The Mysterious Sofia: One Woman’s Mission to Save Catholicism in Twentieth-Century Mexico (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2019).
The Mysterious Sofia: One Woman’s Mission to Save Catholicism in Twentieth-Century Mexico (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2019).
Before Superman, before Batman, before Wonder Woman there was Zorro. And Zorro was the product of Latinx culture.
Superman first appeared in Action Comics #1 in April 1938. Batman first started skulking around Gotham in 1939. Wonder Woman flew in from mythical Themyscira in 1941. But even before that, there were others. A decade before, in 1930, we can find The Shadow. Mandrake the Magician started mind control in 1934. And, of course, there’s even the very early comic strip from 1902–1903 with Hugo Hercules.
These, and others, certainly deserve their place as “America’s First Superheroes.”
But, we can point to other heroes, some even without superhuman abilities, as the true originators of the superheroic genre. We really have to look to the canon of romantic novels from the nineteenth century, as well as the huge volume of pulp literature from the early twentieth century for the origins of America’s superheroes.
-1. Alexandre Dumas — Father and Son.
In the 1800s, we find English and French novelists writing romantic tales with swashbuckling heroes; tales of cape and sword. We could list, among these authors, Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. In France, we find Alexandre Dumas and his The Three Musketeers and the sequels. Also, Dumas’ own The Count of Monte Cristo provides an important prototype for a hero who has to masquerade as someone he’s not in order to exact revenge on his enemies. None of these characters have superhuman powers. But they do have extraordinary skills, often have to carry out their schemes for justice in secret, and there’s always an element of derring-do about them.
A recent book by Tom Reiss, The Black Count (winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Biography), describes the real-life adventures of Alexandre Dumas, Sr. The father of the famous novelist, Dumas, Sr. was born in France’s Caribbean slave colonies and was the product of a White-planter father and a Black mother. Remarkably, Dumas, Sr. emigrated to France and rose in the French Revolutionary army. He was hailed for his remarkable sword skills, his intimidating physique, and his “superhuman” ability to lift a horse off its feet with just his powerful legs. Reiss argues, in the book, that Dumas, Sr. inspired his son’s most famous novels and provides the template for the Count of Monte Cristo. Napoleon, apparently, envied Dumas, Sr. and left him to rot in a dungeon in Italy after the Egyptian campaign — a plot that sounds a lot like the Monte Cristo novel written by Dumas, Jr.
Tom Reiss’ book describes the first “superman” as a biracial soldier from Revolutionary France.
Reiss writes: “In The Count of Monte Cristo, Dumas would give his betrayed protagonist not only the fate of his father’s final years but also a fictional taste of a dark sort of triumph. In the novel’s hero you can see the premise of every modern thriller from Batman comics to The Bourne Identity. No other adventure novel of the nineteenth century carries its resonance. After escaping the dungeon and securing the treasure of Monte Cristo, Dantes builds a luxurious subterranean hideout in the caves of the island. He becomes master of all styles of combat, though he mainly uses his mind to defeat his enemies, bending the law and other institutions to his superhuman will. Knowing that the world is violent and corrupt, the Count becomes master of violence and corruption — all with the goal of helping the weakest and most victimized people of all. The Count is the first fictional hero to announce himself as a “superman,” anticipating Nietzsche — not to mention the birth of comics — by many years.”
So, any discussion of America’s first superhero should take into account the Count of Monte Cristo, by Alex Dumas — and based on the real-life adventures and tragedies of the novelist’s father. And note: the first character to describe himself as a “superman” was created by a writer of mixed heritage; one who had to constantly battle racist reviews because of his background.
-2. Penny Dreadfuls and the Scarlet Pimpernel
Moving forward in time, we find two important precursors to the modern American superhero.
The first was birthed in Penny Dreadful publications in England. The character Spring-Heeled Jack appeared in 1837. He was an urban legend, a frightful character described as diabolical, with clawed hands, with eyes of burning fire. He was known for his extraordinary leaps and ability to jump — from which came the “spring-heeled” sobriquet. But he could also appear as a gentlemen, alluding to the importance of disguise. But Jack was a villain, a terror. He wasn’t known for “Robin Hood” style adventures.
He looks a lot like Batman, really.
Zorro: Swords of Hell, Part II offers a realistic portrait of Zorro’s World — All while battling undead Zombies!
Main Cover Art: Roy Allan Martinez and Gwenaelle Daligault. Published by American Mythology Productions.
A horde of the undead is not the only enemy Zorro faces in a new comic, issue #2 of American Mythology Production’s Zorro: Swords of Hell four-part series. (A review of Issue #1 is here).
The myth of forced diversity — it’s the other important, and perhaps even more insidious, villain Zorro battles in the new issue. It’s also an important enemy for the book’s writer, David Avallone.
“There is no such thing as forced diversity,” Avallone told me in a recent phone interview. “There’s only forced lack of diversity. Any all-white, all-male state has been created artificially by white males.”
Forced diversity is the derisive criticism of historical or fictional renderings of the past wherein the writer supposedly “forces diversity” by creating the presence of so-called non-normative peoples.
In other words: gay people, people of color, people of diverse sizes, or abilities. All these people weren’t really part of the past, so this theory goes, because “that’s not how it was THEN.” White people, especially white men, were those who held power, those who made history. And if we’re saddened and shocked by that, well, that’s because that was REALITY then. We shouldn’t, according to critics of diversifying the past, simply create diversity in the past that wasn’t there, all because we, in today’s world, value diversity.
Take, for instance, criticisms of the hit Broadway musical Hamilton or snipes at the film The Greatest Showman. Or, perhaps even, the lesbian relationship presented in the Netflix series Anne With an E, the reimagining of the classic Anne of Green Gables novels.
Forced diversity! cry critics of writing these and other characters into history or art of the past.
They might say the same of Zorro: Swords of Hell. (We’re still leaving aside the hordes of undead, by the way).
