Super Black: American Pop Culture and Black Superheroes 9780292735453

Citation preview

SUPER BLACK

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U

exas Press T f o y t i s niver

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Au s t i n

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a m a N u f Adili

K C A L B SUPER

AMERICAN POP

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C U LT

ERHERO P U S K C A L B D URE AN

ES

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Copyright © 2011 by University of Texas Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2011 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713–7819 www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bpermission.html ∞ The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (R1997) (Permanence of Paper).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Nama, Adilifu, 1969– Super black : American pop culture and black superheroes / Adilifu Nama. — 1st ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-292-72654-3 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-292-72674-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-292-73545-3 (e-book) 1. Comic books, strips, etc.—Social aspects—United States. 2. Superheroes. 3. African Americans in literature. 4. African Americans in art. 5. Popular culture— United States. I. Title. PN6725.N32 2011 700'.452—dc23 2011019004

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To my mother Marquetta Suvenia Bivens, the only superhero I have ever had the privilege of knowing

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

CHAPTER 1. CHAPTER 2. CHAPTER 3. CHAPTER 4. CHAPTER 5.

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Color Them Black . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Birth of the Cool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Friends and Lovers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Attack of the Clones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 For Reel? Black Superheroes Come to Life . . . . . . . 126 Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I must thank those who have provided timely advice, steadfast support, and engaged interest during the lengthy and time-consuming process of bringing a book to a conclusion. Thanks go out to Sohail Daulatzai and his brother Yusef for the much-needed, deep discussions about basketball that allowed me to clear my mind for each successive stage of this book. I give much thanks to Casey Kittrell for his humor and professionalism in answering a variety of inquiries and technical riddles. A hearty thank you goes to Victoria Davis for her editorial direction and Laura Griffin for her insightful and clarifying copyediting. I have to make a special point of recognition for Jim Burr, my sponsoring editor at the University of Texas Press. His commitment, openness, and appreciation of the superhero comic book and film genres were invaluable as the book went from idea, working draft, and final manuscript to done deal. He is a master editorial juggler. Well-deserved thanks go out to George Huang and his staff over at Comics Factory in Pasadena, California. Sean Jackson pointed me in the right direction, and Kris Zaycher was particularly helpful, with his insights and information that kept me up to date with the mercurial world of comic book characters. In addition, Aaron Johnson and Gene Coty, Jr., facilitated completion of this project with their technical know-how. Lastly, I would be all talk and my ideas a figment of a vivid imagination without my beloved Tamu, Nia, and Nizam. Your cheer, smiles, patience, and reluctant willingness to let me “woodshed on the piece” made all the difference.

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SUPER BLACK

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INTRODUCTION

My problem . . . and I’ll speak as a writer now . . . with writing a black character in either the Marvel or DC universe is that he is not a man. He is a symbol. —DWAYNE McDUFFIE, Comics Journal

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irca 1975, when I was five or six, my father took me to a toy store. I went straight to the section where all the superhero action figures were on display, enclosed in window-boxed packaging. They were eightinch toys made by the now defunct Mego Corporation. Prior to this moment, superheroes inhabited the television reruns of Filmation’s The Superman/Aquaman Hour of Adventure (1967–1968) and the few comic books I had tucked in the corner of my room. Now I was poised to have a handful of superheroes of my very own and I would be able to dictate the terms, times, and types of superhero adventures I could enjoy. I mentally pleaded with my bladder to stop distracting me long enough to concentrate on prioritizing which superhero figure to choose. I wanted to grab them all right then and there. Since I could not, I examined them all and mentally separated various superhero figures into two groups: my must-haves and my want-to-haves. I made sure to point to the Falcon superhero first, and after he was firmly in my grasp I asked my pops if I could get a few more. His “yes” gave me the go-ahead to scrutinize several other superhero figures and pick the ones I thought looked best. Aquaman, Captain America, and Spider-Man made the cut. Over time I would later acquire Batman, Hulk, Iron Man, Thor, and the Human Torch, but it was the Falcon that captured my imagination most and cemented my attachment to virtually all things superhero. Why? He was a black man that could fly.

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With the Falcon I was able to imagine myself as a superhero, rising above my socioeconomic environment, beating the neighborhood bullies, commanding respect from my male peers, and enjoying approval from all of the pretty girls that made me feel so nervous. I later became captivated by another “flying” black man, the legendary Dr. J ( Julius Erving), a basketball player known for defying gravity and for dunking the basketball right in his opponents’ faces. Although I dutifully tried to imitate the “moves” I had seen Dr. J perform and dedicated virtually all of my free time to watching, playing, and practicing basketball, I never forgot about the Falcon. The Falcon was my first and my favorite flying black superhero. The image of a black man gliding through the air, compelling attention, awe, and respect, made a lasting impact on my imagination. The Falcon also operated on a broader social level. The image of the Falcon gliding across an urban skyline symbolized the unprecedented access and upward social mobility many African Americans were experiencing in education and professional positions in the wake of hard-earned antidiscrimination laws and affirmative action. In this sense, black superheroes like the Falcon are not only fantastic representations of our dreams, desires, and idealized projections of our selves, they are also a symbolic extension of America’s shifting political ethos and racial landscape.1 Even though I am, in the popular parlance of the black barbershop, a “grownass man,” I still enjoy seeing superheroes save the day in comics, films, live-action television shows, cartoons, and video games. My enjoyment of superheroes as a mature adult, however, does not take place without some degree of trepidation. When parents see me gleefully poking around a local comic book store alongside their children, or catch me dragging my wife into the latest superhero film, I often detect their scornful glances that betray feelings ranging from mild annoyance to awkward disdain for what they probably perceive as an adult still stuck in adolescence. Nonetheless, I am not deterred by their embarrassment for me because I know that the imaginative realms and representational schemes that black superheroes occupy in comics, cartoons, television, and film express powerful visuals, compelling narratives, and multiple meanings around a range of racial ideas and beliefs circulating in American culture. Despite the symbolic significance of black superheroes in American popular culture, the topic remains, for the most part, unexamined. Admittedly, there are a few scholarly studies concerning black superheroes, but they are topical or truncated glimpses of the fascinating racial complexity black superheroes articulate. For example, Fredrik Stromberg’s Black Images in the Comics: A Visual History (2003) includes only a handful of black superheroes alongside a wide-ranging pictorial documentation of black comic figures. Richard Reynolds’s Super

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INTRODUCTION

Heroes: A Modern Mythology (1992) contains just a few paragraphs about black superheroes and even boasts that black superheroes have very little to offer in the way of ideological meaning.2 In contrast, Bradford W. Wright’s definitive text Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America (2003) addresses the importance of superhero comic books to American culture and aptly touches on race. Yet Wright’s discussion of black superheroes and their cultural significance is subsumed under broader social themes. Consequently, his analysis flattens distinguishing features between black superheroes and has very little to say about what black superheroes articulate concerning the cultural politics of race and blackness in America. Even the most definitive text to date on the topic, Jeffrey A. Brown’s Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans (2001), devotes scant attention and analysis to the cultural work, symbolism, and sociological significance of the mainstream black superheroes that populate DC and Marvel comics. Instead, Brown invests virtually all his analytic efforts in covering the significance of black comic-book company Milestone Comics, negotiating the fickle terrain of a predominantly white comic-book culture, and discussing how racialized notions of hypermasculinity are a signature feature of black superheroes. As a result, the broad scope and social significance of black superheroes across the Marvel and DC Comics universes and in their television and film incarnations is severely diminished. In addition, the full range of cultural work that black superheroes have performed across several decades is completely ignored. In short, the bulk of analysis concerning black superheroes has come to obvious conclusions, is embarrassingly reductive, and neglects to draw deeper connections across significant cultural dynamics, social trends, and historical events. Most often the topic of blackness in the superhero genre compels discussions over the difficulty white audiences might experience identifying with black superheroes or knee-jerk criticisms that frame the genre as racially biased.3 Certainly, comic books featuring heroes like Tarzan, the beneficent white jungle-savior, presented black characters as stereotypically subservient, primitive, or savage. Moreover, such examples make easy fodder for critique and open up a Pandora’s box of vexing sociopsychological questions about racial projection and reader identification with superhero characters that promote racially insensitive images and ideas. Yet by using these issues as a point of analytical departure, the dynamic and rich source of racial meaning presented in the superhero universes of DC Comics, Marvel Comics, television, and film becomes buried beneath a mound of superficial critiques. Either black superheroes are critiqued as updated racial stereotypes from America’s comic-book past, or they are uncritically affi xed to the blaxploitation film craze as negative representations of blackness.4 What emerges from such nearsighted analysis is

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an incomplete description of the fascinating and complex ideological give and take that black superheroes have with American culture. In stark contrast, Super Black calls attention to black superheroes as a fascinating racial phenomenon and a powerful source of racial meaning, narrative, and imagination in American society that expresses a myriad of racial assumptions, political perspectives, and fantastic (re)imaginings of black identity. The superhero archetype is heavily steeped in affirming a division between right and wrong, thus superheroes operate within a moral framework. Moreover, virtually all superheroes are victorious, not because of superior strength or weaponry, but because of moral determination demonstrated by concern for others and notions of justice.5 Accordingly, black superheroes are not merely figures that defeat costumed supervillains: they symbolize American racial morality and ethics. They overtly represent or implicitly signify social discourse and accepted wisdom concerning notions of racial reciprocity, racial equality, racial forgiveness, and, ultimately, racial justice. But black superheroes are not only representative of what is racially right. They are also ripe metaphors for race relations in America, and are often reflective of escalating and declining racial unrest. In this sense, black superheroes in American comic books and, to a lesser extent, in Hollywood films and television are cultural ciphers for accepted wisdom regarding racial justice and the shifting politics of black racial formation in America.

APPROACH Despite covering a broad body of work and several genres, Super Black does have a limited scope. Accordingly, because enumeration is not analysis, this book does not list or chronicle every black superhero character ever created. Instead Super Black is primarily focused on the black superheroes that populate DC and Marvel comics. This is an obvious and compelling choice, given how DC and Marvel comics have played such a significant and defining role in the construction of the superhero figure and the imprinting of the collective conscious of American society with enduring if not iconic images of numerous superheroes. Undoubtedly, various underground and independent black comic figures could claim credit for offering a varied type of black superhero, but the black superheroes of DC and Marvel comics speak to a broader audience and reach than these alternative outlets, and are the overarching focus of this book. While the focus of this book—examining signature black representations that populate the superhero universe—is somewhat obvious, my analysis is not so pedestrian. In fact, my book makes a radical break from the authorialintent approach that is such a prominent part of teasing out what superheroes

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INTRODUCTION

symbolize, invoke, reflect, and project regarding the historical and cultural import of superheroes in American society. For example, in Comic Book Nation Brad W. Wright states: while popular culture certainly merits close scrutiny, I believe that there are intellectual pitfalls in analyzing something like comic books too deeply. Therefore, I have confined my reading to meanings that were easily perceived by audiences, clearly intended by producers, or suggestive of broad historical developments and cultural assumptions. There are enough of those meanings to easily fill a book like this without one having to “decode” anything.6

In contrast, Super Black adopts a poststructural approach that is not beholden to the type of authorial intent and intensely surface perceptions that Wright privileges. I view the meaning of any pop-cultural commodity, image, figure, or representation as not being fixed or automatically evident as it first appears. If the meaning of superheroes and the comics, films, and television shows they populate were as evident as Wright suggests, there would be no need for scrutiny or explanation because the subject of analysis would speak for itself. Hence, I reject such a surface and descriptive approach to examining black superheroes. Instead, I have employed a decidedly more interpretative and contextual approach for discussing the cultural work that black superheroes perform in American pop culture. My approach employs an eclectic synthesis of cultural criticism, historical and cultural contextualization, and a hearty dash of textual analysis intent on yielding information, insights, and connections between text, ideas, and important moments in the cultural history of black superheroes and black racial formation. Most importantly, this book adopts a self-conscious critically celebratory perspective for examining the various expressions of superhero blackness. In other words, the purpose of this book is to reclaim black superheroes from the easily perceived, easily argued, and clichéd assumptions used to examine them that diminish their sociocultural significance and view the cultural work they perform as tired tropes about blackness primarily written by white men. The point is not to uncritically embrace these figures. Rather the mission of my analysis is to steer the discussion away from theoretical dead ends or conversations that lead only in one direction to one conclusion: black superheroes are negative stereotypes. Super Black is a rereading of mainstream black superheroes and the cultural work they have represented across several decades. Accordingly, the following chapters will reveal how these black figures frequently challenged conventional and preconceived notions concerning black

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racial identity by offering a futuristic and fantastic vision of blackness that transcended and potentially shattered calcified notions of blackness as a racial category and source of cultural meaning.

LAYOUT Chapter one, “Color Them Black,” contextualizes the appearance of black superheroes in the broad and sweeping cultural trends of American politics and pop culture during the 1960s and 1970s. The increasing convergence of the popular and the political in American culture is discussed as a significant catalyst for the appearance of black superheroes. In particular, the emergence and popularity of Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams’s Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow comic book series is examined, along with the impact this comic book series had in the way it addressed issues of racial inequality and justice. Chapter one also examines the origin of John Stewart, who was the African American Green Lantern, Black Lightning, and the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali special feature comic that came out in the 1970s. Ultimately, chapter one lays the foundation for how pop culture, the movement for racial equality, and comic books all intersected, resulting in superheroes becoming signifiers of real racial anxieties, desires, and wish fulfillments present in American society. Chapter two, “Birth of the Cool,” is an in-depth examination of the emergence of the seminal black superheroes the Black Panther and Luke Cage, also known as Power Man. The significant connections between these two black superheroes and the Black Power movement are examined and discussed, as are the multiple ideological permutations these black superheroes experienced as shifting symbolic expressions of political and cultural blackness. This chapter also maps the political and aesthetic interplay between the Black Power movement, black superheroes, and blaxploitation films like Super Fly (1972) and The Human Tornado (1976). Black superheroes and blaxploitation film characters are discussed as sharing the same signifiers of a superhuman status and often comment on the tensions expressed between black self-determination, racial authenticity, political fantasy, and economic independence. The third chapter, “Friends and Lovers,” examines how both conventional and provocative pairings of black superheroes with white characters provide mainstream and challenging models of American race relations, reflect broader racial tensions, and advocate racial equality. Various black superheroes, in their roles as valued partners and team players beside white superheroes, symbolize struggles over racial integration and the political and cultural toll that shifting racial dynamics have on accepted notions of America’s racial order. Chapter three contains an analysis of the contentious tandem of the seminal white

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INTRODUCTION

and black pairing of Captain America and the Falcon. Over three decades their relationship expresses changing racial dynamics and desires for racial reconciliation and the rejection of Black Power politics in America. The relationship between Jim Rhodes, the valued black friend, associate, and helicopter pilot for Tony Stark in the Iron Man comic, is also covered. Lastly, the interracial pairing of Cloak, a black man, with Dagger, a white woman, is discussed for their demonstration of simultaneously regressive racial politics and avant-garde expressions of racial equality, independence, and black futurism. Chapter four, “Attack of the Clones,” details how black racial identity takes center stage in often ironic and contradictory ways when established white superheroes are remade as black superheroes. These white-to-black makeovers deliberately attempt to ignore race, but in so doing often call attention to it. Chapter four fully explores the weaknesses, aesthetic assumptions, and ideological implications of this imitative practice and what it suggests about black racial identity as a static or fluid expression of “blackness.” The Steel series, wherein a black Superman replaces the original, is emblematic of this color-blind impulse. This figure is deconstructed and discussed alongside several other white-to-black superheroes such as the black Nick Fury, Nubia (the black Wonder Woman), Icon, Brother Voodoo, and the black Captain America. On the surface, many of these superheroes are easily read as a quick-fix effort to infuse static white superhero narratives with a sense of freshness. Yet they also signal an attempt to reinvent the black superhero. Chapter four discusses the reactionary and visionary aspects of this approach in relationship to original black superheroes such as Storm, Martha Washington, and several figures from The Crew (2003). Lastly, chapter five, “For Reel?: Black Superheroes Come to Life,” explores the handful of black characters that moved beyond the printed realm of superhero comic books to television and film. Symbolic and literal presentations of superhero blackness are also covered. For example, Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman, from the 1960s Batman television series, is contextualized and her impact on subsequent versions of the feline villainess/heroine is discussed. Television shows such as A Man Called Hawk (1989) and M.A.N.T.I.S. (1994–1995) are contrasted with the films Spawn (1997), Blade (1998), Unbreakable (2000), Spider-Man 3 (2007), and Hancock (2008). Then I examine the television series Heroes (2006–2010) as a (re)imagining of multiculturalism and racial diversity in American pop culture. Chapter five concludes with a discussion concerning the convergence of the imaginary black superhero and the election of President Barack Obama. Convention dictates the most rewarding approach to understanding contemporary black racial formation in America or black racial representation in mass media is found in examining the grand social and political dramas that

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have defined American race relations over the past century. To name a few, the Great Migration, Jackie Robinson and the integration of major league baseball, the rise and decline of the civil rights movement, postindustrialism, the groundbreaking success of The Cosby Show, the near ubiquitous presence of hip-hop in American culture, and, of course, the first black president have held, at one time or another, center stage as racially defining political and cultural events in American history. Admittedly, against such socially significant events, the examination of black superheroes can easily be viewed as cultural trivia or an exercise in self-indulgent fandom. Yet as Roland Barthes, Umberto Eco, and Dick Hebdige have superbly revealed in their respective works concerning cultural production and popular culture, that which appears the most mundane, innocuous, and everyday offers some of the most provocative and telling cultural and ideological information about a society.7 I contend this is certainly the case with various transformations that black superhero figures have reflected over the past forty years in comic books, television, and film. Black superheroes are not the disposable refuse of American pop culture, but serve as a source of potent racial meaning that has substance and resonance far beyond their function and anticipated shelf life.

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Chapter 1

COLOR THEM BLACK Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever. Then we could be heroes just for one day. —DAVID BOWIE, “Heroes” Ain’t no such thing as Superman. —GIL SCOTT-HERON, First Minute of a New Day

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cores of readers have used superhero comics to vicariously defy gravity and bound over skyscrapers, swing through the Big Apple with the greatest of ease, stalk the dark streets of Gotham, or travel at magnificent speeds throughout the universe on an opaque surfboard. Yet superheroes are more than fuel for fantasies or a means to escape from the humdrum world of everyday responsibilities. Superheroes symbolize societal attitudes regarding good and evil, right and wrong, altruism and greed, justice and fair play. Lost, however, in the grand ethos and pathos that superheroes represent are the black superheroes that fly, fight, live, love, and sometimes die. In contrast, even the most obscure white superheroes are granted an opportunity to make their way from the narrow margins of fandom to mainstream media exposure. (Remember the film Swamp Thing [1982]?) Nevertheless, what black superheroes may lack in mainstream popularity they more than match in symbolism, meaning, and political import with regard to the cultural politics of race in America. Even the omission and chronic marginalization of black superheroes are phenomena rife with cultural and sociopolitical implications. The lack of black superheroes has served as a source of concerned speculation and critique. Arguably, Kenneth Clark’s groundbreaking yet flawed doll experiment from the 1950s is a theoretical cornerstone for the racial anxiety associated with an absence of black superheroes and its impact on both black

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and white children. Clark’s work revealed that when given a choice black children overwhelmingly preferred a white doll to a black doll and often associated negative qualities with the latter. This racial preference was taken as evidence that racial segregation contributed to internalized feelings of inferiority on the part of black kids.1 The results also implied that black children needed “positive” black images to help counteract low self-esteem. Against this theoretical backdrop the need to create black superheroes for black children to identify with takes on greater significance as a social problem. On the one hand, black superheroes are needed to counteract the likelihood of black children detrimentally identifying with white superheroes. On the other hand, the glut of white superheroes could encourage white children to accept notions of white superiority as normal.2 This type of racial logic is clearly on display in Frantz Fanon’s psychoanalytical manifesto on race Black Skin, White Masks (1952). In this book he argued that figures like Tarzan the Ape Man reinforced real racial hierarchies by repetitively depicting whites as victors over black people and chronically portraying blacks as representatives of the forces of evil. A similar suspicion is detected in the Black Power aesthetic of singer and spoken word artist Gil Scott-Heron. On his album First Minute of a New Day Scott-Heron echoed Frantz Fanon’s trenchant critique of white superheroes with the terse edict, “Ain’t no such thing as Superman.” The statement subverts and calls attention to the racial implications embedded in Superman as one of the most iconic figures in American pop culture. In this case, a virtually indestructible white man flying around the world in the name of “truth, justice, and the American way” is not a figure black folk should waste time believing in. Gil Scott-Heron was signifying the dubious racial politics of having a strange and powerful white man presented as a figure of awe and wonder. Such a sensibility casts Superman’s identity as having less to do with being the last son of Krypton and more to do with symbolically embodying white racial superiority and American imperialism. In contrast to the concern over the normalization of white supremacy in comics, Fredric Wertham accused the entire comic book industry of being a nefarious influence on American youth of all colors. He pronounced that the graphic depictions of violence, suggestive sexuality, fascist ideology, and homosexual innuendo woven into the images and narratives found in crime, horror, and superhero comic books had negative effects on children and were subversive.3 Wertham’s staunch opposition to comics was eventually successful. By 1954 the comic book industry had succumb to pressure and adopted a content code to mute vocal critics of the medium and placate public concerns that comics were dangerous because they contributed to juvenile delinquency.4 The code was put in place to protect readers from subversive and upsetting material even though

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it was predicated on disputed media-effects theories.5 In fact, the emergence of American youth as a significant consumer market and the increasing packaging of adolescent desire as an advertising method are likely stronger forces for cultivating behaviors, desires, and ideas than what is presented in comic books.6 Ultimately the fear about media effects on black children that admire white superheroes is overly simplistic and fails to seriously take into account the fact that audience reception is a more complex phenomenon than is suggested by a strict stimulus-response model of media consumption.7 For example, Junot Díaz, the author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, in his youth identified with the white mutant superhero team the X-Men. Because the group were mutants and were treated as social outcasts, as a young Dominican immigrant, Díaz felt an affinity for the characters due to his own marginalized racial status that stigmatized him as an outsider to mainstream America.8 Díaz’s experience speaks to the power of superheroes to deliver ideas about American race relations that stand outside of strict notions of authorial intent and draconian concerns about white superheroes (or black ones, for that matter) depositing negative notions about one’s racial identity into the reader or viewer. Consequently, even though superhero figures are predominantly white guys and gals clad in spandex and tights, a strict racial reading of the negative impact white superheroes may have on blacks is too linear and reductive. Díaz’s anecdote also demonstrates how easily entertainment media and the cultural politics of race can converge in an interesting way. Yet the connection between the two realms was not clearly perceived or seamlessly integrated until the late 1960s and early 1970s. During this period the bright line between the popular and the political was obliterated as American pop culture began to shed its escapist impulses and boldly engage the racial tensions that America was experiencing. For example, James Brown’s song “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud” (1968) did double duty as a dance hit and a racial anthem of uplift and self-esteem. A more subtle but just as powerful illustration of the intersection of the popular and the political regarding race occurred on Sesame Street, the pioneering public-television show for children. In the early 1970s Kermit the Frog was one of the show’s central characters, and when he sang a lament about how difficult it was being the color green the vignette clearly placed racial prejudice in the center spotlight. Even the most innocuous forms of American pop life were getting in on the trend. In 1971 Coca-Cola would launch a successful television ad campaign in which a multiracial throng of young people stood on a hilltop and sang the catchy jingle “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing (in Perfect Harmony).” On one hand, the commercial could be criticized as the pinnacle of pop drivel for an unsophisticated public to mindlessly consume. On the other

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hand, by presenting an image of blacks, whites, and third-world people of color peacefully standing together singing in unison the commercial was a striking symbolic counterpoint to anxiety over racial unrest at home and the Vietnam War abroad. Arguably the turn toward increasing racial and political relevance in American pop culture was spurred by the baby boomer generation coming of age at the height of American racial unrest and political turmoil. The formulaic and commercial appeal of traditional forms of American pop culture faced severely diminishing entertainment value for the baby boomers. Bloated musical spectacles like On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (1970) were virtually ignored, westerns with their high-noon shootouts and sanitized violence were replaced by operatic depictions of bloodshed in spaghetti westerns, and a blaxploitation movie craze provided a new round of two-dimensional black characters that misled many to believe that racial diversity and the Hollywood film industry were synonymous. Alongside these multiple shifts in content and style, superhero comics also experienced a profound transformation. Marvel Comics was first to adjust. The paradigmatic “perfect” superhero was recreated as emotionally flawed and conflicted, a sensibility that mirrored the adolescent angst and ideological identity crisis that had taken hold throughout America as the turbulent 1960s gave way to the early 1970s.9 Reluctant superheroes such as Spider-Man, the Fantastic Four, and the Incredible Hulk represented a new typology of superhero: troubled, brash, brave, and insecure. Not to be outdone, however, were the subsequent reimagining of DC Comics’s Green Arrow and Green Lantern. Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams’s Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow (1970–1972) comic book series dramatically recast superheroes, and shaped the superhero comic book as a space where acute social issues were engaged. On one hand, Green Lantern embodied President Richard Nixon’s no-nonsense dictum of “law and order” in the face of race riots and student protests. On the other hand, Green Arrow was the symbolic representative of activist youth, the working class, and the oppressed. Over at Marvel Comics, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby successfully tampered with the makeup of the superhero. In contrast, Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams changed the nature of the superhero genre by erasing the boundaries of what comics could discuss to such an extent that it had an impact on the genre for decades. Prior to O’Neil and Adams, superheroes were quite predictable in that they mainly battled intergalactic threats or various types of villains committed to the most grandiose schemes often involving a quest for global domination. What made Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow unpredictably complicated was that a significant part of the stories addressed topical and pressing social issues:

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Reprint of original cover from Dennis O’Neil’s and Neal Adam’s groundbreaking Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow series (DC Comics, April, no. 76, 1970).

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Racism takes center stage in Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow series (DC Comics, April, no. 76, 1970).

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poverty, racism, overpopulation, and drug abuse. The comic symbolically pitted the conservative politics of the “law and order” elites against the “Age of Aquarius” idealism of youth activists that championed changing the world by challenging the status quo. The magnitude of the social issues Green Lantern and Green Arrow confronted along with the audaciousness of having make-believe figures confront real and troublesome social issues turned the superhero tandem into charismatic characters and politically charged symbols. In the inaugural issue, “No Evil Shall Escape My Sight,” the pair confronts American racism. Across several panels an elderly black man is depicted questioning Green Lantern’s commitment to racial justice when he voices this short soliloquy, “I been readin’ about you . . . How you work for the Blue Skins . . . and how on a planet someplace you helped out the Orange Skins . . . and you done considerable for the Purple Skins! Only there’s skins you never bothered with! The Black Skins! I want to know . . . how come?! Answer me that, Mr. Green Lantern!” With stooped shoulders and his head hung low, the ring-slinger responds with a feeble, “I . . . can’t.”10 Although the elderly black man is drawn as a decrepit and unappealing figure and expresses his concerns in an unconvincing black dialect, the exchange between the two is profoundly engaging. Their conversation forever changed the boundaries of the superhero genre. Superheroes were no longer constrained to fighting imaginary creatures, intergalactic aliens, or Nazis from a distant past. Now they would grapple with some of the most toxic real-world social issues that America had to offer. In their respective civilian identities as Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen, the two superheroes take off in a truck together and hopscotch their way across the country to experience the real America and find their true place and purpose in it. With their existential quest interrupted by personal dilemmas that are proxies for real social issues, the series reads like a superhero version of Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road (1957). By shifting the focus from villainous spectacle to real social problems plaguing the nation, Green Lantern and Green Arrow were transformed from a pair of mediocre superheroes to robust symbols of the political tensions of the time. In this sense, both characters were ideological foils for the other, infusing their comic book dialogue with real-world resonance. Interestingly, racism was a central part of the plots of the Green Lantern and Green Arrow series, and was a source of superhero reflection. For example, in a subsequent panel from “No Evil Shall Escape My Sight,” Green Arrow underscores the immorality of racism by invoking the political assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy. This point is clearly expressed by a poignant image of Green Arrow standing in the foreground of outlined images of Dr. King and Bobby Kennedy. The picture is underscored

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by a caption that states, “On the streets of Memphis a good black man died . . . and in Los Angeles, a good white man fell. Something is wrong! Something is killing us all! Some hideous moral cancer is rotting our very souls!”11 In retrospect, it is easy to look at such writing as maudlin and crudely didactic. Arguably, however, because Green Lantern and Green Arrow were addressing such immense social issues, both characters required grand language and imagery to match the sweeping cultural fallout and the emotional trauma the American psyche suffered from witnessing a spate of political assassinations on American soil. Green Arrow and Green Lantern functioned as elegant cultural ciphers that openly questioned the crisis of meaning and identity that Green Arrow expresses in his lament over the assassinations. Despite the ham-fisted dialogue, the Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow comic book series was symbolically sophisticated when confronting white privilege and racial injustice in America. For instance, in another issue titled “A Kind of Loving, a Way of Death,” racial privilege is confronted whereby avowedly anti-racist whites are implicated in supporting a racial hierarchy. In the story, the white female superhero Black Canary is hypnotized by a white supremacist named Joshua.12 Joshua plans on using her as an agent to instigate a race war, and one of her first tests is to kill Green Arrow. Although she fails to follow through on her task, Green Arrow speculates that Joshua’s racist mind control was successful on her to a certain extent because the racial hatred the villain preached struck a chord deep inside of her. Black Canary responds to Green Arrow’s insight by subsequently volunteering at an Indian reservation and engaging in deep self-reflection. Unquestionably this narrative tried to address the sociopsychological aspects of racial prejudice as a personal, even subconscious, problem, while the Black Canary easily symbolized white guilt. To the series’s credit, “A Kind of Loving, a Way of Death” suggested that racist villainy was just as likely found by looking in the mirror as it was by scouring the countryside for Klansmen. However, the narrative was not without weaknesses. By having Black Canary delve into the recesses of her own heart and mind to root out racist motivations, her action implied that personal reflection was an equal or possibly more important and effective step toward eliminating racism than organized political confrontation of institutional racism. As well-intentioned as this type of personally transformative pop psychology may have been, it signaled that a personal pursuit of individual transformation was the true testament of change rather than the social and institutional quest for racial justice that proponents of the civil rights and Black Power movements advocated. As a real-world strategy to eliminate racism, the former approach is debatable. But as a narrative device in “A Kind of Loving, a Way of Death” it was pure genius. It demonstrated that racial bigotry could appeal to

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even the most respectable and fair-minded whites and that even humans vested with superpowers were impotent to deliver America from racism. As a result, instead of Green Lantern, Green Arrow, and Black Canary leading the charge to end racism as superheroes, they symbolized the need for whites to take ownership of their white privilege, acknowledge their feelings of guilt, and most importantly strive for personal transformation. Ultimately the comic suggested that the most viable solution for ending racism in America was for its white citizenry to become introspective and mindful of their racial prejudices, a solution that did not require one to possess superhuman powers. It is quite apparent that the Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow series was ambitiously dialoguing with real-world issues and trying to tackle some of the most vexing social problems facing American society. Nevertheless, reactionary impulses are also clearly present when the emerald duo confronted the color line. During the two-year run of the comic, the ideological debates and political polemics spoken by Green Lantern and Green Arrow at times lapsed into awkward renderings of American race relations. Increasingly the idea of racial revenge crops up. For example, the cover of the “Ulysses Star Is Still Alive” issue depicts Green Lantern tied to a Native American totem pole, as if he is being crucified. Green Arrow is adorned with a full Native American ceremonial feathered headdress as he stands in the foreground aiming his bow and arrow at the ring-slinger and declares, “My redskin brothers find you guilty! And I am your executioner!”13 This type of attention-grabbing cover tilted dangerously towards racial pulp politics. The narrative for this issue was not lacking in racial histrionics, either. With classic lines like, “They’ve been under the white man’s heel for so long they’ve lost faith in themselves,” the comic demonstrated how pugnacious the racial politics of the series could periodically become. Despite these shortcomings, the series was significant for another noteworthy element: the introduction of John Stewart, the original Black Lantern. Until John Stewart, Green Lantern and his successor, Guy Gardner, were white men. When Gardner becomes injured and another Green Lantern reserve is needed to fill the position, the Guardians of the Universe choose John Stewart, an African American.14 Initially, Hal Jordan objects to John Stewart as his backup even though Stewart possesses the requisite courage and honesty essential to activating the green power ring. Hal views Stewart as too angry to justly wield it. The critique of Stewart easily played to the racial archetype of the “angry black man,” political shorthand for reducing Black Power advocates to mad men determined to exact revenge on white America with self-destructive violence and intimidation. John Stewart’s appearance as the Black Lantern on the cover of the first issue suggested a similar sensibility. The Green Lantern is shown lying at the feet of a fully costumed and outraged Stewart who declares,

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The hyperbole of racial relevancy is evident on the cover (Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow, DC Comics, September, no. 79, 1971).

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“They whipped the Green Lantern. Now let ’em try me!” The caption “Beware My Power” is placed toward the bottom of the page. The striking cover art and rage-filled declaration of revenge telegraphed a sensational racial drama inside the comic book. John Stewart’s first mission as a superhero is to protect a white politician who is an overt racial bigot. The politician plans to stoke racial hostilities by having a white police officer killed as a result of a phony attempt on the politician’s life by a black gunman. John Stewart begrudgingly accepts the assignment to save the racist from harm and later foils the nefarious scheme to instigate a race riot. As a result, Stewart gains Hal Jordan’s respect and trust. If ever there was an origin narrative that was overdetermined by race, this is truly the one. Rather than having John Stewart use his power ring on his first mission to defeat some generic monster-alien or save a busload of tourists from plummeting off a broken bridge, he had to protect a comic book version of George Wallace from harm. In his debut, unfortunately, his character was buried under a mound of racial rhetoric and anxiety concerning the type of Black Power politics John Stewart symbolized in the beginning of the story. Early in the issue when Stewart first dons his Green Lantern costume, Stewart informs Hal that he better be called “Black Lantern,” and he rejects wearing a mask because, “This Black man lets it all hang out! I’ve got nothing to hide!” Stewart is a cocky, anti-authoritarian, angry, and race-conscious figure. Near the end of the truncated origin narrative, however, Stewart proclaims that color is not an important criterion for judging character. His change of heart is clearly an ideological nod toward Dr. Martin Luther King’s axiom that people should be judged by the quality of their character and not the color of their skin. In keeping with that approach, the Black Lantern moniker is rejected and he is subsequently referred to as John Stewart. Admittedly the overt hostility toward white authority that Stewart initially expressed and the racial melodrama his origin story represented were crude and sensationalistic. Yet the reliance on racial antagonism as the driving force for John Stewart’s origin reflected a broader trend. During the early 1970s, films such as Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971), Super Fly (1972), and The Spook Who Sat by the Door (1973), to name only a few, exemplified how blaxploitation cinema was often a sexually gratuitous and bloody referendum on white authority. Of course by showing blacks killing, fighting, humiliating, loving, and winning against whites, many mediocre movies were able to make good economic sense. In the process, blaxploitation films increasingly relied on sensationalistic depictions of racial strife, wherein crazed and corrupt whites appeared to live only to plot for the black protagonist’s death and, by symbolic extension, black peoples’ defeat in the struggle for racial justice. Unfortunately, real racial issues were increasingly presented as spectacle, and

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The original Black Lantern (Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow, December–January, no. 87, 1971–1972).

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The audacity of the Black Power movement and the sense of black pride are clearly symbolized by John Stewart’s attitude (Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow, DC Comics, January, no. 87, 1972).

