly to this analysis, I’ve
struggled with internalized grief. My younger brother passed when he was 8 and
I was 12. Then my grandma and grandpa, who lived with us, soon after. As a 12
year old, I was never really able to process the helplessness behind it, and as
a 27 year old now, I still fully don’t. Grief does not define me, but it is a
part of who I am. Grief did not define Thor; it became a part of him in moving
forward and growing. And my takeaway from this character arc is that Marvel
wanted to show us that even the mightiest of us can fall; but we won’t be down
for long because we are worthy of our own greatness.