Zorro, as written by David Avallone, is a mestizo. He’s a product of mixed origin. His mother was of the Tongva tribe. His grandmother, a curandera, or spiritual healer. Avallone began to write Zorro this way before he realized that novelist Isabel Allende had done similarly in her 2005 take on the masked avenger.
In the conventional story, started by Johnston McCulley 100 years ago, picked up in countless iterations and films, Zorro always had a Spanish, or pure, “blue blood,” heritage, unsullied by admixture.
No Indians or Mexicans in his blood, in other words.
In Isabel Allende’s rendering of the story, said David Avallone in our recent interview, “Diego is mestizo, making him an appropriate protector of Southern California, you know, by representing all of the people. But also that, canonically, his grandmother was a curandera. Better to use grandma than random witchdoctor!”
All that is to say that a Zorro of mixed heritage actually better represents the REALITY of the diversity that was actually part of Southern California’s history. And, also, Avallone uses the Tongva tribe as the indigenous people who inhabited the geography that would become present day Los Angeles. And it’s the Tongva tribe, Avallone told me, who hold the key to Zorro’s victory over the undead hordes.
“When they said make it supernatural, I was actually relieved,” Avallone told me. “That I haven’t seen before. That’s a fun way to go with Zorro. You have to give Zorro a challenge he can’t just swing a blade at. He has to draw on other resources, or ways of approaching the world. I have his grandmother saying, ‘you can’t just stab it to death.’”
Lolita and Zorro’s mother are feminist heroes. Zorro’s mother and grandmother are warriors of the Tongva tribe.
David Avallone has written a story that makes sense. “What would the Tongva have called a witchdoctor?” he told me. “So, that’s where you get the Jaguar Brujo in the story. And that’s where you get the curandera.” The underworld, he tells me, is connected to the La Brea tarpits, where he recalled reading Allende’s novel and a comment made by characters that it was a place of spirits.
Diversity, in other words, is not forced in the new take on Zorro. If you take seriously the social context, the ethnic makeup of Southern California at the time, and the ways in which spiritual worldviews mixed and overlapped, then Zorro: Swords of Hell becomes, ironically, is a more accurate representation of the time than the strictly white, aristocratic, Spanish fantasy heritage of many traditional renderings of the Zorro story.
“I will say this one thing,” David Avallone told me in our interview, “which is not an excuse but an explanation, that a lot sexism and racism in art is a lack of imagination if nothing else. I think if you’re a writer sitting at a keyboard and you’re writing a scene and the scene calls for a doctor to walk into the room and you’re a white middle-aged guy. You go, well a white middle-aged guy walks into the room. In the twenty-first century you have to be really squintin’ hard…I mean, I haven’t had a white middle-aged doctor in thirty years.”
Bernardo, Zorro’s friend and fellow member of the Tongva, gives Zorro a few lessons in fighting the undead.
So, the idea of “forced diversity” is perhaps more fantastical than Zorro fighting the undead, which Zorro does actually do in Issue #2.
But, he has help.
David Avallone was at first reticent to write Bernardo, Zorro’s mute manservant, into his new comic series. He always seemed too much like the stereotypical Tonto character from the Lone Ranger. But, here again, Avallone saw Bernardo as an important link to the Tongva tribe and the key to Zorro’s salvation.
The incredibly sad part, Avallone told me, is that the Tongva have all but disappeared. There is really no thorough description of their spiritual words. Was the underworld a place of pleasure or of torment? Was the underworld goddess a crone or a beauty? These are issues David Avallone will tackle in issue #3 and #4. But, what is certain, is that there is no failure of imagination in Avallone’s rendering of Zorro and his worlds.
The Graphic Novel Crossover by Quentin Tarantino and Matt Wagner.
What happens when you team up an African American avenger with a Latino vigilante?
Justice, my friends.
Or, at least, Spaghetti Western justice.
The Django/Zorro seven-issue crossover graphic novel is the first and, at this point, the only official sequel to a Quentin Tarantino film.
The art, by Esteve Polls, is magnificent. Iconic. Just putting Zorro and Django side-by-side looks, well, really cool.
The colors, by Brennan Wagner, are mood-driven and help the reader navigate flashbacks, cuts, and they help us feel filmic emotions.
The story is by Quentin Tarantino and by Zorro-writing veteran Matt Wagner (The Mage Trilogy, among many others). Wagner wrote the Zorro trilogy published by Dynamite (2008) and based on the novel, Zorro, by Isabel Allende (2005). So, Django/Zorro is a sequel both to Django Unchained (2012) and the Zorro storyline by Wagner.
And that teaming shows. Tarantino invited Wagner to his Los Angeles home and the two spent a few days brainstorming on the story. They watched old Zorro movies in Tarantino’s home theater. They became buds, in other words.
What we get with Django/Zorro is a tension between, perhaps, competing visions. On the one hand, we see Django continue as an ex-slave ready and willing to kill anyone who stands in the way of freedom. And, in Django Unchained, Django Freeman is the ONLY one who is fighting for freedom, it seems. Everyone else is simply subservient, or too oppressed, or in the case of Stephen the House Slave (Samuel L. Jackson), too drunk with the power that collaboration has given him.
On the other hand, we meet Don Diego de la Vega, in his hoighty-toighty carriage, playing the fop. He just-so-happens to cross paths with Django. (This is an element taken from the Django Unchained film where he crosses paths with Dr. King Schultz, played by Christoph Waltz). Don Diego is old. It’s the late 1850s, and so we catch up with Zorro in the winter of his life. Yet, he’s still trying to protect the oppressed. He’s traveled to Arizona — where the action begins — to deal with the so-called Archduke Gurko Langdon who has forged his wife’s lineage and propped himself up as ruler in an alternate history of pre-US Arizona.
And here’s the tension: Django exists as a one-man riff on a false mythology of American slavery. That, for instance, slaves didn’t fight back. That they were all more like Stephen the House Slave than like Django Freeman. Django, in Tarantino’s film and graphic novel incarnations, says that there are n-words who are black, who are white, and who are red. Anyone who doesn’t fight back, essentially. Yet, the reality is that enslaved people did fight back. They ran away. They resisted— for instance, Frederick Douglas claimed he gained his freedom when he hit an overseer who wanted to whip him, not when he later escaped. Slave owners lived in constant fear of uprisings and rebellions. Django might inspire cheers as he kills racists and slave owners. But he wasn’t the only one who fought back.
