Darkness has always played a central role in comic book adaptations – and not just because modern blockbusters occasionally struggle with their lighting conditions. Rather, the shadow, the gloom, often serves as a mirror of inner states: of despair, of moral ambiguity and of psychological turmoil.
It is this visual and emotional weight that characterises the intensity of many comic adaptations, such as Marvel's latest movie Thunderbolts* where the MCU, under the direction of Jake Schreier, moves into previously unexplored narrative depths and opens up a space in which superheroes no longer appear archetypal, but deeply human; showing them broken, torn and desperately trying to shift an unbearable burden off them.
Yelena Belova (Florence Pugh) is the primary example of this. After the death of her sister Natasha Romanoff in Avengers: Endgame, she is a broken figure. The pain does not hit her head-on; it comes gradually, quietly, like a wave that unexpectedly sweeps over you, burying you in inescapable darkness.
Instead of grieving openly, she finds distraction, throws herself into assignments for the dubious government agent Valentina Allegra de Fontaine (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) and does her dirty work. What at first glance appears to be loyalty is, in fact, a desperate attempt to regain control over her own life, a classic coping mechanism that many people off-screen will be familiar with: functioning in order not to feel.
Above all, Yelena is in a state of psychological dissociation, a protective mechanism that kicks in when she is deeply overwhelmed. But this inner numbness comes at a price as everyday life becomes monotonous, meaningless. Yelena is trapped in repetition. Outwardly active, inwardly empty, drinking away her pain and trying to forget what happened.
The rest of the team also find themselves in this emotionally grey area, as they all unite behind Val's back and begin to work together against all expectations, while she was planning to make them all take each other out.
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Red Guardian (David Harbour) is stuck in the past, trapped in a desire to restore former greatness. Ghost (Hannah John-Kamen) struggles with her artificial origins and the fear of never being complete. John Walker (Wyatt Russell) has to live with the guilt of having let his family down and not being the husband and father he reckons they deserved.
And it's not just Val's previous employees suffering. Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan), once the Winter Soldier, has seemingly found his place in society as a congressman who wants to bring Val down in the event of impeachment. But he, too, is struggling with guilt, loyalty and a new beginning.
Particularly fascinating in this ensemble is Bob (Lewis Pullman), who later becomes Sentry, the embodiment of the mysterious Void.
Quiet and introverted, Bob appears almost invisible at first, yet in his silence lies unexpected depth. People like him often carry entire inner worlds constructed of memories, thoughts and emotional scars that weigh heavy beneath the surface. Psychology refers to this as internalised trauma: a quiet internal life shaped by unspoken tension and unresolved pain.
Bob – or rather Sentry – is not just a character with superhuman strength; he represents what we often miss: those who speak the least may endure the most. More than a hero, Bob embodies the Void as a symbol of depression, fear, inner collapse and even suicidal thoughts. If he loses his inner balance, the darkness takes over.
This makes Sentry the movie's most psychologically complex figure. He is both saviour and sufferer, caught between strength and vulnerability.
After all, what are heroes but people who act as a result of their experiences – sometimes instinctively, sometimes reflectively – and are often shaped by what has been? Traumatic events, losses, feelings of guilt and repressed memories shape our behaviour and they leave their mark.
In psychological terms, so-called engrammatic patterns are formed: memories that are so deeply engraved in the neuronal system that they influence our perception and our actions in a subconscious way. The art – in life as in film – is to recognise these patterns, question them and break new ground.
This is exactly what Marvel does in its new narrative phase. It shows characters who almost collapse under the weight of their past and still dare to try to get back up regardless.
Thunderbolts* at its heart poses a deeply human question: how much worse can things get if we keep repressing our dissatisfaction instead of facing it? It's not just a narrative device; it is a universal struggle for meaning, belonging and healing.
Therefore, it marks a turning point for the MCU, moving away from polished hero archetypes toward emotionally complex characters who reflect our own inner conflicts. These figures are no longer untouchable ideals but mirrors, reminding us that while the past shapes us, it does not define us.
When thunder strikes, lightning follows and with it, the void is always pushed a little further away. True healing begins not by forgetting but by confronting what was and choosing, moment by moment, step by step, to move forward.
For more on Thunderbolts, check out:
• Thunderbolts review
• Thunderbolts credit scenes explained
• How long is Thunderbolts?
• Thunderbolts ending explained
• When will Thunderbolts be released on Disney+?
Thunderbolts* is out now in cinemas.
