The line between dream and delusion can be measured in angstroms, particularly in a place like Hollywood. Nobody cares who you are or what dreams you cling to, and the only marketable trait you have is your willingness to endure humiliation until someone mistakes your desperation for talent. Yet people continue to flock there hoping for their name on a marquee, despite odds similar to jackpot slots that take advantage of people’s ignorance of statistics. Fame and fortune, the balls that drive the throbbing member that is the American dream. Nobody tells the ambitious youth who hitch rides to Los Angeles that, more likely than not, you will get the anus. The intense pressure of eking by in a constant state of failure compresses those dreams into delusion, and your perceptions of greatness become your new reality. It takes courage to admit failure, and move on to something lying within your limitations. For all of the bubbleheaded puff pieces available on E! wherein you learn how a smile and a dream catapulted one person to stardom, Confessions of a Superhero provides a resonant story for thousands more.

This brings us to our superheroes, dressing up in costume to ‘work’ Hollywood Boulevard every day, posing with tourists for tips. They all say they provide a public service, and it does seem to pay the exorbitant rent, but these people make very poor liars indeed. For them, it is a way to cling to the edge of the glitterati, with the impossible hope that they will be noticed by the producer with the cigar, and given their big break. Until then, one can pretend to already be a star – and what better way to do that than as an iconic superhero?

Superman has been shaking down tourists for tips for eleven years. He has been doing it so long that the locals refer to him as the ‘original’ Superman. He has a code of ethics (“No smoking in uniform”), helps train the new failures on the block, and has an astonishing collection of memorabilia for someone living in poverty. Spending just a little time with him, though, and you quickly pick up on the musty scent of obsession. He always seems to stop just short of claiming to be Superman. He already claims to be the son of Sandy Dennis, who never had children. It doesn’t help that he bears a striking resemblance to Christopher Reeve, if Reeve were two years into a crippling meth addiction. At a look-alike contest, when he does not win, he appears to be visibly ill. Somehow, it just never occurred to him that the audience may not think he is Superman, and he is shaken to the very core.

Wonder Woman seems the most well adjusted of the bunch. Coming from rural Tennessee, and having been raised by a Baptist preacher, panhandling on Hollywood Boulevard is a step up of several orders of magnitude. She is not consumed by her ‘role’, at least not yet. After an impulsive courtship with a random stranger, a dull marriage, and separation, followed by what will be years of failed auditions, a straightjacket may be in the cards. She does have an awesome rack, though. You never know what will be the deciding factor at an audition.

The Hulk seems least concerned with his street work, actually calling himself a “loser, begging for change”. Hailing from rural North Carolina, he has been well-prepared for a grim living, homeless on the streets of Los Angeles. I really must tip my hat in deference to this guy, who seems to take daily hunger and sweating out 100 degree days in a green rubber suit in stride. He actually gets a movie role as a 70s pimp in a kung fu flick, and I can’t help but cheer for him.

Batman, on the other hand, has become his character completely, if the superhero were an aggressive, retarded hustler. This piece of work says no less than ten times (on camera, anyway) that he is a George Clooney look-alike. So much so, in fact, that he is rejected time and again for his stunning likeness. You need to see the movie to understand why this is funny. He constantly provides a passive aggressive resume about his past ties with the mob (“We wouldn’t bust any kneecaps, but we would make you believe we would. Sometimes we would, though.”), that he killed a person, or several people, and is a black belt in karate even though he shows the coordination of a drunk with muscular dystrophy. He discussed the “substantial body count” to his credit while talking to his psychiatrist. While wearing the Batman suit, I might add. His hurried speech does all the talking for him, pouring out the unjustified optimism that he will achieve some sort of fame or notoriety before either he or the rest of Hollywood realizes he is a fraud. On Hollywood Boulevard he is Batman, angrily demanding change from anyone in reach. That anyone would conceive of paying these pillocks for a photo is inconceivable. It is shocking their eye sockets have not been scorched from repeated doses of tear gas.

Superman and Batman are both consumed by the roles they so wish to play. They even view their identity the same way the superheroes did. Superman was born with great powers, and the fanatical, but polite, gentleman does not question the gifts bestowed upon him by Krypton. Batman, on the other hand, is a normal person who has chosen to become a superhero, and so this guy dives into his role with such aplomb that he appears ready at any moment to chew the furniture. Wonder Woman and the Hulk do not appear quite so insane, though I suspect this is only a matter of time and the inexorable pressure of poverty.

Even though the titular superheroes are easy targets for vitriol, one could level the same accusation of delusion at any of the tourists posing with these nobodies. Everyone shares in an obsession with stardom and the fallacy that we aren’t disposable parts of an indifferent machine. If one cannot attain la dolce vita, then I suppose a dim shadow of it will do.
It all sounds so sad, and it is sad without a doubt. And yet this was one of the most delightful films I have seen in some time. Something about watching the pointless pursuit of even a menial sort of success brings me tears of joy. This was an immersive experience into slow decay, and the realization that the American dream is not theirs for the taking. The people keep saying they just want to make a living, but the fanatical glint in their eyes betrays their deeper desires. In a way, I am almost envious of their ability to put on a literal and figurative superhero identity. If I lost all that I owned, and lived on the streets of an unforgiving city, would I have the courage to shed all dignity and chase nickels? These poor bastards are flying high over a canyon with no safety net whatsoever – I suppose a superhero identity makes all the sense in the world if you fear the precipitous drop. To simply become someone else entirely certainly beats confronting the hopeless grind of day to day living, and realizing that your insignificant life will soon be snuffed out and nobody will mark the passing. This is what happens when our ambitions turn out to be well beyond our grasp. We invent another perception of reality where we are not so much trash in a gutter, and that one will do just fine.

That is the dark side of the American dream. After all, success is right there in front of you, all you need to do is work, or something involving bootstraps, and the treasure is for the taking. So if you failed, it couldn’t be because you simply don’t have any talent for entertainment, and you don’t have the educational background, the benefit of nepotism, or you are just too fucking ugly. Failure must come from a lack of determination, nothing more. Small wonder these people are going insane. Dealing with a steady state of failure without any hope tends to require a lack of real perspective to survive. It is anathema in this country to suggest that coming to terms with failure is a good idea. Nonetheless, this can not only preserve one’s sanity, but also enable real progress.