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various social movements of the period had degenerated into political theater and posturing.15 A similar impulse cropped up with Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams’s Superman vs. Muhammad Ali (1978) comic (formally All-New Collectors’ Edition #C-56). The cover was exquisitely evocative of deep-seated yet familiar racial antagonism present in the American body politic. Although the narrative inside the comic has Superman temporarily forfeit his powers to fight Ali, combined with a feel-good racial reconciliation message, the magnitude of the racial symbolism presented on the cover dwarfs any concessions concerning Superman’s abilities. Displayed on the cover of the oversized comic book are Superman and Muhammad Ali, wearing boxing gloves, facing each other at the center of the ring, and preparing to throw the first devastating punch with a massive crowd of superheroes, celebrities, and everyday folk as spectators. Ostensibly the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali bout concerns the fate of the planet, as the winner will have to box the representative of an alien race to defend Earth. But symbolically the cover was a potent signifier of American race relations, given that the heavyweight-boxing tournament has historically functioned as a public staging ground for dubious notions and desires concerning race to play out when one opponent is white and the other is black. In 1908 Jack Johnson became the first black heavyweight boxing champion, which inspired the distinguished American writer Jack London to call on a “great white hope” to reclaim the title from Johnson. In response, James Jeffries, a former undefeated heavyweight champion was urged to come out of retirement to restore the heavyweight championship title to its previous luster. Billed as the fight of the century, the boxing contest was a racial spectacle that inspired black celebration and white violence in the wake of Johnson’s victory.16 Unfortunately, subsequent titleholders inherited this racial subtext virtually anytime a black fighter and a white fighter were matched against one another. Take for example, Joe “the Brown Bomber” Louis’s two heavyweight bouts with Max Schmeling in 1936 and 1938, where Adolph Hitler’s perverse ideas about Aryan racial supremacy and Nazism underscored the boxing contests between the two. Four decades later, when the Irish slugger Jerry Quarry faced Muhammad Ali the former was dubbed a “great white hope,” and the same theme appeared again when Gerry Cooney boxed Larry Holmes in 1982 for a shot at the heavyweight title. For decades in America, no matter if the contestants embraced or rejected the racial roles they symbolized when a white and black boxer faced one another in the ring, racial anxieties and personal prejudices were projected onto each fighter as representatives of their respective race. Accordingly, the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali comic book cover signified not only the spectacular nature of a fight between two American icons but easily drew on the potent racial history

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associated with heavyweight championship fights that had occupied America’s public imagination for nearly seventy years. On one hand, the cover easily reads as a comic book clash between two titans, a contest that pits the “Man of Steel” against “the Greatest of All Time.” On the other hand, an epic battle between a white man that represents “truth, justice, and the American way” and a black Muslim that refused to fight in an American war he was drafted to serve in dredges up deep racial anxieties not fully settled or forgotten since Jack Johnson’s heyday, much less Ali’s recent racial past. A decade before the release of Superman vs. Muhammad Ali, Ali was a vocal member of the Nation of Islam, a controversial black nationalist religious organization. The “Louisville Lip” rose to fame as a loudmouth heavyweight-boxing champion, but his personal convictions, as a follower of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad and later a voice of poetic dissent regarding the Vietnam War, made Ali a despised figure for many white Americans. By the time the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali comic was released, Ali was less of a political lighting rod. He had regained his title as the heavyweight champion of the world, which, for the most part, supplanted his past status as a black Muslim and draft resister. Yet his radical black nationalist past remained resonant if not as equally recognized as Ali’s status as “the greatest of all time.” In this sense, the cover illustration of a white superhero that trumpets “the American way” combating a black man that was a vocal critic of America signified a colossal confrontation of epic racial proportion. Ultimately, however, the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali comic book is best framed as marking the beginning of the complete transformation of Muhammad Ali from one of the most despised black athletes in America to one of the most beloved icons in American pop culture.17 Arguably the fact that Ali stuck to his principles in the face of severe professional sacrifice and regained the heavyweight title as an underdog challenger to George Foreman helped remake his image and paved the way for his acceptance as a mainstream and tremendously popular American icon. The American public values the underdog narrative of the little guy winning against the odds, and more than anything Ali’s triumphant comebacks dovetail with a cornerstone of all superhero narratives: meeting harsh resistance and overwhelming odds with integrity and perseverance. Ali, like most superheroes, succeeds not because of superior strength but by moral determination in the face of severe opposition.18 In this sense, the re-release of the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali comic book fits with Ali’s transformation into a mainstream hero who upholds American values, a theme that was signaled in the original narrative but that can now be fully embraced, thirty years later, with a story about Superman and Ali working together to save Earth against alien invaders. By the late 1970s the kind of socially relevant and racially engaged superhero

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Cover of the first issue of Black Lightning (DC Comics, 1977).

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figures that O’Neil and Adams had created had nearly disappeared. Admittedly their work was not perfect, but it spearheaded a transformation for how superhero comics were written and thought about. Comics were no longer just for the kiddies, and were increasingly recognized as another medium where ideas concerning American racial morality and the cultural politics of a society trying to come to grips with dramatic societal shifts were also seriously engaged. As the end of the 1970s approached, DC Comics introduced a new black superhero that loosely represented a continuation of the superhero social relevancy tradition established by O’Neil and Adams. Black Lightning was the first black superhero in the DC Comics universe to get his own title series, and as a result he could not avoid symbolizing black self-determination or serving as a symbolic reminder of racial tokenism. Black Lightning is Jefferson Pierce, a former Olympic athlete and a teacher in Suicide Slum, one of Metropolis’s toughest areas. When danger appeared or when justice was needed, Jefferson would don an Afro wig attached to a mask, squeeze into a bluish body suit accented with lightning bolts, slide on his buccaneer boots, check his power belt, and then hit the streets as Black Lightning.19 Dressed to impress, Jefferson would proceed to kick and shock various henchmen and their crime lords into submission. Despite his nearly laughable discochic look and the embarrassingly awkward black jargon Jefferson adopted when he became Black Lightning, he articulated a serious set of class and racial politics. Jefferson Pierce was a striver, a black guy who fought his way out of ghetto squalor to become an accomplished athlete, a successful educator, and, finally, a ghetto superhero. Black Lightning’s upward-mobility narrative registered subtle elements of Black Power politics concerning self-determination and black social responsibility, but his black middle-class status was also a source of multiple anxieties. His black bourgeois sensibility clashed with a superhero persona that delivered affected black dialect, a crude racial signifier that attempted to demonstrate that Black Lightning was an authentic black hero not alienated from the inner-city streets he swore to protect. Despite Black Lightning lapsing into stock phrases to convey his blackness, he communicated several interesting points about black agency. Here was a black superhero situated in the same city as Superman that decides to dedicate his life to single-handedly fighting the rampant crime, drugs, and delinquency that threaten to take over his neighborhood. Moreover, by having Black Lightning combat symbols of white oppression, like Tobias Whale, a white fish–headed crime boss, the comic articulated an acceptable (albeit formulaic) version of Black Power politics as black social responsibility.20 Even if Black Lightning was a comic book holdover from the blaxploitation-film era, he was a subversive repackaging of Black Power notions, like community

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control and black middle-class anxieties over economic empowerment and racial authenticity. Black Lightning symbolized a critique of black Americans that had joined the American middle class in the wake of the civil rights and Black Power movements but abandoned their less fortunate brethren still stranded in black ghettos across America. Regardless of his successful socioeconomic upward mobility, Jefferson Pierce as Black Lightning was going to take his fight to the streets, keep it there, and do it on his own terms, a theme strikingly rendered on a cover of the Justice League of America comic book.21 The cover illustration depicts Superman inviting Black Lightning to officially join the ranks of the “World’s Greatest Superheroes.” Black Lightning adamantly rejects the invitation. Eventually, however, Black Lightning becomes a reluctant member of the JLA and serves periodic stints as a member of a loose consortium of superheroes fittingly named the Outsiders. In retrospect, Black Lightning arguably tried to incorporate the quest for social relevance concerning race in the same style that O’Neil and Adams pioneered in the Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow series. After a mere eleven issues, however, Black Lightning folded. The character subsequently became a sporadic guest star in other superhero titles and has periodically regained a solo title several times since. Along the way his look and his powers were constantly revamped, he became increasingly driven by more interior struggles and eventually Black Lightning was rebooted for the new millennium.22 But for me, the original, late 1970s version is the most dynamic because it showed Black Lightning rejecting membership in the JLA and joining a group of superheroes called the Outsiders, a clear racial critique of black tokenism. Ultimately, Black Lightning was a black superhero that symbolically stressed self-reliance, critiqued tokenism, and most importantly symbolized how African Americans were simultaneously insiders and outsiders in American society. For a brief moment, O’Neil and Adams’s socially relevant and thought-provoking material captivated the comic book world by having imaginary superheroes tackling real social issues. Instead of serving as escapist fodder for an increasingly jaded youth market, superheroes provided a more complex and messy morality for readers to consider without totally abandoning the ethical high ground usually associated with the American superhero. O’Neil and Adams’s groundbreaking approach to superhero comics also provided a framework for comic book professionals like Frank Miller and Kurt Busiek to create gritty, emotionally unsettled, self-reflective, and socially provocative comic book superheroes and characters. Nevertheless, this type of symbolic and literal exploration of social ills, like the racism witnessed in both the Green Lantern and Green Arrow series and, to a lesser extent, Black Lightning, went out

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The use of a water hose on Black Lightning evokes the imagery of civil rights advocates assaulted by water cannons and surrounded by white mobs (Black Lightning, DC Comics, July, no. 3, 1977).

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Black Lightning gets a stylish upgrade from his previous disco look from the 1970s (Black Lightning: Year One, DC Comics, March, no. 1, 2009).

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of fashion. Consequently, O’Neil and Adams’s significance to the comic book field has overwhelmingly been consigned to the past. Often overlooked is the fact that Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams laid the foundation for a black man to vigorously compete with his white predecessor for center stage in the contemporary American public imagination as the definitive Green Lantern. Accepted wisdom links the blaxploitation-film fad to the emergence and stylistic cues present in black superheroes. Ironically, during a later period, in which blaxploitation no longer existed, the African American Green Lantern became the lead character in a major superhero comic book series. For roughly two years, from 1984 to 1986, John Stewart held the Green Lantern title and in doing so became an important outpost for black representation. Certainly John Stewart’s stint as Green Lantern in the mid-1980s appeared to symbolically express contemporary white anxieties about unqualified blacks replacing whites in the workplace as a function of affirmative action. Stewart’s early tenure as the black replacement for the white Green Lantern appeared to mimic such racial paranoia because he was a tentative and mistake-prone superhero that inspired doubt and indifference.23 This changed, however, when Stewart was teamed with the exotic, auburn-colored alien female Katma Tui.24 Their pairing provided an emotional complexity and a dramatic arc to Stewart’s reign as Green Lantern. Katma is a Green Lantern guide, partner, and Stewart’s future wife. The blossoming romance was unique among their superhero peers. Up to that point, black superheroes rarely had a female superhero counterpart as the object of their interest and affection. Superhero coupling of that sort was traditionally reserved for white superheroes, like Mr. Fantastic and Sue Richards, the Wasp and Hank Pym, Scarlet Witch and Vision, Cyclops and Jean Grey, along with Green Arrow and Black Canary. The animated television series Justice League/Justice League Unlimited (2001– 2006) provided a similarly complex version of John Stewart. In the JL/JLU series, Stewart was one of several members of the superhero team, yet his character was fully fleshed out due to the brilliant foresight and writing of Dwayne McDuffie. He was even given a signature characteristic: Stewart’s eyes have a green glow as a consequence of heavy exposure to the radiation emitted from the green power ring. Across sixty-odd episodes, considerable screen time, story arcs, and character development are devoted to Stewart’s Green Lantern. He is also shown with several different love interests: his past relationship with Katma Tui is revisited, and he gets tangled in a love triangle with Vixen and Hawkgirl. This type of character development remains extremely rare for a black superhero sharing the narrative spotlight with other prominent white superheroes. For example, in the long-running animated series Super Friends (1973–1986), figures like the laughable Black Vulcan and the poorly developed

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The pairing of Stewart and Katma Tui brings emotional intimacy to the series that competes with the racial symbolism (Green Lantern, DC Comics, June, no. 189, 1985).

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Cyborg were barely included in any superhero adventures. Accordingly, compared to the Super Friends, John Stewart’s tenure as the lead Green Lantern in the comics and animated television series was quite refreshing. The Green Lantern: Mosaic (1992–1993) series is arguably the only other version of John Stewart that was dynamic and interesting. This incarnation of John Stewart was one of the most experimental expressions of superhero blackness ever represented. The black ring-slinger of the Mosaic series was literally light years away from the original John Stewart in style and the field of action. In Mosaic, Stewart did not just occasionally venture into space—he relocated there, on the planet Oa, located at the center of the universe. There he battles with various alien creatures to save worlds. Later he becomes a Guardian of the Universe, a godlike entity responsible for protecting life. Although the intergalactic nature of these narratives placed Stewart in various alien milieus and distant planetary locations, the series reads like an existential meditation on black racial identity in America. The inaugural issue and the impressively complex and compelling fifth issue are notable for how they poignantly dialogue with the wonderfully peculiar burden of being a black man in America.25 The latter has Hal Jordan engage in an epic battle inside Stewart’s mind, confronting the various interdependent racial identities that are part and parcel of Stewart’s real self. The Mosaic title only ran for eighteen issues, but each one reads like a chaperoned acid trip through a wonder world of Dadaist imagery and beat poetry. The beautifully bizarre Mosaic presented one of the most daring and complex representations of Afrofuturistic blackness of the time and arguably since. On this distant terrain John Stewart is a cosmic version of the prodigal son, a black star-child returning to his galactic beginnings. Notwithstanding the avant-garde version of the Mosaic John Stewart, his character is also significant in a very traditional sense. Stewart affirms the Green Lantern mythos. In the DC Comics universe, the Green Lantern Corps exists as an intergalactic force comprised of various types of life forms that patrol and protect various sectors of the cosmos. They are governed by a group of diminutive old men with white hair called the Guardians of the Universe. Most importantly, various Green Lanterns of humanoid and alien forms all work together to serve the general good of all living beings under their overarching organization. In this sense, the Green Lantern Corps offers a model for how racial and ethnic diversity should function in America. Admittedly the type of utopian diversity signaled in the Green Lantern Corps is not completely unique. Most notably the original Star Trek television series, along with subsequent television and film spin-offs, pioneered the type of science fiction multi-species and racial unity suggested in the Green Lantern comic books.26 Similarly, the interspecies makeup of the Green Lantern Corps symbolized a utopian form

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John Stewart symbolizes profound racial angst in Green Lantern: Mosaic (DC Comics, June, no. 1, 1992).

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John Stewart has his brush with blatant racism as a Green Lantern (Green Lantern: Mosaic, DC Comics, June, no. 13, 1993).

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of cultural pluralism. Yet the intergalactic morality and multi-species membership suggested by the Green Lantern Corps is fully realized in terms of race and is anchored in the real world with the inclusion of a black man in their ranks. In this manner, Stewart’s racial symbolism has remained fairly stable since his mid-1980s manifestation, and the character basically articulates an integrationist, albeit culturally pluralistic, ethos. The aggressive and strident Black Power identity politics John Stewart originally symbolized and the contemplative racial existentialism he embodied in Mosaic have faded into relative obscurity. But the John Stewart character of the comics and animation series has become one of the most traditional and successful symbols of racial diversity, and can be considered a mainstream superhero. A testament to Stewart’s foothold in the mainstream is the fact that several different versions of his toy action figure were made, a difficult feat for any black superhero. Nonetheless, the white Green Lantern has mounted a definitive comeback.27 Not only has Hal Jordan regained his power ring in the comic book universe, but a film adaptation of Green Lantern looms on the horizon, which is sure to establish the original white character as the definitive emerald knight. John Stewart and, to a lesser extent, Black Lightning owe their emergence to the narrative gamble that the Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow title represented. Unfortunately, they were not paired to take on various social issues like their predecessors. Instead, they symbolically engaged broader racial issues on their own. But imagine if John Stewart and Jefferson Pierce had teamed up like O’Neil and Adams’s Green Lantern and Green Arrow of the early 1970s. Stewart and Pierce together in one comic book would read like a superhero version of Chester Himes’s Harlem detective duo Coffin Ed Johnson and Gravedigger Jones. John Stewart would symbolize black integration into the mainstream, and his Black Lightning peer would take a more strident position about American race relations, in line with a black nationalistic set of cultural and political talking points. Stewart and Pierce would traverse the American urbanscape fighting bad guys, engaging in deep discussions about the black community, commenting about discrimination in their civilian identity, and arguing over their tastes in music, women, and sports. Despite existing in separate realms, when John Stewart and Black Lightning are contrasted a very striking picture still emerges concerning what they communicate about race. Both the black Green Lantern and the campy Black Lightning of the late 1970s were symbolic signposts that respectively marked continuing racial anxieties born of Black Power and affirmative action. In the end, however, John Stewart, the African American Green Lantern, moved significantly away from the overt racial symbolism that Black Lightning continues to articulate. The narrative arc of the former easily dovetails with a post–civil

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rights sensibility, or possibly a post-racial sensibility, despite that label being carelessly bantered about in the America of today. To the character’s credit, however, the racial transcendence, ascension, and acceptance of John Stewart as a formidable Green Lantern symbolically suggest a desire for the destruction of rigid notions of racial hierarchies in American society. Paradoxically, in the DC Comics universe, such racial transcendence only appeared viable in the far reaches of other galaxies, a setting John Stewart is constantly navigating as a member of the Green Lantern Corps. I suspect, however, if O’Neil and Adams had their way, he would be headed back home to Earth in a hurry.

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Chapter 2

BIRTH OF THE COOL

As you know, I’m quite keen on comic books, especially the ones about superheroes. I find the whole mythology surrounding superheroes fascinating. —BILL, Kill Bill: Vol. 2

I

n 1976, in Superboy #216, DC Comics introduced Tyroc to the world, and what an introduction it was. With his oversized Afro, tiny elf shoes, bare legs, and skimpy, white leotard, Tyroc looked like a life-size Tinker Bell without wings. Despite the goofy outfit, Tyroc reflected the remarkable transformation America was experiencing in the wake of the racial justice movement of the 1960s and early 1970s. Given that speeches and public demonstrations were a signature aspect of both the civil rights and Black Power movements, Tyroc’s ability to alter reality with his voice and various types of screams was a thinly veiled allusion to the vocal nature of black activists and organizations that were pushing to remake America. Whether obscure or prominent, the first wave of black superheroes in DC and Marvel comics drew their raison d’être from racial conflict. In an effort to address the dramatic shift occurring in American society, black superheroes were crafted in creative and artistic ways that symbolized the racial climate. There were early indications that this new wave of black representation was the product of the social trends, cultural themes, and political opinions born from the civil rights and Black Power movements. The relationship between black representation and American race relations was most significant in the film industry and most apparent with blaxploitation cinema.1 Black protests and demands for political inclusion began to show up on the silver screen in

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BIRTH OF THE COOL

a slew of films with black characters often fighting corrupt whites that were determined to destroy them economically or physically. And conventional wisdom dictates that black superheroes are a direct result of blaxploitation cinema. Scholar Jeffrey A. Brown clearly articulated the connection, stating, The comic book industry was quick to take its cue from such popular blaxploitation films as Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, Shaft, and their numerous imitators, including Super Fly, Top of the Heat, The Man, The Mack, and Black Caesar. Publishers were eager to tap into a market segment that they had ignored for far too long. But instead of producing straight blaxploitation heroes, the comics publishers melded the superficial conventions of the film genre with the characters they knew best, the superheroes . . . They were hip black heroes with a streetwise agenda to clear drug dealers out of the ghettoes that they defended. Like the films that inspired them, the blaxploitation heroes of the comics did not last very long . . . Because comic book fans are so well aware of the medium’s history, it has been hard for publishers to shrug off the ghost of the jive-talking blaxploitation heroes.2

Without a doubt, the black superheroes of DC and Marvel comics drew much from the blaxploitation film genre, but not because they were inspired by blaxploitation film characters. The unmistakable commonality between the two exists because blaxploitation film characters were black superheroes. Super Fly (1972), one of the classic films from the blaxploitation era, was ostensibly about a smalltime hustler escaping the crime underworld he has grown tired of living in. Yet the film was saturated with superhero signifiers. The title of the film contained the prefix “Super,” which easily evokes the idea of the superhero. Next, the opening credits of the film showed a customized Cadillac Eldorado sedan cruising through New York City. This type of vehicle was colloquially referred to as a “pimpmobile,” a name loosely analogous to the Batmobile, the distinctive transportation used by Batman. Lastly, the attire of the main character in the film corresponds to the eye-catching, colorful, over-the-top costumes routinely worn by superheroes. Particularly the flamboyant full-length coats that were worn throughout the film bore an uncanny similarity to a superhero’s cape. The black superhero flamboyance witnessed in Super Fly is repeated in the film Three the Hard Way (1974), a movie that starred the blaxploitation trifecta of Jim Brown, Fred “The Hammer” Williamson, and Jim Kelly. Jim Brown, the retired football great, starred in numerous blaxploitation films, such as . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . (1970), Black Gun (1972), Slaughter (1972), Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off (1973), and The Slams (1973), and nearly became a genre by himself. Fred Williamson was no less prolific, starring in a series of dubiously

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titled films, like The Legend of Nigger Charley (1972), The Soul of Nigger Charley (1973), Boss Nigger (1975), and Bucktown (1975). Jim Kelly, the least-known of the three, co-starred in the Bruce Lee vehicle Enter the Dragon (1973), which led to Kelly starring in the blaxploitation martial arts film Black Belt Jones (1973). All three joined forces, however, in Three the Hard Way as the only men fit to foil a plot hatched by a white supremacist that intends to poison the public water supply with a potion that will only injure black people. Three the Hard Way is simultaneously an extremely paranoid vision of American race relations and one of the most striking examples of how blaxploitation cinema was fundamentally about black superheroes. Brown and Williamson don similar coat-capes in the film, and what their clothes suggested their actions, adventures, and abilities confirmed. Like the Dark Detective’s Batcave or Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, the three protagonists have a rendezvous point that functions as a secret headquarters: a car wash. Moreover, in a manner evocative of a comic book aesthetic, Jim Kelly’s character displays his superior fighting skills against several crooked cops. In a monochromatic, Nehru-like jumpsuit, Kelly confronts them in a slow-motion ballet of whirl-around kicks, quick-cut punches, and classic action poses that define nearly all comic book superhero showdowns. By the time films such as Cleopatra Jones (1973) and Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold (1975) hit the big screen, any remaining pretense that blaxploitation was not black superhero cinema was no longer tenable. These two films in particular abandoned almost any notion of racial realism and opted for comic book heroism, a role the strikingly beautiful and six-foot-tall glamazon Tamara Dobson appeared tailor-made to fill. Finally, with the theatrical releases of Dolemite (1975) and The Human Tornado (1976), blaxploitation had seamlessly shifted into black superhero overdrive. The star of these two films, Rudy Ray Moore, conjured up the figure of a signifying, street-rapping superhero pimp named Dolemite. In both movies Dolemite recites clever putdown rhymes and performs some of the most awkward karate kicks ever filmed as he makes his way through a series of misadventures against crooked cops and street flunkies. At their worst, the Dolemite films were a grotesque satire of every cliché that blaxploitation ever created. Both films spoofed what blaxploitation cinema had become: a sophomoric, if not moronic, genre that placed cardboard characters in formulaic narratives (wronged black protagonist must fight and kill corrupt whites) and pandered to black racial political fantasy. At their imaginative best, however, Dolemite and The Human Tornado are easily read as a satirical staging ground for audiences to self-consciously perceive and enjoy blaxploitation cinema as a black superhero film genre. Nearly twenty-five years later, the film Undercover Brother (2002) would again accurately spoof the blaxploitation genre as an unequivocal expression of a black superhero aesthetic.

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Understandably, the value of the subversive ideas and innovative touches in a burgeoning black superhero aesthetic are at best overlooked and at worse ridiculed when compared to the overt racial politics and messages present in blaxploitation that are doggedly debated.3 For example, as a black western, the movie Boss Nigger (1975) is easily one of the most dreadful and uninspired films of the blaxploitation era. But as a black superhero film, Boss is not as easy to dismiss. Rather than viewing Boss as a film about the real or imaginary place blacks occupied in the American Old West, I view Boss the way I view the infinite and parallel Earths that populate the comic book worlds of DC and Marvel. These parallel Earths commonly depict alternative versions of signature heroes and deviate from established historical events, yet readers are expected to accept these new set of conditions as a part of a self-contained world. When Boss Nigger is viewed and discussed from a similar vantage point, a black sheriff and black deputy of an all-white town in the Old West makes sense—it’s as if the actions occur on an alternative Earth. In this manner, Boss effectively functions as a blaxploitation superhero film in the steampunk tradition. (But rather than transferring some form of modern technology to the Old West, as was done in the television series The Wild Wild West [1965–1969], Boss transferred the modern-day Black Power racial politics.) As a result, Boss Nigger is speculative black superhero cinema of the highest order. Boss exemplifies how applying a superhero framework to a film that appears to have very little substance or artistic merit can reveal another aesthetic logic by which to understand the representation of blackness. This is not to suggest numerous blaxploitation films are hidden masterpieces waiting to be discovered. Certainly blaxploitation cinema presented some of the most paranoid visions of American race relations, but it also legitimized the fusing of “black is beautiful” self-esteem politics with an array of fantastic representations of urban blackness, thus signalling that blaxploitation cinema was fundamentally about black superheroes. Ultimately it would take black superheroes in the comic book idiom to fully transform African Americans into futuristic figures reimagined beyond the confines of enslavement, Jim Crow segregation, social subservience, and the inner-city blues of the black ghetto. If ever there was a compelling black superhero that appeared directly drawn from the political moment yet presented an Afrofuturist sensibility, T’Challa, the Black Panther superhero of Marvel comics, is such a character. In 1966 the Lowndes County Freedom Organization first used an image of a black panther to symbolize their black political independence and selfdetermination in opposition to the Alabama Democratic Party’s white rooster. In October of the same year the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense was created and adopted the black panther emblem as the namesake and symbol of

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The Black Panther makes his first appearance (Fantastic Four, Marvel, July, no. 52, 1966).

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The debut of the Black Panther (Fantastic Four, Marvel, July, no. 52, 1966).

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their militant political organization. Fascinatingly, only a few months earlier, a superhero called the Black Panther appeared in Marvel’s Fantastic Four series beginning in July of 1966 (no. 52–53). If ever there was a textbook example of Carl Gustav Jung’s notion of synchronicity, whereby coincidental events speak to broader underlying dynamics, the arrival of the Black Panther is it. Although the Black Panther Party and the Lowndes County Freedom Organization’s black panther emblem are not inspired by the Black Panther comic book figure, all three manifestations of a black panther are a consequence of the politics of the period, during which “black” became a defining adjective to express the political and cultural shift in the civil rights movement. In 1966 Stokely Carmichael’s call for “Black Power” set in motion a sociocultural shockwave. Negroes were now identified as blacks. Black radicals advocated the need for “black” institutions. Black was beautiful. Indeed, “black” not only became the appropriate term for a new type of political consciousness but also provided a synchronous template for the creation of T’Challa, the regal African prince who is also the Black Panther, a superintelligent and highly skilled hunter-fighter superhero from the fictional African nation of Wakanda. The Black Panther first appears in Fantastic Four (Marvel Comics, July, no. 52, 1966) in which he lures the Fantastic Four to visit his Wakanda homeland. While there, the Fantastic Four are greeted with a series of mechanical traps laid by the Black Panther that tests the limits of their superhero fighting skills. Eventually T’Challa reveals the purpose for his ruse. He only intended to provoke the Fantastic Four to fight him to test if he was ready to take on his deadly nemesis, Klaw, a ruthless mercenary and formidable enemy of his kingdom. Decades earlier, Klaw had killed T’Challa’s father in an attempt to seize control of the bountiful vibranium deposits only found in Wakanda. Vibranium is a soundabsorbing mineral that is the secret to Wakanda’s mind-bending, technologically advanced society. With the help of the Fantastic Four, the Black Panther is able to defeat Klaw’s military forces and halt his plans to exploit Wakada’s most precious raw resource. Against this narrative backdrop, the first appearance of the Black Panther character is quite compelling because it stands in stark contrast to the historical and symbolic constructions of Africans as simple tribal people and Africa as primitive. There is a lingering history of presenting Africa as a backward nation in books, television, and film, a racial caricature present in virtually any garden-variety Tarzan film released over the last seventy years. Without a doubt, the Black Panther and Wakanda offered unprecedented and upbeat images of Africa and African people. The character and comic series melded science fiction iconography with African imagery. The Black Panther is steeped in the type of inventiveness and science prowess that rivals the genius of Reed Richards, a.k.a. Mr. Fantastic,

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one of the most inventive white superhero scientists ever created in the Marvel Comics universe. Yet the Black Panther also affirms the mysterious and the metaphysical. As the leader of the Panther clan, T’Challa is rewarded with a special herb that not only enhances his senses and amplifies his physical abilities but also spiritually binds him to the clan’s panther god. Moreover, the Black Panther’s homeland of Wakanda is a high-tech African Shangri-La where African tradition and advanced scientific technology are fused together to create a wonderland of futuristic weapons and flying machines. In addition, the Black Panther’s origin tale—fending off the invasion of an African nation by white mercenaries—clearly signals a strident critique of African colonial and postcolonial politics. Consequently, the Black Panther not only symbolized a politically provocative and wildly imaginative convergence of African tradition with advanced technology, but he also stood as a progressive racial symbol and anticolonialist critique of the economic exploitation of Africa. But T’Challa was more than an imaginary black superhero and African ruler. Symbolically speaking, T’Challa was an idealized composite of third-world black revolutionaries and the anticolonialist movement of the 1950s that they represented. The cresting geopolitical waves of the anticolonialist movement thrust to the surface figures such as Jomo Kenyatta, Patrice Lumumba, and Kwame Nkrumah, third-world revolutionaries and leaders of the African push for political independence. These African leaders embodied the hopes of their people and captured the imagination of the anticolonialist movement with their charisma and promise to free Africa from European imperialism. Unfortunately, these and other African leaders were unable to completely fulfill their mission to make their peoples’ lives fundamentally better, due to a combination of economic turmoil, internal and external forces, and decades of political deceit. As a result, many African leaders found themselves deposed by a coup d’état, assassinated, forced to live in exile, or incrementally transformed into despicable dictators. Against this tattered backdrop, T’Challa performs exemplary symbolic work as a recuperative figure and majestic signifier of the best of the black anticolonialist movement. T’Challa, the ethical, incorruptible superscientist, superb warrior, Black Panther superhero, and leader of Wakanda succeeded in achieving economic and political independence for his people where many African nation-states have failed. Moreover, in the Marvel Comics universe, Wakanda is an African nation that compels geopolitical respect and reverence from the rest of the world, a symbolic realization of the type of autonomy that a good number of real-world African countries have yet to attain. With his supersleek rocket ships and his futuristic Wakandan homeland, the Black Panther embodied a bold melding of mysterious African lore with science fiction to create a powerful

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anticolonialism metaphor. Because the character and the comic book offered a grand and a triumphant vision of Afrofuturist blackness, the Black Panther series is significant and compelling as one of the most mainstream yet radical representations of blackness in American pop culture. Ultimately, the Black Panther and his African homeland reimagined third-world political independence with science fiction flare and depicted black folk free from the detrimental impact of racism and colonialism. But incorporating many of the stock-in-trade elements of American sci-fi— sleek rockets, out-of-this-world gizmos, and superscience inventiveness—does not make the Black Panther character perfect or always progressive. A point of irritation is the poorly titled series Jungle Action (1972–1976). Over the course of thirteen issues, T’Challa struggled to come to grips with the responsibilities of being the Black Panther and consolidating his power to establish his reign in Wakanda. Interestingly, the narrative arcs of the Jungle Action stories were set far from the urban ghettoes of America at a time when strident expressions of black cultural pride were cresting in the United States. T’Challa would spend his time fighting a slew of jungle nemeses, unlike the formulaic blaxpliotation film fad of the period that placed their protagonists deep in the American urban ghetto to symbolically highlight racial and economic inequality. Thus, in spite of the cringe-inducing title, Jungle Action was progressive in the way it avoided many of the ghettocentric clichés of the “black experience.” The Black Panther series also displayed dramatic attempts at racial relevancy. Case in point, when the Black Panther squares off against the Ku Klux Klan.4 Although this storyline was a ham-fisted attempt at addressing American race relations, it nevertheless spoke to the growing social and political relevancy in superhero comic books during the 1970s. Such a race-specific take would serve as fodder for critics to dismiss black superheroes as limiting who they appealed to and what they communicated about race.5 But, whether as racial spectacle or an earnest attempt at racial relevancy, the Black Panther’s confrontation with the Klan signaled how the age of innocence in the American superhero comic was clearly a sentiment from the Silver Age of comic books. Real race hatred was now fodder for imaginary black superheroes; racism was no longer symbolized by bizarre-looking villains but by bona fide racial villains. It was not until the late 1970s that Jack Kirby took over the title and brought the Black Panther back to a science fiction tableau. Under Kirby’s brief stewardship, the Jungle Action title was supplanted by The Black Panther (1977–1979), and T’Challa was placed in various surreal and wonderfully weird adventures. Kirby’s version of the Black Panther read like a collection of Philip K. Dick– inspired short stories. For example, in a story titled “The Six-Million Year Man,” T’Challa battles various parties for possession of a brass frog that unexpectedly

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Black Panther takes on the organizational embodiment of American racism (Jungle Action, Marvel, 1976).

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“King Solomon’s Frog” marked Jack Kirby’s creative imprint on the Black Panther (Black Panther, Marvel, January, no. 1, 1977).

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The sci-fi sensibility is found on this page of “The Six-Million Year Man” (Black Panther, Marvel, March, no. 2, 1977).

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opens a portal through which an alien from six million years in the future appears and threatens to destroy the world.6 Like the quest of Jason and the Argonauts for the Golden Fleece, the Black Panther sets out on a mission to retrieve a hidden artifact. The Black Panther eventually recovers the strange device, which enables him to return the overwhelmingly powerful being to the future. On one hand, a storyline like this invites criticism of how the Black Panther was depoliticized by distancing the character from issues of race and social justice in America. On the other hand, I view the placement of Black Panther in these various sci-fi fantasyscapes as racially and politically progressive, given that the history of black representation has exceedingly relied on passé notions of black figures narrowly tied to the ghetto. The placement of the Black Panther in various mystical and science fiction environments exhibits a noticeable break from that pattern. Arguably no other mainstream black image from the late 1960s through the early 1980s is comparable to the Black Panther for delivering a black male character with elements of Flash Gordon, The Twilight Zone, and Richard Roundtree. At a time when television and film could barely imagine black folk beyond the confines of prominent historical figures or an urban landscape, Kirby’s take on black representation was increasingly speculative, Afrofuturistic, and sci-fi in the way that technology, ancient traditions, robots, time travel, space aliens, mythical beasts, and samurai warriors were all rendered in an amazing mash-up of images, ideas, and plot twists. There were, however, subsequent versions of the Black Panther that placed him in a more recognizably “black” cultural environment. Most notably, writer Christopher Priest and artist Mark Texeira put a funky urban spin on the Black Panther and upgraded his look. In the two graphic novel incarnations of the superhero, Black Panther: The Client (2001) and Black Panther: Enemy of the State (2001), the Black Panther traverses the dark underbelly of New York City sporting a cowl-like mini-cape with gold accents and equipped with an energy dagger (similar to a miniature lightsaber). Although Priest’s Black Panther got an external makeover, with his costume change and weapons upgrade, the most interesting aspect of this version of the Black Panther is the internal state of the character. Certainly there were similarities between Priest’s version of the Black Panther and his comic book forbearer Jack Kirby. Priest, like Kirby, had the Black Panther encountering surreal scenarios and traversing mystical realms. For example, in The Client, the Black Panther confronts the villain Mephisto in hell, the ultimate netherworld, to find out who is behind the coup d’état being staged in his homeland. But in striking contrast to Kirby’s work, Priest uses New York City to ground the Black Panther in a contemporary urban setting and applied a more introspective and psychological approach when exploring the character. Priest’s version of T’Challa was

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The sublime cool of Black Panther is on display in “The Client” (Black Panther, Marvel, 2001).