Zorro, in contrast, becomes another mentor for Django. He hires Django, but really intends to enlist him in his cause to bring down the Archduke of Arizona. There is growth for the Django character. He understands that perhaps there are others ready to stand up to injustice, like he is. But, where the tension lies is in the ends that both characters seek. Django seems intent on blowing everything to hell, whereas Zorro has a more subtle, Chess-like approach. He intends to bring down the Archduke, help the Indians, but leave the social order as it is.
What is justice? in other words. That’s the subtle conflict at the heart of the Django/Zorro graphic novel that’s never really settled by the end. Sure, the Archduke is taken out, but so are others.
I won’t spoil it. Go read it.
Both Django and Zorro are encumbered by a weight of history. The history of slavery. The history of Spanish, Mexican, and American outrages in the West. Perhaps, when viewed within each of their respective stories, justice is done according to each. But, when placed together, one wonders what justice looks like now that Django and Zorro inhabit the same universe.
The Elusive Pulp Writer Rarely Spoke About His Most Famous Creation.
Johnston McCulley with Guy Williams in Disney TV Promo.
Johnston McCulley created one of the most enduring and iconic pop culture characters of the 20th Century.
I speak, of course, of Zorro.
The guy was incredibly prolific. He wrote almost 1,000 stories for the pulps. His career stretched almost 50 years (b. 1883; died 1958). His first stories began getting space in magazines like All-Story and the Railroad Men’s Magazine in 1906 to 1907. He read voraciously, claiming to go through a dozen books a week; in addition, he read the magazines to keep up on writing trends. He worked hard; really hard.
“The beginner,” McCulley said in one interview, “is going to have many of his manuscripts returned, but that is no reason why he should quit.” McCulley learned to write for his audience. “The novice can gain much by reading much. He must get some idea of how others do it — don’t copy them, but get into the swing of telling a story the way the public likes it to be told. This swing can best be understood from reading popular stories or books, that have met with instant favor by the public. The story itself of course is the big feature, but the way it is told is ninety per cent of the success of the writer.”
McCulley always loved giving writerly advice. Most of his interviews, few as they were, always focused on craft. He did one interview with Writer’s Digest, about how the new Western couldn’t be told with the old tropes. Zorro was just different enough as a “Western story” to appeal to public taste.
Zorro wasn’t his first, or only, character with a dual-identity. One of his early characters was Madame Madcap, a mask-wearing bon vivant who actually was bent on revenge against naughty, abusive men. It was called The Masked Woman, and it was published in 1920. But there were others. McCulley created pulp stories with characters such as The Green Ghost, The Black Star, The Thunderbolt, The Bat, The Mongoose, the Man in Purple, The Spider, and even the Crimson Clown. The guy loved animal alter-egos.
Zorro, in other words, was just one of many. It’s as if McCulley played with the alter-ego/mask idea and finally had huge success with Zorro. “Love, hate, greed, revenge, self-sacrifice,” he said in one 1923 interview, “have a million angles each. Combine two or three, mix with a few characters and you have a plot.” The kind of story easiest for him was of the Zorro variety, he said. “Swift-moving romance is the easiest, particularly of olden times.”
Johnston McCulley appeared on the gameshow, To Tell the Truth near the end of his life. (The McCulley segment begins at 17:00 minutes). The panel is supposed to guess who the real personality is; in this case, three guys come out in police lineup style and say they are “Johnston McCulley — the creator of Zorro.” The panelists — which include an eerily young Dick Clark — ask the three guys questions in order to figure out who the real McCulley is.
At one point, one of the panelists asks McCulley about his inspiration for Zorro. When I first saw this clip I literally held my breath…
But then: THE STUPID PANELISTS SHUT DOWN THE WOMAN’S QUESTION!!
“Oh, yes, how ridiculous to ask where he got his idea,” the male panelist guffaws. Dang it.
Watch the video.
Feel my pain.
Trying to find Zorro’s origins is partly a story about Johnston McCulley — a man who took Mexican legends and crafted his most famous creation.
A New Documentary Narrates One Man’s Journey to Find the Decapitated Head of a California Bandit who inspired the Creation of Zorro.
Was Zorro, the masked man who left his trademark “Z” on evildoers, inspired by a real-life person from history?
I get asked this quite often, actually. I’m writing a new book on the caped avenger: Zorro’s Ghost: How a Mexican Legend became America’s First Superhero. So, answer: Yes, I do think there are several historical figures who helped inspire the Zorro legend. But, no, there was no historical guy named Don Diego de la Vega who put on a mask, or was a bandit, in Old Spanish California.
The Zorro character is fiction. But there’s a real history behind the mask! (Oh, the proverbial “behind-the-mask” turn of phrase! You knew it was coming…)
Zorro’s origins are both simple and complicated. Let me explain.
The simple part: Basically a pulp fiction writer named Johnston McCulley (1883–1958) wrote the first Zorro novella in 1919. That’s one hundred years ago. It came out in serial form, five installments, in a pulp mag published by the Frank A. Munsey company. It pulp was called All-Story Weekly. McCulley titled the story The Curse of Capistrano. It had most of the story elements we’ve come to attribute to Zorro. It had the double, secret identity thing — by day Don Diego the rich heir to a California fortune; by night, the masked man who was amazing with swords and whips and had a keen sense of justice.
McCulley set his stories, there would be 65 of them in print by the time he died in 1958, in a kind of fantasy Spanish California. The friars of the missions were good and cared for the Indians. The Indians were happy. Women really loved brave, heroic caballeros, which, incidentally, allowed Don Diego to almost never be suspected as masquerading as a vigilante at night. Although this California didn’t exist in history — missions often sucked; the friars could be both corrupt and good depending; and California’s native peoples suffered tremendously from successive waves of Spanish, then Mexican, then American pillage — McCulley’s Zorro was useful to building California in the early 20th century. The idyllic Zorro was good for Hollywood, in other words.
