The Banality of Evil in Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow (Essay 1 of 3 in the Series)

Comic books are often dismissed as simple power fantasies, but the medium has a long, potent history of holding a mirror up to the darker corners of human nature. I've written a few articles over the years on this topic, but I recently got around to reading the DC Compact edition of Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow. In issue #3 (by writer Tom King and artist Bilquis Evely), a brightly coloured sci-fi adventure pivots into a devastating exploration of Hannah Arendt's concept of the "banality of evil". The issue demonstrates just how effectively comics can tackle horrific real-world subject matter in a sensitive and thought-provoking way.

The Atrocity at Maypole

When Kara Zor-El (Supergirl) and her companion Ruthye track the fugitive killer Krem to the planet Corunn, they arrive in Maypole—an idyllic, polite town that looks like a calm, 1950s-style American suburb populated by blue-skinned aliens ("the Blues"). However, beneath the manicured lawns lies a grotesque secret: when space-faring mercenaries known as the Brigands threatened their world, the Blues made a chilling bargain. Rather than fighting or risking their own lives, they paid the Brigands specifically to murder and wipe out the planet's purple-skinned minority ("the Purples") in a segregated enclave known as "Purple Town". Krem, an imprisoned outsider at the time, actively assisted in the slaughter before being released and sheltered by the townspeople.

Standing before the mass graves outside Purple Town, Supergirl is forced to confront a soul-crushing truth: even with god-like power, she cannot simply punch her way out of systemic cosmic evil, nor can she cure the quiet complicity of an entire society that chose genocide for their own comfort.

Allegory, History, and Geopolitics

Because of the issue's heavy themes, I did some research online to see if King was drawing direct parallels to modern geopolitics, specifically comparing the plight of Purple Town to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in Gaza. As it turns out, Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow #3 was published in August 2021—well before the escalations in Gaza that began in October 2023—and King has never stated that the story was intended as a direct allegory for that specific conflict. While conflict in the region has been ongoing since the 1948 Nakba, the issue draws just as heavily on much older, universal history—from European colonialism to global instances of state-sanctioned ethnic cleansing.

I think this tendency for audiences to apply this modern geopolitical lens has been further fuelled by James Gunn’s 2025 Superman film. Although I still haven't actually seen the film myself yet, it was practically impossible to miss the endless chatter and debate across social media regarding its fictional conflict between Boravia and Jarhanpur, which many viewers interpreted as an explicit real-world proxy.

The Universal Canvas

Instead, King channels universal historical patterns—drawing on his own past real-world experiences to explore displacement, segregation, and ethnic cleansing. The chapter resonates precisely because it avoids being a one-to-one cipher for any single event.

By cleverly abstracting human cruelty onto an alien canvas, the comic strips away our political tribalism and forces us to confront a terrifying reality: evil rarely arrives looking like a cackling monster. Far more often, it presents itself as a polite neighbour, a tidy street, and an entire community looking the other way while their comfort is bought with blood.

It's something I mentioned in my review of Patlabor 2: The Movie, as a protagonist in that anime masterpiece opines:

"We export the realities of war and import the fruits of its labour. We call it a peace, but it's a fraudulent peace—until the front lines come home eventually."

The Power of Gaming as a Cognitive Respite

I've always preferred local, cooperative gaming over the competitive online stuff as I have a desire for connection, not conflict. Some of my happiest memories are rooted in the camaraderie of couch co-op classics like Micro Machines and Streets of Rage 2, or that shared emotional rollercoaster of "pass-the-pad" single-player games like Resident Evil VII and Amnesia: The Dark Descent. That spirit of collaboration continues now with my daughters, whether we’re trash-talking over Mario Kart 8 or working together in Kirby and the Forgotten Land or Mario 3D World.

However, sometimes I like to experience a game at my own pace—no anxiety about having to "git gud", prove anything to strangers or even talk to anyone. That's why I gravitate toward narrative-driven games; they give me a clear end goal but the journey lets me explore things on my own terms. As a teacher, my life is constantly full of people, so my mental bandwidth often needs a genuine chance to recalibrate.

But here's the kicker: the real, subtle power of these solo experiences lies in a weird, thematic irony. I'm trying to escape the depressing cycle of global news - all the wars, genocides, and political noise - but I end up playing games like Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 (trying to revive a blighted world against an all-encompassing enemy) or World of Horror (confronting cosmic evil). These aren't simple escapist fantasies; they're narratives about desperation, grief and inhumanity.

I suspect that these games aren't providing an escape from the void but rather a structured way to look into it. The act of engaging with these fictional struggles, where I have agency and a defined objective, feels like a genuine form of cognitive processing and emotional regulation - a kind of therapy. We saw this clearly during the early days of Covid, when those structured digital worlds offered routine and a sense of mastery during a time of utter chaos. Now, facing the deep emotional toll of current events, like the ongoing tragedy in Gaza, that need for solace feels even more critical for me.

Gaming provides a controlled emotional container. By parsing the fantastical horrors in a safe space, I may be subconsciously processing the real-world chaos and existential unease that constantly permeates my news feeds. The entire spectrum of human emotion - vulnerability, sadness, pain - is covered in these games.

Just recently, while dealing with the emotional weight of the situation, the simple act of playing Island of Illusion with my daughters offered a vital, momentary distraction and a precious connection. The immersive nature of a videogame, regardless of its theme, creates a world where complexity and loss can be understood and momentarily set aside, offering genuine solace during these challenging times.