Alex Bledsoe - To the Batpole: An Essay/Parody on Batman

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THIS PUBLICATION IS UNOFFICIAL AND UNAUTHORIZED. IT HAS NOT BEEN PREPARED, APPROVED, AUTHORIZED, LICENSED, OR ENDORSED BY ANY ENTITY THAT CREATED OR PRODUCED THE WELL-KNOWN BATMAN COMICS OR FILM.

2008 by Alex Bledsoe

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he influences that helped turn teenage millionaire Bruce Wayne into the vengeful, obsessed Batman have been endlessly analyzed, from the death of his parents to his discovery that bats are (gasp!) scary. But one small unemphasized incident might actually, as the Beatles would say, loom large in his legend. This haunted boy was fatheredin all but the biological senseby a middle-aged English manservant, and at the onset of puberty this child of privilege would no doubt have turned to trusted Alfred Pennyworth for an explanation of the unexpected changes in his body, voice, and priorities.

For Bruce Wayne, the Talk, as it is for any young person, must have been one of lifes watershed events. It sends reverberations through our lives that Freud only glimpsed. But there is no single Bruce Wayne, just as there is no one version of Batman. Bob Kanes creation has been modified, adapted, reimagined, and tweaked by a succession of writers, artists, and filmmakers. So can the different popular incarnations of the Dark Knight, in all their shadowy variety, be traced back to this pivotal conversation?

What follows, though, are mere extrapolations. The actual conversations between Alfred and Bruce are the sole property of a mighty entity whose tendrils twine effortlessly around the necks of those who even dare breathe their name without permission. Just ask Dave Stevens. What follows are parodies, humorous satirical imitations of serious writing. I swear.

A note: Just like the Caped Crusader, Alfred has gone through numerous incarnations, including a stint as a supervillain called The Outsider. For the sake of clarity, we will deal with three popular, non-comic book interpretations: The Batman TV show, where he was played by Shakespearean actor Alan Napier; the Tim Burton films (Batman and Batman Returns) where Hammer Film Productions veteran Michael Gough took over the white gloves and tails; and Christopher Nolans Batman Begins, which gave us a still-rugged Michael Caine as Wayne Manors majordomo.

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In the Batman TV show (1966-1968) and its cinematic spin-off (Batman: The Movie, 1966), Alfred was the ever-proper, ever-helpful butler who, along with housekeeper Aunt Harriet, kept Stately Wayne Manor in tip-top shape. Privy to the secrets of Bruce Wayne (crime-fighting and otherwise, no doubt), he often stepped in to help, a domino mask hiding his identity. But at one time he mustve dealt with something far less proper than battling the baddies bedeviling Bruce.

Imagine Bruce Wayne, in short pants and private school blazer, standing before Alfred in the mansions library. This Wayne Manor is brightly lit, spotless, and filled with the works of art any respectable encyclopedia of the time wouldve called great. It was created by set designers not concerned with psychological reality: Why, after all, would Bruce use a bust of Shakespeare to hide the red button? Surely, given his penchant for creatures of the night, Poe wouldve been a better choice. But thanks to the 60s insistence on educational basics like great literature, every schoolboy of the time knew Shakespeare on sight, and this bust told them that Bruce had also had to read Julius Caesar in junior high and wonder what the hell ides were.

Already a precocious (and chivalrous) lad, Bruce certainly would ensure that Aunt Harriet was either off to the market or with the other ladies getting her hair done. This is not a conversation for delicate female sensibilities.

Alfred, he would say in his grim, vaguely breathless way, there seems to be an untoward event happening that I can neither explain nor prevent.

I see, Master Bruce, Alfred would no doubt respond, possibly fingering the furniturepolishing chamois cloth in his white-gloved hand. And where is this event occurring?

With hands clasped behind his back, Bruce might say, In my trousers, Alfred.

In your trousers, Master Bruce?

Yes, Alfred. It appears that a certain appendage has altered its appearance over an incredibly short period of time, although the appendage itself is no longer incredibly short.

Alfred would place his housekeeping items aside, and perhaps remove his glasses for a quick polish as he formulates his reply. He might even pour himself a discreet glass of port to help muster the resolve to address this issue, knowing that young Master Bruce has nowhere else to turn. At last he might say, That does seem significant, Master Bruce.

Can you explain this perplexing protuberance, Alfred?

Indeed, sir. It is the plain presence of proper puberty.

Ah, yes, puberty. We studied this in science class. It means I have now experienced the first thrusts of manhood, does it not?

I believe so, Master Bruce. You should also have noticed an outgrowth of hair in new places, and I have detected a variation in your normal speaking tone.

So all these examples are the expected exemplars of this extraordinary event?

Indeed, Master Bruce.

Very well. I shall remove myself to my room to privately examine this perfidious protuberance more properly.

I expect so, Master Bruce. Shortly, Alfred would no doubt see the unmistakable onomatopoeia hanging in the air outside Master Bruces bedroom door, although perhaps BAM! and OOF! would be replaced by somewhat... squishier terms.

And so this version of Bruce Wayne would go on to don gray tights and a blue satin cowl with eyebrows drawn on it much in the style of an overplucked dowagers. He would also begin a long-term platonic relationship with a young man he insisted on calling Dick even though the boys given name was certainly Richard, and who he encouraged to wear skin-tight green briefs in public.

Speaking of Robin, it seems unlikely that when the same problem arose (heh), Dick Grayson would approach cold, analytical Bruce Wayne. He, too, likely would seek out Alfred, although the conversation was probably much more energetic.

Holy hardness, Alfred! he might exclaim. My Robin tights are tighter than ever!

I can see that, Master Dick.

Holy sarcasm, is that a joke?

A slight tremor, the very faintest of smiles, might be visible. No, Master Dick, I assure you.

Then stop calling me that! And tell me what to do about this! I cant go into Gotham City and fight villains looking like a sundial!

It is perfectly normal, Master Richard. All young men experience this.

Even Bruce?

Indeed.

Robins eyes might open wide. Holy beefeater, Alfred, even you