And that’s when Hollywood came calling. In 1920, Douglas Fairbanks, Sr., the first action star of the silver screen, picked up McCulley’s Zorro and they made a movie. It was a silent film, of course. And so Fairbanks as Zorro did all these acrobatics and became even more the Zorro we’ve come to know.
That’s the simple answer to Zorro’s origins. Now, the complicated story. Or, at least a tidbit. Or, at least the head…
There was a Wild West at one time. Sure, it didn’t look like John Wayne or like the legends we’ve seen on the screen. But, there was a Wild West. Read Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and you come closer to the core of that Wild West. Or, read the book by Brian DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts, and you begin to understand the real Wild West.
It was bloody, dirty, and violent. And also mostly boring for a lot of folks. Working. Farming. Mining. Water. Food. Water. Food. Sleep. Repeat.
That Old West was also full of some pretty racist violence. Consider the history of Joaquin Murrieta, whose head wound up in a jar of pickling brine and was preserved for decades in a museum in San Francisco.
Trailer for the Documentary.
Murrieta allegedly came from Sonora in Mexico. Sonora is now Northwest Mexico, but at one time it was just Mexico — like middle-ish Mexico. Northern Mexico was Alta California back then and had small little towns we now call Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, and San Francisco. Then war came. The United States fought with Mexico (1846–1848). Mexico lost and also lost half its territory to the expanding United States.
That was in the 1840s. Sonoran people, Joaquin Murrieta and his wife — so the story goes — traveled back and forth from Sonora to the California valleys. Remember, it was all Mexico at that time. They weren’t crossing national borders. It was like traveling from New Orleans to Chicago. But then, the war. The territory transferred from Mexico to the US. California now belonged to the Untied States. The Mexicans who lived there, or migrated there, were now, all of a sudden, in a different country. And seen as foreigners.
That sucks, right? I mean, think about that. What if I’ve been traveling to Chicago for the last several decades — my family has — and now when I go to Chicago everyone sees me as a foreign invader. That’s super weird.
And so it was with Joaquin Murrieta.
To make matters worse, gold had been found in California. Competition for gold became racialized. Mexicans and Chinese were marked as alien not only because they weren’t white, but because by excluding them, Anglo miners had a better chance at their gold claims. The tale goes that Murrieta was attacked and his wife raped. It’s a classic set up for a revenge film. Murrieta, according to the tale, goes into a life of banditry. In 1853, the governor raises a posse of California Rangers to bring back Murrieta dead or alive. The trouble is no one really knows what Murrieta looks like. There’s no photos. And, the newspaper accounts — mostly sensationalized — put Murrieta in every new case of desperado robbery or horse-thieving in the state, even if they happened miles apart. There are five “Joaquins” , in fact, each with different surnames that the press talks about in the era.
It also sounds like a setup for a racial lynching.
The California Rangers just-so-happen to happen upon a gang of Mexicans and just-so-happen to kill four of them in the Arroyo Cantua. They claim one was Murrieta and another was the so-called Three-Fingered Jack, the nom-de-guerre of another notorious bandit. The Rangers, led by Captain Harry Love — does it get any weirder that the guy’s name was Love? — decapitates the head of one of the dead and cuts off the hand of another. They put them in alcohol barrels to preserve them. They brought them back to the governor’s men and collected $5,000, the bounty placed on Murrieta.
End of story.
Accept it wasn’t. The next year, in 1854, a Cherokee Indian author named John Rollin Ridge wrote a romanticized tale about Murrieta. It was called Life and Adventures of of Joaquin Murieta: The Celebrated California Bandit. (Notice the spelling change for Murrieta. There was like ten different variations!). It had the distinction of being the first novel published by a Native American and the first novel of California. And it was with Ridge’s Murrieta that we begin to see the first shades of Zorro. He was a Robin Hood. He was a code switcher, meaning he could speak and talk like a Gringo, but then reveal himself suddenly as the real “Murrieta out for revenge.”
The new edition of the 1854 novel by Ridge.
In later tellings, Mexican-Americans passed down the tale to their children and grandchildren. The novelist Richard Rodriguez writes that grandmother’s would say things like:
“Yes, he became a robber, but not a bad man maybe. He gave what he stole to poor people…He kept the blackest horse for himself. They said his heart was as black as his chin. He wore a black hat with a black feather, and a big black cape. And you could only see his eyes.”
The legend increasingly took on elements — the black hat; you could only see his eyes (a mask?); his black horse; giving to the poor — that would lay a foundation from which McCulley drew upon in creating Zorro.
McCulley wrote that Zorro, for him, symbolized “the spirit of the caballero of the times.” He said he was influenced by California history; that he read tons of books on the area. Ridge’s novel Life and Adventures was an important book in the canon of 19th century California. Murrieta was the first folk hero of the state. McCulley combined elements of Murrieta with other pulp genre tropes and 19th century romantic adventure novels. He added the Scarlet Pimpernel for good measure— disguises, rich guy coming to the aide of others — but Murrieta was still an important base in crafting the Zorro legend.
Murrieta was white-washed as Zorro. Zorro was an aristocrat, he was Spanish, and he represented the fantasy heritage McCulley and others wanted to believe about the California past. The fantasy heritage that everyone coming to California wanted to believe. It was built into their Spanish stucco rooves. It fit their laid back Spanish hacienda lifestyle. It felt good, in other words. But, of course, in touting Zorro as the symbol of the Old California, McCulley rewrote the history of actual Mexican people living there.
That’s the complicated answer. But, what about the head?
The head traveled for profit.