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a mix of Miles Davis’s defiant cool, the Afrofuturistic mysteriousness of Sun Ra, and the internal contradictions of boxing great Jack Johnson. Priest brought a cinematic touch to his portrayal of the Wakandan prince. Like those of the French New Wave, the Black Panther narratives were presented in a nonlinear fashion with multiple storylines that jump back and forth through time. Priest also ingeniously used the perspective of a white character to explain the motivations driving the Black Panther. The narrator of the series is an upstart white male bureaucrat named Everett K. Ross that is assigned to keep tabs on T’Challa for the U.S. State Department. Ross is written as a likable jerk who thinks out loud, is politically incorrect, and says all the wrong things and gets away with it. Christopher Priest writes about the Ross character in the introduction to the Client saga: Ross [interprets] the Marvel Universe through his Everyman’s eyes rather than through the eyes of someone who’s been reading comics all his life. It was a new voice, one seemingly hostile towards the Marvel Universe (and by extension, its fans), but actually, the intent is more to be a social observer and deconstructionist . . . Panther’s ethnicity is certainly a component of the series, but it is not the central theme. We neither ignore it nor build our stories around it. One of Joe [Quesada] and Jimmy [Palmiotti]’s earliest battles with Marvel was to get the Politically Correct handcuffs off and allow us to poke fun at race. (emphasis mine)

Ostensibly, the use of Ross as a principal voice is a stylistic approach that follows in the footsteps of the groundbreaking and critically lauded comic Marvels (1994), wherein the viewpoints of everyday New Yorkers are used to examine extraordinary superhero events. In my opinion, however, Priest’s unconventional approach has much more to do with the cultural politics of race and readership that too often plague black superheroes. The Ross figure provides the reader with a choice of identifying with either the white figure or the black superhero, or both of them, but never exclusively with the black protagonist. In this sense, Ross’s character is a nifty technique for addressing whether or not white readers will identify with a black superhero. The character functioned as a safe haven for antagonistic sentiments and/or racial alienation toward the black superhero, allowing those notions to have an acceptable source of full expression and critique. In the end, however, the Ross character drifted too far into snarky whimsicalness. With the second half of Enemy of the State, Ross no longer provided a sharp irreverence. He told jokes that made him the punch line, signaling to the reader with his wisecracks that he was more self-conscious than self-deprecating.

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Eventually the smug lightheartedness woven into the character began to creep into the narrative and even the artwork. The edgy, dark, and neorealistic flair of Priest and Texeira in The Client took a radical and disappointing departure in subsequent segments under Mike Manley and Mark Bright’s artistic vision. They presented the Black Panther with more of a mainstream look, reminiscent of Saturday morning cartoons. In spite of these miscues, the Priest-penned series made the Black Panther a more complex character, and in many instances it demonstrated a degree of refreshing irreverence toward the burden of black superheroes to represent positive, as opposed to negative, racial images. Ultimately, the narrative and artistic upgrade revitalized the Black Panther and laid the groundwork for the Black Panther to move from an obscure and token member of the Avengers with sporadic guest appearances in other titles to filling a more central figure in subsequent narratives like Marvel’s Civil War series. While Priest purposefully tried to outmaneuver the demands of having a black superhero be “black,” the next incarnation of the Black Panther was intentionally presented as a figure deeply ensconced in the urban milieu of contemporary black America. Marvel relaunched the Black Panther’s stand-alone title under the unlikely direction of Reginald Hudlin, one half of the successful directing duo known as the Hudlin Brothers. The Hudlin Brothers brought a strong sense of comedic timing and a black middle-class sensibility to the silver screen during the black film boom of the 1990s. Their breakout film House Party (1990) was a successful slice-of-life comedic romp through black adolescent life that was the flipside to the multitude of urban melodramas like Boyz N the Hood (1991) and Menace II Society (1993) that defined black cinema during the 1990s. The brothers went on to co-direct several other films, such as Boomerang (1992), The Great White Hype (1996), The Ladies Man (2000), and Serving Sara (2002). Although the bulk of the Hudlins’ films did not repeat the box office success of House Party and Boomerang, subsequent pictures were still culturally savvy when it came to expressing black sensibilities. Coursing underneath many of the Hudlins’ comic misfires were biting critiques, astute commentary, and acerbic satirical flourishes about race in America. Not surprisingly, the next version of the Black Panther became demonstrably infused with the Hudlin Brothers’ keen sense of racial awareness. Under Reginald Hudlin’s direction, the Black Panther became a deeply racially aware figure navigating the highways, byways, and backstreets of black urban America like a cultural flâneur. While Priest tried to make T’Challa a racially transcendent figure, Hudlin worked to emphasize the “black” in the Black Panther. In Hudlin’s hands, the style and repartee of contemporary black folk was accurately captured and put on elegant display. For instance, in Black

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Panther: Bad Mutha (2006), Hudlin places T’Challa in a late-night black dance club. Hudlin perfectly captures the urban dance club rituals and cultural idiosyncrasies that play out every weekend in black nightclubs across the nation: male posturing, coy smiles, sideways glances, and threats of real violence surreptitiously subdued with a look or subtle nod. Black Panther: Civil War (2007) is another example of how Hudlin infuses race consciousness into his version of the superhero. In this story, the Black Panther and his superhero wife, Storm, are a newlywed couple. Shortly after their marriage ceremony, they travel to Latveria to confront the villainous Dr. Victor von Doom, alchemist par excellence and scientist supreme. What is interesting about their standoff is how the verbal sparring that customarily takes place between superheroes and their supervillain nemeses becomes drenched in racial rhetoric under Hudlin’s direction. DOOM: I’ve always said the African is a superior physical specimen. STORM: Finish the sentence, Doom, “. . . which compensates for his lack

of intellect.” DOOM: Generally true. Yes, but clearly the Wakandan is exceptional! Per-

haps a low-grade mutant strain in your peoples’ DNA. BLACK PANTHER: Or perhaps because we had the military might to maintain

our cultural integrity and our technological superiority over Europeans such as yourself. When you were in caves, we were charting the stars.

This bit of racial banter evokes epic themes concerning European colonialism, racial eugenics, biological racism, and white supremacy. On one hand, the overtly racist propositions articulated by Dr. Doom appear somewhat out of place in a superhero comic book. But on the other hand, if Doom is the antihuman villain he’s been written as for nearly fifty years, how could it surprise anyone that he also holds racist beliefs? Indeed, the maniacal nature of Dr. Doom’s mission to control the world is based on a deep-seated belief that he is superior to all of humankind. Thus Doom’s antihumanism would certainly contain racial bias. In this sense, Hudlin’s use of racial rhetoric in the representation of Doom’s evil genius is not merely an interesting element to include, but a logical one. Unfortunately, the tail end of Black Panther’s knee-jerk racial rejoinder smacks of the same type of retrograde racial equation employed by his racist nemesis. Nonetheless, Hudlin’s Black Panther is significant because of the unapologetically black cultural cues he incorporated into the character. Hudlin also rejected the tendency to depict black superheroes as social islands. In his Marvel universe, black superheroes go on missions together. For example, in Bad Mutha, T’Challa teams up with Luke Cage, Brother Voodoo, and Blade to do battle in the flood-ravaged, post–Hurricane Katrina New Orleans.

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The original Black Lantern (Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow, December–January, no. 87, 1971–1972).

John Stewart has his brush with blatant racism as a Green Lantern (Green Lantern: Mosaic, DC Comics, June, no. 13, 1993).

Black Lightning gets a stylish upgrade from his previous disco look from the 1970s (Black Lightning: Year One, DC Comics, March, no. 1, 2009).

The Black Panther makes his first appearance (Fantastic Four, Marvel, July, no. 52, 1966).

The sci-fi influence of Jack Kirby’s brief tenure revitalizes the look and narratives of Black Panther (Marvel, March, no. 2, 1977).

In Bad Mutha, Reginald Hudlin’s Black Panther embraces elements of blaxploitation, a sensibility reflected in the retrofuturistic aesthetic seen above.

As the leader of the Avengers, vintage Cage looks new again in the House of M: Avengers alternative world series (Marvel, February, no. 2, 2008).

The Falcon gets his first pair of wings (Captain America and the Falcon, February, no. 170, 1974).

The pop-art flair found in the original release is fully evident in the hardcover reprint of Cloak and Dagger: Child of Darkness, Child of Light (Marvel, 2009).

John Henry, the mythological “steel-drivin’ man,” returns as a science fiction superhero known as Steel (Superman: The Man of Steel, DC Comics, June, no. 22, 1993).

Icon’s black racial identity represents an intergalactic form of blackness (Icon, DC Comics, December, no. 8, 1993).

The romantic relationship and eventual marriage of Storm and Black Panther was an unprecedented union in the history of black superheroes (Storm, Marvel, 2006).

This image (Wonder Woman, DC Comics, June, no. 206, 1973) appears to be drawn from the race-message film The Defiant Ones (1958), in which a white man is chained to a black man.

Misty Knight is arguably the second-most prominent black female superhero after Storm (Heroes for Hire, Marvel, March, no. 6, 2007).

Brother Voodoo finally got a much-needed upgrade and stand-alone title series with Doctor Voodoo (Marvel, December, 2009).

The original Nick Fury was more than a superhero. He became a medium with Steranko’s “Zap Art” approach to comics (Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Marvel, 2000).

Truth: Red, White & Black (Marvel, 2003).

All four members of the Crew (Marvel, December, 2003).

Todd McFarlane’s vivid, color-saturated depiction of Spawn compelled critics and fans to take notice (Spawn Origins Collection, 2010).

Blade, the black vampire slayer (Blade: Black & White, Marvel, 2004).

Before he became President Obama, he was Super Obama (Zenith Press, 2008).

BIRTH OF THE COOL

Hudlin’s use of New Orleans as the backdrop for his narrative is no accident. On the contrary, the Big Easy is used to make a purposeful and pointed critique of the bungled government response by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The comic book depicts the Black Panther rescuing black flood victims in the face of an ineffective FEMA. Regrettably, subsequent sections of the Bad Mutha storyline are not as politically clever and come off as shrill racial diatribes. For example, a storyline where two master vampires plot to “re-enslave” the population of New Orleans by making them vampires is a crude racial metaphor concerning American race relations. As expected, a superhero showdown ensues between the Black Panther and company against the Confederate vampires Victor and Beatrice Montague at their old plantation style manor. Although their plan is stymied, the storyline clearly invokes the ghosts of southern slavery and the stifling racism of the Deep South. The symbolism is anything but subtle; whites are bloodsuckers that are planning their return to power by feeding off the despair and misery of blacks trapped in post-Katrina New Orleans. While Hudlin explicitly references real events related to Hurricane Katrina to render a convincing picture on the ineptitude of FEMA, the later storyline adopts clumsy symbolism in raising historical issues related to white privilege. Unfortunately, the use of the Montagues as racist vampires to indict historical racism appears drawn from the weakest elements of blaxploitation cinema, the tendency to cast white villains as racist simpletons. This is not surprising, given that the black male camaraderie displayed between the Black Panther, Luke Cage, Brother Voodoo, the Falcon, and Blade, along with a title such as Bad Mutha, unmistakably invokes a blaxploitation sensibility similar to the film Three the Hard Way. Hudlin infused the Black Panther with blaxploitation sensibilties, but the superhero that has epitomized blaxploitation is without a doubt Luke Cage, a.k.a. Power Man, one of a handful of seminal black superheroes that first emerged during the early 1970s. Because Luke Cage burst onto the comic book scene in 1972, during the increasing popularity of the blaxploitation film craze of the early 1970s, convention dictates that Cage is primarily understood as the comic book analogue to the over-the-top black masculinity paraded across the big screen in nearly any assortment of black films that came out from 1971–1976.7 As a result, Power Man is one of the most maligned black superheroes because he is viewed as a blaxploitation stereotype. This point was mercilessly driven home by the creators of Milestone Comics with the character Buck Wild, Mercenary Man, a thinly veiled lampooning of Marvel’s Luke Cage, Hero for Hire.8 Admittedly, Luke Cage is an amusing target to take potshots at, if you want to rack up easy parody points. But upon closer inspection, Power Man is in many ways the

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In Bad Mutha, Reginald Hudlin’s Black Panther embraces elements of blaxploitation, a sensibility reflected in the retrofuturistic aesthetic seen above.

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most inherently political and socially profound black superhero to ever emerge, regardless of his connection to the blaxploitation film fad. Given Cage’s origin narrative as a black man wrongly convicted of a crime he did not commit he clearly symbolizes the triumphant transformation of a black underclass convict to a politicized black antihero on an epic scale. Most importantly, the character’s literal mutation from Lucas to Luke Cage is bound to issues of unjust black incarceration, black political disenfranchisement, and institutional racism in America. The opening panels of Power Man’s origin set the political stage for his odyssey from Harlem native, to reformed street tough, to wrongly convicted prisoner, to black superhero. Lucas is depicted as an independent man of integrity caught between the prison politics of a black militant named Shades who is trying to recruit him for his cause, and a crooked prison captain named Captain Rackham who wants Lucas as an informant.9 Lucas declines both invitations, but his refusal to become a prison informant has severe consequences. He is tormented by a white prison guard and savagely beaten in his cell. This narrative setup is politically poignant and quite topical for the time period. During the early 1970s America’s prison-industrial complex was increasingly coming under criticism for racial discrimination and was in need of significant reform.10 Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice (1970), along with George L. Jackson’s Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson (1970) and Blood in My Eye (1972), brought a national spotlight to America’s broken and unjust prison system. Moreover, high-profile political protests around the incarcerations of Angela Davis, Huey P. Newton, Rubin “Hurricane” Carter, and Elmer “Geronimo” Pratt thrust black prisoners into the American consciousness as political figures and prison activists. Accordingly, not only did a motley assortment of black inmates become cause célèbre for white leftist radicals and black nationalists, their prison narratives ignited the consciousness of prisoners to advocate for more humane conditions. This political awaking reached its apex shortly after George Jackson’s death during a failed attempt to escape San Quentin prison in August of 1971. On September 9, one of the largest prison rebellions in American history occurred at the Attica Correctional Facility. Over thirty people lost their lives.11 These real-world events drew national attention to America’s prison-industrial complex and underscored increasing calls for prison reform. Against this backdrop, the comic book incarceration of Power Man dramatically draws on the prison-reform movement of the period. As an innocent man, Lucas’s wrongful conviction, along with the torture tactics imposed on him by a white prison guard, overtly communicates how black incarceration and racial oppression merge in the American prison system. The unjust imprisonment of Cage parallels various claims made by black

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radicals of the time—claims of trumped up charges and fabricated evidence used to imprison them to neutralize their leadership and impact in the Black Power movement.12 In this manner, Power Man is a radical signifier of the troubling intersection of racism, institutional authority, and broader themes associated with black political disenfranchisement. Certainly Power Man’s beginning speaks to the political, but his origin narrative also possesses a generous degree of American pop culture woven into it too. The harassment and torture Lucas endures at the hands of a sadistic guard also dovetails with the antiestablishment figure and message articulated just a few years earlier in Cool Hand Luke (1967). The popular film portrayed systematic incarceration and institutional authority, implemented by a sadistic warden and his officers, as a form of soulnumbing dehumanization. The protagonist of the film is Luke (Paul Newman), a charming and freespirited inmate of a harsh prison camp who repeatedly escapes only to encounter harsher degrees of humiliation and physical abuse after each capture. Similarly, the comic book’s Lucas objects to playing by the idiosyncratic prison rules and interests that he encounters. As a result, he suffers various indignities by prison officials that spur him to take a foolhardy chance for freedom. Lucas decides to participate in a cell-regeneration experiment on the grounds that it will count favorably towards his appeal to the parole board for an early release from prison. Unfortunately for Lucas, Rackham decides to settle their grudge match by sabotaging the experiment. As a result, Lucas experiences a physical mutation that significantly increases his muscle mass, makes his skin tough as steel, and enables him to regenerate and heal at an accelerated rate. Because of this freak mutation, Lucas is able to bust out of prison, and although he is shot several times, falls off a cliff, and is assumed dead, he does not die. He survives with only a few bruises and subsequently renames himself Luke Cage, arguably a symbolic nod to another defiant prisoner-fugitive by the name of Cool Hand Luke. Consequently, Luke Cage is a black superhero that symbolizes the cresting prison reform movement of the early 1970s and possibly the righteously defiant image of his namesake, Cool Hand Luke, more than the blaxploitation film craze he is often credited as solely representing. As a victim of medical experimentation and prison violence at the hands of white authorities, Cage is a very serious comic book superhero in need of levity. In his case, what Cage wears undercuts the solemnity that threatens to consume the character but still provides an unpretentious funkiness to his superhero fashion choices. The first signature piece is the canary yellow butterfly-collar shirt with a décolleté neckline to his navel that is matched with black, body-hugging spandex pants and ankle-high yellow-trimmed boots. This outrageous outfit is accented with a thick silver chain tied around his waist,

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Luke Cage in his original superhero glory (Hero for Hire, Marvel, June, no. 1, 1972).

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matching metal bracelets on each wrist, and a metal headband. Cage’s superhero duds are about as Melrose thrift shop as they come; the look is part pirate, part disco prince, and pure Power Man. As a “Hero for Hire,” Cage could not afford the high-tech superhero clothes, gear, and lifestyle of a majority of his superhero peers, like Bruce Wayne, T’Challa, Tony Stark, Reed Richards, Stephen Strange, or Professor Xavier. Luke Cage struggles to “get paid.” Consequently, Cage periodically takes on questionable assignments, like chasing down Spiderman on behalf of J. Jonah Jameson, the incorrigible editor of the Daily Bugle, or tracking down renegade robots disguising themselves as black men on behalf of the evil Dr. Doom. Despite some shady missions, Cage’s adventures generally had him facing a motley assortment of run-of-the-mill villains like Diamondback, Cottonmouth, Steeplejack, and Stiletto. These bad guys were provincial in the sense that they did not aspire to control the world like a Dr. Doom, or wreak havoc over an entire megalopolis like the Joker.13 Cage’s nemeses most often were either crazed henchmen or members of an organized crime syndicate set on controlling the illicit underground economies of the local community. These garden-variety narratives defined Luke Cage comics until the title experienced a creative boost with the pairing of Power Man with Iron Fist in the late 1970s and 1980s. The Power Man and Iron Fist (1978–1986) series included more diverse and devious villains. Yet the significance of their pairing rested on what the tandem signified about racial diversity as opposed to the range of villains they fought. Even though Iron Fist was white, with his hooded mask he easily signified a superhero version of Bruce Lee, the Asian martial arts icon. Of course this does not diminish criticism of Marvel comics for having a white character as a kung fu master,a debate previously raised by the popularity of the television show Kung Fu (1972–1975) that starred the Anglo American David Carradine as Kwai Chang Caine.14 But making Iron Fist an Asian character could have just as easily drawn cries of crude and predictable racial stereotyping on the part of Marvel Comics. Ultimately the box-office success of a succession of martial arts films, Fists of Fury (1972), Way of the Dragon (1972), and Enter the Dragon (1973), that starred an Asian man, Bruce Lee, ushered in the American fascination with martial arts, a trend which eventually made its way to the pages of Power Man. The pairing of martial arts with a black superhero was quite appropriate, given the popularity of Bruce Lee and the multitude of poorly dubbed yet dazzlingly choreographed martial arts movies coming out of Hong Kong during the late 1970s. For scores of black adolescents like me that viewed these films and subsequently tried to imitate the various gravity-defying kicks, Cage and Iron Fist were long-overdue and represented the perfect comic book duo. Admittedly, by the time the kung fu craze had caught up to the Luke Cage comic book the

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Cage’s lack of money made for some questionable employers and humorous language in “Where Angels Fear to Tread” (Hero for Hire, Marvel, May, no. 9, 1973).

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First cover marking the successful partnership between Cage and Iron Fist (Power Man and Iron Fist, Marvel, April, no. 50, 1978).

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Iron Fist proves worthy in the first issue (Power Man and Iron Fist, Marvel, April, no. 50, 1978).

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novelty surrounding martial arts had begun to wane, but when it came to the coolness factor, the Power Man and Iron Fist tandem were still light years ahead of the more well-known dynamic duo of Batman and Robin. The relationship between Cage and Iron Fist lasted eight years and prolonged Luke Cage’s status as a significant black superhero. By the late 1980s, however, Cage was primarily a guest superhero in other Marvel superhero comics. Then, in the early nineties, Power Man made a truncated come back in Cage (1992–1993), in which his signature canary yellow shirt was replaced with a tight, drab red T-shirt worn under a black jacket. No longer did Luke Cage resemble blaxploitation icon Jim Brown, a look that signified the physical prowess and black macho swagger associated with the former football legend’s public persona.15 The Cage character of the nineties favored David Alan Grier, the sketch comedian from the comedy show In Living Color, and as a superhero, Cage was about as compelling as the plainclothes he now was wearing. Nearly a decade later Luke Cage would reappear in Brian Azzarello, Richard Corben, and Jose Villarrubia’s explicit-content version of Power Man, the simply titled Cage (2002). Unlike the successful revampings of Black Panther under Kirby, Priest, and Hudlin, the “mature audience” version of Luke Cage was a gritty, nearly unreadable mess. An opening panel establishes the grimy tone and graphic content of the new Cage. It shows Cage sitting in a strip club with his back to the door staring at a wall-length mirror taking in the “view” that serves as his “office.” For me, Cage struck all the wrong notes in trying to reimagine Power Man as a superhero for the hip-hop generation. Ironically, Cage was a surprisingly retrograde representation of blackness. Black facial features were not only exaggerated but periodically distorted to the point of obscene caricatures, which made Cage one of the most poorly drawn comics in the contemporary era. As a result, a slew of questionable images populated the comic: bulbous lips, glittery gold-tooth smiles, crass nudity, silly scenes of gratuitous violence, and close-ups of Cage’s abdomen, where the top button is missing from his pants, creating a creepy kind of genital cleavage. In no uncertain terms this incarnation of Cage was “for hire,” but the “hero” portion of his title no longer applied. For the Azzarello, Corben, and Villarrubia team, Cage is reduced to operating as a ghetto mercenary, a thug for hire. Arguably Cage was a poorly executed attempt to capture a hip-hop sensibility, similar in form and content to the more gangster street expressions that have come to dominate hip-hop as entertainment and cultural statement. Yet the ghetto authenticity Azzarello tries so hard to conjure up is excessive and ersatz, and draws more from the look and feel of some of the most mediocre blaxploitation B-movies of the genre than from the cresting hip-hop aesthetic of the early 2000s. Whereas the original Luke Cage drew from the prison reform movement

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The “hip-hop” Luke Cage (Cage, Marvel, March, no. 1, 2002).

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As the leader of the Avengers, vintage Cage looks new again in the House of M: Avengers alternative world series (Marvel, February, no. 2, 2008).

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and the antihero zeitgeist of American pop culture of the late 1960s and early 1970s, Cage falls flat because it failed to capture the sociocultural expressions and sensibility of hip-hop (though some suggested it was a hip-hop version of the Hero for Hire).16 Admittedly, hip-hop Cage does flaunt many of the garish signifiers of hip-hop, but at the end of the day this Cage was a poser and not a product of the black gangster-rap aesthetic the figure so desperately tries to represent. The failure of Cage, however, is only understandable in relation to the sociocultural context that emerges with each respective version of Cage. In terms of the cultural politics of race, the original Luke Cage was informed by the Black Power politics of the period (hence the name Power Man) that made Luke Cage a unique and fascinating figure. The hip-hop version of Cage was neither a product of the time nor was he necessary; hip-hop had already created and embraced real-world heroes, such as Tupac Shakur, which made the need for larger-than-life comic book incarnations of black male bravado redundant. Shakur in particular represented the antiauthoritarian charismatic black male who viscerally articulated the code of the street, provided a vivid picture of urban life, and engaged pressing issues concerning racial justice in a way that a roughneck hip-hop version of Luke Cage could never achieve.17 Luke Cage’s comic book origin and early narratives intersected with real people and politics in a way that called attention to a time, place, setting, look, attitude, and context that represented a compelling black cultural moment.18 As a result, 2001’s Cage did not generate any viable demand or lasting appeal for Power Man as a dynamic updated hip-hop inflected stand-alone title or enduring figure. This is not to say the failure of Cage to achieve the type of stand alone title independence and longevity the character enjoyed in the 1970s was due to the botched attempt at black cultural relevancy offered by Azzarello, Corben, and Villarrubia. On the contrary, the sociocultural symbol that Cage portrayed earlier was no longer relevant by the 1980s, and for the most part does not exist in the hip-hop-saturated society of today. Cage is still a visible presence in the Marvel universe. Yet, relative to the high water mark of the 1970s, the racial symbolism he came to embody has diminished over the decades. For the most part, Cage roams the Marvel universe as a hulking muscleman utility player, either leading or teaming up with various superheroes and juggling his soapopera relationship with Jessica Jones while trying to raise their biracial daughter.19 There was, however, the dazzling return of Luke Cage in the House of M: Avengers (2008) title that had him showing up in vintage “Hero for Hire” fashion and tackling mutants in an alternate-world storyline. The first few issues of the five-part narrative deliver crisp art, fluid action, and intriguing storylines. Most importantly, Luke Cage is represented as the colorful dandy superhero he was when he was created. For a few issues the funky brother with the canary

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yellow shirt, silver headband, and insanely thick chain link belt was flexing his muscle and providing a considerable amount of “street cred” to a motley group of superheroes and an audacious storyline. Although the Black Panther and Power Man are not the only black superheroes to emerge out of the social, political, and cultural upheaval associated with the Black Freedom Movement, they are in many ways the most significant, and not only in their longevity or the number of incarnations the pair experienced. Instead, the most noteworthy aspects of these two black superheroes are what they suggest and symbolize about black racial formation abroad and domestically, particularly when the two characters are contrasted. The ancient panther rituals, sacred codes of conduct, and advanced technological wonders that T’Challa/the Black Panther preside over signifies the idea of black life virtually untouched by the debilitating effects of slavery and Western colonialism. In this manner, the Black Panther is a significant symbol because, along with Wakanda being portrayed as a technologically advanced and self-sustaining African country, he represents a speculative sci-fi imagining of the worth and potential of black folk outside of American enslavement, European colonialism, inner-city stereotypes, and hip-hop hypermasculinity. In contrast, where the Black Panther symbolizes black life outside the impact of racism, Luke Cage is a direct consequence of it. Cage only becomes Power Man because a bigoted white prison guard sabotages a medical experiment he volunteered to participate in. Thus there is a direct racial relationship between the meaning of Luke Cage and the history of black racial formation in America, no matter how many versions are created of the muscle-bound, skin-as-toughas-steel “Hero for Hire.” On the whole, when compared to the type of black images offered in early Hollywood films and primetime television through the early 1980s, these two seminal black superheroes were in many ways progressive representations of blackness.20 Where but in superhero comics did black people visit alternative worlds, travel in rocket ships, invent and command futuristic technology, or experience time travel?21 Consequently, at their best these two black superheroes provided a portal for scores of readers to reimagine black folk singing the body electric as science-fiction-like spectacles of technological achievement, scientific mutation, and black futurism. Ultimately, however, whether as a rich and regal African prince or an unconventional African American working-class hero, these seminal black superheroes are fundamentally similar. Both Black Panther and Power Man owe their creation to the serpentine twists and turns of the cultural politics of race in America.

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Chapter 3

FRIENDS AND LOVERS The heroes and heroines that a society chooses to make popular at any point in its history are those figures that best embody its dominant values. —JOHN FISKE, Understanding Popular Culture

You wanna learn good, be my Sideman. —SUZAN-LORI PARKS, Topdog/Underdog

B

lack characters in television and film have historically played the man standing next to the man. Films such as Play Misty for Me (1971), Silver Streak (1976), 48 Hrs. (1982), The Last Boy Scout (1991), Men in Black (1997), and, of course, the television series Miami Vice (1984–1989) demonstrate a range of examples where black characters are cast as ultracool sidemen or wise-cracking partners to various white protagonists. This is not to say black characters are the only or most aggrieved party when it comes to the history of minorities playing a secondary role to white characters. Across scores of comics, radio serials, television shows, and films, Tonto, the dutiful Native American partner to the Lone Ranger, is the consummate sidekick. Certainly the role of Tonto is easily recognized as a simple stereotype, but it is also a troublesome image for what it symbolically suggests when people of color (and women, for that matter) are constantly cast as sidekicks. Such representations symbolize, promote, and normalize their status as second-class citizens in American society. There are, however, instances when the minority sidekick is more dynamic, subversive, and connotative than the ideological stigma often associated with this form of typecasting. The Green Hornet (1966–1967) television series is a clear example of a minority sidekick upstaging the principal white character. The ostensible setup for the television show had the Green Hornet (Van Williams) as the featured star and

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Kato (Bruce Lee) as his Asian sidekick for roughly twenty-six television episodes. During their television tenure, the Green Hornet took on various crime syndicates dressed like a British mod hipster with a green face mask, and was accompanied by Kato, his black-mask-wearing chauffer. Taken at face value, The Green Hornet appears to deliver a rather retrograde representation of the nonwhite protagonist. In this case, Kato is more or less a manservant that exists only to fulfill the needs of the central white character. Yet the trusted sidekick was the real star of the show and easily upstaged the principal character. The Green Hornet’s rigid fisticuffs were no match for the lithesome catlike grace, quickness, and power of a Kato kick to the midsection. Accordingly, the past popularity and subsequent cult status of the show are clearly due to the raw charisma of Bruce Lee and his explosive display of martial arts, a point demonstrated by the fact that the show was retitled The Kato Show when it was broadcast in Hong Kong. Decades later, the quirky auteur Quentin Tarantino would pay homage to Kato in Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003). Tarantino uses the signature theme song of The Green Hornet, a virtuoso trumpet performance of staccato brilliance, when introducing the Crazy 88, a Japanese gang that wears black masks and black suits, similar to the style Kato sported in The Green Hornet. The 1960s secret agent television show I Spy (1965–1968) is a similarly noteworthy example of how a secondary character has an aesthetic impact beyond their original setting and genre. I Spy starred Robert Culp as Kelly Robinson, the jet-setting playboy tennis player who travels the world with his black tennis trainer Alexander Scott (Bill Cosby). Both men were in fact undercover agents for the U.S. government that used their professional tennis positions as a cover to travel the world without inviting suspicion. Unquestionably the white character was the star of the series and the focus of a majority of the stories. Nevertheless, Alexander Scott was no simple black sidekick. Scott was a debonair Rhodes Scholar depicted as a capable secret agent. The groundbreaking representation of a black man virtually on par with his white counterpart clearly reflected the push for racial equality that defined America during the 1960s. But the series was more than just racially relevant for its time. I Spy enriched the buddy action genre. Simply said, Cosby and Culp made interracial friendship hip, a sentiment witnessed in subsequent salt-and-pepper relationships in buddy films like Silver Streak (1976), 48 Hrs. (1982), Miami Vice (1984–1989), Lethal Weapon (1987), and Rush Hour (1998), to name only a few. Further, I Spy conceivably had an aesthetic impact on one of the most important white and black superhero titles in comic book history—Captain America and the Falcon (1971–1978). Joe Simon and Jack Kirby’s Captain America is America’s most propagandistic superhero, overshadowing even Superman. Sure, Superman embodies “truth,

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justice, and the American way,” but as an alien from another world Superman ultimately symbolizes the great American immigrant narrative. Captain America, on the other hand, is a homegrown figure who emerged during the run-up to World War II and is depicted fighting against the Nazis regime. Decked out in a red, white, and blue star-spangled-banner costume, and carrying an indestructible shield decorated, of course, with a star and stripes, Captain America is easily read as a reworked version of Uncle Sam of the iconic wartime recruitment poster.1 Moreover, it is quite apparent from his origin narrative that Captain America is the symbolic epitome of U.S. wartime nationalism firmly rooted in American patriotism. Before becoming Captain America, the patriotic hero was a patriotic “ninetypound weakling.” Despite his physical inadequacies, Steve Rogers sought to enlist to fight the Nazi menace. Rejected from the armed forces, he volunteers to serve as a guinea pig in the government’s plan to create an army of übermen to fight in World War II. Rogers ingests an experimental “Super Soldier” serum and experiences an amazing metamorphosis. He becomes an enhanced human specimen with increased strength, agility, stamina, and recuperative powers. Because the scientist who created the serum had memorized the formula and was subsequently assassinated, Steve Rogers was the sole beneficiary of the experiment. And so, from the early 1940s until the end of the war, Captain America took to the comic book battlefield, where he helped American soldiers overthrow the Nazi regime. In the wake of America’s victory, Captain America was placed on (or rather, in) ice for several years. After falling from a plane during a failed mission over the frigid waters of the Atlantic Ocean, he enters a state of suspended animation. Decades later, in 1964, Captain America is discovered frozen in a block of ice and is revived like a superhero version of Rip Van Winkle. Although tormented by the belief that Bucky, his trusted partner, perished on the mission, Captain America eventually overcomes his survivor guilt to become the leader of the superhero team the Avengers. The storyline is most ingenious. But these events were just an interesting prelude to one of the most remarkable aspects of the Captain America comic book series: his pairing with the first African American superhero, the Falcon. Without a doubt the Falcon is rendered as a supportive sidekick to the white protagonist. But, similar to Kato in The Green Hornet and Bill Cosby’s role in I Spy, the Falcon’s secondary status is a much more complex and a politically provocative relationship than commonly recognized or discussed.2 Certainly there are some retrograde racial elements associated with the Falcon, but focusing on the shortcomings of the character as a black superhero completely overlooks what the character communicated about race. Any analysis regarding the Falcon must move beyond obvious observations that dutifully discuss the

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character as an important figure merely because of his status as the first African American superhero. Any interpretation of merit must consider the symbolic significance of the Falcon and his relationship to the dynamic social, political, and cultural backdrop in which he first appears. Even by comic book standards the Falcon’s origin narrative is an odd and curious tale. Captain America’s arch nemesis, the Red Skull, uses “the Cosmic Cube” to switch consciousness with Steve Rogers and then dumps him on an island populated by a group of criminal crazies named the Exiles. Not only is Captain America trapped in the body of his sworn enemy, he is stranded on an island with villains that hate the Red Skull. Amazingly, to avoid being mistaken for the real Red Skull, he makes a convincing mask out of clay and water. Disguised, he encounters Sam Wilson, a Harlem native drawn to the island by a newspaper ad for a falcon trainer placed by the Exiles. Once he arrives, however, Sam discovers that the Exiles like to pass the time by terrorizing the native black population. Steve takes Sam under his tutelage and suggests he wear a mask, make a costume, and call himself the Falcon to inspire the natives, confuse the Exiles, and end the harassment.3 Taken on the surface, the strange origin story of the Falcon could be criticized as a truly patronizing narrative: a black character that only exists in relationship to the ideas and boundaries created by the central white protagonist. A deeper analysis reveals a more complex picture than the derivative and reactionary impression the character appears to epitomize. Early in their partnership, Sam/the Falcon expresses reservations about playing second fiddle to Captain America. Another black character named Leila, Sam’s subsequent love interest, voices a similar concern over the nature of his relationship with Captain America (Cap). Throughout her tenure as Sam’s girlfriend, she chronically chastises him for being a subservient partner to a white superhero and frequently accuses him of being a racial sellout.4 By having Sam and other black characters question the power dynamics of his relationship with his white superhero friend, the comic avoided creating a static black superhero. On the contrary, the character was a self-reflective and ambitious black superhero that consciously rejected being a sidekick to the white protagonist and constantly strove to assert his equality. In fact, if anything, the Falcon (“Falc” as he was later referred to by Cap) was obsessed with not being a second-rate sidekick to Captain America. His concern and constant attention to the issue gave their personal relationship a social resonance with broader racial tensions, and symbolized a social debate about if aggressive or incremental steps were more effective in achieving racial equality.5 Although the Captain America and the Falcon series is not acknowledged for tackling American race relations to the same degree as the critically acclaimed

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First appearance of the Falcon (Marvel, September, 1969).

