The Venture Bros and the Unsexy Nature of Heroism

On construction, deconstruction and the radically heroic act of rebuilding a broken world

Lately, I’ve found myself with a lot of free time. After getting hit by one of the inevitable rounds of layoffs that come with working in the tech world, I found myself unemployed. And since there’s only so much time a day that can be filled applying for jobs and wallowing in existential dread, I decided to pass the time with that tried-and-true American pastime- watching some TV. The show I chose was thematically appropriate, because on its face, The Venture Bros is about failure. That’s how it was pitched by series creators Doc Hammer and Jackson Publick, at least, and back in 2003 when the series began, that theme was in the cultural zeitgeist. Not unlike how Seinfeld was a sitcom where nothing happened and the characters were intentionally unlikable, Venture Bros was a show about incompetent heroes who always lost. But to me, as the story went on, it became about something so much more. The Venture Bros is not just about failure, but choosing to get back up after getting knocked down. The Venture Bros is about true heroism.

The Venture Bros is maybe one of my favorite pieces of media of all time. If you let me, I could gush about the show for ten thousand words. It’s one of those shows that feels like it’s made for you specifically. Every single episode is made with such care and attention to detail, with everything from the art to the music choice feeling purposeful. The writing was consistently smart and funny, with the viewer never getting the feeling a single episode was phoned in. Perhaps why there were only 7 seasons in a 17-year run, but that refusal to compromise paid off. The series began as a parody of serialized adventure stories of the 1960’s such as Johnny Quest, golden age superhero comics, Hardy Boys, and other Hanna Barberaera adventure shows. This was before my time, but thanks to re-runs played on cartoon network in the 90s, these shows were still a part of my childhood and cultural DNA. The show revolves around the Venture family- Dr. Thadeus “Rusty” Venture, former boy adventurer and current mediocre super scientist, Hank and Dean, excitable, earnest, and dim-witted current boy adventurers and Brock Sampson, the Venture’s murderous bodyguard. Together, the Ventures make their way in a world of killer robots, ghost-pirates, super scientists, giant spiders, cursed temples, and the bureaucratic doldrums of the superhero/villain industrial complex. Dr. Venture is menaced (or “arched,” to use the term popular in the industry) by The Monarch, a legion of henchman and his sidekick, Dr. Girlfriend, and the adventures one may expect of the genre trappings ensue. In their own way, everyone on the show is a loser. But they’re all lovable losers.

Portrait of an American family

There were many other series that emerged from the same cultural zeitgeist that spawned The Venture Bros. The parodies of that era largely feature heroes as oblivious, privileged assholes bumbling through life, being upstaged by their more competent sidekicks and generally making things much worse by getting involved. From Drawn Together’s feminine, cowardly Captain Hero to the dim-witted titular star of The Tick, superhero parodies mostly portray heroes as ineffective and naïve (if well-meaning). The dominant brand of superhero parody then was “What if Superman, but incompetent?” But times have changed. The superhero genre has come to dominate Hollywood and pop culture in the last twenty years in the same way that the western once did. But in that twenty years, the vibe of parody has shifted as well from lighthearted to dark and cynical. And with that shift, a new angle on superhero parody has taken hold: “What if Superman, but evil?”

Enter The Boys. Based on Garth Ennis’s comic, it envisions a world where there are super powered individuals, but they aren’t heroes. The Seven, a Justice League analog, are not merely incompetent, but malevolent. In this story, we see The Seven as a corporate controlled product that saturates every part of society. The heroes don’t work for the betterment of all mankind, but for the bottom line of the Vought corporation, a pharmaceutical company that manufactures the serum that gives people superpowers as well as subsequently contracting these heroes to different cities and handling their marketing. In the world of The Boys, heroism is big business. As a result, most of the heroes are violent, corrupt and decadent. There are dark, inverted parodies of many familiar superheroes, but one stands above them all. Homelander, the Superman analog, is the most powerful of all by leaps and bounds. He’s also a violent, short-tempered, psychopathic man-child. Credit to actor Anthony Star, as his portrayal of Homelander is one of the most chilling and terrifying visions of a villain in recent TV history. Homelander proves the old saying “power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely”. The series sees Homelander kill, maim, rape, and psychologically terrorize everyone around him. Homelander portrays the depravity of a flawed human with the power of a god who is accountable to no one.