The head of Murrieta was kept in a glass jar after the bounty was collected. Captain Harry Love — again, crazy name for a dude that is famous for decapitating someone — traveled around California to brothels, mining camps, and saloons with the floating head pickle. They sold admission for a dollar. Eventually, the head — or was it another head, who knows? — wound up in San Francisco at Dr. Jordan’s Pacific Museum of Science and Anatomy. A three-legged chicken and the so-called Amazing Cyclops Child floated in their own jars next to the floating hair, like sea grass, of the head of Joaquin Murrieta.
But, wait. Remember that we don’t even know if it was actually the head of Joaquin Murrieta. If it was Murrieta’s head, that’s bad enough, right? But, consider: It could’ve been the head of some hapless Mexican kid who happened to be a convenient person to kill and claim as Murrieta. I’d like to remind you that there are documented 871 lynchings of Mexicans in 13 states in the American west after the Civil War.
The Head of Murrieta floating in a jar is important for us today. It symbolizes the racial violence that characterized the Old West, but also the way in which this history has been cut off from the broader stories we tell of American history. In the same way the history of Murrieta has been cut off from the history of Zorro and popular culture, the history of Mexican-Americans has been lopped off from the story of America.
John Valadez buries the head in his new documentary.
John J. Valadez is a Chicano filmmaker who has done the unthinkable. He, too, was captivated by the whole Murrieta legend. He even went to California to try and find the purported head that was said to be kept by one Walter Johnson of Santa Rosa, CA. Valadez offered the Johnson family $1,000 for the head. The family said it didn’t have the thing. They had gotten rid of it.
End of story.
Until, that is, John Valadez received a package in the mail! Yup. The head. Or, some other head — maybe it was fake? Valadez says he doesn’t know. I called him up and interviewed him about the whole thing.
“I know it’s weird, it’s quirky,” John says to me over the phone. “I’m telling the truth except for the parts that aren’t true.” He laughs.
“I decided to do what any respectable Chicano would do,” he says. A pause. “Go on a road trip!” He laughs again, this infectious hearty chuckle.
John Valadez tells me he shot the film as a journey. He visited the places in Texas and California where Mexican-Americans died in racial violence. He travels back to the Arroyo Cantua, the place where the original crime was committed, and buries the head.
And we actually see that head at the end of the film. It looks fake. But, then again, a decapitated head in a jar always probably seems mostly surreal.
“The story of Murrieta has haunted America. It’s like the Donner Party,” John tells me during our phone conversation.
As I say goodbye to John, I think about what Richard Rodriguez wrote regarding Joaquin Murrieta. “We are all bandits,” he writes. “We’ve stolen California from the Mexicans. And they stole it from the Spaniards. And they stole it from the Indians. We can deal with the guilt history places on us only when we free ourselves from the ghosts.”
Finding the origins to Zorro is about dealing with those ghosts, uncovering the painful history of the Old West, and perhaps allowing us to see American culture as a product of Mexican and Latino contribution. Zorro is often seen as America’s first blueprint for the modern superhero. It’s time to reclaim Zorro’s lost head and tell better stories.
New Comic, Zorro: Swords of Hell (part I of IV) — Review
Zorro fights the undead in new comic series. Credit: Roy Allan Martinez & Enrica Eren Angiolini, covert art.
Zorro turns 100 years-old in 2019.
The masked man in black is older than Wonder Woman (a spry 78 years-old); older than Batman (he’s 80); Superman (81), and even older than The Shadow (89 years-old). Zorro, the Spanish word for “fox,” has been fighting corrupt governors and politicians in Old Alta California for a century. But Westerns are sorta played out these days, according to Mike Wolfer, writer of an upcoming Zorro storyline:
“Zorro was one the earliest American literary heroes, created during the time when Westerns were enjoying immense popularity, but with each passing decade, we’re farther and farther away from the age when Western themes, and the mystique of the ‘wild west,’ were still within living memory of many readers.”
Many readers, in short, don’t get excited about “The West” anymore. In the 1990s, under writer Don McGregor and artist Mike Mayhew, Zorro’s nemeses took on a more comic-book edge to attract younger readers. There was Moonstalker, a aggrieved Native American bent on revenge; there was Buck Wylde, a friggin’ crazy racist buckskin wearing trapper; and then there was the alluring but, for Zorro, of course, dangerously so, Lady Rawhide — dressed, we might add, as if Annie Oakley shopped at Frederick’s of Hollywood. Zorro even fought the original nighttime skulker himself — Drah-cu-lah — in a two-part series wherein Zorro just can’t understand why the Count has so much game with Zorro’s lady! Luckily, for Zorro, a bit of the real Crown of Thorns was at hand for a makeshift weapon against the bloodsucker par excellence.
It was a real good try, in other words. Zorro was trying to break out of the old, dusty well-worn Western tropes he was born into. But maybe it wasn’t enough.
How do you tell new stories about Zorro, the fox, after 100 years?
Answer: Hordes, like actual hordes, of the undead.
“A century later,” says Mike Wolfer, “modern readers are a bit reluctant to embrace western themes, so basically, we’re appealing to more modern tastes by skewing our tales toward horror, and the fun aside is that we’re introducing the ‘Old West,’ its settings and themes to readers who have never seen it.”
Correction: Herds, like actual herds, of the undead.
To celebrate the original caped avenger’s 100th birthday, American Mythology Productions has released Zorro: Swords of Hell. It’s a four-part miniseries and the first issue is smartly written and gorgeously drawn and colored. The writer of the new series, David Avallone (Bettie Page, Elvira, Twilight Zone: The Shadow, Doc Savage), gives us a one-page setup and then: the aforesaid hordes of undead crawl out of the La Brea Tar pits looking for slaughter, and to slaughter in particular, Don Diego de la Vega, Zorro’s whimpy, primpy alter-ego.
But that one-page setup is classic. It’s a nod to Zorros of the past, but with a 21st-century gender sensibility. We find Don Diego fencing with his fiancee, Lolita. It’s a scene evocative of the Banderas/Zeta-Jones duel in the 1998 film The Mask of Zorro.