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Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow comic book series, close scrutiny justifies ranking it as culturally and racially relevant as the emerald pair. Individually, of course, Captain America is a socially relevant superhero of the 1970s, particularly in the wake of the Watergate scandal. The collective cynicism and public disillusionment toward government after President Richard M. Nixon’s resignation was reflected in Steve Rogers’s identity crisis: he abandoned his Captain America moniker for the name Nomad.6 But prior to Captain America’s existential quandary over his purpose and pride as the embodiment of American patriotism in a post-Watergate America, race was significantly part and parcel of the series for nearly a decade. In fact, soon after Captain America and the Falcon were first paired, race was overtly addressed. In an early issue, after both superheroes foiled a black crime syndicate that tried to frame the Falcon for a murder, Sam proclaims to Captain America, “Go in peace my friend! Your skin may be a different color . . . But there’s no man alive I’m prouder to call . . . Brother!”7 Ostensibly Sam’s statement was directed to Captain America; in reality, the comment was a tacit critique of essentialist notions of racial identity advocated by Black Power nationalists that rejected the type of white participation previously witnessed in the civil rights movement.8 Given this racial backdrop, Sam’s proclamation that Captain America is his “brother” signaled a rejection of the type of race-based political brotherhood (and sisterhood) advocated by Black Power nationalism. In subsequent issues, the thinly veiled attacks on Black Power nationalism changed to hyperbolic rejection of the merits and practicality of such an approach to racial justice. For example, an issue titled “Madness in the Slums” openly expresses hostility toward black militancy.9 The story has MODOK (Mental Organism Designed Only for Killing), a long-time superfoe of Captain America, command a giant robot monster named Bulldozer to attack Harlem. Tellingly, MODOK engages in racial rhetoric and declares, “I must blind them to the fact that [blacks] themselves will suffer most from violence.” His giant robot then utters, “Power to the people,” and destroys rows of abandoned buildings. MODOK’s statement undoubtedly signals that black militancy is counterproductive and ultimately self-destructive for black people and their communities. At the end of the issue, the Falcon pledges to work on behalf of black people, and Cap corrects him, saying, “You mean our work.” The conclusion clearly articulates the idea that blacks and whites must work together to eradicate the evil of racism from the American body politic. Subsequent issues under Gary Friedrich’s narrative direction ratcheted up the indictment of black nationalism still more, shifting from racial undertones to overt depictions of racial hostility around and between the two superheroes. An issue entitled “Burn, Whitey, Burn,” clearly telegraphed an alarmist if

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not outright paranoid tone about American race relations.10 This issue in particular presented poor ghetto residents as enraged black folk ready to burn the city down and depicted the advocates of Black Power nationalism as angry and alienated. Furthermore, blacks refer to whites in stitled dialogue using racially derogatory terms like “honkey” and “whitey.” Most likely the writers were trying to infuse the characters and the racial dilemmas with a degree of verisimilitude concerning the topsy-turvy racial politics of the late 1960s to early 1970s. Unfortunately, the dialogue comes off more belligerent and unapologetically paranoid than authentic. Ironically, out of the heavy-handed and frequently crude racial polemics, a more complex and dynamic black superhero was created. Many of the most heated exchanges around race occurred between the Falcon and his chiding love interest Leila about the racial responsibility of being black and the need to assert his own identity.11 The combination of Leila’s constant griping and the Falcon’s growing insecurity in the face of Captain America’s superhuman abilities served as the catalyst for the Falcon to undergo a radical superhero makeover. The first upgrade is a spring-action grappling hook attached to his gloved hand that allows the Falcon to swing around the city like a poor man’s Daredevil.12 The next dramatic improvement is a brand new superhero uniform.13 No longer just a costumed athlete clad in a sleeveless green bodysuit, the Falcon unveils a red and white jumpsuit accented with a subtle bird motif. The most drastic element of his transformation is a product of the scientific resources of Wakandan engineers—wings. At the bequest of the Black Panther, nanotechnological glider wings are built for the Falcon.14 As a result, the Falcon becomes a member of a rarified group of superheroes: those able to fly. Of all the superhero powers, the ability to fly literally and symbolically established the Falcon’s agency and independence, in contrast to the landbound Captain America. But even more important is what a flying black man symbolized regarding American racial dynamics as the nation approached its bicentennial. By possessing the most venerated of powers in the superhero universe, the Falcon’s flight symbolized black social and economic upward mobility that was right in line with real-world changes. In his civilian guise as “Sam the social worker,” the Falcon was a black professional, which made him symbolically similar to his real-world black counterparts who were “moving on up” and achieving the American Dream. Educated black professionals in white-collar, administrative, and public positions were increasingly entering the ranks of the middle class in the mid-seventies.15 However, this ascent was not without challenges. Eventually, black upward social mobility would contribute to creating a rift between the black middle class and blacks of lower socioeconomic status that were unable to take advantage of affirmative action and decreasing employment discrimination.16

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A panel from “Power to the People!” in which race is stridently discussed (Captain America and the Falcon, Marvel, November, no. 143, 1971).

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The first of many weapon and costume upgrades for the Falcon (Captain America and the Falcon, Marvel, July, no. 139, 1971).

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The Falcon gets his first pair of wings (Captain America and the Falcon, February, no. 170, 1974).

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Achievement could exacerbate racial anxieties of identity and authenticity for black professionals, a theme that surfaces in a peculiar narrative that reveals the true identity of the Falcon. Barely a year after becoming a flying superhero, a profound revelation is made concerning Sam Wilson, the affable and dedicated social worker and black superhero. Before Sam met Captain America, he was “Snap” Wilson, a streetwise low-level criminal who worked for the mob in Los Angeles. The Red Skull knew this and used this information to put in motion a nefarious plan for Captain America to experience a humiliating defeat at the hands of the black man he had befriended. The Red Skull used the aforementioned Cosmic Cube to eliminate Sam’s memory and change his hustling demeanor to the type that Captain America would favor. “An upright and cheerful Negro” is how the Red Skull characterized it.17 The Falcon’s back story bombshell suggested a troubling dynamic about successful blacks. Even the most righteous black person may have hidden beneath their professional and cheerful veneer a corrupt alter ego informed by a black ghetto environment. Given that blaxploitation cinema frequently presented black protagonists with a criminal background that validated his/her status as an authentic antihero, the “Snap” Wilson storyline may have been an attempt to make the character more edgy and relevant. This might address the source of the influence that informed the direction the character took, but it does not diminish the damage done to the Falcon to symbolically expressing a post–Black Power moral authority concerning racial inequality in America. At its best, the “clean” version of the Falcon origin narrative allowed him to match Captain America’s patriotic authority with moral authority with regard to their racially inflected debates. At its worst, the revelation that Sam was a street thug and a pawn of the criminally insane Red Skull drained the Falcon of virtually all of his moral standing and weakened his ability to successfully challenge Captain America’s law-and-order patriotism. The “Snap” Wilson identity crisis also spoke to an increasing class and racial identity crisis experienced by successful blacks that lifted themselves out of ghetto poverty but found themselves facing claims of being racial “sellouts” and bourgeois “Oreos.” This theme fully surfaces in later issues of the comic when the Falcon abandons his secret identity and runs for Congress. He is rejected by his hometown constituency, an outcome which triggers him to regress back to his street thug “Snap” Wilson persona.18 Ultimately, however, the Falcon’s humble background spoke to the power and promise of black upward social mobility and symbolized the latent potential and talent of blacks who merely lacked the opportunity and training to transform themselves to competently compete with their white counterparts. During the late 1960s and mid-1970s Captain America and the Falcon clearly staked out their symbolic territory in ways that promoted racial reconciliation,

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equality, and black pride. However, as the 1970s came to a close, the Falcon storyline receded to the background as a separate narrative included at the end of an issue.19 In some issues, the Falcon was omitted from the narrative altogether even though his name was still included in the title. The Falcon disappeared from the comic soon after, his absence confirming the end of an era.20 Part of this was a function of the time. By the late 1970s the novelty of seeing black folk in previously all-white genres of entertainment media had fully waned. The blaxploitation film fad had completely fizzled, and blacks on television began disappearing, too.21 Although the Falcon had struggled successfully to share equal footing with Captain America for nearly a decade, throughout the 1980s and 1990s the best the Falcon could achieve was a periodic guest appearance.22 As a result, the Falcon was a diminished symbol of the racial struggle that he previously represented when confronting Cap to assert his own black superhero style and save the day. In 2004 the comic book community witnessed the rebirth of the tandem and the title with Christopher Priest at the helm. For fourteen issues Captain America and the Falcon provided multiple narratives that included intrigue and espionage, wicked double crosses, emotional crises, and dynamically drawn and brilliantly colored action sequences. Moreover, the tone and texture of the Falcon character were significantly improved. In the past, the Falcon’s racial politics veered into polemics and his “Snap” persona was clumsily expressed as a troubled, almost ominous figure compared to Sam, the nice black guy. Under Priest’s astute direction, the Sam/“Snap” Wilson dichotomy is merged and the character is still able to articulate the contradictions of being a black superhero in a post–civil rights America without the overbearing lectures witnessed with his previous appearances. In “Avengers Disassembled” the Falcon coolly reminds Cap that the crimes he has committed on behalf of national security will likely be judged more harshly than any committed by Captain America because he’s a black man.23 This type of racially inflected dialogue communicates the unstated double standard that he and, by symbolic extension, black folk have experienced and continue to face in America’s legal system.24 In this series the radical identity politics of 1960s black nationalism no longer inform Sam’s critique of Captain America and, by extension, America. A more subversive racial signification is present in Priest’s interpretation of the Falcon and Cap’s relationship. For example, the rendering of Captain America and the Falcon standing next to one another on the cover with the subtitle “Two Americas” communicates a double meaning. Ostensibly, the title encapsulates the main story line that includes two Captain Americas (one good and the other evil) fighting each other, but the title and picture also speak to the vestiges of two racially different

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Americas, one white and the other black. This is the beauty of Captain America. As an embodiment of American nationalism, “ol’ winghead” will always invite political analysis and signify a broader sociopolitical meaning.25 Hence, the original teaming of Cap with the Falcon was more than a tacit endorsement of racial integration during the late 1960s. The tandem set in motion a running dialogue about the nature of the relationship between American ideas of freedom and equality and demands by blacks to eliminate racial discrimination. Captain America and the Falcon’s on-again, off-again, and on-again relationship has spanned nearly four decades, during which racial issues were just as heatedly argued by the superheroes as in the real world. Unlike the unresolved racial conflict still debated on radio talk shows and television and quarreled over in college classrooms and homes across America, Captain America and the Falcon forged a deeper understanding and appreciation of each other despite their racial acrimony. Marvel’s innovative Civil War series proved just this point.26 The epic story line has superheroes that support a Superhuman Registration Act—which demands that superheroes register with the federal government— pitted against superheroes that view the law as a violation of their civil liberties. Cap and Falc fall in with the latter, and just like old times the two were fighting side by side as partners, colleagues, and comrades, but most of all, best friends. While Captain America and the Falcon are the most prominent white and black superhero duo they by no means had the market cornered. The Invincible Iron Man comic book series presented a notable interracial superhero friendship between playboy billionaire industrialist Tony Stark and the black helicopter pilot Jim “Rhodey” Rhodes. In the strictest interpretation of their relationship, as Stark’s pilot, Jim Rhodes was a glorified chauffer.27 Only when Tony Stark became too consumed by the demons of alcoholism and depression to don his iron suit did “Rhodey” become a major figure.28 As Jim began to standin for “ol’ shellhead,” the bond between them vacillated from friends to chilly acquaintances, which helped make the relationship more multifaceted and equal. Still, a significant portion of Jim’s agency and self-definition was robbed by his impersonation of Stark. Even though Rhodes got to wear the prized Iron Man armored suit, he essentially was pretending he was Stark. As a result, Jim Rhodes was a utility player, which made him less of a black superhero and more of an imposter. The point was not lost on the folks at Marvel, who eventually created a special suit of Iron Man armor for Jim Rhodes to wear, and subsequently named him War Machine.29 The War Machine title ran for twenty-five issues and was a short-lived success. As the headliner of his own comic, War Machine transformed Rhodes from a faithful sidekick into a legitimate black superhero. For two years Jim Rhodes climbed in and out of his protective ensemble and engaged in an odd

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Jim Rhodes having second thoughts about his sidekick role as War Machine (Iron Man, Marvel, April, no. 291, 1993).

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assortment of adventures in space, across time, alongside aliens, and even against Tony Stark, his Iron Man mentor. Despite War Machine’s exhilarating escapades and increased independence from Tony Stark’s technological dictatorship over the blueprint of his fighting armor, War Machine remained fundamentally derivative of Tony Stark’s superscience and was overshadowed by his superhero persona. The armored outfit is such a signature feature of the Iron Man comic it is hard to imagine anyone that dons a metallic suit as anything but a knock-off of the original. Nevertheless, War Machine was up to the task. But the relationship between Tony Stark, the Iron Man inventor, and Jim Rhodes, the superhero pinch hitter, failed to generate the racial friction that was woven into Captain America and the Falcon. Their relationship became more contentious as Rhodes entertained feelings of resentment toward Tony Stark, who often abused his trust, but Rhodes’s responses were reasonable and emotionally expected.30 Consequently, the relationship between Tony Stark and Jim Rhodes was fairly conventional, given the narrative arc of their periodic rivalry, and articulated little concerning the cultural politics of race in America. To the comic’s credit, however, the Rhodes character did establish a degree of racial diversity in a signature and long-running superhero comic, and his appearances in the comic books laid the groundwork for him to come to life in the blockbuster film adaptations, Iron Man (2008) and Iron Man 2 (2010). In the films, the Jim Rhodes character (played in the films by Terrence Howard and Don Cheadle, respectively) is an accomplished military liaison and the voice of reason to Tony Stark’s (Robert Downey Jr.) impulsiveness. The first installment of the Iron Man franchise presents Rhodes in the predictable role of a supportive black character, historically found in numerous Hollywood films and television shows. Nonetheless, the film includes an important scene that suggests War Machine will appear in the sequel as a more prominent character and possibly earn a major place in the film franchise. Near the end of the film, Rhodes eyes one of the Iron Man suits and says, “Next time, baby.” Iron Man 2 makes good on the promise and has Jim Rhodes donning a silver Iron Man suit to become War Machine. Despite an increase in actionoriented screen time and occupying the status as one of the most significant white and black superhero pairs in the genre, at the end of the day, the relationship between Tony Stark and Jim Rhodes symbolized very little about American race relations. But an obscure comic titled Cloak and Dagger (1983–1985), starring an enigmatic interracial pairing, would significantly engage multiple themes concerning race in America while taking comic book clichés associated with racial symbolism to new heights. Cloak and Dagger presented a moody mix of ominous addiction, transcendent love, hidden agendas, a tragic black superhero, a striking white superheroine,

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and dramatic declarations of devotion and desire. All of these elements did not necessarily mesh, but they collided together to create a weirdly wonderful comic series. Cloak and Dagger read more like an urban gothic romance novel between interracial lovers than a comic about teenage superheroes that mete out justice to those that prey on the young and the vulnerable. Before becoming Cloak and Dagger the pair were respectively Tyrone Johnson and Tandy Bowen, two teenage runaways that separately fled to New York City to transform their troubled lives for the better. The two meet as complete strangers but later become inseparably bound by a gruesome experience. They are victimized by a reprehensible criminal ring that kidnaps runaway teenagers and administers experimental drugs to them in hopes of developing a superaddictive street narcotic.31 Tyrone and Tandy are the sole survivors of this perverse plan and, to their shock, find the experimental drugs have fundamentally altered them. Tyrone has mutated into a human shadow; his body is shrouded by a billowing bluish-purple hooded flowing cloak that has interdimensional powers. The cloak can envelope matter, transport others into the Dark Dimension, and teleport him to and from various locations. His transformation from Tyrone into Cloak comes at a cost. Cloak is consumed with an unbearable hunger for the light-force energy emitted from human beings. In contrast, Tandy is Dagger, a luminescent figure that generates light daggers that consume her enemies. Clad in an all-white ultratight bodysuit with a deep v-neck that provocatively drops several inches below her navel, the platinum blonde’s style is more evocative of a lead performer in a Prince-inspired all-girl band than a fierce superhero. Nevertheless, her look and the gothic pop-art aesthetic of the early issues, enhanced the stark contrast between Tyrone’s brooding darkness and Tandy’s piercing light and visually articulated the startling study in opposites that the pair presented: black/white, boy/girl, poor background/rich background, introverted/ extroverted, unsightly/attractive, and darkness/lightness. Despite the conventional play on opposites, the Cloak and Dagger series was progressive in how the comic originally staked its narrative territory around the color-blind impact of drug addiction. Ty and Tandy came from disparate class and racial backgrounds but both were victims of the same drug-dictated tragedy. As previously mentioned, the teenage runaways were abducted and abused by street criminals intent on making them and others like them drug fiends. As such, Cloak and Dagger fully registered as a cautionary tale about the dangers that waited runaway youth on America’s big-city streets. Admittedly this is not a completely novel message. Ever since James Dean made teenage anguish fashionable in Rebel Without a Cause (1955), teens in trouble have become something of a cottage industry in American pop culture. Certainly television programming like ABC’s Afterschool Specials, the short-lived show James at 15 (1977–1978),

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A new type of superhero tandem (Cloak and Dagger, Marvel, October, no. 1, 1983).

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Religious signifiers underscored the metaphysical study of opposites that are Cloak and Dagger (Cloak and Dagger, Marvel, October, no. 1, 1983).

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along with the film The Breakfast Club (1985) were part of the first wave of entertainment programming that incorporated the growing crisis of white middleand upper-class American families raising alienated youth. What is unique about Cloak and Dagger is the use of the stark and debilitating pathos of drug addiction as dramatic grist for their creation and existence as superheroes. Cloak and Dagger was like a comic book version of the film Less Than Zero (1987), which delved into depicting the sordid underbelly of drug addiction, abuse, and death. In distinct ways the interracial superhero tandem was both an antidrug diatribe and a color-blind allegory for the crack cocaine epidemic that began sweeping across America in the early 1980s. Cloak symbolized various black communities socially decimated by the domino effect of the crack cocaine trade: violent gangs fueled by drug profits, and black families hobbled by parents focused on feeding their craving instead of their children.32 Similarly, Dagger represented how cocaine addiction could ravage white middle- and upper-middle-class families by ensnaring their loved ones in a web of addiction stronger than any web Spider-Man could ever spin. Drugs and drug criminals were central to many of Cloak and Dagger’s initial stories, and addiction defined the nature of their relationship. For example, in their first issue, Dagger uses her powers against a group of street thugs. After several hooligans are felled by piercing shards of light that shoot across the entire room, Cloak declares, “Dagger, your light brings me a pleasure . . . that is almost unbearable.”33 The addictive elements of their superhero condition also provided a psychosexual tension to their interactions. In subsequent issues the symbiotic nature of their relationship is further developed, as Cloak’s gnawing hunger to devour the unbearable bliss that only Dagger can conjure becomes a constant source of tension between the two. Although Cloak fears he will consume Dagger because he lacks the willpower to stop, she lovingly embraces the obligation. As a result, Cloak’s addiction to light and Dagger’s compulsion to supply his craving made Cloak and Dagger the first comic to overtly deal with the strange dynamic of pathological codependency. Indeed, this was not your average superhero comic, and their pathos made them a truly tragic pair of superheroes. Despite the inventive use of pathos to fuel the dynamic relationship between the two superheroes, Cloak and Dagger suffered from pedestrian and problematic racial symbolism. Associating dark, foreboding powers with a black man and linking signifiers of an angelic nature, such as white light, to a white woman clearly invites criticism that Cloak and Dagger is guilty of stereotypical racial symbolism.34 The graphic novel edition of Cloak and Dagger (1988), however, expanded upon the symbiotic nature of the connection between Cloak and Dagger presented in prior issues and created a less lopsided racial impression.

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In the graphic novel, Bill Mantlo fleshes out Dagger’s character more than the previous stand-alone issues, and makes her a more flawed figure.35 She is also plagued by internal turmoil similar to Cloak. Dagger’s brilliant light fills her with a burning sensation that only Cloak’s power of darkness can cool, again appearing to affirm racial stereotypes. Given, however, that their base of operation was a church, I view the contrast between Cloak’s darkness and Dagger’s light as a deliberate expression of the cosmic duality of life in terms of opposites, but not evil as symbolically black and good as symbolically white. Cloak is not evil nor a villain, and Dagger is similarly flawed, so the comparison in opposites does have its limitation with the two. A more accurate assessment of Cloak and Dagger as a study in opposites is that the pair represented a daring exploration of the metaphysical principals of yin and yang whereby seemingly opposing forces exist as a complimentary and dynamic whole. And even if a race-specific analysis is applied to the duo, Cloak is a much more intricate signifier of black racial identity than the superficial critique leveled at the character. It is exactly because Cloak struggles to harness his powers to do right and promote justice that he is an interesting figure. Internal turmoil and contradictions are the basic elements needed to create compelling characters. Cloak clearly possessed the building blocks to be a compelling figure even if they were never placed together correctly. Despite the negative connotation associated with a black man as a figure of darkness, Cloak and Dagger showed flashes of being psychologically complex and a forward-thinking superhero comic book. Cloak is neither as elegantly drawn nor as fully fleshed out as Frank Miller’s definitive comic book noir rendering of Batman as a deeply conflicted superhero. Nevertheless, Cloak possessed the potential for becoming just as superbly tragic a figure as the Dark Detective was a disturbing reminder of the cost of vigilantism. Cloak embodied what Stan Lee instituted at Marvel and what Miller stylishly suggested with Batman: being a superhero could also be a curse. Ultimately, the cumulative effect of making Cloak the dark foil to Dagger’s angelic light was a curse. His shadowy presence increasingly placed him in the background and margins of the comic book panels, which reduced his stature and made Dagger the center of attention as the series continued.36 As a result, the edgy antihero sensibilities appreciated with other black superheroes, like Luke Cage and to a lesser extent Black Panther, remained underdeveloped with Cloak, and an unflattering impression became his signature feature. Nevertheless, as far as black superheroes go, Cloak remains a gripping figure, even if his character only displayed dark flashes of promise, and he has sporadically resurfaced in other Marvel titles. Throughout Cloak and Dagger’s relationship that vacillated from peaceful coexistence to seething hostility and included repeated attempts to operate

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The cover visually depicts how much Dagger displaced Cloak as the main character (Cloak and Dagger, Marvel, 2010).

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separate from one another, they found themselves inextricably attached. For me, their relationship symbolizes more than a dramatic display of emotional rescue, codependency, metaphysical dualism, or simple pathology. They are a powerful metaphor for American race relations. Cloak and Dagger symbolize the symbiotic relationship between blacks and whites in America that has informed the tone and contours of racial dynamics in this country. Noted cultural theorist Paul Gilroy has exerted considerable intellectual effort extolling the interactive properties of black racial formation and American culture that I suggest Cloak and Dagger represent. Gilroy states: The reflexive cultures and consciousness of the European settlers and those of the Africans they enslaved . . . were not, even in situations of the most extreme brutality, sealed off hermetically from each other . . . This seems as though it ought to be an obvious and self-evident observation, but its stark character has been systematically obscured by commentators from all sides of political opinion. Regardless of their affiliation to the right, left, or centre, groups have fallen back on the idea of cultural nationalism, on the overintegrated conceptions of culture which present immutable, ethnic differences as an absolute break in histories and experiences of “black” and “white” people. Against this choice stands another, more difficult option: the theorisation of creolisation, métissage, mestizaje, and hybridity . . . These terms are rather unsatisfactory ways of naming that process of cultural mutation and restless (dis)continuity that exceed racial discourse and avoid capture by its agents.37

Without a doubt Gilroy couches the syncretic reality of American race relations in the virtually impenetrable language of academic high theory. Nonetheless, his analysis underscores why Cloak and Dagger is such an unusual comic and why both superheroes are compelling figures. The pair metaphorically represents what Gilroy is getting at. Cloak and Dagger are parsimonious symbols of the interconnected nature of black and white folk concerning American race relations. Moreover, like Cloak and Dagger, American blacks and whites are ultimately bound to one another fused by history and circumstance, fate and fortune, dreams deferred and hopes realized, and when either party tries to destructively deny or sever the interconnected and interdependent nature of the relationship, both parties suffer.

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Chapter 4

ATTACK OF THE CLONES Black identity is not simply a social and political category to be used or abandoned according to the extent to which the rhetoric that supports and legitimizes it is persuasive or institutionally powerful. —PAUL GILROY, The Black Atlantic

Even though you don’t think it’s right . . . Yo, I like to bite! —SHOCK G, “Doowutchyalike (Do What You Like)”

E

ven though the race-reversal trope has a checkered past, beginning as it did with the blackface minstrel tradition, American pop culture is littered with contemporary examples of whites transforming into black folk. Films such as Black Like Me (1964), Watermelon Man (1970), Soul Man (1986), White Man’s Burden (1995), and Tropic Thunder (2008) have whites experience life as black folk. Of course, the superhero genre has had its share of race reversals. One of the all-time strangest was when Lois Lane, Superman’s long-term love interest, was morphed into a black woman for twenty-four hours by Superman’s Transformoflux machine.1 The experiment allows Lois to experience life as a regular black woman. By and large, however, the race-reversal play on identity in the present era involves reimagining wellknown white characters as black ones. This imitative impulse is found in films like Carmen Jones (1954), Blacula (1972), Blackenstein (1973), The Black Godfather (1974), Black Lolita (1974), Black Samson (1974), Black Shampoo (1976), Dr. Black, Mr. Hyde (1976), and, of course, Berry Gordy’s insipid film production The Wiz (1978). One of the worst examples of this type of copycat aesthetic was the television show The New Odd Couple (1982–1983). The original The Odd Couple (1970–1975) starred Jack Klugman as Oscar Madison, a loveable slob who lives in a New York apartment with his neat-freak pal Felix Unger, a perfectly cast Tony Randall. Seven

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years later the show returned with two black actors portraying Oscar (Demond Wilson) and Felix (Ron Glass). They not only reprised the same roles as their white counterparts but also recycled scripts from the original show. The show was mercifully cancelled after fourteen episodes. One of the most recent examples of this type of racial reversal was the all– African American cast for the Broadway revival of Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (2008). The play caused critics and audiences alike to scramble to make sense of what black versions of established white characters suggested about race in America.2 Aesthetically, whether as films, television programs, or Broadway theatrical shows, the race reversal trope invites criticisms as disappointingly derivative and suggests that black cultural formation has very little to offer in terms of originality or artistic vision. Likewise, a number of new “black” superheroes that were originally white court similar criticisms for their lack of originality and racial authenticity.3 Black Goliath is a classic example of a recycled and uninspiring black superhero. The first Goliath was originally Dr. Henry “Hank” Pym, a scientist who discovered size-shifting elements that he named “Pym particles.” As a result of his discovery, Hank Pym would have several incarnations as a size-shifting superhero: Ant-Man, Giant-Man, Goliath, and Yellowjacket. For me, all of them appeared inconsequential—Ant-Man in particular.4 A superhero the size of an ant is counterintuitive to the type of grand struggles most superheroes face. Accordingly, it was not much of a surprise that Ant-Man became GiantMan and eventually Goliath. As a giant, Pym could convey the epic proportion inherent in possessing superhero powers and confronting the threat of doom and destruction that villains represent.5 Pym’s various monikers also signaled that he was an unstable character searching for an identity and possibly an audience. Logic would dictate that a black version of Goliath would not be any more promising. Nevertheless, Marvel writers had Bill Foster recreate Pym’s sizeenhancing concoction to become Black Goliath, a giant black man ready to take on an assortment of villains.6 A Black Goliath (1976) series was created, but it had a short run of only five issues. The character went on to periodically appear in other titles and eventually was killed-off.7 Clearly the unoriginal and derivative nature of Black Goliath invites a less-than-flattering criticism of him as a lackluster clone of a white superhero, a point also acknowledged by the protagonist.8 But a lack of originality does not necessarily mean a black superhero is destined to fail or remain an underdeveloped figure. Imitation periodically leads to innovation. In hip-hop music the producer/DJ will take a preexisting sonic artifact such as a saxophone riff, a funky baseline, or a catchy hook from a recognized melody, harmony, or vocal phrasing and use it as a sonic platform to build upon and create something

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The “new” big man on the superhero scene (Black Goliath, Marvel, February, 1976).

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strikingly fresh. For example, a signature refrain from the Broadway musical Annie is used on Jay-Z’s Vol. 2 .  .  . Hard Knock Life (1998). The song “It’s the Hard-Knock Life” was sampled and transformed from a happy-go-lucky show tune into a hip-hop bass-heavy banger that shot up the music charts. These “sampled” reinterpretations provide the listening audience the ability to aurally experience the rebirth of a familiar tune in a refreshingly distinct manner. Similarly, I view superheroes such as Nick Fury, Nubia, Isaiah Bradley (black Captain America), Steel, Brother Voodoo, and, to a lesser extent, the Crew as comic book samples lifted from original source material. These racially remixed superheroes offer audiences familiar points of reference that, as black superheroes, suggest a range of ideas, cultural points of interests, compelling themes, and multiple meanings that were not previously present. Frequently, the black versions are more chic, politically provocative, and ideologically dynamic than the established white superheroes they were modeled after. Arguably, the ultimate racial reimagining of a white-to-black superhero occurred with the greatest comic book icon in American pop culture and the cornerstone of all superhero characters: Superman. The Superman character that Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster launched in 1938 with Action Comics is now a multimillion-dollar franchise found across a variety of media platforms such as video games, films, toys, television shows, cartoons, and, of course, comic books. In addition, there have been a number of related spin-off characters such as Superwoman, Superboy, Supergirl, Krypto the Superdog, and let’s not forget Beppo the Super-Monkey. However, it was not until “The Death of Superman” (1992) that space was created for a black Man of Steel. With Superman apparently deceased, several would-be replacements jockeyed for Superman’s mission to protect the good people of Metropolis. John Henry Irons, a black weapons engineer, is one of the four stand-ins that came forward to replace Kal-El. Irons designs and builds an armored suit that enables him to fly and gives him super strength. At first glance, there is a striking similarity between John Henry Irons and military industrialist Tony Stark and his superhero alter ego Iron Man. Although both men encase themselves in flying armored suits and Irons’s last name evokes the Iron Man moniker, Superman’s replacement is not a crude copy of Iron Man, most notably because John Henry Irons is invested with undeniable signifiers of black culture and history that make him an Afrofutristic version of the black American folk hero John Henry. Since the American Civil War, long before any black superhero ever donned a mask, John Henry has been a heroic icon among blacks as “the steel-driving man.” In the black folk narrative, John Henry wanted to preserve his job as a railroad laborer. Because a steam-powered machine that drove spikes into railway tracks was touted as better, John Henry entered into a competition against it.9

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On the surface, the narrative is a classic example of man versus machine. Yet the story underscores the problematic relationship black folk have had with the American economic order as exploited, underpaid, and overworked labor.10 Despite the overwhelming odds against him, John Henry beats the machine by manually driving spikes with his sledgehammer but dies from exhaustion shortly after his victory. When John Henry Irons replaces Superman he is symbolically reborn. Irons appropriates the title “Man of Steel” as his superhero moniker (which is later shortened to “Steel”) and uses a long sledgehammer as a weapon. Clearly Steel, the black Superman, is referencing John Henry, a black railroad laborer, as the originator and true heir to the title “Man of Steel,” rather than the last son of Krypton. With the Steel (1994–1998) series, an epic black folk hero was reincarnated as a contemporary black superhero. In the wake of Superman’s death, gangs began to proliferate in Metropolis, and Steel must exert a significant amount of his time and powers on their elimination. Arguably this type of “make the city streets safe” story is associated with virtually all superhero crime fighters but it does very little to articulate anything unique concerning blackness. Steel appeared destined to repeat the standard racial trope of confining black superheroes to fighting gangs in the ghetto. Eventually, however, Steel would expand his superhero missions beyond the urban cityscape and explore a more explicit sci-fi tapestry of images and narratives that became a signature feature of later adventures. Interdimensional travel and making first contact with various alien life-forms were routinely presented, and the armored outfit he donned took on a cyborglike status, a familiar theme in sci-fi film.11 Ultimately, Steel became a science fiction version of the black folk hero John Henry, revitalizing a virtually obsolete black mythology with scifi élan. This makes Steel quite an innovative and progressive black superhero character, despite surface appearances that suggest he is merely the black version of a white Superman. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Icon, a black superhero created by Milestone Comics, the intrepid black comic book company that emerged in 1993 and folded four years later. With Icon, the creative folk at Milestone took more liberties sampling from the original Superman narrative than Steel did. The Icon origin narrative mirrors Superman’s—an alien baby is found in a life pod—except with one interesting twist. Instead of landing in America’s heartland, Icon lands in a Southern cotton field during the height of slavery. Jeffrey A. Brown, a Milestone fan and comic book scholar, aptly recounts Icon’s origin and significant elements of the character thusly: Icon’s story really begins in 1839 when an escape pod from an exploding extraterrestrial starliner lands in a cotton field in America’s Deep South.

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John Henry, the mythological “steel-drivin’ man,” returns as a science fiction superhero known as Steel (Superman: The Man of Steel, DC Comics, June, no. 22, 1993).

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Black folk-mythology meets science fiction with Steel (The Adventures of Superman, DC Comics, September, no. 504, 1993).