Pictures taken moments before disaster

Opposing Homelander and The Seven is a ragtag crew, the titular Boys, set on taking them down by any means necessary. The Boys are a crew of hardened criminals all wronged by superheroes (or “supes”, the slur the team uses for the super powered) who have no qualms stooping to the level of their enemies and often revel in it. The series follows them kill, maim and torture one super powered psycho after another in a bloody orgy of vigilante justice. They don’t use super lasers and giant robots, either, but guns, knives, bombs and crowbars. In The Boys, the system isn’t just flawed; it’s irredeemably corrupt. The “heroes” are nothing more than corporate-controlled monsters, and the only response is to burn it all down. The show operates on the premise that power inevitably corrupts, and that anyone who tries to stand up to it is either crushed or forced to become just as ruthless as their enemies. It presents a world where the only way to fight back is through brutality, reinforcing the idea that heroism, in the traditional sense, is a lie.

The media landscape is awash with other portrayals of failed heroes. From The Boys to Invincible, Chronicle or Brightburn. We see this in Disney’s Star Wars sequels, which couldn’t imagine a future where its once-inspiring heroes achieved lasting victory. Instead, they became a deadbeat dad, a cynical old hobo, and a sad old lady in a chair. Even the mainstream portrayals of heroes in Marvel or DC properties like Captain America or Superman are now riddled with self-doubt and guilt, unable to portray heroism without cynicism or irony. The message is clear: heroes are out. Nothing embodies this shift more than Joker (2019), a film where the antihero takes center stage and climaxes with the Joker committing a murder on live TV and inciting a riot. The Joker’s massive success- becoming one of the most popular and profitable films of the last 20 years- proves that audiences resonate with its message: the system is so rotten and corrupt that the only sane response is to burn it down.

Ladies and Gentleman: the voice of a generation

Where did this darkness and cynicism come from? Superheroes are a uniquely American phenomenon, but over the last 20 years, Americans have watched their national mythology crumble. These stories were born in the post-WWII era- a time of optimism, where heroism and larger-than-life achievements felt not only possible but like the logical next step in history. In the 21st century, however, that myth has unraveled, and the morals that once underpinned these stories started to seem as fantastical as the atomic-powered heroes themselves. Now, the antihero has risen to take their place. Dark, selfish characters like Tony Soprano and Walter White now dominate the cultural space once held by figures like Han Solo and Batman. Flaws are no longer obstacles to overcome but vices to be reveled in. If the world is cynical, why shouldn’t its heroes be? Where do traditional heroes, an unambiguous force for good, fit into a world like this?

So, this attitude of cynicism towards heroism doesn’t come from nowhere. It is a symptom of something larger, a spiritual sickness. We don’t feel like heroes can exist in a world seemingly run by villains. And yet, there’s a yearning for something more. Even today, stories like the original Star Wars or Superman still resonate. Maybe because it gives us something to hope for or strive towards. Or maybe, the very concept of Heroism is something that speaks to the human condition itself. In Joseph Campbell’s 1949 book Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell posits the theory that the story of the hero, or “heroes’ journey” is a universal storytelling device that spans across time and culture and can be found from every story from The Epic of Gilgamesh to Star Wars. In fact, George Lucas said he consciously used Campbells heroes’ journey as a template for Star Wars, hoping to create a modern myth. The Heroes Journey starts with an ordinary person getting a call to adventure- something that shakes up their world and forces them to step into the unknown. At first, they resist, because who wouldn’t? But then a mentor or some kind of guiding force pushes them forward. From there, its trials, challenges, and facing their biggest fears, leading up to a major transformation. By the end, they return home, changed, bringing something valuable back with them- whether it’s wisdom, power, or just a new perspective.

