Body Dysmorphia as seen in Marvel Comics' BETA RAY BILL: ARGENT STAR

Daniel Warren Johnson gives us a nuanced, complex tale about the toll that body dysmorphia takes...by way of a talking space horse.

Howdy, friend.

I’ve just returned from AWP in Kansas City, an annual writing conference that hops around from city to city. Besides seeing friends and talking shop with editors and publishers, I had the pleasure of sitting on a panel with two magnificent writers; we talked about how each of us writes about the body, deconstructing and rebuilding it in our work.

This month is busy: Along with the conference, I’m teaching a six-week graphic memoir workshop in addition to the usual avalanche of bookwork. And yet! I recently revisited Daniel Warren Johnson’s gorgeous Beta Ray Bill: Argent Star, a graphic novel I’ve wanted to discuss for a while, so I figure I should write about it while all this bodywork is on my mind. I spend a good deal of space in this newsletter talking about graphic memoirs, especially as they pertain to my body dysmorphia and related traumas. Still, I think it’s important to explore other modes of storytelling to get to these same heartfelt moments, even if they include a fictional space horse.

I grew up reading comics, and I was always attracted to the characters that were outsiders, that looked different—not the glamorous, hyper-masculine/-feminine heroes we might picture. Beta Ray Bill is hardly what you’d envision when you think of a hero, or someone who could anchor an incredibly moving story about bodily acceptance and how hard it is to carry our agonies with us, but here we are. This graphic novel is that good and I can’t wait to share it with you. So, instead of my previous “How to Read Comics” diversions (which you can read here and here), where we dissect storytelling specifically through the illustration, here I’ll be talking about the overall narrative—and why it’s so important to see this difficult material represented in mainstream comics.

If this is your first time visiting How to Draw, a hearty welcome. You can check out our archive of posts here. And if you haven’t already, please consider subscribing so you don’t miss a thing.

Lotsa love. ♡

– RJR

There is a long history of mainstream comics giving us gruesome-looking characters who, in a world of bodily perfection, are often depicted as lonely and isolated—see: Thing, Hellboy, Rorschach, and Swamp Thing. But Beta Ray Bill has, to me, one of the most maudlin story arcs—a character that draws deep empathy, even though he’s part of giant conglomerate Marvel.

Here’s the tl;dr version of Bill’s origin story:

Beta Ray Bill is a member of the Korbinite alien race which faced extinction due to the actions of the demonic entity known as Surtur. To ensure the survival of his people, Korbinite scientists genetically engineered Bill into a powerful warrior. The downside: He was reconstructed into a hulking beast with a horse-like face. Although terrified of his own appearance, he graciously takes on the mantle of protector of his people. At some point, Odin, impressed by Bill’s valor, deemed him “worthy” and created a weapon equal to Mjolnir: Stormbreaker.

For many years, Bill was able to change at will back into his (more pleasing) Korbinite form. By the beginning of the Argent Star storyline, however, he’s stuck in permanent warrior/horseface mode.

Here, a flashback from Warren’s Argent Star showing Bill before his life-altering surgery:

As Argent Star begins, we see Bill in his prime, helping Asgardian soldiers fend off the villainous dragon Fin Fang Foom. This is what Bill was created for: to rouse, to lead into battle, to be brave in the face of unspeakable terror.

Regular readers of this newsletter will know that I have long struggled with my body dysmorphia. While I have a better handle on it these days, it lingers—and always will. In addition to the harmful thoughts that creep up and the cruelness I lob at myself, I often want to disappear. I don’t want to be seen. I’m tall, which makes that hard. I’m easy to pick out of a crowd.

And yet, there are other times I feel the need to lean into my physical appearance, be who I think they want me to be. To be strong or stoic, to lead or be the first to speak. I see this too in Bill. He suffers greatly, but when he needs to be present, he puts on a show.

After the battle in which Bill gloriously leads his troops, as everyone celebrates together over ale and provisions, there’s Bill in the corner, watching beautiful Thor surrounded by adoring men and women.

Bill—his body no longer of use to these people—is off on his own, away from the festivities. Abandoned. Forgotten.

We can sense his isolation. We can see the turmoil brewing in his head. I see so much of myself in this image. When my body dysmorphia flares, when it hits its peak, I hate what I see and who I am. In these moments, even though I want to love myself and be loved, I find it easier to hide, to be on the outside looking in—and I can’t help but feel like I’m on display being judged. By everyone.

Not long after, Lady Sif, another Asgardian hero, begins flirting with Bill, impressed by his deeds on the battlefield. She takes him to her chambers, ready to be intimate with him. Bill, surprised and excited, happily goes along with her, until:

Sif hesitates, and Bill reads the silence well; as she chokes and attempts to explain her reluctance, he does it for her:

Bill understands that no one wants to be with him like this—that this form is monstrous. How could anyone be with him for a night, let alone love him long-term?

By the end of the story, after an arduous quest has been undertaken, Bill regains the ability to transform back into his original appearance. Great, right?

Not quite.

It doesn’t matter what others may see: those suffering from body dysmorphia have a skewed, often toxic vision of themselves. Compliments bounce off. All we can see is the visage we’ve created in our minds. Here, after his successes, villains vanquished and quests won, Bill can still only see who he once was. Physically in this new shape, yes, but mentally in total misery.

While there are many poignant graphic memoirs out there that deal with body image—see: Katie Green’s Lighter Than My Shadow and Maia Kobabe’s Gender Queer as prime examples—Argent Star remains an effective piece of storytelling as it peels back the complex psychological toll that body dysmorphia takes. Seeing mental health issues in mainstream media is crucial: it normalizes conversation, reduces stigma, and helps increase understanding and empathy towards those experiencing these challenges. Strangely enough, in the end: What a kinship I feel to a talking space horse.