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A slave woman named Miriam discovers inside the pod a little black baby who is actually an alien being whose appearance has been altered by the ship’s defense mechanism to resemble the first type of life form encountered. Miriam christens the child Augustus Freeman and raises him as her own. Seemingly immortal, the adult alien now resides in Dakota as the successful corporate lawyer Augustus Freeman IV. Freeman is an extremely conservative Republican who continuously espouses the virtues of a Horatio Alger “pull yourself up by your own bootstraps” philosophy while keeping his Superman-like powers a secret.12 (emphasis mine)

The black baby also grew up to eventually don a cape and tight bodysuit while flying around protecting citizens from danger. Despite Brown’s admirable attempt to salvage him from accusations that the character was a copycat Superman, Icon still appeared and felt like a plagiarized figure. Even Brown acknowledges the significant similarities between the two: The parallels between the two characters are undeniable. Both are alien castaways discovered as infants in small rocket ships which crashed in farmers’ fields. Both are raised by their rural foster parents who teach them that with great powers comes great responsibility. Both are incredibly conservative and almost comically straight arrows. They wear similar costumes and possess almost identical powers.13

The imitative elements were so much a part of the Superman universe that they significantly diminished Icon’s Afrofuturistic originality. Moreover, Icon’s origin narrative was extremely problematic, given that he comes of age as a black slave and does not use his superior abilities to free black folk from enslavement. As fantastic, imaginary, and speculative as superheroes are, once they engage real social events that clearly resonate as oppressive and unjust their actions or inactions become a source of moral scrutiny because the superhero archetype is heavily steeped in affirming a division between right and wrong. Accordingly, superheroes overtly affirm or implicitly signify accepted social discourse and accepted beliefs in our society. Because Icon’s origin narrative has one foot in the imaginary comic book world of unlimited possibility and the other in the historical reality of black enslavement, his comic book existence invites racial scrutiny concerning his motivations, choices, and behaviors when confronting racial discrimination. Icon’s neutral relationship to the black freedom struggles he witnessed and benefited from but contributed very little to makes him a peculiar black superhero. Given that virtually all superheroes are victorious because of their moral determination, concern for others, and notions of

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The passive-aggressive racial politics of Icon on full display (Icon, DC Comics, 2009).

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justice,14 what does Icon articulate about racial justice? First and foremost, his origin narrative implies that Icon was complicit in his and black people’s racial oppression for over a century, a sentiment suggested by Icon himself when he voluntarily allows the local police force to take him into custody.15 Ultimately, however, Icon symbolizes how racial justice is an ambivalent and ambiguous topic best used as a point of departure in superhero comics rather than a realtime battleground to make definitive declarations concerning black liberation as an integral aspect of American democracy, freedom, and societal improvement. O’Neil and Adams made a similar point with the Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow series. Eventually Icon commits to using his overwhelming powers for those in need when his future sidekick Rocket, a young black female, convinces him to.16 As problematic as Icon’s origin narrative was, the relationship between Icon and Rocket was rewardingly complex and engaging. Icon and Rocket respectively symbolized conservative and liberal political ideologies about race drawn from well-established debates and black intellectual traditions. In this area, Icon was in no way, shape, or form similar to Superman. Dwayne McDuffie, lead writer for the series, brilliantly has each figure ideologically play off the other, breathing new life into well-tread notions of conservatism and liberalism by representing them through the prism of race. In the end, however, such symbolism was likely too high-concept to undercut criticism of Icon as “Superman in blackface.”17 Of course, Steel and Icon are not the only black figures that appear as watered-down replicas of white superheroes. Nubia is arguably one of the most imitative black superheroes ever conceived. But even more interesting than her derivative status is her obscurity, given that she is the black Wonder Woman and her existence is woven into the very origin of the most famous Amazon woman of all time. Diana Prince, Wonder Woman’s civilian identity, has a black twin sister, a fact forgotten even by the guys and gals that created The DC Comics Encyclopedia: The Definitive Guide to the Characters of the DC Universe (2004). Fortunately, Carol A. Strickland, a Wonder Woman savant, chronicled Nubia’s astonishing arrival and disappointing departure from the DC universe.18 Nubia first appeared in the DC Comics universe 1973 in a narrative back-story depicting Queen Hippolyta lamenting to the goddess Aphrodite that she wants children despite living on an island devoid of men.19 Aphrodite instructs her to create two clay figurines of children, a black one and a white one. Both clay figures are subsequently given life by the mythological goddess, but the black child is abducted by Mars, the god of war. He intends to raise her to defeat the Amazons he intensely despises. Consequently, Diana has no knowledge of her black twin sister when Nubia later returns to Paradise Island to claim the title of Wonder

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Woman.20 Certainly the abduction narrative signifies the capture and enslavement of blacks in America’s past, while Nubia’s arrival symbolizes a return of the repressed or, more accurately, the racially oppressed to reclaim what was denied. But most importantly, the narrative explained to ardent followers of the Wonder Woman mythos why and how her black sister was missing in action for all this time. To this point, the abduction backstory was effective but it was also a missed opportunity to create the most significant black female superhero to ever emerge in American comic books with Nubia’s “reappearance.” Without a doubt Wonder Woman is an enduring and iconic figure in American pop culture.21 For that reason alone Nubia, as the black Wonder Woman, would have surely compelled attention and generated intense deconstruction by feminist theorists, activists, and cultural critics of what she symbolized regarding race and gender in America. Imagine for a moment if the writers and artists had presented the relationship between Nubia and Diana Prince as an ongoing and painfully complex struggle of two compelling figures vying for the title of Wonder Woman, yet struggling to balance their mutual ambitions with their sisterhood. A guest appearance in Super Friends, a comic book version of the 1970s Saturday morning cartoon, overtly hinted at the powerful synergy the two figures created concerning the racial and gender politics they symbolized. A panel shows Nubia standing in the foreground of several black women dressed in traditional African attire. She proclaims to Diana Prince that to these women Nubia is Wonder Woman.22 If exchanges such as this would have occurred in the early 1970s against the backdrop of the budding feminist movement, the relationship between Wonder Woman and Nubia surely would have compelled vociferous debates, various articles, and spirited cultural analysis concerning the fascinating intersection of race, gender, power, and fantasy in American society. In addition, television and film adaptations of Nubia could have provided and popularized a black aesthetic for the female superhero archetype, similar to how former pageant queen Lynda Carter helped define white Amazonian attractiveness with the television show Wonder Woman (1975–1979). Black pop glamour beauties from the 1970s like Jayne Kennedy or Tracy Reed could have helped define what a pinup girl version of a black costumed heroine should look like. The black Wonder Woman would have fused black femininity and heroic morality in ways that go beyond the tragic mulatto, sexual siren, masculine matriarch, vindictive femme fatale, and asexual mammy figures that have informed the image of black women on television and film for decades.23 Instead, the high-water mark for Nubia was reached circa 1976 with a bizarre twist of marketing fate. A Nubia doll was created as a tie-in with the Wonder Woman television series and was presented as a quasi villain alongside the

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Race and gender are symbolically represented in the clash between Nubia and Wonder Woman (Wonder Woman, DC Comics, June–July, no. 206, 1973).

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This image (Wonder Woman, DC Comics, June, no. 206, 1973) appears to be drawn from the race-message film The Defiant Ones (1958), in which a white man is chained to a black man.

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Wonder Woman doll in a commercial advertisement. Unfortunately, both the doll and the comic book character have faded into obscurity. Nubia appeared in less than a handful of strange stories before she was finally rebooted as Nu’Bia and changed to a black Amazonian warrior in the Crisis on Infinite Earth series, a metanarrative retrofitting of the DC superhero universe. As a result, Nubia is no longer the black twin sister from Wonder Woman’s past. Now she is a trivia question bandied about by a small number of fans on internet message boards, chat rooms, and YouTube postings that allow them to continue to document her existence, alert one another of sightings, and discuss rumors of her return. The potential of Nubia to develop into a noteworthy figure was completely squandered, and it left a vacuum for a more original black female superhero to ascend in the genre. Marvel’s Storm did just that. In 1975 she joined the cast of the comic Uncanny X-Men, a motley group of human mutants dedicated to protecting humankind.24 Employing her psychic ability to control the weather and use it as a weapon, Storm was a sci-fi high priestess, conjuring up all forms of inclement weather to aid her X-Men comrades in numerous battles. Storm would eventually evolve beyond her role as a mere member of the team to become a keen and capable leader of the X-Men.25 But possibly the most successful aspect of her black superhero status are the succession of film adaptations the character has experienced. The X-Men film trilogy (2000, 2003, and 2006) starred the famously beautiful and prominent actress Halle Berry as Storm. Despite occupying a rather apolitical space in the X-Men film adaptations, on the whole the comic book Storm articulates multiple meanings of race and gender. Lest we forget, Storm is a third-world woman of color (she is of Kenyan ancestry) and did not have a privileged upbringing (she was an orphan that had to fiend for herself on the streets), yet she played a significant role as the leader of a white-male-dominated superhero organization. As a result, she symbolizes many of the struggles that black women and women of color in other nations face and resist.26 Whereas Nubia had the potential to symbolize the double burden of race and gender for black women, Storm was a triumphant third-world version of a black female superhero. In the end, the sheer originality of Storm along with her presence in an extremely popular film franchise obliterated any relevance of Wonder Woman’s black sister as a noteworthy figure concerning race and gender. At first glance, originality appears to be the gold standard when it comes to evaluating the significance and possibly the popularity of black superheroes. Certainly, in comparison to the underdeveloped Nubia, it is easy for the success and significance of Storm to appear related to her awesome originality (at one time she even sported a white mane mohawk). But originality can also translate into obscurity for even the most fleshed-out black female superhero.

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The first appearance of Storm (Giant-Size X-Men, Marvel, May, no. 1, 1975).

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Martha Washington and friend grace the cover (Dark Horse, 1991).

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Most notably, Frank Miller, the man who reinvented Batman, created a unique and compelling black superhero—a young black woman from Chicago named Martha Washington. Martha’s acts of heroism are chronicled in the graphic novel Give Me Liberty (1991). The narrative and images are a macabre mix of dark humor, grisly violence, bizarre sexual innuendo, and political satire. Without a doubt Martha Washington was a very original character, but she failed to generate anything close to the type of pop culture name recognition associated with Storm. Nevertheless, what is fascinating about the pulp fiction patriotism of Give Me Liberty is the progressive racial and gender dynamics presented in it. Issues concerning environmental racism and justice are raised. Martha is shown living in a sprawling dilapidated housing project and later she joins forces with an Apache warrior whose people were poisoned by the U.S. government. Admittedly, Martha is far removed from the affirmative and upbeat image of Storm as a black female superhero of accomplishment and symbol of gender and racial equality. Most likely the cynical tone and harsh visual scheme of Give Me Liberty made Martha a tough sell for the general public. Nonetheless, Martha Washington embodied a truly original and reconfigured image of black American patriotism for the twenty-first century. In contrast, most of her black female superhero peers like Vixen, the Crimson Avenger, and Photon were based on white superheroes. Arguably the only black female comic book character that compares in originality are Misty Knight from Iron Fist and Agent 355 from the amazing, award-winning Y: The Last Man series with the latter being more of a secret agent than a superhero. Yet all of them have failed to reach Storm’s level of comic book charisma. Arguably, when it comes to appeal, Storm surpasses all of her black male superhero counterparts, including her subsequent husband the Black Panther. This was ironically a point demonstrated in Storm’s women-centered “first love” story, penned by a black male novelist, New York Times bestselling author Eric Jerome Dickey.27 The story covers when she and Black Panther met as teenagers. Interesting black female superheroes like Martha Washington are not the only figures that have been overshadowed by more established black characters. Competing against superheroes like Black Panther, Luke Cage, and the Falcon, one of the most supernatural black superheroes ever created is often overlooked. His name is Brother Voodoo, and the voodoo master first materialized in Marvel’s Strange Tales (1973) as Jericho Drumm, an American-educated psychologist that returns to Haiti to visit his dying voodoo priest brother. He later reluctantly becomes Brother Voodoo to avenge the death of his brother.28 It is quite evident that Brother Voodoo is a black version of Dr. Strange, the sorcerer supreme. The similarities between the two are clear. Each character wore a highcollared cape, was drawn with prominent gray streaks in their hair, and both were

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The romantic relationship and eventual marriage of Storm and Black Panther was an unprecedented union in the history of black superheroes (Storm, Marvel, 2006).

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masters of the occult, which led them to fight on the supernatural plane of existence. If the analysis were to stop here, Brother Voodoo would be another classic example of how black superheroes are often clones of an established white character. But one important distinction exists between the two. Dr. Strange was a superhero that drew on garden-variety Eastern mysticism, combined with occult mysteries, and topped off with the vivid imagination of one Steve Ditko, the artist. Brother Voodoo, however, was the embodiment of a real-world black religion and the unique history associated with it. Consequently, Brother Voodoo is an extremely culturally relevant and compelling black character. Voodoo is a much maligned and misunderstood belief system, particularly as presented in American popular film. Films like White Zombie (1932), Live and Let Die (1973), Angel Heart (1987) The Serpent and the Rainbow (1988), and The Skelton Key (2005) depict the religion as terrifyingly exotic and even strangely erotic. These filmic interpretations of voodoo also traffic in stock Hollywood images associated with the religion: glassy-eyed zombies, writhing acts of possession, trance-inducing drums, unbridled sexuality, and animal or human sacrifice.29 Although the aforementioned films are perversely entertaining in the way nearly all voodoo flicks are, such films are also corny and predictable. Hollywood films have a proclivity for using voodoo as a cultural prop to provide an eerie backdrop for white protagonists to navigate and escape. This is in stark contrast to the Brother Voodoo comic. Not only is the black person the main protagonist, but also the religion is rendered in a heroic light, a spiritual system used to fight evil. Accordingly, the voodoo motif functions to affirm a pop version of the Afro diaspora in the areas of metaphysics and supernaturalism most commonly associated with anthropological dissertations and academic monographs. Lastly, setting the comic in the third-world city of Port-au-Prince, Haiti, was progressive, given that New York City and faux New York City metropolises have so often been the staging ground and base of operation for a multitude of white and black superheroes. On one hand, Port-au-Prince is an obvious choice as the origin of Brother Voodoo’s power and setting for his superhero exploits. On the other hand, it demonstrated that a Caribbean island, the independence of which was birthed by a successful black slave rebellion, could produce as delightfully bizarre and as compelling a backdrop as the home of Lady Liberty. In retrospect, these nontraditional and progressive aspects of Brother Voodoo make him a distinct and racially radical black superhero. This is not to say that the comic or the character was perfect. Both contained problematic elements. For starters, Brother Voodoo’s barefooted islandboy getup left much to be desired in terms of stylish superhero attire. Second, with Brother Voodoo constantly fighting unsightly zombies and various evil cults, his adventures were repeatedly wedded to the horror-oriented side of

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A simultaneously retrograde and progressive image of voodoo (Strange Tales, Marvel, September, no. 169, 1973).

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No matter how many times he eliminated it, the zombie motif kept returning (Strange Tales, Marvel, December, no. 171, 1973).

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the superhero spectrum. He did not confront cosmic, supernatural threats to Earth like his white counterpart Dr. Stephen Strange repeatedly did. Instead, Brother Voodoo became a victim of the zombie trope, making him a static and provincial character. After his short run in a solo series, Brother Voodoo occasionally cropped up in other comics to help the living dead rest in peace. For example, Brother Voodoo teams up with a monster mash unit in Supernaturals (1998), confronts the living dead swarming out the bayou of New Orleans as a guest superhero in Gambit (2005) and serves a brief stint in Nick Fury’s Howling Commandos (2005–2006). The zombie theme is dusted off again when Brother Voodoo joins Black Panther, Luke Cage, and Blade in Reginald Hudlin’s Black Panther: Bad Mutha (2006) to fight zombielike vampires in a post-Katrina New Orleans. These guest appearances kept Brother Voodoo from fading into complete obscurity, but the arc of the character suffered and the zombie hook grew stale quickly. Ultimately, Brother Voodoo was overdue for a makeover: a new superhero suit, an expanded mission, and perhaps a partner and a love story subplot. Thankfully, the folks at Marvel thought so too, and Brother Voodoo got a fresh look and a more complex character arc, and began to appear in his own title as Dr. Voodoo, the new sorcerer supreme. Whether or not the Dr. Voodoo upgrade becomes bogged down in a multitude of zombie escapades like George Romero’s film career, the character will always occupy an innovative space regarding black representation of the supernatural. Brother Voodoo shoved aside the central-casting call of the reticent, tribal witch doctor and replaced it with quirky color schemes and surreal images of a black man able to effectively take a page from Miles Davis and “run the voodoo down” like no other superhero before or after. What Brother Voodoo, Steel, Icon, and Nubia suggested about established white superheroes being the source material for black superheroes, the “black” Nick Fury blatantly confirmed. Prior to his racial switcheroo, for nearly four decades the white Nick Fury led quite an accomplished comic book career as a grizzled, eye-patch-wearing super secret agent in the Marvel Comics universe. Fury first appeared in Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos (1963) leading an elite group of World War II American soldiers, and he later was upgraded to colonel in the “Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.” feature in Strange Tales (1965). As the head of S.H.I.E.L.D., a high-tech spy agency, Fury was a cross between the early James Bond films and the 1960s television show The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (1964–1968) with a bit of Flash Gordon futurism. As the head agent for a hightech spy organization, he was a symbol of America’s military-industrial complex. However, Nick Fury put a sci-fi twist on the conventional Cold War paranoia of the period. The Nick Fury comic contained an assortment of robots,

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Brother Voodoo finally got a much-needed upgrade and stand-alone title series with Doctor Voodoo (Marvel, December, 2009).

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The original Nick Fury was more than a superhero. He became a medium with Steranko’s “Zap Art” approach to comics (Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Marvel, 2000).

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Samuel L. Jackson is Nick Fury in Iron Man 2 (2010).

androids, gadgets, hovercrafts, and ray guns, which reflected America’s growing infatuation with the Space Age. For several decades, Fury held his post and was a static fixture in the Marvel universe, until the character was radically transformed in Ultimate Marvel Team-Up (2001). He was drawn to look just like Samuel L. Jackson, the African American film star. At the time, Samuel L. Jackson was arguably most notable for playing a droll, philosophical hit man in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction (1994), or possibly the kilt-wearing drug dealer out for revenge in Formula 51 (2001). His roles as the eccentric Mr. Glass in Unbreakable (2000) and the stoic Jedi master Mace Windu in the Star Wars prequels (1999, 2002, and 2005) also helped solidify Jackson’s status, not only as a compelling character actor but an established symbol of sci-fi blackness for the new millennium. These aspects of Jackson’s professional persona may have contributed to his image becoming the new face of Nick Fury. Of course, using a real black person as the template for drawing an imaginary black superhero is not entirely new. Alex Ross did something similar with Luke Cage in the award winning Marvels (1994). Ross used the football legend Jim Brown as a template for Power Man to create his trademark aesthetic of vivid lifelike renderings of various superheroes. There is, however, an important distinction between what Ross did and the Samuel L. Jackson version of Nick Fury. Alex Ross used a real black person to enhance the lifelike look of Luke Cage. Bryan Hitch uses Samuel L. Jackson to replace the white version of Nick Fury in toto. With a black Nick Fury, the ruthless super agent and leader of a high-tech militaristic agency no longer symbolizes the conservative, post–World War II

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anxieties of the past. Moreover, with Jackson’s successful reprisal of his comic book role in the Iron Man films (2008, 2010) and possibly more appearances in other Marvel film projects, the black version of Nick Fury is poised to become the most relevant and perhaps the most recognized black superhero in the Marvel universe from this point forward.30 This makes the Samuel L. Jackson version of Nick Fury one of the most interesting black superheroes because even though he is not in a solo series or headlining a film, Jackson’s high-wattage star power has made Nick Fury a prominent black superhero character. Time will tell if the black Nick Fury will totally supplant the original one in the imagination of fans, film audiences, and the general population. Such an outcome is problematic given the visual genius and vivid pop-art that Jim Steranko employed to define Nick Fury for a generation of comic fans that came of age during the late 1960s. Steranko’s Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. (1968) visually captured the zeitgeist of the counterculture with its bold colors and Salvador Dalíesque psychedelic imagery.31 Ultimately, the black Nick Fury successfully demonstrates how a familiar white character is sampled and reinterpreted to create a figure that is politically fresh and more contemporary than the original (though not necessarily better). In contrast, the black Captain America demonstrates some of the representational pitfalls of this type of racial remix along with several fascinating cultural points that crop up when an established white superhero is made black. From the start Robert Morales and Kyle Baker’s Truth: Red, White & Black (2003) was an ambitious project. The cover image set the tone with a striking motif: a profile of a black man drawn in shadow, plastered against a bright red and white candy-striped Technicolor background. The Truth narrative is just as bold. The story revisits World War II from a black perspective and details the tragic journey of a select group of black soldiers used as experimental guinea pigs in the U.S. government’s quest to recreate the “Super Soldier” serum that produced Captain America. Appallingly, the black men are forced to take an unstable version of the serum, which has unknown short-term and long-term side effects. The experiment proves partially successful as several black soldiers transform into mutated muscle men. They later are transferred to a ship headed for Europe to fight against the Nazis, a journey drawn in a manner that evokes the Middle Passage of enslaved Africans to the Americas. Even though Isaiah Bradley is experimented on by unabashedly racist military officers he accepts a top-secret assignment that will take him behind Nazi enemy lines. Before starting his operation, however, Bradley steals the replacement superhero costume meant for the white Captain America and heads out on his mission. His search-and-destroy raid takes him to a Nazi camp where he witnesses various forms of atrocities, and is subsequently captured and interrogated by Hitler himself.

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Truth: Red, White & Black (Marvel, 2003).

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Awkward visual rendering of the black Captain America unable to save victims from World War II Nazi atrocities in Truth: Red, White & Black (Marvel, 2003).

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For a significant portion of the storyline the overriding racial message presented in Truth is the expendability of black life in America. The narrative hammers home the point by having nearly three-hundred black soldiers killed only for the purpose of secrecy (their families are told they died in battle) and depicting black soldiers as test subjects to prevent intended white recipients of the “Super Soldier” serum from suffering any ill effects. On one hand, the thrust of the Truth storyline dredges up deep racial anxieties that have historically existed between black Americans and the American medical establishment.32 On the other hand, Bradley’s actions speak to the staggering sociopolitical contradictions experienced by real black servicemen fighting for freedom abroad but discriminated against at home. All things considered, however, the radical racial critique of America that Isaiah Bradley symbolizes as black Captain America is distractingly diminished by pointless images of murder, morbid displays of cartoonish Holocaust corpses, and an amateurish depiction of a mass gassing of Jewish captives. Trying to address institutional racism in America or just one of the perverse examples of Nazi war crimes in a comic book is extremely daunting. But with Truth taking on all of these instances of inhumanity at one time, the atrocities eclipsed the character and what he symbolized. Depicting Adolph Hitler and Joseph Goebbels pledging to liberate blacks from America’s racial tyranny in order to entice the black Captain America to join the Nazis party speaks less to deception and more to the perils of trying to represent real and historical acts of inhumanity. Rocco Versaci in This Book Contains Graphic Language: Comics as Literature (2007) speaks to the ideological minefield of representing the Holocaust. He quotes at length Jewish Holocaust film scholar Ilan Avisar who states, “Any truly creative and responsible treatment of the Holocaust cannot ignore the demanding moral aspects of the subject, which call for a consideration of the enormity of the event and the limits of its representation, together with the imperative to remember, the necessary caution involved in what to remember, and the humility required when approaching how to remember.”33 Accordingly, the dreadful acts of violence and callous display of antihumanism in Truth should have been subject to more painstaking deliberation about how and what to show.34 It is one thing to present a sci-fi character like the colossal Galactus (the Devourer of Worlds) draining the life force of entire planets to sustain his being. It is entirely different from depicting a death scene of Jewish captives in a gas chamber or likening imaginary experimentation on Bradley and his peers to Josef Mengele’s morbid experimentations on imprisoned Jews during World War II. Despite brilliant and, at times, arresting visual motifs Truth: Red, White & Black failed to rise to the height of a sophisticated and visceral

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narrative about race in America. Even though the narrative strained for racial relevance by highlighting the incongruity of black men fighting for freedom abroad while living in a racially unjust society at home, the comic and its superhero settled for crude racial polemics that either indulged in gory victimization or sanitized triumphs. Ultimately, Truth went beyond articulating the expendability of black people. The comic partially succeeded in conveying the idea that there is both an official story legitimatized by governmental institutions through violence, cover-up, and complicity, and what black folk have lived and experienced as racial outsiders for much of America’s history. The black Captain America was meant to symbolize the little-known but real “truth” of black racial formation in America. Truth boldly signaled the danger of choosing to believe only what makes us feel best about our national political history. Indeed, Truth admonished the reader to incorporate the experiences and histories of black folk that paint a different picture of the cost and quest for freedom and democracy in America. For the black Captain America, the cost was a court martial, seventeen years of solitary confinement, sterility, and deterioration of his brain to the point that he was no longer able to communicate beyond facial expressions.35 Although the black Captain America storyline was a “one-and-done” event, the character lived on. Black Cap was literally reborn as Josiah X, the son of Isaiah Bradley in a comic book series called The Crew.36 The Crew can be considered one of the most significant missteps of Christopher Priest’s successful comic career. On paper, The Crew remains an obscure, truncated, and “failed” launching of a comic that ran for only seven issues and was never seen again. Such a sad obituary, however, is far from accurate. The Crew is an original and innovative rendering of black superheroes. Take for example, the cover artwork for each issue. Nearly all of them displayed a clever mix of the modernist style of Aaron Douglas combined with the pop-art flair of Andy Warhol. The cool covers were matched with complicated black characters inside that engaged racial issues but were not overdetermined by them. The comic contained a motley multiracial band of superheroes: Jim Rhodes, the former War Machine; the White Tiger, a disciple of the Black Panther; Justice, the new black Captain America; and Junta, a Latino sci-fi super agent. All four eventually unite and become the Crew, and confront crime in a tough urban hamlet of Brooklyn, New York, called “Little Mogadishu,” more popularly known as “the Mog.” The Crew is where Jim Rhodes fully steps out from the overshadowing armor of Iron Man and establishes himself as an interesting and complicated figure. For this to happen, however, Rhodes is literally stripped of his superhero suit. Facing very dire economic straits, Rhodes is forced to pawn pieces of his Iron

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All four members of the Crew (Marvel, December, 2003).

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Josiah X symbolically encompasses the double consciousness of black racial identity with his taqiya headwear and his Captain American star (The Crew, Marvel, December, no. 6, 2003).

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Man armor for cash. Without the superhero razzle-dazzle associated with the high-tech gadgetry of the Iron Man armor, War Machine becomes a character-driven figure. No longer encased in his flying armor Jim Rhodes emerges an emotionally wounded man with the worldview of a cynic who has to use his brains rather than brawn to come to grips with his place in the world and ponder his next move. Rhodes’s path to superhero enlightenment and independence, however, is one littered with potholes. After failing to pawn what appears to be the last piece of his War Machine armor, he receives news about the death of his younger sister Jeanette, a college student turned crack-cocaine fiend and prostitute. He decides to investigate the circumstances behind her death and make those responsible for her murder punished. Rhodes arrives at “the Mog” and must make his way through a maze of urban decay before he can poke around the crime scene where his sister was murdered. Rhodes walks through a dilapidated and economically depressed inner-city environment signposted by derelict automobiles, decrepit buildings, and despondent black residents. One panel in particular stands out with a depiction of a noticeably pregnant young-looking black girl sitting on a windowsill holding a stuffed teddy bear. Imagery such as this may invite criticism as needlessly incendiary or cynically shocking, but it articulates the loss of innocence too often witnessed in black urban areas and the effect it has in those communities, a point similar to the one deftly demonstrated on the award-winning cable television series The Wire (2002–2008).37 Correspondingly, The Crew did not allow race or racial issues to upstage the characters. The superhero characters were written with an eye toward fleshing out everyday personal dilemmas and struggles that contained poignant racial undertones. Case in point, Josiah X is a Muslim minister, black community activist, and former Black Panther who dons his father’s red, white, and blue superhero uniform to fight crime. His racial identity and superhero identity are used to highlight political contradictions and internal conflict concerning how real black folk have struggled to negotiate being black and American. Josiah X embodies this predicament and articulates this sentiment in a soliloquy that juxtaposes a black Muslim identity with American patriotism. He states to a friend: African American Muslims have not traditionally been terribly patriotic. We have instead more closely identified ourselves with the lost tribe of Shabazz—a misplaced people. Strangers in a strange land. In that view, I have offended some of our brethren with this flag. While, at the same time—I’ve inspired some people with it. Somewhere, between those extremes, is where I belong.38

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The above statement is a telling example of what made The Crew a special comic book. Controversial issues concerning American race relations were engaged without resorting to polemics or presenting either ideological position as the correct orientation. The other members of the superhero team were less overt in their dialogues about race but no less expressive in what they symbolized. Kevin “Kasper” Cole is the White Tiger, an acolyte of the Black Panther. During the day, Cole is a narcotics detective. At night he periodically moonlights as the White Tiger. Clad from head to foot in a ghostly white bodysuit, partially covered by a black trench coat, Cole stalks the streets for drug dealers. Driven by economic pressures, Cole hopes to make a big bust and reap recognition for the arrest in his civilian identity in order to gain a promotion and receive a pay raise. Kasper Cole is an overworked and underpaid public servant juggling the burdens of his superhero identity alongside the domestic demands of keeping the peace between a pregnant girlfriend and his nagging mother. Certainly, as a black biracial superhero with an Asian girlfriend and a Jewish mother, the White Tiger is draped with multiple signifiers regarding multiculturalism and ethnic diversity. Yet by foregrounding the financial insecurity his family faces, the narrative suggests socioeconomic status is the central source of tension and antagonism in his life, not race. In this sense, Cole/ the White Tiger easily functions as a symbol of what a post-race America could possibly look like, where biracial identity, interracial relationships, and multiculturalism all exist under one roof but are governed by economic pressures, not old-world prejudices. Although all the characters in The Crew are interesting, not all of them are equally fleshed out. Case in point, the Latino member of the team does not live up to his ominous moniker as “Junta,” a word usually associated with Latin American military coups. The shadowy and ominous moniker is quite appropriate given that Junta is a former international spy accustomed to playing his clients and his client’s enemies against one another for profit. The funky cover art also suggests his unsavory and Machiavellian nature by showing numerous twenty-dollar bills cascading down all around him. Despite his sinister name and futuristic jungle fatigues, Junta is more of a troubled teenager than the foreboding figure suggested on the cover. Junta is the codename for Danny Vincent, a smart-alecky upstart afflicted with a space-time gravity syndrome whereby his body has the capability of becoming a mini black hole that absorbs all nearby matter. Because he wears a special belt, however, he is able to manipulate gravity and induce extreme nausea in any one that touches his skin. Even weirder than his superhero powers is his CPU sidekick, a flying, basketball-sized mobile computer that only speaks in Spanish.39 Junta was a quirky character, but as the

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The White Panther springs into action (The Crew, Marvel, August, no. 2, 2003).

bilingual Latino superhero teamed with three black superheroes, he made The Crew a truly innovative and multiracial superhero team. Regrettably The Crew ended abruptly, and roughly two years later Christopher Priest left the comic book industry. If the comic series had continued I’m sure the various themes set up in the beginning would have dramatically unfolded to flesh out the bold character sketches presented in the first several issues. Too bad The Crew misfired and ended up like an obscure pilot for a television series that was never green-lighted. Having a group of unwilling superheroes band together to fight bad guys and gals was not an original setup, but The Crew was a refreshing take with its racially nuanced dialogue and arresting characters that were simultaneously superheroes that happened to be black

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The ominous figure of Junta (The Crew, Marvel, September, no. 3, 2003).

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and black superheroes. In the final analysis, the challenge to all black versions of white superheroes is their ability to successfully commit to the same type of high-wire racial balancing act. Black superheroes should never be just a colorized version of the original because that would affirm notions that African Americans are at best a passive reflection and at worst a pathological reaction to white America. To the contrary, blacks have simultaneously retained a distinct form of black racial identity and worldview along with absorbing American folkways, mores, and taboos. Black superheroes, like the black folk they symbolize, must express that dynamic, whether they are completely original, an overt imitation of a white figure, or somewhere in between the two.

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Chapter 5

FOR REEL? Black Superheroes Come to Life

I could be able to walk up buildings . . . And nobody would mess with me, man. Nobody, man. ’Cause I would be the Fly! —T. C., Car Wash (1976)

I

n 2008 The Dark Knight became the benchmark for serious film adaptations of comic book superheroes. Heath Ledger’s unnerving performance as the Joker and his posthumous Oscar for best supporting actor certainly contributed to making the film a Shakespearian tragedy on and off screen. Yet the critical success of the film is not reducible to the unfortunate and untimely passing of Ledger before the film’s release. The epic scale of the film, technical execution of full-throttle action sequences, and gritty performances amplified the primal expression of sheer anarchy and chilling lunacy Ledger’s performance conveyed as Batman’s arch nemesis. The sum of the film’s parts made The Dark Knight a landmark production and an artistic achievement, a feat unmatched by the bulk of various superhero adaptations made for film or television. Films like Supergirl (1984), Superman IV: The Quest for Peace (1987), The Phantom (1996), along with television shows such as Shazam! (1974–1977), The Secrets of Isis (1975–1977), Electra Woman and Dyna Girl (1976), and Dr. Strange (1978) have not even come close to stirring the imagination and are debatable as mediocre forms of entertainment. Alongside these second-rate superhero film and television adaptations, a handful of black characters have eked out an existence on a variety of television shows and in films as supervillains. Although not superheroes in the traditional sense they still represent a form of superblackness that is compelling and, most

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Halle Berry as the feline temptress in Catwoman (2004).

importantly, demonstrates how draconian notions of positive and negative representations of black figures are often passé. Take for example, Eartha Kitt as Catwoman in the campy Batman television series (1966–1968). Before its popularity fully waned the show made a significant contribution regarding racial representation. With its camp aesthetic, nauseatingly silly dialogue, purposeful overacting, and one of the most physically underwhelming actors to ever don a superhero costume, Batman was unconventional, surprisingly popular, and, at times, hip. Most significantly, under the guise of a superhero comic book villain, Eartha Kitt infiltrated the predominantly white world of 1960s American primetime television. Certainly 1960s network television offered representations of African Americans in shows such as I Spy (1965–1968), Julia (1968–1971), and Mod Squad (1968–1973). But Eartha Kitt’s portrayal of Catwoman stands as an important testament to the cultural leeway superheroes can marshal and the subversive power they sometimes enjoy. Decked out in a black mask, the tightest of black bodysuits, and kinky boots, Kitt scrambled about, purring her way through dialogue and cunningly matching wits with her white male counterparts. Her scene-stealing presence and vocal delivery transformed Catwoman from a generic white female foe into a seductive black sex kitten, a striking image when compared to the sexually neutered housemaids that had dominated the television landscape on programs like Beulah (1950–1953) and The Danny Thomas Show (1953–1964). Admittedly, Julie Newmar’s high-octane

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cocktail of camp and Amazonian sexiness has attained cult status as the original feline foe to the Dark Knight. But for a generation of post–baby boomer black kids like myself, Eartha Kitt is the quintessential Catwoman. Even though Kitt only starred in two episodes, her sizzling performance provided an enduring template for how the feline temptress was subsequently portrayed. Notably, Michelle Pfeiffer’s interpretation of Catwoman in Batman Returns (1992) is reminiscent of the sultry aura Eartha Kitt radiated as the feline villainess. Even the terribly strange and disjointed Catwoman (2004) film draws a similar comparison. Without Eartha Kitt sashaying her way across the small screen as a black Catwoman, the image of Halle Berry wielding a cat-o’-ninetails as a black superhero in a major motion picture would be unimaginable. Admittedly, the film had very little in common with the Catwoman character found in the Batman comics and films, but having a black woman as the main protagonist of a major Hollywood superhero film was trailblazing in nature if not execution. Roughly twenty years after Kitt’s Catwoman, Avery Brooks’s portrayal of Hawk in the short-lived television series A Man Called Hawk (1989) would suggest a more heroic and dramatic expression of superhero blackness. Hawk first appeared in a moderately successful crime drama titled Spenser: For Hire (1985– 1988) as an urban street mercenary and black sidekick of a Boston-based private eye named Spenser (Robert Urich). Hawk was a flashy and intimidating enforcer of street justice that stood in stark contrast to Spenser, a white working-class renaissance man. The two would periodically team up to solve a case or corral some criminal in a fairly generic good-guys-get-the-bad-guys TV formula. However, by the time Hawk got his own series in A Man Called Hawk, it was apparent he had become more than the brooding and periodically menacing figure seen in Spenser: For Hire. Hawk was now an urban sophisticate, mysterious street sentinel, and possibly a superhero. The intro sequence of the show signaled a superhero sensibility with a montage of images that suggested Hawk was no mere mortal. A Man Called Hawk opens with an image of a hawk soaring in the sky above the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, DC. Next, a closeup image of the bird’s face slowly fades away and is replaced by a freeze-frame close-up of Hawk’s bald head sporting a black goatee. Hawk proceeds to put his sunglasses on as a background image of the sun morphs into a full moon and lights dot an evening skyline. With the transformation now complete, various snippets of Hawk in action are shown: strutting down a boulevard, being hit by a car, firing his gun, jumping across a restaurant table, and playing the xylophone in a sublime state of cool. The title credits end with a shot of a hawk flying against a full moon that fades away and is again replaced with Hawk flashing a crafty grin before returning to a stoic pose.