This applies to both Moby-Dick and Shrek, if you’re keeping track at home

This storytelling trope is powerful because it is familiar and ubiquitous to the human experience. But it can be a lot to live up to. Sure, we would all love to be Luke Skywalker or Katniss Everdeen, but life is rarely that simple. As I said, the cynicism and distrust of those narratives doesn’t come from nowhere. Life is often complicated and easy heroes and villains are not laid out for us. The wise mentor of Gandalf sometimes is never there to guide us, and often times, the big, epic climax that ties up everything neatly never comes. As a result, a competing theory of heroism arose. In 1989, Ursula K. Le Guin’s Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction flips the traditional idea of storytelling- and heroism- on its head. Instead of the classic “hero’s journey,” where a lone warrior overcomes great trials to conquer and return victorious, Le Guin suggests that storytelling is more like gathering. Early humans, she argues, probably didn’t start with spears and battles but with baskets- carrier bags- to collect food and sustain life. In this view, stories aren’t just about grand, violent struggles; they’re about community, survival, and the quieter, often overlooked acts of care and connection. Applied to heroism, this means that true heroism isn’t always about dramatic battles or individual victories- it can be about nurturing, creating, and enduring. It’s a radical shift that challenges the idea that conflict and conquest are the only ways to tell compelling stories, instead valuing resilience, cooperation, and the messy, ongoing process of simply making it through life. This critique of traditional heroes’ journey storytelling became very influential, giving birth to many of the deconstructions of the heroes’ journey of the late 20^th century and beyond.

This endless cycle of deconstruction has, ironically, become just as formulaic as the stories it set out to dismantle. Once, revealing the flaws in heroism felt fresh- turning Superman into a tyrant, exposing the Avengers as self-serving, or showing that the rebellion is just as bad as the empire. But at a certain point, subversion for its own sake ceases to be insightful. If every story boils down to “heroes aren’t real, institutions are corrupt, and hope is for fools,” then what’s left? The act of breaking something down is only meaningful if it leads to something new, something better. But instead, modern storytelling often feels trapped in a loop, endlessly pointing out what doesn’t work without ever proposing what does.

Spot the subtle deviation from the source material in this understated satire

That’s why heroism itself needs to be reclaimed- not through a naive return to black-and-white morality, but by exploring what real heroism looks like in a complicated world. Not every hero needs to be flawless, but they also don’t need to be morally bankrupt just to prove a point. There is room for stories about people trying to do good despite impossible circumstances, about those who fail but get back up, about those who are neither saviors nor monsters but something messier and more human. If cynicism is the void left behind by deconstruction, then heroism, redefined and reclaimed, is what can fill it.

This is where the Venture Bros comes back in. On its face, The Venture Bros is what you might expect from an Adult Swim parody show from the early 2000s. The crude humor is married with parody of a long-gone genre and in the first season, The Venture Bros doesn’t really rise above that. But as the show goes on, the characters all age and develop in real time. There are moments that are genuinely heartfelt, gripping or even get deeply dark and uncomfortable in ways that later contemporaries of the genre would attempt at but never touch. The characters all grow beyond the initial tropes they are based on to become fully formed people. The world, while initially a mere parody, grows into one of the more fully formed and complexly written ones that has endless depth that rewards fanatical fans and frequent rewatches. The series ending, a movie made in 2023 after several cancelations is, while not a perfect or truly satisfying ending, a thematically appropriate one. That there can be a beauty to playing a losing hand with style. I say this without exaggeration- The Venture Bros is truly a masterpiece that defines as well as transcends its medium.

The fundamental premise of The Venture Bros is living in a world where heroes failed. But they didn’t fail in the sense that the bad guys won and the world ended, instead they failed to live up to what they represent. Dr. Venture’s father, Jonas Venture Sr, was the paragon of masculinity, competence, suave, adventuring spirit and scientific innovation like a cross between James Bond, Indiana Jones and Howard Hughes. That’s how most of the world still sees Jonas Venture Sr, too, much in the same way they still see Rusty Venture is a washed-up child prodigy who never lived up to his father’s expectations. But the reality is much darker. The real Jonas Venture was much closer to Homelander than Superman, and Dr. Venture has to live with that knowledge and the reality of who his famous father really was. He lived the life of a globe trotting adventurer as a child and now is cynical and jaded, making him unsuited for the role of a traditional hero. In fact, it’s suggested more than once that Dr. Venture would make a better villain than a hero.