The opening scene in Zorro: Swords of Hell has the fire we expect in Zorro stories. It has the sexual tension mixed with challenge. It has the “You-can’t-bed-me-if-you-can’t-beat-me” sorta vibe. But, under Avallone’s direction — with great framing by Roy Allan Martinez — it’s not clear whom has bested whom. They emerge together, Diego and Lolita, as two badasses who have the steel and metal to face all human foes.
“Your wish,” so says Diego to Lolita while they fence, “was not so foolish that it could not come true. No man is more like Zorro than I.”
“The garb of Zorro,” replies Lolita, “well suited the romantic dreams of a girl…But this WOMAN happily takes Don Diego de la Vega to be her husband…without his mask.”
But, of course, human foes are not what they face.
Man and woman, evenly matched we learn, expect a wedding to shortly take place. (It’s a recurring theme in Zorro stories. Don Diego is always about to marry his love, but then..enter bad guys).
But, then, enter bad guys: the undead horde.
Virtuoso swordplay and derring-do just might not be enough this time, we find out. Not when faced with a unknown evil.
“I had not known,” says writer Avallone, “when I started the series that the great South American novelist Isabel Allende wrote a Zorro novel. When I pitched my story, which involves the deposed alcalde, the mayor of Los Angeles who Zorro defeats in the origin story, making a deal with a warlock, or should I say brujo, to make the dead rise out of the La Brea Tar Pits and conquer LA for him, I thought well what’s Zorro going to fight that with? It’s not the Walking Dead; he’s not going to cut all their heads off. You’ve gotta come up with a challenge that you can’t stab your way out of.”
And that’s the main challenge Zorro faces in Swords of Hell, part I. How do I fight these creatures, who look eerily reminiscent of 16th century Spanish Conquistadors? (They are drawn immaculately, these undead Conquistadors, by Roy Allan Martinez — Son of M, Immortal Iron Fist, She-Hulk. The coloring, by Emmanuel Ordaz Torres, is also spot on, from Lolita’s red dress to the shadowy menace of the creatures).
Great framing and color, by Roy Allan Martinez and Emmanuel Ordaz Torres
Zorro: Swords of Hell, part I comes with three alternate covers, a common practice these days. There’s the Demon Cover by S.L. Gallant; the Nostalgia Cover by Jon Pinto; even the Toth Ltd. Edition cover by none other than the Zorro-god himself — Alex Toth. There’s even a blank cover edition for the aspiring comic artist out there to add her own take on Swords of Hell.
You’re in for a real treat, in other words.
The reader, at the end of Zorro: Swords of Hell, part I is left without knowing the fate of our heroine, Lolita, nor whether Zorro will be able to figure out how to kill these undead enemies.
Zorro, at 100, is looking pretty good.
A review of Zorro: Swords of Hell, part II is coming soon…
The Answer Helps Explain the Power of #Metoo, Trump, and the Internet
Before you make a choice — flight or invisibility — here are the ground rules:
Flight means the power to travel in the air, up to 100,000 feet, at a maximum velocity of 1,000 MPH. You don’t have any other powers. You’re not invincible. You don’t have super strength. Just flying. (And, thus, depending on your natural strength, you probably can’t carry many people with you. Large pets or small children would be key candidates).
Invisibility means the power to make yourself unseen, as well as your clothes. (So, you don’t have to go around naked!). But things you pick up are still visible. Food and drink are visible until digested. (Best Advice: Keep that in mind before sneaking around like a friggin’ pervert…).
You are the only person to have this power, flight or invisibility. You can only choose one. You can’t pick both.
Which one do you choose?
And what would you do with your power?
And, hey, there are no judgments here. Just go with your gut.
Ok, got it? Great! Keep your choice to yourself for now. We’ll get back to it. First we have to talk about the thought experiment itself, this Superpower Dilemma, and what it says about power and ethics in the age of #Metoo, Trump, and the Internet.
Full disclosure: The Superpower Dilemma is not my creation. It’s been kicking around the Internet for over fifteen years. It’s shown up in Psychology Today as a projective test. Those who choose invisibility, according to PT, are people who, in Jungian fashion, embrace their shadow self in order to transcend it; or, those who choose flight are those who seek self-actualization a la Maslow. They push past basic needs — food, shelter, etc. — and search for true fulfillment. Even Forbes used the Superpower Dilemma in a poll of over 7,000 industry and business leaders. It’s no surprise that over 70% of those polled chose flight — approximately 28% chose invisibility. More men than women picked flight, according to Forbes. And more individuals in Human Resources and Safety chose invisibility! (Imagine invisible HR professionals lurking in the corner of the copy room…).
Hodgman interviews a number of men and women — anonymously, of course — about which power they would choose and why. He finds that people basically never choose to use their power to fight crime. Far from it. Flight and invisibility are not enough, they protest. They would fly, rather, in order to travel to Paris, according to one man. Or, another woman claims she would steal as many sweaters as she desired. The superpowers are chosen for the self. For one’s own pleasure or curiosity or darker inclinations.
But, as with all episodes of This American Life, the Hodgman piece mixes two parts humor and one part pathos. It goes from good chuckle to fucking poignant really fast. (Ah, the storytelling delights of Ira Glass and Team…). Hodgman finds there’s a mental process involved, wherein a gut choice for invisibility usually ends with a rational acknowledgement that invisibility would lead to some bleak places.
Consider the honest appraisal of Man 7:
“Invisibility leads you — leads me, as an invisible person, down a dark path, because you’re not going to want to miss out, when you’re invisible, on — you know, no matter how many times you’ve seen a woman naked in the shower, you’re going to want to see it again, because there’s always a different woman, right? And there’s like a lifetime of that. And that’s not acceptable behavior, no matter whether you’re invisible or not.”
Or, the deep truth of Woman 1:
“First of all, I think that a lot of people are going to tell you that they would choose flight, and I think they’re lying to you. I think they’re saying that because they’re trying to sound all mythic and heroic, because the better angels of our nature would tell us that the real thing that we should strive for is flight, and that that’s noble and all that kind of stuff.