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The introduction montage visually signals that Hawk is the actual bird shown soaring around the city in the daytime and morphs into a black man at night. This theme is not literally developed in the show, yet the character possesses powerful signifiers of a superhero identity; he is a man with extraordinary abilities (powers), he wears large sunglasses at night (which function as a half-mask), he has a name similar to another black superhero moniker (the Falcon), and perhaps he possesses the ability to shape-shift. A conventional reading of Hawk suggests he is simply a television version of John Shaft (Richard Roundtree) from the blockbuster blaxploitation film Shaft (1971). However, the persistent use of his moniker and the air of mystery surrounding the character provided just enough imaginative leeway for Hawk to represent more than just a cool black man with a PhD in street knowledge. Symbolically, Hawk was the television version of the black comic book superhero the Falcon. First, they are both named for birds of prey. Second, the working relationship and personal rapport between Spenser and Hawk was just as ideologically combustible and fraught with racial recriminations as the dueling racial tensions between Captain America and the Falcon. Lastly, in retrospect, the television Hawk is evocative of Christopher Priest’s version of the Falcon across the Captain America and the Falcon trilogy: “Two Americas” (2004), “Captain America: Disassembled” (2004), and “Brothers and Keepers” (2005). In these adventures, Falcon is no longer able to fly and begins wearing a leather jacket, toting handguns, and roughing up various street thugs he encounters. In this sense, the Falcon is just as much a street-savvy urban vigilante as he is a grand superhero. Similarly, even though Hawk did not appear to possess the superhuman powers that are associated with attaining superhero status, it in no way nullifies Hawk from occupying the role of black superhero, at least in form if not intent. Consequently, my reading of A Man Called Hawk is not as far removed from the superhero idiom as it might appear at first glance. A Man Called Hawk only lasted a meager thirteen episodes, and although the show never fully lived up to the superhero motif established in the title credits and the multiple similarities the main character shared with the Falcon, it was a cutting edge depiction of black dramatic heroism. The next black superhero on television did not depend on creative symbolism—the literal was quite evident with M.A.N.T.I.S. (1994–1995), the first black superhero television series. In 1994 the Fox network premiered a two-hour television show about Dr. Miles Hawkins (Carl Lumbly). Hawkins is a brilliant black scientist that is shot by a criminal and becomes a paraplegic. Determined to regain mobility, he invents a full-body exoskeleton, with a matching helmet, that enables him to walk again. The Mechanically Automated Neurotransmitter Interactive System (M.A.N.T.I.S.) also grants Hawkins increased strength, speed, and agility.

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The Falcon evokes the iconic image of Malcolm X holding a rifle and peering from a window in Captain America Disassembled (Marvel, 2004).

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Carl Lumbly as M.A.N.T.I.S. (1994).

As a superhero, M.A.N.T.I.S. followed in the tradition of other successful comic book figures that owed their superhuman powers and effectiveness to their scientist alter ego. In this sense, Dr. Miles Hawkins/M.A.N.T.I.S. stands right alongside superhero scientists like Barry Allen/the Flash, Bruce Banner/ the Hulk, T’Challa/the Black Panther, Tony Stark/Iron Man, and Reed Richards/Mr. Fantastic. Moreover, M.A.N.T.I.S. was a superhero show rooted in a realistic, everyday world, an approach similar to other successful live-action superhero television shows such as The Incredible Hulk (1978–1982) and Wonder Woman (1976–1979). Television superhero shows like The Incredible Hulk were more character driven than dependent on superhero showdowns with spectacular villains. The success of this superhero television formula was wildly variable. In the case of The Incredible Hulk, the approach was successful, and the anchor of the series became the tormented David Banner (Bill Bixby), not the green Hulk. The show ran for five years with the Hulk fighting against generic criminals and never facing the supervillains seen in his comic books. While this formula worked for The Incredible Hulk and, to a lesser extent, Wonder Woman, the formula did not work well on the live-action television version of The Amazing Spider-Man (1978–1979). The program refused to show Spidey fighting any of the signature supervillains that were synonymous with the web-slinger’s trials and

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tribulations in the comic book. Consequently, the live-action Spider-Man was nearly unrecognizable. In addition, the special effects were downright embarrassing. If ever a superhero looked like some guy running around in tights, this was the one. As a result, The Amazing Spider-Man television series was a crummy fiasco and was rightfully cancelled after fourteen episodes. As a liveaction superhero television show, M.A.N.T.I.S. was more Amazing Spider-Man than Incredible Hulk. In the beginning of the series, M.A.N.T.I.S. was placed in a mundane world populated with simple crooks and criminals rather than supervillains, like most dramatic live-action superhero television shows of the time. Accordingly, M.A.N.T.I.S. had no real nemesis, leaving a powerful superhero stranded in a rather underwhelming environment. The writers of the show appeared to recognize this shortcoming and tried to revamp the show by increasing the superhero wattage with story lines involving monsters, supervillains, and inter-dimensional travel. The narrative approach changed, but, like The Amazing Spider-Man, the execution of the special effects was not up to par. The M.A.N.T.I.S. hovercraft zipping around town and entering his underwater laboratory looked unconvincing and goofy. If the series had embraced the goofiness and purposefully communicated it to the audience, M.A.N.T.I.S. could have become an American version of the eccentric British sci-fi superhero television show Doctor Who (1963–1989, 2005–present), or the sci-fi secret agent series The Avengers (1961–1969). By adopting a purposefully peculiar and slightly humorous science-fiction-meets-superhero-fantasy approach, these shows broke away from stringent aesthetic demands associated with achieving a “realistic”-looking version of the fantastic situations they presented. Whether the show could have achieved any degree of success similar to Doctor Who or The Avengers will forever remain in the realm of speculation. Several other film versions of black superheroes would have their shot to prove more successful and much better at avoiding some of the glaring errors of M.A.N.T.I.S. According to an interesting article by Christian Davenport, a black superhero is severely limited in crossover appeal: if a black superhero is too black, it makes the character irrelevant to whites, and if the character is not black enough, it appears to invalidate the rationale for a “black” superhero in the first place.1 In other words, black superheroes have a very limited audience and require crossover appeal to succeed, which, in turn, requires a nominally black character. Given that equation, Spawn, a very popular character and the first black comic book superhero to grace the silver screen, raises a number of issues that demand an extensive analysis. Keeping in line with Davenport’s logic, it is quite reasonable to view Spawn’s tremendous success as a function of his diminished racial identity as a black man. Admittedly, the character is not very

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racially recognizable: Spawn’s face and body are scarred beyond racial recognition, and he is constantly cloaked in his symbiotic hell-spawn regalia from head to toe. Even in the HBO animated series Spawn’s racial identity is only subtly affirmed by the distinguished baritone voice of Keith David, an accomplished black character actor. In contrast, Spawn (1997), the film adaptation, is the most racially definitive incarnation of the character. Taken all together, however, Spawn remains one of the most overlooked black superheroes in the canon, despite arguably being the most popular and successful black superhero comic book character to date. Spawn is the product of Todd McFarlane, an amazingly creative comic book artist that first gained recognition for his work on Spider-Man. In 1992 McFarlane would generate even more attention for cofounding Image Comics with five other comic artists and writers. At the time, the establishment of Image Comics was a thumb in the eye to the more established comics companies DC and Marvel. With Image, the creative, and often freelance, personnel behind various successful mainstream superhero storylines and upgrades pictured themselves no longer struggling against demoralizing contracts for revenue and residuals.2 Image stood as a symbolic promise to settle the score for creative talents like Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, who created Superman but were for decades chronically involved in some form of legal tug-of-war involving royalties for merchandising and creative attribution. Their struggle served as a cautionary tale for striving talent in the comic book industry around any issues associated with intellectual property, creative control, and royalties for characters they either created or imbued with their creative imprint. Thus, the establishment of Image was monumental and was even more impressive, given that McFarlane risked the future of the upstart company on a black superhero named Spawn. His gamble paid off. Spawn became the toast of the comic book community and a multimillion-dollar revenue-creating commodity.3 Spawn is the alter ego of Al Simmons, a CIA mercenary murdered by the same government operatives that employed him. Because of his dirty dealings as an assassin, upon his death his soul is hellbound. Once in hell, Simmons makes a Faustian deal with the devil. The devil allows Simmons to fulfill his burning desire to visit his wife one last time. In return for seeing his wife, Simmons must fulfill his part of the bargain and become a full-fledged agent of evil, a hell-spawn in the devil’s army. Like all deals with the Devil, the pact comes with a twist. Unbeknownst to Al, he arrives back in the realm of the living to see his true love five years from the time of his death not as Al Simmons but as Spawn, a scorched creature with a scarred face, cloaked in a black symbiotic suit of destruction and mayhem. Al is given his wish, but he finds Wanda has married his best friend, Terry Fitzgerald, and they have a daughter named Cyan.

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What is most interesting about this soap-opera setup is that all four of the principal players are black. Like many superhero film adaptations, Spawn (1997) is a bit different from the comic book. In the live-action film, the differences primarily revolve around race: Terry Fitzgerald is white, but, most importantly, Spawn (Michael Jai White) is identifiably a black man. Though Spawn is a severely disfigured entity in the comic book and animated series, his disfigurement is less severe in the film. On one hand, the facial makeup and special effects actually made Michael Jai White look terribly scarred and quite unappealing, but he remained racially recognizable. Consequently, more than any other medium, the film version constantly reaffirmed Spawn’s black racial identity. All the same, in this case, what is visually identifiable as black is not necessarily sufficient to identifying what Spawn racially represents or the sociopolitical ideas and values he symbolizes that enhance, diminish, or overshadow his “blackness” and potentially attract an audience. On the surface, the popularity and significance of Spawn appears to have less to do with his race and overwhelmingly more to do with McFarlane’s supersaturated high-gloss artwork and the gothic pulp-fiction nature of his noir narratives. But arguably, even more than McFarlane’s glossy aesthetic, the disturbing and at times amoral tone of the series is perhaps what attracted an all-too-cynical, post–baby boomer audience to eagerly peer into the shadow world McFarlane had etched. Admittedly, Spawn was not alone in exploring dark material. For a time, depraved was “in” as many in the comic book industry tried to upstage Frank Miller and Alan Moore by pushing the envelope when it came to adult-themed comics.4 But depending on one’s perspective, McFarlane was either very savvy or very lucky to create a character that would successfully draw on the sadomasochistic fatalism coursing just beneath American pop culture during the late 1980s and into the 1990s. In this sense, the timing was a significant element in the character’s popular success. McFarlane’s Spawn was just ahead of the pop-cultural curve, at least enough to simultaneously appear strange, cool, and cutting edge in a way that resonated with a mass audience and garnered critical acclaim.5 Spawn cemented its comic book Brahmin status before the satanic pop-schlock of the period wore out its welcome. The nihilistic zeitgeist had conquered the mainstream and was on full display with death metal and gangster rap groups like White Zombie, Korn, Linkin Park, Three 6 Mafia, and Bone Thugs-n-Harmony that bound their stagecraft, music videos, and lyrics to aggressive male posturing, satanic imagery, and senseless destruction. The neosatanic motif was an eye-catching gimmick that drummed up interest in them and their music. McFarlane’s Spawn remained cutting edge because the character took the genre further than

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Spawn as the black avenger (Spawn, Image Comics, August, no. 3, 1992).

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most and arrived in some of the darkest corners of the adult-themed superhero landscape first. For example, McFarlane presented a lurid narrative that follows a degenerate child molester and killer named Billy Kincaid who lures children with his ice cream truck until he finally receives a taste of torturous and deadly retribution from Spawn. Stories such as this allowed McFarlane’s audience to travel to the outer fringes of the morbid, the perverse, and the pathological as a witness to, and possibly as a reveler in, a depiction of the heroic emerging from the demonic. In many ways this is what makes Spawn such a problematic black superhero. Not only is Spawn associated with very violent and periodically distasteful content, but also he is more or less a black boogeyman, a black monster, a black avenger. Superficially speaking, presenting a deformed black man as a demonic good guy in McFarlane’s epic occult fantasyscape plays to a very strident cultural cliché. From American slavery to the contemporary era, the demonization of black men is common currency. Orlando Patterson in Rituals of Blood rightfully historicizes this stigma, but his comments about the relationship of black men to violence in America’s collective conscious are most revealing when discussed alongside Spawn. Patterson makes this point: The Afro-American’s role in this extraordinary love-hate relationship with violence is now better understood. The Afro-American man as demon represents the evil side of violence, the violence we dread, the violence that Euro-American males [white men] do not dare admit is a core part of their psychic being . . . The Afro-American man as demon continues to play the role of parceling out that part of violence which we dread to admit.6

A note left on Kincaid’s dead body by Spawn declared that, since Kincaid had made boys and girls scream, he in turn made the molester, “scream and scream and scream.” This suggests the gruesome acts of torture and violence performed by Spawn fits hand in glove with Patterson’s above analysis.7 In this sense, Spawn is a cipher used to examine despicable acts of depravity and act out gruesome acts of vengeance too dirty, too stigmatizing, and too unsettling for white superheroes like the Mighty Thor or Superman to address. This begs the question: Is Spawn the go-to superhero when it comes to meting out justice for vile acts of criminality because he is a morally compromised figure, a former assassin, an officer in the devil’s army, or because he is a black man? Accordingly, Spawn is easy fodder for critics that deplore “negative” representations of black folk regardless of how epic the mythology, outlandishly supernatural the narratives, and complex the character.

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Despite the debatable racial image of a black man as a demon on an existential level, Spawn is quite an impressive black superhero figure. He symbolizes a black man fighting to discover his “true” identity, struggling to transcend his contradictions, deeply in love with his black wife, and willing to fight the epic powers of heaven and hell to save humanity. In the end, the dubious racial history Spawn suggested was no match for his popularity, and he generated a tremendously successful cottage industry of toys, video games, and a film. As troubling as this achievement may seem in retrospect, the film version of Spawn appears almost progressive, given the type of caped and masked black superheroes that were previously paraded on the silver screen. Films like Robert Townsend’s lighthearted The Meteor Man (1993), the completely absurd Blankman (1994), and the virtually unwatchable Steel (1997) standout for special consideration as some of the most questionable cinematic representations of black superheroes ever presented. Although they differ in the caliber of humor and heart, The Meteor Man and Blankman are straightforward parodies of the superhero genre. The Meteor Man is a well-intentioned message film concerned with black community empowerment and augmented with a strong anti-gang message. The protagonist is Jefferson Reed (Robert Townsend) an unassuming schoolteacher who is hit by a meteor and gains superstrength and the ability to fly. He then uses his powers to fight local hoodlums and empower a black neighborhood experiencing a palpable sense of societal malaise as a consequence of being under siege by street gangs. Because his powers are gradually diminishing, eventually the community he has protected has to band together to ward off a host of hooligans that threaten to hurt the defenseless Meteor Man. For the most part, Meteor Man is a funny, feel-good family film made to deliver a moral message to the twelve-and-under crowd. As a black superhero, however, Meteor Man is mostly forgettable. The film clearly signaled the idea that working-class and community-focused blacks were the real superheroes. In contrast, Blankman overtly communicated that the combination of “black” and “superhero” was an absurd notion in and of itself. Blankman stems from In Living Color (1990–1994), a popular sketch comedy television show. Crass characters were a hallmark of the program, and none were as crude as Damon Wayans’. He presented a motley cast of outrageous and oddball figures: a convict that chronically mangles his words, a hostile clown obsessed with racial discrimination, an over-the-top gay film critic, and a homeless man that carried around a jar of his own waste as a souvenir. All of these figures are of debatable merit, but none matched the low-water mark of Handi-Man, a mentally and physically challenged black man that is a flying superhero janitor. With his exaggerated herky-jerky walk, Handi-Man

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would amble over to an open window, lean over the ledge, and awkwardly fall before flying. Ostensibly, the character was a parody of the television series The Adventures of Superman (1952–1958), the signature feature of which is Superman (George Reeves) jumping confidently out of a high-rise window to take to the sky. In reality, Handi-Man signaled the utter absurdity of a black superhero as anything other than a joke. The only other reasonable reading of the character is that Damon Wayans was mocking special-needs adults for cheap laughs. The former explanation is more palatable, but the possibility of the latter most likely shaped the big-screen version of the character seen in Blankman. Rather than court the possibility of boycott and protest for presenting a mentally- and physically-challenged black man as a superhero joke, Handi-Man became Blankman, a black nerd with a gift for inventing low-tech gadgets. Even though the character was altered, it remained problematic for what it suggested about black superheroes. With a blanket-cape tied around his neck, and his partner, “the Other Guy” (David Alan Grier), the two characters bumbled their way from one scene to the next like a superhero version of the classic minstrel act, Two Real Coons.8 As can only happen in a film of this type, their slapstick incompetence ends up saving the day and gets Blankman the girl of his dreams. With Blankman, the hard edges of the Handi-Man character were softened, yet superhero blackness remained in the foreground as the source of derision. Unfortunately, Blankman was not the only second-rate black superhero to hit the big screen with a thud. Steel, starring basketball star Shaquille O’Neal, was just as atrocious as Blankman except that it was extremely funny, albeit unintentionally. Though it had the same title as the comic book, the film version of Steel had very little in common with the comic series. In the comic, Steel was a bold high-tech and high-flying reimagining of the black folk hero John Henry. In the film, John Henry Irons (O’Neal) creates his armored suit from scrap metal scavenged from his uncle’s junkyard. The result was literally a junk superhero, a seven-foot tin-man forced to jog from one location to another because he is unable to fly. To add aesthetic insult to a truly disappointing adaptation, the “armored” suit is clearly made of rubber. To borrow a line from Stan Lee, “’Nuff said.” Ultimately, Blankman and Steel clearly signaled the absurdity of combining black racial identity with the superhero ethos, and rather than pointing a satirical finger at the superhero genre, these films resorted to superhero buffoonery that was uninspired, poorly acted, and completely forgettable. About a year after Steel was released, a black superhero vampire killer named Blade came to the screen in a film that successfully depicted what a self-consciously serious black superhero should look like. Blade (1998) was adapted from one of the more obscure black superheroes

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that emerged in the early 1970s. Blade was created by Marv Wolfman in 1973 and unquestioningly dovetailed with the popular blaxploitation film craze of the period. The character premiered a year after the cult classic Blacula (1972), a film that featured a black vampire (artfully played by William Marshall) in a black community fighting and fleeing white police officers that aimed to destroy him and his reincarnated wife Luva (Vonetta McGee). Vampire or not, Blacula easily functioned as a film dialoguing with the black nationalism politics of the period, with its strident image of a black man fighting against a predominantly white police force.9 The original comic book version of Blade signified a similar racial message; it reimagined black racial revenge in the form of an antiestablishment black superhero stalking and killing pale white vampires.10 Nevertheless, Blade was more than an inadvertent homage to the stilted racial messages woven into the blaxploitation films of the era.11 As a black superhero, Blade was one of a kind. A full-time vampire slayer and parttime ladies’ man that roamed the dark streets of London wearing oversized wraparound glasses, keeping warm in a funky peacoat, and armed with a bandolier of wooden stakes.12 Dr. Van Helsing remains the original vampire killer, but he was never this cool. The film version of Blade (Wesley Snipes) extended the stylistic flourishes found in the comic book. Dressed in black, Blade wields a samurai sword and firearms loaded with silver bullets as he slaughters numerous vampires. Aesthetically, the film was even more unique. By using time-lapse photography, Blade created an eerie sense of movement and space that conveyed a sense of the uncanny and a cityscape populated by vampires. Moreover, the uncanny ambience present throughout the film is punctuated with spectacular images of body horror: a gruesomely charred cadaver springing back to life, body disintegration, and severed limbs. In many ways Blade was refreshingly sophisticated and disappointingly crude. Although a majority of vampire films in some way make blood a central element, Blade forced the audience to wallow in it. On one hand, the chic eeriness of the film was reminiscent of an updated version of the vampire movies churned out by Hammer film studio during the 1960s and early 1970s. On the other hand, the graphic carnage witnessed in Blade was a throwback to the gonzo gorefest enjoyed by fans of splatter horror films like Blood for Dracula (1974), Re-Animator (1984), and Hellraiser (1987). The opening scene from Blade makes the point with the depiction of a rave party that subsequently converts into an orgy of bloodlust. Yet the gratuitous bloodletting in Blade worked on a level other than raw spectacle. In the film, Blade and the other vampires are more or less carriers of a virulent virus. The linkage in the film between blood, vampires, and world political power suggested that vampirism is a politically destabilizing pandemic

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Blade, the funky vampire slayer (Vampire Tales, Marvel, December, no. 8, 1974).

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Blade (Wesley Snipes) comes to life in Blade (1998).

and biological affliction more than it is a supernatural curse. In this sense, Blade is easily read as a film that reflects multiple anxieties concerning eugenics, HIV infection, genetics, and racial purity.13 Take your pick. Most likely, however, the stylized gore, not the social symbolism, attracted many fans of the horror and vampire genres to the film. Nevertheless, for me the superhero motif made the film compelling. On one hand, Wesley Snipes gave a captivating performance as Blade and brought a charismatic mix to the Blade persona, a mash-up of Dirty Harry’s take-no-prisoners gruffness, a samurai warrior’s steely detachment, and John Shaft’s urban machismo. On the other hand, N’Bushe Wright as the alluring Dr. Karen Jenson, Blade’s reluctant black female sidekick, also brought an air of emotional and sexual electricity to the film. Admittedly, on film, Blade appeared asexual, and only his bloodlust for slaying vampires seemed to give him any enjoyment. Yet, the onscreen presence of N’Bushe Wright sporting a cool black leather blazer and flashing Blade sideways glances made their platonic relationship crackle with the promise they would become a permanent and potentially more intimate tandem in the near future. Not since the blaxploitation films of the past had such a bold black man and an intrepid black woman been teamed together in a major motion picture and shown successfully fighting the forces of evil.14 In most Hollywood movies Karen Jenson would easily fulfill the role as the love interest for the superhero protagonist. Blade bucks this convention and instead of the two figures growing closer together as they battle the undead, they physically remain at arm’s length from one another. Even if, ultimately, they were fated never to become deeply involved with one another, their relationship deserved at least a bittersweet rendering similar to the kind artfully presented in the first installment of Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man (2002). Unfortunately, the romantic element in Blade

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Dr. Karen Jenson (N’Bushe Wright) and Blade consider their next move in Blade.

was totally squandered. By avoiding these delicate aspects of the superhero ethos that humanize and make them compelling characters to identify with, Blade was a superhero confined to expressing either rage or detached cool. For Blade, style reigned supreme, and although it was a successful choice, the subsequent sequels suffered immensely from a lack of character development, too much bloodlust, and no heart. Blade II (2002) and Blade: Trinity (2004) were little more than vampire music videos with overused slow-motion effects. The Blade sequels forewarned of the danger of relying too heavily on special effects to attract viewers to superhero characters that were not completely fleshed out. The subdued Unbreakable (2000) demonstrated the hazards of going too far in the other direction. M. Night Shyamalan’s Unbreakable is a watershed superhero film despite its characterization as a mystery and thriller. Such mischaracterizations are understandable, given the phenomenal impact Shyamalan’s breakthrough film The Sixth Sense (1999) had on the collective imagination of moviegoers around the world. The horror-thriller cast such a broad shadow that the anticipation for the next film by the nouveau auteur was expected to present a similar supernatural narrative. Instead, Shyamalan delivered a superhero movie. Foregoing the type of cartoon violence presented in movies such as Spawn and Blade, Shyamalan’s Unbreakable was an Ingmar Bergman–style character study of the American superhero. The result was a film that was epic as an idea but painfully slow as entertainment. At times, Unbreakable is unbearable. What should have been an exciting and vicarious story about David Dunn (Bruce Willis) discovering he has superhuman strength, durability, and hyperintuition concerning criminal behavior is nearly ground to a halt by a narrative overly focused on context and personality.

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Dunn is a white working-class security guard with an ailing marriage and a young son. His life, however, takes on new meaning after a catastrophic train derailment where he is not only the sole survivor but is also totally uninjured in the disaster. The tragic event is the catalyst for Dunn’s self-reflection and protracted realization that he is no mere mortal. The film is almost a Zen meditation on the idea of personal transformation that is both terrifyingly shocking and enjoyably thrilling. Accordingly, Unbreakable significantly underplays the standard representation of superheroes as sci-fi fantasy figures and superhero movies as special-effects-driven films. The methodical and often plodding pace of Dunn’s realization that he is “unbreakable,” however, sets the table for his upstaging. Dunn as the white superhero is the central character of the film, but the most invigorating aspect of Unbreakable is the purple panache of Elijah Price (Samuel L. Jackson), the black owner of a high-end comic-book-art gallery and Dunn’s nemesis-to-be. Price is afflicted with a condition that has made his bones extremely fragile, earning him the moniker Mr. Glass, and is the primary source of excitement and intrigue in the film. The striking appearance of Elijah Price, with his asymmetrical Afro parted on the side, dressed in an iridescent lavender suit, limping to and fro with a glass cane, and dispensing sage admonitions to anyone within earshot made him, not David Dunn, the visual and narrative lynchpin of Unbreakable. Despite the punishing pace of Unbreakable, the film is a significant contribution to the superhero genre because of the racial critique of the superhero aesthetic peppered throughout the film and dramatically punctuated at the end of the movie. Toward the conclusion, Elijah and Dunn shake hands whereby Dunn intuits several of the mass acts of terrorism Elijah has committed in his

Mr. Glass (Samuel L. Jackson) in Unbreakable (2000).

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pursuit to find a virtually unbreakable human being. Afterwards, Elijah says to Dunn, “It all makes sense. In a comic, you know how you can tell who the arch villain is going to be? He’s the exact opposite of the hero . . . I should have known way back when. You know why, David? Because of the kids. They called me Mr. Glass.” With this revelation, Elijah’s short soliloquy dredges to the surface strident racial critiques concerning the comic book industry as a representational playground where white superheroes are cast as the norm and the villains are chronically marked by their color. Villains such as the Red Skull, Mystique, Sinestro, Venom, and even the antihero the Hulk effortlessly function as symbolic reminders of how skin color is a significant element used to code these characters as abnormal, frightening, and dangerous. Likewise, by having a black actor play the villain in Unbreakable and explicitly stating how superhero characters are coded, along with the type of symbolism used to delineate good from evil, the film clearly critiques a racial undercurrent present in comics. The constructed racial dissimilarity suggested by the conclusion of Unbreakable is better understood in Manichean terms, whereby the white protagonist is the normalized referent and oddly colored villains proxy for blacks and other people of color in the real world.15 Spider-Man 3 (2007) is Sam Raimi’s ambitious follow-up to the Spider-Man 2 sequel. The film also demonstrates the type of oppositional dichotomies suggested in Unbreakable that use racial difference to construct superheroes and villains. The Spidey saga dramatically demonstrates the use of racially coded imagery with Peter Parker’s (Tobey Maguire) transformation in to the “black” Spider-Man. Like the comic, the film version of Peter Parker is a rather inconspicuous and sensitive young man who is a science whiz and heartbreakingly unlucky at love. When Parker unwittingly becomes a host for a symbiotic alien creature, this all begins to change. First, his most recognized red and blue Spider-Man costume turns black. The simple color associations—white with good and black with bad—set the visual frame for interpreting how the symbiote life-form is altering Peter Parker’s personality, not just his superhero suit. As the alien symbiote becomes more attached to his host, the nerdy science geek is replaced with a sexually aggressive Peter Parker. Dressed all in black, Parker struts his stuff down the boulevard and ogles at women while a James Brown funk song plays in the background. Parker tries to achieve eye contact with various young women, periodically stopping to literally air hump his way down the street. Later on at a night club, the “black” Peter Parker performs several spontaneous acts; he plays a bluesy jazz piano solo, followed by an impressive virtuoso dance routine, and ends the evening striking his former girlfriend hard enough to send her reeling to the floor. On a superficial level, with his chic hairstyle and “man in black” attire, the

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“black” Peter Parker is invoking the trendy emo style. Yet Parker’s emo exhibitionism is utterly at odds with the type of male peacock swagger he performs in the film. Emo masculinity is a forlorn, wounded, and deeply self-reflective form of gender performance invested in demonstrating the male as permanent member of the lonely heart’s club.16 Parker’s performance of maleness is more in accord with the cocky persona of a rapper or even a pimp, a point alluded to in an earlier scene when Parker nonchalantly has a young woman feeding him cookies and dismissively commands her to make more. The transformation of Parker from unassuming white nerd to a figure that signifies “black” cool is further demonstrated during Parker’s stroll down Main Street and the nightclub scene. In both settings he displays several stereotypical signifiers of male blackness: hypersexuality, aggressiveness, soulful music, natural talent, dancing, fighting, and being cool.17 These examples culminate in a clear coding of the color black with racial signifiers that invite the audience to view the symbiote Parker as abnormal, threatening, dangerous, and, in the end, “black.” This type of racial coding is not all that unique, but the level of offensiveness does vary.18 Case in point, the publicity flap that erupted around a pair of gold-toothed alien robots in Michael Bay’s Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009) that brazenly signified sci-fi versions of the minstrel tradition. Undoubtedly, films such as The Meteor Man, Blankman, Steel, Spawn, Unbreakable, Spider-Man 3, and Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen demonstrate how black racial representation and the superhero genre can combine for some unsavory images and ideas concerning race. But there are notable examples that demonstrate different degrees of progress regarding black superheroes and their place in American pop culture. The black female superhero Storm (Halle Berry) in X-Men (2000), X2 (2003), and X-Men: Last Stand (2006), and several characters in the television show Heroes (2006–2010) and the film Hancock (2008) illustrate a range of portrayals of black superheroes that were retrograde and progressive, often at the same time. The X-Men film franchise ushered in the charismatic poise of Halle Berry as the black female superhero Storm, a character that gains incrementally more screen time in each successive sequel. However, because the X-Men films are an ensemble superhero cast, and Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) is, without a doubt, the most compelling character in the subsequent sequels, Storm is more or less an attractive background figure. This is not to say placing a black female superhero in the foreground is necessarily better. The dreadful Catwoman (2004) technically stands out as a groundbreaking major motion picture because the lead character was a black female superhero, but, like Steel, the Catwoman film is nearly unwatchable and, more importantly, has very little in common with its comic book predecessor. The driving motivations, layered personalities,

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Storm (Halle Berry) summons her power in X-Men (2000).

intertwined personal relationships, and intriguing contradictions that have been developed over decades in the comic book version of black superheroes are what makes them interesting in the first place. By disregarding their unique comic book narratives, the film versions of black superheroes become unconvincing characters in underwhelming plots. The same can not be said for the television show Heroes. The series was a rare example of originality and convincing characters, which served to make the superhero show a sensation in the first years of its broadcast. Certainly, topnotch special effects and well-written characters accounted for the critical and popular success the series had garnered. Arguably, however, the unprecedented racial diversity of various superheroes on the show was also a significant part of the success of the series. The diverse range of ordinary people gradually discovering that they are more than they thought made it a fresh and truly provocative program. In the series, superheroes were young, old, fit, chubby, working class, elites, men, boys, cheerleaders, strippers, South Asian, black, Japanese, Latino, and Haitian. Most importantly, the minority characters were not merely tokens or marginal figures that provided the appearance of racial diversity. Many were cornerstone characters involved in major narratives. Despite the promising first and second season, many characters of color became untimely casualties, such as Simone Deveaux (Tawny Cypress), D.L. Hawkins (Leonard Roberts), and Maya Herrera (Dania Ramirez). Notably, Monica Dawson (Dana Davis) and “the Haitian” ( Jimmy Jean-Louis), who were respectively the most promising black superhero and the most interesting character in the series, saw their screen time diminished significantly as the series progressed. Consequently,

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the robust multiracial range of superhuman characters present in the first couple of seasons that made the Heroes series such an exciting superhero universe had noticeably dwindled. Nevertheless, the series remained impressive in how it single-handedly shattered the restrictive and narrow practice of presenting superheroes as primarily the providence of white men and women. What Heroes accomplished as a series, Will Smith did in film with a succession of trailblazing sci-fi superhero performances. After his breakout sci-fi performance as the cocky Captain Steven Hiller in Independence Day (1996), Will Smith steamrolled ahead as the too-hip extraterrestrial cop Agent Jay in the blockbuster Men in Black (1997). Next was Smith’s role as Jim West in a summer dud (and one the corniest of corny films), the science fiction western Wild Wild West (1999). Although Wild Wild West threatened to short-circuit his star power, his leading man roles in I, Robot (2004) and I Am Legend (2007) confirmed Will Smith’s status as Hollywood’s premier sci-fi film icon. With five major sci-fi films under his belt, it was only matter of time before he was cast as a genuine superhero in the film Hancock (2008). Hancock, however, is not a conventional superhero. His deeds make him the scourge of the city, disliked by police officials, residents, and criminals alike. Hancock is a chronically drunk superhero that frequently flies around causing nearly as much havoc as he tries to prevent. He saves lives but in the most haphazard and dangerous ways possible, often causing millions of dollars in property damage in the process. After one particularly destructive incident of Hancock heroism, he is befriended by Ray Embrey ( Jason Bateman), a public relations pitchman that convinces Hancock to reform, and concocts a plan to change his image. Like a superhero version of Eliza Doolittle from the film My Fair Lady (1964), Ray teaches foulmouthed Hancock appropriate superhero etiquette when saving lives and thwarting crime. As further proof of Hancock’s commitment to reform, he publicly proclaims to voluntarily have himself incarcerated in a local prison as punishment for the millions of dollars in property damage he has caused. In reality, Hancock’s mea culpa is a public relations gimmick invented by Ray. In Hancock’s absence, Ray anticipates numerous criminals will become emboldened and the public will demand that Hancock come back to save a city now plagued by crime. The plan proves successful. Hancock is called upon to save several hostages in a botched bank robbery, which earns him heartfelt praise and acceptance as a real superhero. If the film had concluded at this point, Hancock could have stood as a quirky film focused on the pathos of having superhuman abilities. Instead, the film engages in several jarring transformations. First the film morphs into a slapstick comedy marked by an awkward lovers’ quarrel between Hancock and Mary (Charlize Theron), similar to the kind presented in the

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A reformed Hancock (Will Smith) in Hancock (2008).

comedic misfire My Super Ex-Girlfriend (2006). Next, Hancock becomes a bizarre narrative about emotional devotion between two ancient alien life forms on Earth, whereby prejudice against interracial couples in America’s past is suggested as the reason why Mary left Hancock. Lastly, the narrative leaves the audience with an image of Hancock ecstatic that the love of his life has remained happily married to Ray. What began as a gritty satire of the superhero genre with Hancock as a troubled alcoholic misfit became a jumbled mix of special effects, poor comedic timing, and a saccharine conclusion. Besides the outstanding special effects, what makes Hancock an interesting film has less to do with black superheroes and more to do with who and what Hancock ideologically suggests. On the surface, what Hancock communicates about superheroes is fairly optimistic and conventional. “Real” superheroes are upstanding, morally informed, and self-sacrificing altruistic figures. Yet a deeper analysis suggests Hancock symbolizes the black superstar persona of the gangster rapper and professional athlete. The film signals the connection between Hancock and these real-world bad boy counterparts in two distinct ways. Hancock’s deplorable behavior is underscored by popular rap songs, which function as connotative cultural shorthand for connecting loutish, ostentatious, and obnoxious behavior to expressions of contemporary male urban blackness.19 Secondly, when Hancock feigns a desire to atone for his mistakes at a press conference, his pretend public confession is clearly evocative of various real press conferences held by black superstar athletes such as Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods, and Michael Vick, who confessed to misdeeds and asked for public forgiveness.20 In this manner, Hancock signifies the superstar persona of immensely talented but troubled black athletes that fall off the pedestal of

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public adulation because of succumbing to personal demons only to later plea for forgiveness. Hancock was less about imaginary black superheroes in comics, cartoons, television, and film and more about real black superstars in the music industry and sports entertainment field that are criticized for flaunting an above-the-law stance and are viewed as unsavory role models for children.21 What is even more fascinating than the phenomenon of an imaginary black superhero embodying real racial anxieties in Hancock is how the whole circuit of meaning was reversed in the American body politic with the presidency of Barack Obama. Before he became the president of the United States he was a black superhero. The election of America’s first black president was a monumental political and cultural event without precedent. But a very interesting phenomenon occurred on Obama’s way to the White House. The run-up to the 2008 presidential election saw Obama repeatedly christened a superhero in various likenesses of him that were created during his campaign and have continued to crop up subsequent to his inauguration. Without a doubt the signature image of the campaign was a headshot of Obama shaded in red, white, and blue with the word “HOPE” underneath his torso. This picture captured the public’s imagination and quickly became iconic. But as predominant and popular as that image has become there is another image of Obama that rivals the significance of the “HOPE” poster and possibly better represents the true meaning of what he symbolizes and the collective desires projected on to him. The picture of Barack Obama ripping his shirt open like Superman to reveal an “O” emblazoned on his chest, an image that clearly defined him as a black superhero preparing to save America. Alex Ross, the acclaimed photorealist comic-illustrator, created the image of Super “O” and by doing so secured Obama’s superhero credentials for fanboys, fangirls, and casual pop culture voyeurs alike.22 Ross inadvertently provided a template for various imitators to follow. The cover of the special inaugural issue of Ms. magazine ran a Superman-inspired depiction of Obama ripping open his shirt to reveal a T-shirt that states, “This is what a feminist looks like.”23 The image was also made available for purchase as a poster. Then there was the special inaugural Spider-Man issue with President Obama on the cover with America’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.24 This superhero sentiment is further registered in a variety of pop expressions across a variety of media moments: a picture of Obama posing next to a statue of Superman, a JibJab viral video parodying him as a superhero, Obama’s self-deprecating rejoinder that he was born on the planet Krypton, and a variety of YouTube videos attest to the resonance of Obama as a black superhero throughout pop America. How perfectly postmodern, that a real black man could spark the viability of the imaginary construct of a black superhero as a legitimate heroic figure in American pop culture.