Pictured above: the absolute worst father of all time

The show’s other characters are not the paragons of virtue or strength that traditional hero stories celebrate. They fail constantly, often in spectacular and humiliating ways. Brock Samson, their supposed protector, is a hyper-competent killing machine. He is respected and feared by allies and enemies alike, a virtual Übermensch in a mullet. But he’s stuck with a degrading assignment guarding a spoiled, washed-up super scientist and his kids. Dr. Girlfriend (real name Shiela) is also much more competent than The Monarch, but she is constantly in his shadow. The titular Venture Brothers, Hank and Dean, are forced to follow in their father’s footsteps as a boy adventurer and future super scientist and begin to resent their father for forcing that life on them the same way it was forced on him. Even The Monarch, the show’s central antagonist, is more obsessed with his grudge against Dr. Venture than climbing the corporate ladder of organized villainy and is seen as a loser and small-time washup by his peers.

And yet, they keep going. That’s what makes The Venture Bros. such a powerful counterpoint to the endless cycle of deconstruction that defines modern media. Instead of succumbing to nihilism, the show finds heroism in persistence. Dr. Venture may be a failure, but he still tries to carry on what his father’s legacy stood for, however incompetently. He never gives in and becomes a villain and keeps trying no matter how frequent or embarrassing his failures are. Hank and Dean, despite being sheltered and ill-prepared for the world, break out of the expectations set for them and find their own path. Dr. Girlfriend (later Dr. Mrs. The Monarch) finds a way to balance the success of her career while still saving the relationship she values. Brock Sampson is able to grow past being a simple tool and becomes a surrogate second father to Hank and Dean. Even the Monarch grows and changes, matures and finds peace playing second fiddle to his wife and finding meaning outside hating Dr. Venture.

Oh, and there’s a satanic version of Henry Kissinger in this show. And he’s one of the few pure, kind hearted forces for good. He also has a magic murder bag.

These characters exist in a world where the grand ideals of heroism have long since crumbled, where the larger-than-life figures of the past have left behind only disappointment. Venture Bros is about living in a world that was broken before you were born and suffering the consequences of choices made by corrupt people who never saw justice. It’s a world where institutions that are supposed to ensure justice are hopelessly corrupt with little distinction between heroes and villains. These characters exist in the same kind of broken, absurd world that The Boys depict, but rather than seeing that as a reason to burn everything down, they choose to keep living.

Where The Boys looks at corruption and failure and concludes that the system must be torn apart, The Venture Bros. takes a more nuanced stance. It recognizes the failures of the past but doesn’t abandon hope. The characters aren’t fighting to overthrow a broken world- they’re just trying to survive in it, to carve out meaning where they can. That’s what makes their struggles feel more real than the over-the-top revenge fantasies of modern deconstructionist storytelling. They aren’t powerful, wise, or even particularly competent. But they try. And in a world that often feels like it’s past its prime, that effort alone is an act of heroism. The Venture Bros. is ultimately about what it means to live in a world long past its golden age. The characters are surrounded by the ruins of a better time- a time when grand adventure was possible, when science promised a utopian future, when heroism seemed like something larger-than-life. But that world is gone, and all that’s left is failure, disappointment, and the baggage of generations who tried and fell short.

And yet, they persist. That’s what makes The Venture Bros. such a powerful synthesis of both Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey and Ursula K. Le Guin’s Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction. The show recognizes the allure of the grand, mythic hero’s path- the idea that we are all destined for greatness, that there is an epic battle waiting for us. But it also embraces the quieter, more everyday acts of survival and care that Le Guin describes. There are no true heroes in The Venture Bros., at least not in the traditional sense. There are only people doing their best, stumbling forward despite everything. Where The Boys argues that the system is irredeemable and that destruction is the only response, The Venture Bros. offers another way: the acknowledgment that while the world is broken, we can still live in it. We can still find meaning, however small. The show doesn’t glorify failure, but it also doesn’t treat it as the end. Failure is part of life. And if we keep going, keep fighting, keep trying, maybe we can build something better- not through destruction, but through persistence.

In an era where media constantly deconstructs, ridicules, or condemns the very idea of heroism, The Venture Bros. gives us something far more meaningful. True heroism isn’t about power, victory, or even success. It’s about resilience in the face of absurdity. It’s about choosing to keep going, even when the world refuses to reward you for it. Because in the end, the world doesn’t have to make sense. It doesn’t have to be fair. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. That’s what heroism really is. It’s both wanting something to strive for but recognizing that there will be a day-to-day struggle to obtain it. The time for deconstruction and cynicism is over. It’s time to build.