But I think actually, if everybody were being perfectly honest with you, they would tell you the truth, which is that they all want to be invisible so that they can shoplift, get into movies for free, go to exotic places on airplanes without paying for airline tickets, and watch celebrities have sex.”
Or, the ageless wisdom of Man 8:
“Flying is for people who want to let it all hang out. Invisibility is for fearful, crouching masturbators.”
We all fly and we all fade, Hodgman sums up. And the poignant question the comic leaves us with is this: “Who do you want to be — the person you hope to be, or the person you fear you actually are?”
Ok, so you’ve picked a superpower? Do you want to switch at this point?
At any rate, what conclusions might we draw about flight and invisibility? Flight is heroic. Invisibility is sneaky. Invisibility is a superpower for villains — maybe, even, for the villain inside all of us.
And, of course, there’s the whole thing about sex. Even the Kevin Bacon film Hollow Man (2000) — where Bacon, as scientist, learns how to turn himself invisible, has a requisite naked-woman-showering scene, which then turns into rape. What better metaphor for #Metoo? Women sharing stories of sexual abuse perpetrated by men whose actions have been, for them, vicious trauma, but for the rest of the world, unknown, invisible.
The Superpower Dilemma, in sum, has a clear ethical dimension. And, like many things the Internet hath made, the thought experiment is one humans have been puzzling over for thousands of years. For that, we have to travel to Ancient Greece where we learn of the first Superpower Dilemma — the tale of the ring of Gyges.
Enter: Plato (c. 424–347 B.C.E.).
Bearded philosopher. Furrowed brow. Toga.
The dude was thinking about the Superpower Dilemma 2,400 years ago, albeit in a slightly different form. There’s no mention of flight in Plato’s telling of it. Just invisibility. The story is told in the Second Book of Plato’s Republic. Plato writes the story as though his brother, Glaucon, is the one telling it. And so Glaucon begins the tale of the ring of Gyges.
It’s a magical ring, Glaucon says, which gives the power of invisibility to the one who wears it. Turn it facing inward on the finger and the wearer is invisible; outward, the wearer reappears. The ring, in Glaucon’s telling, is found in a crack in the earth opened up by an earthquake. Gyges, the guy who finds the ring, quickly realizes the implications. Gyges is a lowly shepherd. But he gets himself sent to the king’s court. He seduces the Queen and conspires to have the king killed. And then Gyges assumes the throne. (If all this sounds familiar, it is. Tolkien used it as a model for the One Ring in the Lord of the Rings).
Glaucon’s point is this: No one will do right when they can get away with doing wrong. If given the power, like in the tale of the ring of Gyges,
“no man would keep his hands off what was not his own when he could safely take what he liked out of the market, or go into houses and lie with any one at his pleasure, or kill or release from prison whom he would, and in all aspects be like a God among men.”
“A man is just,” Glaucon argues, “not willingly or because he thinks that justice is any good to him individually, but of necessity, for wherever any one thinks that he can be unjust, there he is unjust.” Only fear of a lost reputation or fear of punishment cause people to do justice, according to Glaucon. And, if you have the power, and don’t use it like Gyges did, you’re probably pretty stupid.
“If you could imagine any one obtaining this power of becoming invisible, and never doing any wrong or touching what was another’s, he would be thought by lookers-on to be a most wretched idiot, although they would praise him to one another’s faces, and keep up appearances with one another from a fear that they too might suffer injustice.”
Basically, Glaucon says, we would hate and fear that power in another, but secretly want it for ourselves.
(Side note: H.G. Wells’ novella The Invisible Man (1897) pokes a few holes in the tale of Gyges. The book is all about how friggin’ hard it would be to pull off one’s evil desires, even if you could be invisible. The protagonist, Griffin, is a failed Gyges. He doesn’t manage taking over his town let alone the whole of England. His dark, evil plans come to nothing. And who defeats him? The community! The community comes together and destroys the guy. In essence, Wells simply tells us, through Griffin, why worry about invisibility when you can’t pull off the real soul-fulfilling devious shit anyway! Because, according to Wells, the community is stronger than the individual.)
Does Plato provide an escape from Glaucon’s argument? Is it true that we only do right because we fear losing our reputation and we fear punishment?
Well, that’s beside the point, actually. Plato’s point is political. He’s talking about society. Don’t look for justice in the individual, says Plato, look for it in society. The take away, for Plato and for us, is the cliché of all modern superheroes: With great power comes great responsibility. Plato was interested in making sure that those who have power are also made accountable. Power is a force that, indeed, has dark, bleak implications for human nature. But it’s also an energy for doing good. It just has to be forced in that direction. Justice, in essence, is the product of the terms demanded by society. It’s the desire for who we, as a society, want to be and the acknowledgement of our worst selves. It’s setting up boundaries that keep us from those worst selves.
And, so, this discussion brings us back to our own moment — to #Metoo, Trump, and the Internet.
What was your choice? Flight or invisibility? We’ve learned so far that flight feels aspirational. It feels heroic. It feels like the choice we should choose. Invisibility, on the other hand, feels somehow icky. Like, as a man, if I pick invisibility, people are probably gonna expect me to be peeping on my neighbor. And, what we’ve learned, from Plato to This American Life, is that it’s probably a right assumption. Even the just individual, who puts on the power of invisibility, will become unjust. We need accountability.
And that fact is the core issue of our current cultural and political moment. #Metoo is asking men to make visible actions that, in the past, have been invisible. To call them inappropriate whether they’re known or unknown. The Internet is awash with male trollers, harassing under an assumed cloak of invisibility. There’s even a syndrome for this: Online disinhibition effect. The supposed anonymity of the internet allows people to do and say whatever they please. Things they wouldn’t (probably) say or do face to face.
And then there’s President Trump, the Invisible Man, par excellence. It’s as if we all are watching a man do and say things as though he were invisible. Like, he thinks he has the power of invisibility, and is acting accordingly — mistresses, payoffs, Russia, ad nauseum — but he’s actually doing all of this in full view. Trump is the tale of the ring of Gyges for our time. A man who has come to power but has no responsibility. He’s the Hollow Man of Hollywood yarns-come-to-life. And he’s leading a generation of Hollow Men.