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Before he became President Obama, he was Super Obama (Zenith Press, 2008).

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Spidey plays in the background on his own cover behind President Barack Obama (The Amazing Spider-Man, Marvel, March, no. 583, 2009).

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A black man vying for the presidency made Obama’s candidacy and election one of the most dramatic and poignant moments in American history. This in great part explains the mania leading up and subsequent to the inauguration of America’s first black president. Transforming the first-term senator into a larger-than-life superhero, however, represented something more than political hysteria, public infatuation, or racial novelty. Ross’s original depiction of Obama as a Superman-like comic book hero tapped into a deep-seated collective anxiety and profound sense of vulnerability generated in the wake of the attacks of September 11, a meandering war in two different countries, and an economic crisis that threatened to grind the American economy to a halt. These multiple tensions exposed the fragility of the American political and economic order. Consequently, a palatable degree of despair crept into America’s collective consciousness and was increasingly palpable as the election fast approached. This “crisis of confidence,” or loss of national orientation and collective psychic unease, is symbolized in Marvel’s epic Civil War series with the death of Captain America.25 Marvel’s Civil War series was a thinly veiled commentary on the Patriot Act and the type of tensions that it generated between advocates for national security and those that prioritize protecting civil liberties. Leading up to Captain America’s demise, a law is enacted which required all superheroes to register with the government and reveal their secret identities. The Civil War series expressed the political anxiety swirling around debates concerning diminishing privacy and freedoms in the face of “benevolent” surveillance. Captain America sided with the crowd concerned with the protection of civil liberties and his death signaled the demise of the nation. The passing of Captain America symbolically set the stage for the rise of a replacement figure that could muster a similar larger-than-life aura of patriotic Americanism and fulfill the American public’s wish for someone to save the day. With his square jawline, a captivating origin story, elegant oratory, lightningquick intelligence, and sleek athletic profile, Barack Obama fulfilled the needs of a nation yearning for a superhero persona to confront the multiple challenges facing America. Against this sociopolitical backdrop it is quite understandable that Obama was draped in the signifiers of a superhero as the campaign progressed. Moreover, given an electoral setting where states remained at odds and were divvied up according to red and blue colors, like Los Angeles street gangs, Barack Obama’s candidacy functioned as a dramatic sign of colorblind patriotism. The Superman-like “O” on his chest became the semiotic shorthand that signaled political unification, cultural restoration, and renewed social activism and vigor in the face of overwhelming socioeconomic obstacles.26 More than America embracing the type of charismatic black leadership

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that has a long and storied presence in black history and the black church, Obama instead symbolically represented America’s new champion of “truth, justice, and the American way.” Ultimately, Barack Obama, the black superhero, is a million miles away from the type of racial identity politics signified by the first generation of black superheroes populating DC and Marvel comics. Black superheroes such as Black Panther, Luke Cage, the Falcon, John Stewart, and Black Lighting were a logical response to the cultural fallout generated by the struggle for racial justice and equality that took hold of the nation from the late 1950s to the early 1970s. Accordingly, the first wave of black superheroes symbolically affirmed the idea of black racial pride, equality, and diversity in American society. But that does not diminish their overall importance as cultural signposts pointing to a more transcendent notion of black racial identity in the future. The black superheroes of DC and Marvel comics imprinted American society with enduring images of comic book, television, and filmic blackness that have provided a public forum to experience laugh-out-loud disappointment, silent snickering, and wide-eyed enjoyment of black folk as fantastic expressions of extraterrestrial, mutant, and supernatural blackness. Certainly, various underground zines and black independent comic companies can claim credit for offering progressive, complex, and significant black superheroes in comic books as well as graphic novels.27 However, the Afrofuturistic visions of black superheroes in DC and Marvel comics speak to a broader scope and have a farther reach than these alternative outlets. Admittedly, many of these mainstream black superheroes continue to exist as marginal figures across the mainstream comic universe. The film industry certainly appears reticent about the ability of black superheroes to achieve box office success despite the popularity of Spawn or the Blade film franchise. Accordingly, significant black comic book superheroes such as Black Panther, Luke Cage, the Falcon, John Stewart, the black Green Lantern, and Black Lightning have yet to find their way to the silver screen. Regardless of whether signature black superheroes do or do not get adapted for television or film, their presence remains symbolically significant. These figures challenge the immediate experience of race in America by providing images of futuristic and fantastic black men and women that are beyond the mundane, everyday, and familiar notions of blackness associated with entertainment or sports. Most importantly, because superheroes are the embodiment of American morality and the national ethos, black superheroes become that much more captivating as symbolic figures—they signify a type of racial utopia where whites can accept blacks as superhuman, intellectually and physically superior, and benevolent protectors of all humanity. At the end of the day, black superheroes embody a color-blind ethos because they do not exist to

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protect or save only one racial group from harm. Accordingly, black superheroes are towering models of racial reconciliation that personify the color-blind advocacy of the civil rights movement. Yet black superheroes also accept the use of violence as a practical means to ensure justice and the viability of their own communities, a position associated with Black Power. In this sense, black superheroes are very complex figures, no matter how sketchily the character is constructed, because they symbolize a synthesis of the politics of racial struggle expressed by two distinct movements that are often viewed as ideologically antagonistic. This is a prime example of how, for several decades, black superheroes in American pop culture have functioned as sophisticated ciphers of race. Consequently, whether fully realized or faintly sketched, black superheroes in comic books, cartoons, television series, and films are innovative figures that not only reimagine black folk but also stand outside dichotomous ideological constructs concerning American race relations. In the final analysis, black superheroes have, in various instances, served not only as a bridge to link “blackness” and futurism. They have also provided an escape from conventional representations of black racial identity. Black superheroes have offered a galactic vision of blackness, often as Afro-diasporic figures that fuse the shiny tomorrowland of time travel, interdimensional realities, rocket ships, black mysticism, extraterrestrial beings, light speed, experimental technoculture, and cybertronic robots with the self-esteem politics of “black is beautiful.” In doing so, black superheroes offer some of the most stimulating and ideologically provocative representations of blackness ever imagined.

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NOTES

INTRODUCTION 1. See Richard Reynolds, Super Heroes: A Modern Mythology ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994), and Danny Fingeroth, Superman on the Couch: What Superheroes Really Tell Us About Ourselves and Our Society (New York: Continuum, 2004). 2. Reynolds, Super Heroes, 77. 3. See Anna Beatrice Scott, “Superpower vs Supernatural: Black Superheroes and the Quest for a Mutant Reality,” Journal of Visual Culture 5, no. 3 (December 2006): 295–314; Marc Singer, “‘Black Skins’ and White Masks: Comic Books and the Secret of Race,” African American Review 36, no. 1 (Spring 2002): 107–119; Jeffery Brown, Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2000). 4. See Christian Davenport, “Black Is the Color of My Comic Book Character: An Examination of Ethnic Stereotypes,” Inks: Cartoon and Comic Art Studies 4, no. 1 (1997): 20–28; Trina Robbins, The Great Women Superheroes (New York: Kitchen Sink Press, 1996), 148; Ora C. McWilliams, “Not Just Another Racist Honkey: A History of Racial Representation in Captain America and Related Publications,” in Captain America and the Struggle of the Superhero: Critical Essays, ed., Robert G. Weiner, 66–78 ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009); Darius James’s opening salvo, “Straight-up Real Nigga,” in the graphic comic Cage (New York: Marvel Comics, 2003), by Brian Azzarello, Richard Corben, and Jose Villarubia. 5. Reynolds, Super Heroes, 41. 6. Wright, Comic Book Nation, xviii.

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7. See Dick Hebdige, Elements of Style (London: Routledge, 1979); Peter Bondanella, Umberto Eco and the Open Text: Semiotics, Fiction, Popular Culture (London: Cambridge, 2005); Roland Barthes, Mythologies (New York: Noonday Press, 1979).

CHAPTER 1 1. Gina Philogene, ed., Racial Identity in Context: The Legacy of Kenneth B. Clark (Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 2004). 2. See William H. Foster III, Looking for a Face Like Mine (Waterbury, CT: Fine Tooth Press, 2005); Jeffrey Brown, Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2000), 3–4; and see Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (London: Palidin, 1970), 145–146, for a severe appraisal of the power that comics and film have to promote and inculcate the audience as to the appropriateness of white racial supremacy as a mode of social organization. In his psychoanalytical manifesto on race, Fanon mentions how the superhero figure of Tarzan the Ape Man and various comics function to reinforce real racial hierarchies in the world in which whites repetitively imagine victory over the forces of evil, often represented by blacks and other racial minorities. 3. See Bart Beaty, Fredric Wertham and the Critique of Mass Culture ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2005); and see Bradford W. Wright, Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 159–160, for a thorough examination of the power and place of superhero comics in American society and a detailed discussion of Dr. Wertham’s impact on the comic book industry. 4. Wright, Comic Book Nation. 5. Jaques Ellul, Propaganda: The Formation of Men’s Attitudes (New York: Vintage, 1973); Joseph Klapper, The Effects of Mass Communication (New York: Free Press, 1960); Shearon A. Lowery and Melvin L. DeFleur, Milestones in Mass Communication Research: Media Effects, 3rd ed. (New York: Longman Publishers, 1995). 6. Don Slater, Consumer Culture and Modernity (London: Polity Press, 1999), 164. 7. Stuart Hall, “Encoding/Decoding,” in The Cultural Studies Reader, ed. Simon During (New York: Routledge, 1999), 507–517; Ian Ang, Desperately Seeking the Audience (London: Routledge, 1991). 8. E. Danticat, “Interview with Junot Díaz,” Bomb Magazine 101 (Fall 2007), 88–95. 9. Wright, Comic Book Nation, 224–251. 10. Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow (DC Comics: April, no. 76, 1970), 6. 11. Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow (DC Comics: April, no. 76 1970), 21. 12. Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams, “A Kind of Loving, a Way of Death,” in The Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow Collection Volume I, 57–81 (New York: DC Comics, 2004). 13. Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams, “Ulysses Star Is Still Alive,” in The Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow Collection Volume I, 82–104 (New York: DC Comics, 2004). 14. Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow (DC Comics: January, no. 87, 1972).

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15. For a discussion of this trend in American political life that ranges from historical analysis to high theory see: Todd Gitlin, The World Is Watching: Mass Media in the Making and Unmaking of the New Left (Berkley: University of California Press, 1980); Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle (Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2006); and Chris Hedges, Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle (New York: Knopf, 2009). 16. Geoffrey C. Ward, Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson (New York: Vintage, 2006). 17. Mike Marqusee, Redemption Songs: Muhammad Ali and the Spirit of the Sixties (New York: Verso, 1999). 18. Richard Reynolds, Super Heroes: A Modern Mythology ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi 1992), 41. 19. Black Lightning (DC Comics: April, no. 1, 1977). 20. Black Lightning (DC Comics: July, no. 3, 1977). Tobias Whale is an African American albino, but his whiteness has symbolic worth for signifying white authority. 21. Justice League of America (DC Comics: December, no. 173, 1979). 22. Black Lightning: Year One (DC Comics: March, no. 1, 2009). 23. Green Lantern (DC Comics: June, no. 185, 1985); Green Lantern (DC Comics: June, no. 187, 1985). 24. Green Lantern (DC Comics: June, no. 187, 1985). 25. Green Lantern: Mosaic (DC Comics: June, no. 1, 1992) and Green Lantern: Mosaic (DC Comics: October, no. 5, 1992). 26. Daniel Bernardi, Star Trek and History: Race-ing Toward a White Future (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998). 27. See Green Lantern: Rebirth (DC Comics: 2007) for Hal Jordan’s inspired comeback.

CHAPTER 2 1. See Ed Guerrero, Framing Blackness: The African American Image in Film (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1993); Herman Gray, Watching Race: Television and the Struggle for Blackness (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995); and Christine Acham, The Revolution Televised: Prime Time and the Struggle for Black Power (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005). 2. Jeffrey A. Brown, Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2000), 22–23. 3. Guerrero, Framing Blackness. 4. Jungle Action (Marvel Comics: July, no. 22, 1976). 5. Christian Davenport, “The Brother Might Be Made of Steel, But He Sure Ain’t Super . . . Man,” Other Voices 1, no. 2 (September 1998). 6. Black Panther (Marvel Comics: March, no. 2, 1977). 7. Bradford W. Wright, Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 247; Brown, Black Superheroes, 24.

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8. Brown, Black Superheroes, 160–163. 9. Hero for Hire (Marvel Comics: June, no. 1, 1972). 10. John Midgley, “Prison Litigation 1950–2000,” in Prison Nation: The Warehousing of America’s Poor, ed. Tara Heribel and Paul Wright, 281–300 (New York: Routledge, 2002). 11. Midgley, “Prison Litigation,” 281–300. 12. See these books for a personal and documented review of the tumultuous relationship between black militants and law enforcement: Assata Shakure, Assata: An Autobiography (Chicago: Lawrence Hill, 1987); Ward Churchill and Jim Vander Wall, Agents of Repression: The FBI’s Secret Wars Against the Black Panther Party and the American Indian Movement (Brooklyn, NY: South End Press, 2001). 13. Phillip Lamarr Cunningham, “The Absence of Black Supervillains in Mainstream Comics,” Journal of Graphic Novels and Comics 1, issue 1 ( June 2010), 51–62. 14. Kent Ono and Vincent Pham, Asian Americans and the Media (New York: Polity, 2008). 15. Kurt Busiek and Alex Ross, Marvels (New York: Marvel, 2010). 16. See the back of the trade paperback version of Cage (2003) where one blurb about the series is attributed to The Source, a hip-hop magazine, proclaiming Cage’s affinity to black youth, and another by Maxim drawing comparisons between Cage and Sean “Puff y” Combs, a noted hip-hop mogul. 17. Michael Eric Dyson, Holler If You Hear Me (New York: Basic Civitas, 2006). 18. The incarnation of Luke Cage as a private detective in Harlem during the 1920s in Luke Cage Noir (Marvel, 2009–2010) adopts an opposite approach by placing Power Man in the distant past. The artwork is rendered quite well but the narrative is brimming with numerous film noir clichés. 19. New Avengers (Marvel Comics: September, no. 22, 2006) in the Civil War crossover event. 20. The following books cover much of the history of Hollywood cinema and television and reveal black representation as primarily confined to comedic performances or limited to historical events and lower social class status (maids, chauffeurs, and butlers): Daniel Bernardi, ed., Birth of Whiteness: Race and the Emergence of U.S. Cinema (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996); James Snead, White Screens/Black Images: Hollywood from the Darkside (New York: Routledge, 1994); Donald Bogle, Primetime Blues: African Americans on Network Television (New York: FSG Books, 2002). 21. A handful of sci-fi films during the 1970s included blacks, but they were marginal figures at best. See my other book, Black Space: Imagining Race in Science Fiction Film (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2008) for a thorough discussion of black representation in sci-fi film as a site where blacks were periodically presented in futuristic settings and what it symbolized.

CHAPTER 3 1. In Disguised as Clark Kent: Jews, Comics and the Creation of the Superhero (New York: Continuum, 2008), Danny Fingeroth casts an extremely wide ethnic net that

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snares nearly every significant superhero, including Captain America, as a symbolic representation of a Jewish figure. Moreover, Fingeroth employs imaginative logic that makes Cap secretly a symbol of Jewishness because he originated on the Lower East Side rather than the great American Midwest and survived a traumatic loss and temporal displacement. On the contrary, virtually all superheroes survive some form of lifechanging ordeal and survive. But for Fingeroth, surviving an ordeal dovetails with Jewishness, which for me is too historically essentialist and reductive as an analysis of the Jewish experience. His emphasis, however, on the connection between Superman and the Jewish immigrant experience is well argued and irrefutable. For me, however, Captain America is overdetermined by American patriotic imagery, aesthetic, and American jingoism. 2. Ora C. McWilliams, “Not Just Another Racist Honkey: A History of Racial Representation in Captain America and Related Publications,” in Captain America and the Struggle of the Superhero: Critical Essays, ed. Robert G. Weiner, 66–78 ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009). The author adopts a strident racial critique of the depiction of the Falcon, saying it invokes retrograde stereotypes of blacks as primitive and even animalistic. This type of linear positive/negative analysis overlooks the racial moral drama each character represented. 3. Captain America (Marvel: September, no. 117, 1969). 4. Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: November, no. 143, 1971). 5. Robin D.G. Kelly’s Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination (Boston: Beacon Press, 2002); Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States from the 1960s to the 1990s, 2nd ed. (New York: Routledge, 1994). 6. Bradford W. Wright, Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 244–245. 7. Captain America (Marvel: June, no. 126, 1970). 8. Joyce A. Ladner, The Death of White Sociology: Essays on Race and Culture (Baltimore: Black Classic Press, 1998). This book first came out in 1973 and captures the tone and range of thought for proponents of black nationalism as an intellectual, political, and cultural project. The tone of many of the essays displays the combative nature of race talk at the time. For an overview, also see Omi and Howard, Racial Formation in the United States, and Stephen Steinberg, Turning Back: The Retreat from Racial Justice in American Thought and Policy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995). 9. Captain America (Marvel: January, no. 133, 1971). 10. Captain America and the Falcon, (Marvel: November, no. 143, 1971). 11. Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: July, no. 139, 1971). 12. Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: July, no. 139, 1971). 13. Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: December, no. 144, 1971). 14. Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: February, no. 170, 1974). 15. Bart Landry, The New Black Middle Class (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). 16. See William Julius Wilson, The Declining Significance of Race: Blacks and Changing American Institutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), for an analysis

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of how economic dynamics contributed to nagging issues of inequity for blacks in the inner-city, and see George Lipsitz, The Possessive Investment in Whiteness: How White People Profit from Identity Politics (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1998), 39–45, for a discussion of how the push for racial equality in the labor market was stymied for the black working class. 17. Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: June, no. 186, 1975). 18. Captain America (Marvel: December–February, no. 276–278, 1982–1983); Captain America (Marvel: January, no. 277, 1983). 19. See Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: April, no. 220, 1978). 20. Captain America (Marvel: July, no. 223, 1978). 21. Ed Guerrero, Framing Blackness: The African American Image in Film (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1993); Christine Acham, The Revolution Televised: Prime Time and the Struggle for Black Power (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005). 22. There was a truncated four-issue limited series titled The Falcon (Marvel: no. 1–4, 1983–1984). 23. See the first several panels of Captain America and the Falcon (Marvel: October, no. 6, 2004). 24. David Cole, No Equal Justice: Race and Class in the American Criminal Justice System (New York: New Press, 2000). 25. See Robert G. Weiner, Captain America and the Struggle of the Superhero Critical Essays ( Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009), for a range of essays demonstrating the ideological significance of the Star-Spangled Avenger. 26. See Civil War (Marvel: 2008) for an overview of the epic drama. 27. Harold “Happy” Hogan is considered Stark’s official chauffer in the Marvel universe but Rhodes performs similar professional duties as a helicopter pilot for Tony Stark. See Iron Man (Marvel: January, no. 118, 1979). 28. Iron Man (Marvel: April, no. 169; May, no. 170, 1983). 29. War Machine (Marvel: no. 1–25, 1994–1996). 30. War Machine (Marvel: November, no. 8, 1994). 31. Cloak & Dagger: Child of Darkness, Child of Light (Marvel, 2009), a well-deserved hardback color reprint of the first four issues that came out in 1983. 32. See Craig Reinarman and Harry G. Levine, Crack in America: Demon Drugs and Social Justice, (California: University of California Press, 1997), and Tanya Telfair Sharpe, Behind the Eight Ball: Sex for Crack Cocaine Exchange and Poor Black Women (New York: Routledge, 2005). 33. Cloak and Dagger: Child of Darkness, Child of Light (Marvel: 2009), 24. 34. Trina Robbins views the association not merely as problematic but as abetting racism in her book The Great Women Superheroes (New York: Kitchen Sink Press, 1996), 148. 35. Cloak and Dagger: Predator and Prey (Marvel: 1988). 36. The Mutant Misadventures of Cloak and Dagger, November, no. 8, 1989, scripted by Terry Austin, for an example of how the series privileges Dagger and adopts an almost campy interpretation of the original series of the early 1980s.

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37. Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 2.

CHAPTER 4 1. Superman’s Girlfriend, Lois Lane (DC Comics: November no. 106, 1970). 2. Robert Simonson, “Once Pure White, American Classics Cross a Color Line” New York Times, February 24, 2008. 3. Jeffrey Brown, Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2001). 4. Mike Madrid, Supergirls: Fashion, Feminism, Fantasy, and the History of Comic Book Heroines (Exterminating Angel Press, 2009), 113–115. He has a similar take on the underwhelming aura of Dr. Pym. 5. Christopher Knowles, Our Gods Wear Spandex: The Secret History of Comic Book Heroes (San Francisco: Weiser Books, 2007). Although this point is not necessarily that original and has been explored from an academic and philosophical perspective, the tongue-in-cheek tone of the book makes it a lot more interesting to read. 6. See Avengers (Marvel: September, no. 32, 1966) for Bill Forster the lab assistant and Power Man (Marvel: April, no. 24, 1975) for Dr. Foster as Black Goliath. 7. Civil War (Marvel: October, no. 4, 2006). 8. See Black Goliath (Marvel: February, no. 1, 1976). 9. S. R. Nelson, Steel Drivin’ Man: John Henry, the Untold Story of an American Legend (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). 10. Lawrence W. Levine, Black Culture and Black Consciousness: Afro-American Folk Thought from Slavery to Freedom (London: Oxford University Press, 1977), 424. 11. See Steel (DC Comics: March, no. 25, 1996), Steel (DC Comics: December, no. 45, 1997), and J.P. Telotte, Replications: A Robotic History of the Science Fiction Film (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1995). Of course the DC character Cyborg fits neatly within this category and presents a fusion of race and technology. Steel, however, is a more intriguing character given the fusion of black folk mythology with futuristic expressions of black racial identity. Cyborg is interesting but owes more to the television show The Six Million Dollar Man (1974–1978) than any black cultural framework that purposefully signifies continuity between black racial formation of the past, the present, and beyond. 12. Brown, Black Superheroes, 36–37. 13. Brown, Black Superheroes, 49. 14. Reynolds, Super Heroes, 41. 15. See Dwayne McDuffie, M.D. Bright, and Mike Gustovich, Icon: A Heroes Welcome (New York: DC Comics, 1996), a reprint compilation of the Icon comic book series. 16. Brown, Black Superheroes, 37. 17. Brown, Black Superheroes, 49. 18. See http://carolastrickland.com/comics/wwcentral/index.html for a rigorous examination of the Nubia character and the role of signature female superheroes in the genre.

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19. Wonder Woman (DC Comics: June–July, no. 206, 1973). 20. Wonder Woman (DC Comics: January–February, no. 204, 1973). 21. Lillian S. Robinson, Wonder Woman: Feminisms and Superheroes (New York: Routledge, 2004), 27–31. 22. Super Friends, (DC Comics: October, no. 25, 1979). 23. Conventional wisdom would place Pam Grier in my list of potential candidates for the black Wonder Woman, given her seminal status as a black heroine in American film history. Though she is a groundbreaking figure, I view her representation as tied to the sexploitation cinema of the 1970s, which is a significant aspect of even her blaxploitation period, a point Mia Mask cogently brings to life in Divas on Screen: Black Women in American Film (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 76–92. Pam Grier’s film persona is virtually indistinguishable from crude, often vulgar sexuality. This nullifies the contradictory nature of the classic female comic book superheroine from the Silver and Bronze Ages of comics, which projects sexuality in the form of skimpy costumes and ample cleavage but is sexually chaste in terms of actual intercourse and displays of nudity. Grier succeeds in the former but not the latter. Also see Mike Madrid’s Supergirls, 147–168. 24. Giant-Size X-Men, (Marvel: May, no. 1, 1975). 25. Madrid, Supergirls, 170–171. 26. See J. D. Hamlet, “Assessing Womanist Thought: The Rhetoric of Susan L. Taylor,” in The Womanist Reader, ed. Layli Phillips (New York: Routledge, 2006), 213–232, and Alice Walker, In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose (New York: Harvest Books, 1984), for parallel elements that Storm embodies related to important aspects of a black womanist approach to living in the world. 27. Storm (Marvel: 2006). 28. Strange Tales (Marvel: September–April, no. 169–173, 1973–1974). 29. Bryan Senn, Drums of Terror: Voodoo in the Cinema (Baltimore: Midnight Marquee Press, 1998). 30. Borys Kit, “Jackson’s Fury in Flurry of Marvel Films: Nine-Pic Deal Includes ‘Iron Man 2,’ ‘Thor,’ More,” The Hollywood Reporter, February 25, 2009. 31. See Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. (Marvel: 2000), an impressive compendium of the Steranko issues and art style. 32. James Jones, Bad Blood: The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment (New York: Free Press, 1981), about the Tuskegee experiment, wherein white doctors allowed hundreds of black sharecroppers to remain untreated for syphilis in order to document the advanced stages of the disease between 1932 and 1972. Also see Harriet Washington, Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present (New York: Anchor, 2008), and Rebecca Skloot, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (New York: Crown, 2010). 33. Quoted in Rocco Versaci, This Book Contains Graphic Language: Comics as Literature (London: Continuum, 2007), 101. 34. See Mat Johnson’s Incognegro (DC Comics: 2008). The graphic novel idiom is put to good use concerning another act of heinous proportion: southern lynching in America.

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35. Robert Morales and Kyle Baker, Truth: Red, White & Black (Marvel, 2004). 36. The Crew (Marvel: no. 1–7, 2003). 37. See The Wire: Urban Decay and American Television, ed. Tiffany Potter and C.W. Marshall, (New York: Continuum, 2009), and William Julius Wilson, The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass, and Public Policy, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987) for an insightful analysis of how economic dynamics impact black life. 38. The Crew, (Marvel: vol. 1, no. 6). 39. See Frederick Luis Aldama, Your Brain on Latino Comics: From Gus Arriola to Los Bros Hernandez (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009), for a broad and in-depth examination of Latino figures in comics, including various Latino superheroes.

CHAPTER 5 1. Christian Davenport, “The Brother Might Be Made of Steel, But He Sure Ain’t Super . . . Man,” Other Voices 1, no. 2 (September 1998). 2. George Khoury, Image Comics: The Road to Independence (Raleigh, NC: TwoMorrows Publishing, 2007). 3. Khoury, Image Comics. 4. See Frank Miller, Batman: Year One (DC Comics, 1987), and Sin City (Dark Horse, 1992), along with Alan Moore, Watchmen (DC Comics, 1986), for definitive examples of the style that pushed comics into the “adult” world of mainstream pop culture. 5. Shown on HBO, Todd McFarlane’s Spawn (1997–1999) was an Emmy-winning animated series. 6. Orlando Patterson, Rituals of Blood: Consequences of Slavery in Two American Centuries (New York: Basic Civitas, 1999), 243. 7. Spawn (Image: October, no. 5, 1992). 8. Camille F. Forbes, Introducing Bert Williams: Burnt Cork, Broadway, and the Story of America’s First Black Star (New York: Basic Civitas, 2008). 9. Stacey Abbott, Celluloid Vampires: Life After Death in the Modern World (Austin: University of Texas Press: 2008), 191–192. 10. See Vampire Tales (December, no. 8, 1974) and Marvel Preview (September, no. 3, 1975; Fall, no. 8, 1976) for the original depictions of Blade. Moreover, the strident visual coding of the subsequent black and white Blade comic book renderings served to visually highlight the black versus white political posturing of the Black Power movement that was popularized in the blaxploitation films of the 1970s. For a theoretical framing of the intersection of Black Power and film, see Ed Guerrero’s Framing Blackness: The African American Image in Film (Philadelphia, PA: University of Temple Press, 1993). A more reference-focused examination is found in Josiah Howard’s funny and informative book, Blaxploitation Cinema: The Essential Reference Guide (Godalming: Fab Press, 2008). 11. Elizabeth Nixon, “It Ain’t John Shaft: Marvel Gets Multicultural in The Tomb of Dracula” in Multicultural Comics: From Zap to Blue Beetle (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010) edited by Frederick Aldama 291–305. Nixon’s analysis views Blade as starting in blaxploitation but eventually moving beyond it.

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12. See Blade The Vampire-Slayer: Black & White (Marvel: 2004), written by Marv Wolfman and Chris Claremont and illustrated by Tony DeZuniga and Gene Colan. The graphic novel is a compilation of several standout issues from the 1970s. 13. Abbott, Celluloid Vampires. 14. Adilifu Nama, Black Space: Imagining Race in Science Fiction Film (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2008), 143–146. The Matrix sequels would dramatically display black men and black women fighting side by side, specifically the characters of Niobe ( Jada Pinkett Smith) and Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne). 15. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon, 1978). 16. For a fun pop reading of the subculture, see Everybody Hurts: An Essential Guide to Emo Culture (New York: Harpers, 2007) by Trevor Kelly and Leslie Simon, or for a detailed musical lineage of the origin of emo, see Nothing Feels Good: Punk Rock, Teenagers, and Emo (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2003) by Andy Greenwald. 17. bell hooks, We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity (New York: Routledge, 2003), charts the intracommunal dynamics and sociopolitical responses black men have created that have contributed to their “cool” stance and social label. 18. Nama, Black Space, 10–38. 19. Todd Boyd The New H.N.I.C.: The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip-Hop (New York: NYU Press, 2001), for a provocative analysis of hip-hop, which argues how hip-hop has come to define what is black to the chagrin of conventional black leadership and black middle-class formations. 20. Stephen Hunter, a film critic, makes a similar observation in his review of Hancock, “Man of Bent Steel,” Washington Post, July 2, 2008. 21. Todd Boyd Young, Black, Rich, and Famous: The Rise of the NBA, the Hip Hop Invasion, and the Transformation of America (New York: Double Day, 2003). 22. Alex Ross christened the Obama image as a Superman-inspired superhero at the 2008 Comic Con convention in San Diego, California. 23. Ms. Magazine “Special Inaugural Issue,” Winter 2009. 24. The Amazing Spider-Man (Marvel: March, no. 583, 2009). 25. Captain America (Marvel: April, no. 25, 2007). 26. Interestingly, critics of President Obama have presented him with a ghastly powdered-white face smeared with red lipstick like the Joker from The Dark Knight. Reimagining him as a supervillain is further evidence of the public’s conception of Obama as a figure that is viewed as operating in a superhero realm. 27. See Incognegro (New York: DC Comics, 2008) by Mat Johnson and Warren Pleece, and Nat Tuner (New York: Abrams, 2008) by Kyle Baker for brilliant examples of the intersection of race and comics that are not mainstream projects. Black Comix: African American Independent Comics and Culture (New York: Mark Batty Publisher, 2010) by Damian Duff y and John Jennings offers a stunning visual reference of black comic art and characters that are far ahead of the creative curve of mainstream outlets.

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Abbott, Stacey. Celluloid Vampires: Life After Death in the Modern World. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2008. Acham, Christine. The Revolution Televised: Prime Time and the Struggle for Black Power. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005. Aldama, Frederick Luis. Your Brain on Latino Comics: From Gus Arriola to Los Bros Hernandez. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009. Ang, Ian. Desperately Seeking the Audience. London: Routledge, 1991. Baker, Kyle. Nat Tuner. New York: Abrams, 2008. Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. New York: Noonday Press, 1979. Beaty, Bart. Fredric Wertham and the Critique of Mass Culture. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2005. Benson, Mike, and Adam Glass. Luke Cage Noir. New York: Marvel Comics, 2010. Bernardi, Daniel, ed. Birth of Whiteness: Race and the Emergence of U.S. Cinema. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996. Bernardi, Daniel. Star Trek and History: Race-ing Toward a White Future. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1998. Bogle, Donald. Primetime Blues: African Americans on Network Television. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2002. Bondanella, Peter. Umberto Eco and the Open Text: Semiotics, Fiction, Popular Culture. London: Cambridge, 2005. Boyd, Todd. The New H.N.I.C.: The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip-Hop. New York: NYU Press, 2001.

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Boyd, Todd. Young, Black, Rich, and Famous: The Rise of the NBA, the Hip Hop Invasion, and the Transformation of America. New York: Double Day, 2003. Brown, Jeffrey A. Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2000. Busiek, Kurt, and Alex Ross. Marvels. New York: Marvel Comics, 2010. Churchill, Ward, and Jim Vander Wall. Agents of Repression: The FBI’s Secret Wars Against the Black Panther Party and the American Indian Movement. Brooklyn, NY: South End Press, 2001. Cole, David. No Equal Justice: Race and Class in the American Criminal Justice System. New York: New Press, 2000. Cunningham, Phillip Lamarr. “The Absence of Black Supervillains in Mainstream Comics.” Journal of Graphic Novels and Comics 1, issue 1 ( June 2010): 51–62. Danticat, E. “Interview with Junot Díaz.” Bomb Magazine 101 (Fall 2007): 88–95. Davenport, Christian. “Black Is the Color of My Comic Book Character: An Examination of Ethnic Stereotypes.” Inks: Cartoon and Comic Art Studies 4, no. 1 (1997): 20–28. Davenport, Christian. “The Brother Might Be Made of Steel, But He Sure Ain’t Super . . . Man.” Other Voices 1, no. 2 (September 1998). Debord, Guy. Society of the Spectacle. Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2006. Dickey, Eric, David Yardin, and Lan Medina. Storm. New York: Marvel Comics, 2008. Dyson, Michael Eric. Holler If You Hear Me. New York: Basic Civitas, 2006. Ellul, Jaques. Propaganda: The Formation of Men’s Attitudes. New York: Vintage, 1973. Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. London: Palidin, 1970. Fingeroth, Danny. Disguised as Clark Kent: Jews, Comics, and the Creation of the Superhero. New York: Continuum, 2008. Fingeroth, Danny. Superman on the Couch: What Superheroes Really Tell Us About Ourselves and Our Society. New York: Continuum, 2004. Forbes, Camille F. Introducing Bert Williams: Burnt Cork, Broadway, and the Story of America’s First Black Star. New York: Basic Civitas, 2008. Foster, William H., III. Looking For a Face Like Mine. Waterbury, CT: Fine Tooth Press, 2005. Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993. Gitlin, Todd. The World Is Watching: Mass Media in the Making and Unmaking of the New Left. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980. Gray, Herman. Watching Race: Television and the Struggle for Blackness. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995. Greenwald, Andy. Nothing Feels Good: Punk Rock, Teenagers, and Emo. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2003. Guerrero, Ed. Framing Blackness: The African American Image in Film. Philadelphia, PA: University of Temple Press, 1993. Hall, Stuart. “Encoding/Decoding.” In The Cultural Studies Reader, edited by Simon During, 507–517. New York: Routledge, 1999.

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Hamlet, J. D. “Assessing Womanist Thought: The Rhetoric of Susan L. Taylor.” In The Womanist Reader, edited by Layli Phillips, 213–232. New York: Routledge, 2006. Hebdige, Dick. Elements of Style. London: Routledge, 1979. Hedges, Chris. Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle. New York: Knopf, 2009. hooks, bell. We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity. New York: Routledge, 2003. Howard, Josiah. Blaxploitation Cinema: The Essential Reference Guide. Godalming: Fab Press, 2008. Hunter, Stephen. “Man of Bent Steel.” Washington Post. July 2, 2008. James, Darius. “Straight-up Real Nigga.” In Cage, by Brian Azzarello, Richard Corben, and Jose Villarubia. New York: Marvel Comics, 2003. Johns, Geoff, and Ethan Van Sciver. Green Lantern: Rebirth. New York: D.C. Comics, 2007. Johnson, Mat. Incognegro. New York: DC Comics, 2008. Kelly, Robin D.G. Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination. Boston: Beacon Press, 2002. Kelly, Trevor, and Leslie Simon. Everybody Hurts: An Essential Guide to Emo Culture. New York: Harper, 2007. Khoury, George. Image Comics: The Road to Independence. Raleigh, NC: TwoMorrows Publishing, 2007. Kit, Borys. “Jackson’s Fury in Flurry of Marvel films: Nine-Pic Deal Includes ‘Iron Man 2,’ ‘Thor,’ More.” The Hollywood Reporter, February 25, 2009. Jones, James. Bad Blood: The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. New York: Free Press, 1981. Klapper, Joseph. The Effects of Mass Communication. New York: Free Press, 1960. Knowles, Christopher. Our Gods Wear Spandex: The Secret History of Comic Book Heroes. San Francisco: Weiser Books, 2007. Ladner, Joyce A. The Death of White Sociology: Essays on Race and Culture. Baltimore: Black Classic Press, 1998. Landry, Bart. The New Black Middle Class. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. Levine, Lawrence W. Black Culture and Black Consciousness: Afro-American Folk Thought from Slavery to Freedom. London: Oxford University Press, 1977. Lipsitz, George. The Possessive Investment in Whiteness: How White People Profit from Identity Politics. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1998. Lowery, Shearon A., and Melvin L. DeFleur. Milestones in Mass Communication Research: Media Effects. 3rd ed. New York: Longman Publishers, 1995. Madrid, Mike. Supergirls: Fashion, Feminism, Fantasy, and the History of Comic Book Heroines. Exterminating Angel Press, 2009. Mantlo, Bill, Larry Stroman, and Al Williamson. Cloak and Dagger: Predator and Prey. New York: Marvel Comics, 1988. Mantlo, Bill, and Rick Leonardi. Cloak and Dagger: Child of Darkness, Child of Light. New York: Marvel Comics, 2009. Marqusee, Mike. Redemption Songs: Muhammad Ali and the Spirit of the Sixties. New York: Verso, 1999.

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Mask, Mia. Divas on Screen: Black Women in American Film. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2009. McDuffie, Dwayne, M.D. Bright, and Mike Gustovich. Icon: A Heroes Welcome. New York: DC Comics, 2009. McWilliams, Ora C. “Not Just Another Racist Honkey: A History of Racial Representation in Captain America and Related Publications.” In Captain America and the Struggle of the Superhero: Critical Essays, edited by Robert G. Weiner, 66–78. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009. Midgley, John. “Prison Litigation 1950–2000.” In Prison Nation: The Warehousing of America’s Poor, edited by Tara Herivel and Paul Wright, 281–300. New York: Routledge, 2002. Miller, Mark, and Steve McNiven. Civil War. New York: Marvel Comics: 2008. Morales, Robert, and Kyle Baker. Truth: Red, White, and Black. New York: Marvel Comics, 2004. Nama, Adilifu. Black Space: Imagining Race in Science Fiction Film. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2008. Nelson, S. R. Steel Drivin’ Man: John Henry, the Untold Story of an American Legend. London: Oxford University Press, 2006. Nixon, Elizabeth. “It Ain’t John Shaft: Marvel Gets Multicultural in The Tomb of Dracula.” In Multicultural Comics: From Zap to Blue Beetle, edited by Frederick Aldama, 291–305. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010. Omi, Michael, and Howard Winant. Racial Formation in the United States from the 1960s to the 1990s. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 1994. Ono, Kent, and Vincent Pham. Asian Americans and the Media. New York: Polity, 2008. Patterson, Orlando. Rituals of Blood: Consequences of Slavery in Two American Centuries. New York: Basic Civitas, 1999. Philogene, Gina, ed. Racial Identity in Context: The Legacy of Kenneth B. Clark. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 2004. Potter, Tiffany, and C.W. Marshall, eds. The Wire: Urban Decay and American Television. New York: Continuum, 2009. Reinarman, Craig, and Harry G. Levine. Crack in America: Demon Drugs and Social Justice. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Reynolds, Richard. Super Heroes: A Modern Mythology. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994. Robbins, Trina. The Great Women Superheroes. New York: Kitchen Sink Press, 1996. Robinson, Lillian S. Wonder Woman: Feminisms and Superheroes. New York: Routledge, 2004. Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon, 1978. Scott, Anna Beatrice. “Superpower vs Supernatural: Black Superheroes and the Quest for a Mutant Reality.” Journal of Visual Culture 5, no. 3 (December 2006), 295–314. Senn, Bryan. Drums of Terror: Voodoo in the Cinema. Baltimore: Midnight Marquee Press, 1998. Shakure, Assata. Assata: An Autobiography. Chicago: Lawrence Hill, 1987.

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Sharpe, Tanya Telfair. Behind the Eight Ball: Sex for Crack Cocaine Exchange and Poor Black Women. New York: Routledge, 2005. Simonson, Robert. “Once Pure White, American Classics Cross a Color Line.” New York Times. February 24, 2008. Singer, Marc. “‘Black Skins’ and White Masks: Comic Books and the Secret of Race.” African American Review 36, no. 1 (Spring 2002), 107–119. Skloot, Rebecca. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. New York: Crown, 2010. Slater, Don. Consumer Culture and Modernity. London: Polity Press, 1999. Snead, James. White Screens/Black Images: Hollywood from the Darkside. New York: Routledge, 1994. Steinberg, Stephen. Turning Back: The Retreat from Racial Justice in American Thought and Policy. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995. Steranko, Jim. Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. New York: Marvel Comics, 2001. Stromberg, Fredrik. Black Images in the Comics: A Visual History. Seattle: Fantagraphics Books, 2003. Telotte, J.P. Replications: A Robotic History of the Science Fiction Film. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1995. Versaci, Rocco. This Book Contains Graphic Language: Comics as Literature. London: Continuum, 2007. Walker, Alice. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose. New York: Harvest Books, 1984. Ward, Geoffrey C. Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise and Fall of Jack Johnson. New York: Vintage, 2006. Washington, Harriet. Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present. New York: Anchor 2008. Weiner, Robert G. Captain America and the Struggle of the Superhero Critical Essays. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009. Wilson, William Julius. The Declining Significance of Race: Blacks and Changing American Institutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978. Wilson, William Julius. The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass, and Public Policy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987. Wolfman, Marv, and Chris Claremont. Blade The Vampire-Slayer: Black & White. New York: Marvel Comics, 2004. Wright, Bradford W. Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001.

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INDEX

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations Action Comics, 92 Adams, Neal, 25; and Green Lantern, 6, 12, 26–29, 34–35, 98. See also Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow; Superman vs. Muhammad Ali addiction, 81, 82 adult-themed comics, 134–136, 163n4 Adventures of Superman, The (TV series, 1952–1958), 138 affirmative action, 2, 29 Africa, 42–44; anticolonialist movement, 43, 66 Afro diaspora, 107 Afrofuturism, 50, 96; and black mythology, 92; and Black Panther, 39, 42–44, 48, 66; in Mosaic, 31 Agent 355, 105 Alabama Democratic Party, 39 Ali, Muhammad, 22–23

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aliens: as foes, 15, 19, 22, 23, 31, 48, 81; Icon as, 93-96; Peter Parker as host for, 144; and racial coding, 145, 148; Superman as, 69 All-New Collector’s Edition #C-56. See Superman vs. Muhammad Ali Amazing Spider-Man, The (TV show, 1978–1979), 131–132 Ant-Man, 90, 161n4 archetype: female superhero, 99; male superhero, 4, 96–98; racial, 17–19 Attica Correctional Facility, 55 audience. See white audience Austin, Terry, 160n36 Avengers, the: and Black Panther, 51; and Captain America, 69 “Avengers Disassembled,” 78 Avisar, Illan: on the Holocaust, 117 Azzarello, Brian: and Luke Cage, 62, 65 baby boomers, 12. See also post–baby boomers

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Bad Mutha (Hudlin, 2006), 51–53, 54, 110; and blaxploitation, 53 Baker, Kyle: Truth: Red, White & Black, 114 Banner, Bruce, 131. See also Hulk, the Banner, David, 131. See also Incredible Hulk, The (TV series) Barthes, Roland, 8, 159n7 Bateman, Jason: in Hancock, 147 Batman: Frank Miller’s version, 86, 105, 126, 128. See also specific films and TV series Batman (TV series, 1966–1968), 7, 127–128 Batman Returns (1992), 128 Berry, Halle: as Catwoman, 127, 128; as Storm, 102, 145, 146 bigotry, racial, 16–17 Black Canary, 16–17, 29 Black Freedom Movement. See Black Power movement Black Goliath, 90, 91, 161n6 Black Goliath (1976), 90, 91 Black Images in the Comics (Stromberg), 2 Black Lantern: and Black Power politics, 17–19; origin of, 19 Black Lightning, 6, 24, 27, 28, 34–35; and Black Power politics, 25–26; origin of, 25; and tokenism, 26 Black Lightning, 24, 26, 27, 28 black nationalism. See Black Power movement blackness, representations of, 39, 44, 62, 66, 93, 126–127, 134, 148, 153–154; in superhero genre, 3–4, 5–6, 7, 25–26, 31, 128, 132–133, 138. See also Afrofuturism; Black Power movement; blaxploitation; science fiction Black Panther, 6, 39, 40–41, 45–47, 49, 105; and Afrofuturism, 42–44, 48, 66; and the Avengers, 51; in Bad Mutha, 52–53, 54, 110; in Black Panther, 44–48; and Black Power, 42–44, 66; in Civil

War, 51, 52; and Falcon, 73; in Fantastic Four, 42–43; and Jungle Action, 44; origin story, 42–43; and urban “cool,” 48–51; and White Tiger, 118, 122 Black Panther (Kirby, 1977–1979), 44–48, 46, 47 Black Panther: Bad Mutha. See Bad Mutha Black Panther: The Client. See Client, The Black Panther: Enemy of the State. See Enemy of the State Black Panther #18 (Hudlin, 2007), 51, 52, 158n19 Black Panther Party for Self Defense, 39–42, 121, 158n12. See also Cleaver, Eldridge; Davis, Angela; Jackson, George; Newton, Huey P.; Pratt, Elmer “Geronimo” Black Power movement, 17–19, 34, 163n10; and black identity, 42; and black superheroes, 6, 36–37, 66; and blaxploitation, 6, 36–37, 139; politics of, 7, 72–73, 159n8; and social responsibility, 25–26 Black Skin, White Masks (Fanon), 10, 156n2 Black Space (Nama), 158n21 Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans (Brown), 3 Black Vulcan, 29–31 Blacula (1972), 89; and black nationalism, 139 Blade, 52, 53, 110, 138–142, 140–142 Blade (1998), 7, 138–142, 141, 142, 164n12; and blaxploitation, 139, 163nn10–11; and pandemics, evocative of, 139–141; and racial revenge, 139; romance in, 141–142 Blankman (1994), 137–138 blaxploitation, 54, 139; and black masculinity, 53–55; characters as superheroes, 6, 36–39, 129; and civil rights, 36–37; and racial stereotypes,

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INDEX

3, 12, 25, 29, 77; as spectacle, 19–22. See also specific actors and films Boss Nigger (1975), 38, 39. See also Williamson, Fred “The Hammer” Bowen, Tandy. See Dagger boxing, 22–23 Bradley, Isaiah, 92; as black Captain America, 114–118; origin story, 114–117; son of, 118. See also Captain America Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, The (Díaz), 11 Bright, Mark: and Black Panther, 51 Brooks, Avery: as Hawk, 128 “Brothers and Keepers.” See Captain America and the Falcon Brother Voodoo, 7, 52, 53, 92, 105–110, 108, 109; and Afro diaspora, 107; as Dr. Voodoo, 110, 111; guest appearances, 110; origin story, 105; and zombies, 107–110 Brown, Jeffrey A.: on blaxploitation, 37; Black Superheroes, Milestone Comics, and Their Fans, 3; on Icon, 93–96 Brown, Jim, 37–38, 62; as model for Luke Cage/Power Man. See also Three the Hard Way “Burn, Whitey, Burn,” 72 Busiek, Kurt, 26 Cage (1992–1998), 62 Cage (Azzarella, Corben, and Villarrubia, 2002), 62–65 Cage (2003), 158n16 Cage, Luke, 6, 52, 57, 59, 60, 64, 86, 105, 110; and Black Power, 65, 66; and blaxploitation, 53–55; and hip-hop, 62–65, 63, 158n16; inspiration for, 113; and institutionalized racism, 55–56; and martial arts, 58–59; as noir detective, 158n18; origin story, 55–56; and prison reform, 62–65; and racial formation, 66. See also Power Man camp, 127–128, 132, 160n36

Captain America, 71; black reinventions of, 7, 92, 114–118, 115, 116, 118, 119, 120, 121–122; death of, 152; and Falcon, 7, 70–72, 73, 77–79, 129; Jewishness of, 159n1; origin story, 69; and patriotism, 69, 72 “Captain America: Disassembled” (2004), 129, 130. See also Captain America and the Falcon Captain America and the Falcon (Kirby, 1971–978), 68–78, 71; and Black Power politics, 72–73; and race relations, 70–73, 81 Captain America and the Falcon (Priest, 2004), 129; and race relations, 78–79 Carmichael, Stokely, 42 Carter, Linda: as Wonder Woman, 99 Carter, Rubin “Hurricane,” 55 Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (Williams): black revival, 90 Catwoman, 7, 127–128, 127 Catwoman (2004), 127, 128, 145 civil rights, 8, 16–17, 26, 72, 78, 154; and Black Power, 42; and representation, 36–37 Civil War, 92 Civil War series, 51, 52, 79, 158n19; and the Patriot Act, 152 Clark, Kenneth: doll experiment, 9–10 Cleaver, Eldridge: Soul on Ice, 55 Cleopatra Jones (1973), 38 Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold (1975), 38 Client, The (Priest and Texeira, 2001), 48–51, 49 Cloak, 7, 83, 84, 86; origin story, 82 Cloak and Dagger (1983–1985), 81–88, 83, 84, 160n36; and racial symbolism, 85, 160n34; and symbiosis, 85 Cloak and Dagger (Mantlo, 1988): symbiotic race relations, 85–88, 87 Coca-Cola: and multiculturalism, 11–12 Cold War, 110

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Cole, Kevin “Kasper,” 122. See also White Tiger Comic Book Nation (Wright), 3, 5 comics, general, 2; effect on youth culture, 3, 10–11, 156n3; Bronze Age, 162n23; Silver Age, 44, 162n23. See also adult-themed comics; DC Comics; independent comics; Marvel Comics; white audience Comics Code, 10–11 Cool Hand Luke (1967), 56 Corben, Richard: and Luke Cage, 62, 65 Cosby, Bill: in I Spy, 68, 69 Crew, The, 92. See also Crew, The Crew, The (Priest), 7, 118–125, 124 Crisis on Infinite Earths series, 102 Culp, Robert: in I Spy, 68 Dagger, 7, 83, 84, 86, 87; as focus of series, 86, 160n36; origin story, 82 Dark Knight, The, 126 Davenport, Christian: on crossover, 132–133 David, Keith: as Spawn, 133 Davis, Angela, 55 Davis, Miles, 50, 110 DC Comics, 3, 4, 12, 25, 36, 37, 133, 161n11. See also specific artists, characters, titles, and writers DC universe, 25, 31, 35, 39, 98, 102 “Death of Superman, The” (1992), 92 Díaz, Junot: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, 11 Disguised as Clark Kent (Figroth), 158–159n1 Ditko, Steve: and Dr. Strange, 107 Dobson, Tamara, 38 Dolemite, 38 Downey, Jr., Robert: as Iron Man, 81 Dr. Doom, 52, 58 Dr. Strange, 105–106 Dr. Strange (1978), 126

Drumm, Jericho, 105. See also Brother Voodoo Dr. Voodoo, 110 Dunn, David, 142–143, 143–144 Eco, Umberto, 8 economics, 6, 73; and colonialism, 43–44; and inequality, 26, 37, 44, 93, 122, 159–160n16, 163n37 equality, racial, 4, 6–7; and Falcon, 70–72. See also economics: and inequality Enemy of the State (Priest and Texeira, 2001), 48, 50 Enter the Dragon (1973), 38, 58 Exiles, the, 70 Falcon, 1–2, 7, 53, 69–70, 71, 74–76, 105, 130; disappearance from series, 78; and Hawk, 129; and negative racial representation, 159n2; origin, 70; and racial equality, 70–72, 77; and social mobility, 73–77; true identity of, 77 Fanon, Frantz: Black Skins, White Masks, 10, 156n2 Fantastic Four, 12, 42–43. See also specific characters Fantastic Four, 42–43 FEMA. See New Orleans Figrith, Danny: on Jewishness and superheroes, 158–159n1 flight, 1–2; and social mobility, 73–77 Foster, Bill, 90, 161n6. See also Black Goliath Freeman IV, Augustus, 96. See also Icon Friedrich, Gary, 72 Fury, Nick: black reinvention of, 7, 92, 113–114, 113; and military-industrial complex, 110–113; white, 110–113, 112 Gambit (2005), 110 Gardner, Guy, 17 Giant-Man, 90

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INDEX

Gilroy, Paul: on racial identity, 89; on symbiotic race relationships, 88 Give Me Liberty (1991), 105 Goebbels, Joseph, 117 Goliath, 90 Green Arrow, 12–19, 13, 14, 18, 34. See also Queen, Oliver Green Hornet, 67–68 Green Hornet, The (1966–1967), 67–68, 69 Green Lantern, 6, 12–19, 13, 14, 18, 20, 21; black reinvention of, 20, 21, 29–35; in Justice League/Justice League Unlimited, 29–31; mythos of, 31. See also Gardner, Guy; Jordan, Hal; Stewart, John Green Lantern (2011), 34 Green Lantern Corps, 35; and ethnic diversity, 31–34 Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow (Adams, O’Neil), 13, 14, 18; and Black Power politics, 17–19, 20, 21; and racial issues, representation of, 6, 12–17, 13, 14, 26–29, 34, 72; and racial justice, 17, 18, 98 Green Lantern: Mosaic. See Mosaic Grier, David Alan, 62, 138 Grier, Pam, 162n23 Guardians of the Universe, 17–19, 31 Hancock (2008), 7, 145, 147–149, 148; and real black superstars, 148–149 Handi-Man, 137–138 Harlem, 55, 70, 158n18 Hawk, 128–129 Hawkins, Dr. Miles, 129–131. See also M.A.N.T.I.S. Hebdige, Dick, 8 Henry, John, 94; and black mythology, 92–93, 95 Heroes (2006–2010), 7, 145, 146–147 hip-hop, 8, 164n19; and Luke Cage, 62–65, 158n16; and racial identity, metaphor for, 90–91

Hitch, Bryan: and Luke Cage, 113 Hitler, Adolf, 22; and Captain America, 114, 117 Hollywood movies and television, 4, 107, 128; and racial representation, 12, 66, 81, 158n20 Holocaust, representations of, 114–118, 116 House of M: Avengers (2008), 64, 65–66 House Party (1990), 51 Hudlin Brothers, 51. See also specific movies Hudlin, Reginald: and Black Panther, 51–53, 110. See also Bad Mutha; Civil War Hulk, the, 1, 12, 131, 144 hypermasculinity: and black superheroes, 3, 164n17 Icon, 7, 97, 110, 161n15; as black Superman, 93–98; origin story, 93–96; and racial justice, 96–98 Icon (McDuffie), 98 identity, racial: construction of, 5–6, 118, 144–145 Image Comics, 133 Incredible Hulk, the. See Hulk, the Incredible Hulk, The (TV series, 1978–1979), 131, 132 independent comics, 4, 164n27. See also Image Comics; Milestone In Living Color (TV series, 1990–1994), 62, 137 Invincible Iron Man, The, 79 Iron Fist, 60, 61: partnership with Power Man, 58–62 Iron Fist, 105 Iron Man, 1, 79, 92, 118 Iron Man, 7 Iron Man (2008), 81 Iron Man 2 (2010), 81, 113 Irons, John Henry: based on John Henry, 92–93, 138. See also Steel

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I Spy (TV series, 1965–1968), 68, 69, 127 Jackman, Hugh: as Wolverine, 145 Jackson, George, 55 Jackson, Samuel L.: as Mr. Glass, 113, 143, 143; as Nick Fury, 113, 113–114; other roles, 113 Jensen, Dr. Karen, 141, 142 Johnson, Jack, 22, 23, 50 Johnson, Tyrone. See Cloak Joker, the, 58, 126, 164n26 Jordan, Hal, 15, 17–19, 21, 31, 34, 157n27. See also Green Lantern Jungle Action (1972–1976), 44 Junta, 118, 119, 122–123, 124 Justice, 118, 119, 120 Justice League of America, 26 Justice League/ Justice League Unlimited (2001–2006), 29–31 Kato, 68, 69 Katrina. See New Orleans Kelly, Jim, 37–38. See also Three the Hard Way Kennedy, Bobby, 15–16 Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003), 68 “Kind of Loving, A Way of Death, A”: and racial bigotry, 16–17 King, Jr., Dr. Martin Luther, 15–16, 19 Kirby, Jack, 12; Black Panther, 44–48; and Captain America, 68. See also specific titles Kitt, Eartha: as Catwoman, 7, 127, 128 Klan, the, 16, 33, 45 Knight, Misty, 105 Kung Fu (TV series, 1972–1975), 58 Latino superheroes, 146–147, 163n39. See also Junta Ledger, Heath: as the Joker, 126 Lee, Bruce, 38, 58, 68

Lee, Stan, 12; at Marvel, 86 Leila: and Falcon, 70, 73 Lowndes County Freedom Organization, 39–42 Lucas, Carl, 55–56. See also Cage, Luke Luke Cage Noir (2009–2010), 158n18 Lumbly, Carl: as M.A.N.T.I.S., 129, 131 lynching, 162n34 “Madness in the Slums,” 72 Maguire, Tobey: as Spider-Man, 144 Man Called Hawk, A (TV series, 1989), 7, 128–129 Manly, Mike: and Black Panther, 51 M.A.N.T.I.S., 129–132, 131; origin story, 129 M.A.N.T.I.S. (TV series, 1994–1995), 7, 129–132, 131 Mantlo, Bill: Cloak and Dagger, 86 martial arts, 38, 58–59, 68 Marvel Comics, 3, 4, 12, 36, 37, 42, 51, 79, 86, 90, 102, 105, 110, 133. See also specific artists, characters, titles, and writers Marvels (1994), 50, 113 Marvel universe, 39, 43, 50, 65, 113, 160n27 McDuffie, Dwayne, 29; and Icon, 98 McFarlane, Todd: and Image Comics, 133; and Spawn, 133, 134; and SpiderMan, 13 Mengele, Josef, 117 Meteor Man (1993), 137 middle class, black, 25–26, 73; in film, 51 Milestone Comics, 3, 53, 93 Miller, Frank, 26, 134; and Batman, 86, 105 Mod Squad, The (TV series, 1968–1973), 127 Moore, Alan, 134 Moore, Rudy Ray, 38 Morales, Robert: Truth: Red, White & Black, 114 Mosaic (1992–1993): and Afrofuturism, 31; and racial existentialism, 31–34, 32, 33, 34

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INDEX

Mr. Fantastic, 29, 42–43, 131 Mr. Glass, 143–144, 143 Muhammad, Elijah, 23 Mutant Misadventures of Cloak and Dagger (Austin), 160n36 Nation of Islam, 23 Native Americans, 17 Nazis, 15, 22; and Captain America, 69, 114, 117 Newman, Paul, 56 Newmar, Julie: as Catwoman, 127–128 New Odd Couple, The (1982–1983), 89–90 New Orleans: post-Katrina, 52–53, 110 Newton, Huey P., 55 “Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” 110, 112 Nick Fury’s Howling Commandoes (2005–2006), 110 Nixon, Richard, 12, 72 Nkrumah, Kwame, 43 “No Evil Shall Escape My Sight”: and racism, 15–16 Nubia, 7, 92, 98–102, 100, 101, 110, 161n18, 162n23; doll, 99–102; as Nu’Bia, 102; origin story, 98–99; race and gender, 99 Obama, Barack, 8; as the Joker, 164n26; as superhero, 7, 149–153, 150, 151, 164n22 Odd Couple, The (1970–1975), 89 O’Neal, Shaquille: as Steel, 138 O’Neil, Dennis, 25; and Green Lantern, 6, 26–29, 34–35, 98; Superman vs. Muhammad Ali, 22. See also Green Lantern Co-Starring Green Arrow Outsiders, the, 26 Palmiotti, Jimmy, 50 Parker, Peter: “black” version of, 144–145 Patriot Act, 152

patriotism, American, 152; and Captain America, 69, 72, 77; and Martha Washington, 105; and Muslim identity, 121 Patterson, Orlando: on violence, 136 Pfeiffer, Michelle: as Catwoman, 128 Pierce, Jefferson, 25–26, 34. See also Black Lightning post–baby boomers, 128, 134 Power Man, 53–56, 58–62, 60, 61, 65, 66, 113. See also Cage, Luke Power Man and Iron Fist (1978–1986), 58–62, 60, 61 Pratt, Elmer “Geronimo,” 55 Price, Elijah. See Mr. Glass Priest, Christopher, 48, 50, 118, 123, 129. See also specific titles Prince, Diana, 98, 99 prison reform, 55–56 Pym, Henry “Hank,” 29, 90, 161nn4–5. See also Goliath Queen, Oliver, 15. See also Green Arrow Quesada, Joe, 50 race, and spectacle, 19–22, 22–23, 157n15. See also blaxploitation race reversal: in films and television, 89–90 Raimi, Sam: Spider-Man, 141, 144 reconciliation, racial, 153–154 Red Skull, 70, 77, 144 Reed, Jefferson, 137 Reeves, George: as Superman, 138 reimagining, racial: sampling as metaphor, 90–91 Reynolds, Richard: Super Heroes, 2–3 Rhodes, Jim, 7, 80; in The Crew, 118–121; in Iron Man movies, 81; and Tony Stark, 79–81, 160n27. See also War Machine Richards, Reed, 42, 58, 131. See also Mr. Fantastic

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Richards, Sue, 29 Rituals of Blood (Patterson), 136 Rocket: Icon’s sidekick, 98 Rogers, Steve, 69, 70; as Nomad, 72. See also Captain America Romero, George, 11, 110 Roundtree, Richard: as Shaft, 48, 129 Ross, Alex: and Luke Cage, 113; and Obama, 149, 150, 152, 164n22 Ross, Everett K., 50–51 San Quentin, 55 science fiction, 31–34, 117, 132; and blackness, 113, 158n21; and Black Panther, 44–48, 66; and Steel, 93 Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos (1963), 110 Shaft, John, 129 Shaft (1971), 37, 129 Shakur, Tupac, 65 S.H.I.E.L.D., 110 Shuster, Joe: and Superman, 92, 133 Shyamalan, M. Night, 142 sidekicks: minorities as, 67–68, 70 Siegal, Jerry: and Superman, 92, 133 Simmons, Al, 133. See also Spawn Simon, Joe: and Captain America, 68 “Six-Million Year Man, The,” 44–48, 47 slavery, 136; evocations of, 114; and Icon, 93–98 Smith, Will: as Hancock, 147, 148; other roles, 147; as sci-fi film icon, 147 Snipes, Wesley: as Blade, 139, 141, 142 social mobility, 25, 73–77 South, American, 93–96 Spawn, 132–137, 135; and demonization of black man, 136–137; origin story, 133; and racial identity, 132–133, 134; and violence, 134–137 Spawn (1992–present), 7, 133, 135; gothic sensibility of, 134–136 Spawn (TV series, 1997–1999), 133

Spawn, The (1997), 7, 133, 134 Spider-Man, 12, 131-132. See also Parker, Peter Spider-Man, Inaugural issue, 149, 151 Spider-Man (2002), 141 Spider-Man 3 (2007), 7, 144 Stark, Tony, 58, 79–81, 92, 131, 160n27. See also Iron Man Star Trek (1966–1969): and racial unity, 31 Steel, 92–93, 94, 95, 138 Steel (1994–1998), 7, 93, 161n11 Steel (1997), 137, 138 Steranko, Jim: Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., 162n3 Stewart, John, 6, 17–19, 20, 21, 30; action figure, 34; and affirmative action, 29; and Black Power politics, 17–19, 34; in Mosaic, 31–34, 32, 33, 34; in Justice League/Justice League Unlimited, 29–31; romantic relationships, 29, 30. See also Black Lantern; Green Lantern Storm, 7, 52, 102, 145, 146, 162n26; and Black Panther, 105, 106 Strange, Stephen, 58, 110. See also Dr. Strange Strange Tales: and Brother Voodoo, featuring, 105, 109; and Nick Fury, featuring, 110 Strickland, Carol A.: on Nubia, 98–99 Stromberg, Fredrik: Black Images in the Comics, 2 Superboy #216, 36 Super Fly (1972), 6, 19, 37 Super Friends (TV series, 1973–1986), 29–31, 99 Super Heroes (Reynolds), 2–3 superheroes, female, 99–103, 161n18. See also specific characters superheroes, male. See specific characters Superhuman Registration, 79. See also Civil War series

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INDEX

Superman, 10, 22–23, 26, 89, 96, 136, 138; black reinvention of, 7, 92; and Jewishness, 159n1 Superman vs. Muhammad Ali (Adams and O’Neil, 1978), 6; and American race relations, 22–23 Supernaturals (1998): and Brother Voodoo, 110 Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971), 19, 37 symbiosis, 85–88 Tarantino, Quentin, 68 Tarzan the Ape Man: as symbol of racial superiority, 3, 10, 42, 156n2 T’Challa, 39, 42–44; and anticolonialist movement, 43; and racial consciousness, 51–53; and urban “cool,” 48–51. See also Black Panther television shows, 2, 7, 131–132; featuring black protagonists, 8, 127. See also specific shows and series Texeira, Mark: and Black Panther, 48, 51. See also Client, The; Enemy of the State Theron, Charlize: in Hancock, 147–148 This Book Contains Graphic Language (Versaci), 117 Three the Hard Way (1974), 37–38, 53 tokenism, 25–26, 51, 146 Tonto: as consummate sidekick, 67 Townshend, Robert, 137 Truth: Red, White & Black (Baker and Morales, 2003): and the Holocaust, representations of, 114–118, 115, 116; and institutionalized racism, 114–118 Tui, Katma, 29, 30 Tuskegee experiment, 162n32 “Two Americas,” 78–79, 129 Ultimate Marvel Team Up (2001), 113 “Ulysses Star Is Still Alive”: and racial justice, 17, 18

Unbreakable (2000), 7, 113, 142–149, 143; and racial coding, 144 Uncanny X-Men trilogy (2000, 2003, 2006), 102 Undercover Brother (2002), 38 Versaci, Rocco: This Book Contains Graphic Language, 117 Vietnam War, 12, 23 Villarrubia, Jose: and Luke Cage, 62 Vincent, Danny, 122. See also Junta Vixen, 29, 105 voodoo, 107 War Machine, 79–81, 80, 118, 121 War Machine, 79–81 Washington, Martha, 7, 104; and patriotism, 105 Watergate, 72 Wayans, Damon: as Handi-Man/Blankman, 137–138 Wertham, Fredric, 156n3; Comics Code, 10 westerns, 39 Whale, Tobias, 25, 27, 157n20 White, Michael Jai: as Spawn, 134 white audience: response to black superheroes, 3, 5, 132–133 white privilege, 16–17, 157n20 White Tiger, 118, 119, 122, 123 Wild Wild West (1965–1969), 39 Williams, Tennessee, 90 Williamson, Fred “The Hammer,” 37–38. See also Three the Hard Way Willis, Bruce: in Unbreakable, 142 Wilson, Sam, 70, 72; dark past as “Snap” Wilson, 77, 78. See also Falcon Wolfman, Marv: and Blade, 139 Wolverine, 145 Wonder Woman, 7; and Nubia, 98–102, 100, 101, 131 Wonder Woman (1975–1979), 99–102, 101

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World War II, 69, 110, 113, 114, 117 Wright, Bradford: Comic Book Nation, 3, 5 X, Josiah, 120; Muslim identity and patriotism, 121–122. See also Justice

X-Men, 11, 102, 103 X-Men (2000), 145 X-Men: Last Stand (2006), 145 X2 (2003), 145 Y: The Last Man, 105

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