Power. Men in power. Sex and power. Technology and power. The point of thinking about the Superpower Dilemma is that it forces us to realize that for justice to exist there has to be accountability. In relationships. In politics. In how we relate to one another in an actually very new digital public sphere.
We all fly and we all fade, Hodgman said in his This American Life piece. We can only be the people we hope to be when we acknowledge, and give account for, the people we fear we actually are.
(Originally published on Medium)
The American Superhero Myth Relies on a Distinction Between Breaking a Law and Criminality.
What makes a criminal?
The question loops in my mind as we pull up to the U.S.-Mexico border. From the Mexican side, from Nogales, Sonora I can see, through the security checkpoint, Nogales, Arizona. Two cities that share a name and straddle a border. They were birthed together, these two cities, born attached. Siamese twins connected by some vital organ. The operation to separate them is both tremendously complicated and potentially lethal.
“This isn’t a border, it’s a scar,” I remember Mexican novelist Carlos Fuentes has said.
The question of the Siamese Cities quiets and the question of what makes a criminal takes over again. It’s a loop in my head again.
What makes a criminal?…What makes a criminal?…
Before I can pursue the question, the American border agent asks for our passports. For a brief instant, my lunch drops in my stomach as I search frantically in my bag. I realize, with relief, that it’s sitting on my lap. We hand over our passports — bought with money that would be equivalent to the monthly minimum wage in Guatemala. The agent asks where we’ve been and where we’re going. He asks how many people are in the car.
“Two of us,” my friend says.
We’ve pulled up to the border in a large Sprinter Van. The agent’s not exactly incredulous, but he cocks an eyebrow nevertheless. Do two guys need such a large van? he seems to be thinking.
We haven’t been smuggling anything. No undocumented individuals are in the van. My buddy lives in Mexico, in a small surf town on Mexico’s westcoast. I agreed to drive with him back to Oregon. It’s been the better part of four days on the road. I’m here to help him drive, but also to research Zorro. It’s a new project for me. I’m investigating the myth and history surrounding the pop culture icon. We stayed in a Zorro-themed hotel in El Fuerte, Sinaloa. It claims to be the birthplace of the fictional Don Diego de la Vega, Zorro’s alter ego. We also visited the very real birthplace of another individual. Joaquin Murrieta, a Mexican bandit some have said gave inspiration to the 1919 pulp novel The Curse of Capistrano, written by Johnston McCulley. The McCulley novel is where the Zorro character made its debut.
“Swiftly out of the night rode the masked and cloaked Zorro, with flashing sword, ready to right a great wrong!”
I snap out of my Zorro thoughts and the question of What makes a Criminal? comes back to me.
Because I love pop culture, and study it professionally, the answer comes to me from another pop culture source. Not Zorro, immediately, but from a genre that is close to Zorro. The Western. I think of the Coen Brothers’ 2010 adaptation of True Grit. Matt Damon plays LaBoeuf, a buckskin clad dandy and Texas lawman. “You could argue,” LaBoeuf tells Rooster Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) and Mattie (Hailee Steinfeld), “ that the shooting of the dog was merely an instance of malum prohibitum, but the shooting of a senator is indubitably an instance of malum in se.”
“Malla-men what?” Cogburn spits back.
Mattie, the smart-as-a-whip protagonist, answers: “Malum in se. The distinction is between an act that is wrong in itself, and an act that is wrong only according to our laws and mores. It is Latin.”
The context doesn’t matter — shooting a dog or a senator — but the distinction hits me like a slap. The looping question, What makes a Criminal? finally stops, and I’m able to make sense of the question.
Isn’t our whole notion of justice in America based on this distinction? I think to myself. We have a love and a devotion, in America, to a species of individual — the avenger, the superhero, the vigilante, even — who operates on a distinction between actions being considered wrong because they are prohibited, and actions that are wrong because they are morally evil. We give room, in popular culture, for the breaking of laws in the pursuit of justice. We actually believe that justice is sometimes achieved outside the law.
From Zorro, to Batman, to Superman, to the Justice League, and the Avengers — and I should note an early Zorro story called Zorro’s companions the Avengers — all our biggest heroes establish their action of putting the world to rights based on the distinction between malum prohibitum (wrong based on breaking a statute) and malum in se (wrong because it is intrinsically, morally evil.)
I try to close the loop in my head. Zorro…legal distinctions…the border…undocumented immigrants. As we drive north, through a landscape that looks virtually the same as the it did on the Mexican side of the border, what I’ve been wrestling with finally gets pinned down.
We, in America, expect criminality to be judged, ultimately, not on breaking a statute but on whether the action is fundamentally right or wrong. There’s a whole moral aspect, whether one wants to admit it, that’s part of the family separation crisis. I think of the many “choiceless choices” made by migrant parents. Fleeing volcanoes, earthquakes, violence, and poverty — but, still, the decision to remain with their children to seek something better. That seems pretty morally upright, I think. But, at the border, criminality comes in the form of a piece of paper. It’s based on American statutes, American politics. These papers are gained through money (which many migrants don’t have), through power (which many migrants don’t have), and through sheer luck (which many migrants don’t have).
Is there a distinction to be made between crossing the border without papers and the act of separating children from parents at the border? Perhaps LaBoeuf and perhaps Zorro would say, certainly, that this, indeed, is a distinction to be made. The undocumented are not criminals for crossing a border. A family separation policy that the American Academy of Pediatrics has called child abuse, is criminal. Even Laura Bush, no liberal herself, has recently said, “this zero-tolerance policy is cruel. It is immoral. And it breaks my heart.”
As we drive on, I imagine a lone rider, masked and cloaked, silhouetted against the distant hill overlooking the border. Zorro and other heroes, which Americans love and venerate — even the conservative darling Jack Reacher — break the law, but in the pursuit of justice. Many migrant parents are making just such a choice in trying to cross the U.S.-Mexican border with their children.
(Originally posted on Medium)