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COMMUNISM and the American Super-Hero Comic Book
Oh, sure. It's a funny subject now. 
Back during the dim, drear days of the Cold War, however -- what with
terms such as "Mutual Assured Destruction" and "Better Dead Than Red"
still a part of the common conversational coinage, and suchlike
-- the subject of big-"C" Communism was treated with the utmost
in stone-faced solemnity by the mainstream American comic book publishers,
you darn betcha.
This was especially true in the early and middle 1960's, when the typical Russian was generally portrayed as either:
a.) a simple, homespun peasant man (or woman), living in a sort of quiet (yet sustainable) terror of Their Godless Party Masters, but -- way deep down, where it counts -- essentially kind-hearted; partial to a nice, warm bowl of borscht; and Yearning To Breathe Deeply the Rarefied Airs of Freedom, yadda yadda yadda; OR --
b.) a huge, hulking would-be komissar (or tsarina) with a thick, black handlebar moustache; in mindless lockstep with every last jot and tittle of party ideology; and given over to growled dialogue of the "Ve keel moose und squirrel... ya?" sort.
Let's take a quick look at three representative samplings of such stories, over the span of a decade or so... and see how that image held up (or mutated) over the years.
Right this way, you petty-minded running dog bourgeoisie tools
of the loathsome Capitalistic war machine, you.
1962. The five top-selling musical singles of the year are Chubby Checker's The Twist; Joey Dee and the Starliters' Peppermint Twist; Gene Chandler's Duke of Earl; Bruce Channel's Hey! Baby; and Connie Francis' Don't Break the Heart That Loves You. The five biggest box office blockbusters for the year are How the West Was Won; Lawrence of Arabia; The Longest Day; In Search of the Castaways; and The Music Man.
... and -- in the meantime -- Marvel Comics' Mighty Thor was forced to endure the shame and ignominy of being a "Prisoner of the Reds!"
No. Seriously.
In a tale which (doubtless) sent shockwaves of stark, unreasoning terror throughout the Kremlin, the lame "Doctor Donald Blake" (a.k.a., You-Know- Who) investigates as scientist after brilliant American scientist ups and (*gasp*) defects to ol' Mother Russia.
(We actually get to see a note left behind by one of said scientists, addressed to and discovered by his grieving wife. It reads, in full: "Farewell! I no longer believe in our American way of life! I'm going behind the Iron Curtain to serve the Reds!"
(I, for one -- had I been similarly stricken with such geo-political
wanderlust -- might have added a terse (yet heartfelt) codicil along the
lines of: "P.S. -- Feed the cat. Or the kids. Whatever."
Just to show that there were no hard feelings, or anything like that.
Goopy, sentimental ol' me.)
Hieing himself hence towards an audience with an almost eerily unquestioning "Col. Edward Harrison, U.S. Army Intelligence," Dr. Blake impresses the fellow with the following hastily-devised stratagem: "I want to set myself up as bait, by claiming that I've invented a new weapon in biological warfare! Maybe then I can learn how the Reds are making our scientists defect!"
The notion that a humble general practitioner might well have alchemized
some worthwhile sort of homebrewed uberweapon, in his spare time,
strikes the army brass as a wholly credible one. (Now you know why
the Cold War dragged on for as long as it did.)
In short storytelling order, ol' "Doc Deity" gets himself shanghai'dby a few of those aforementioned Scheming, Godless Minions, courtesy of a special "hypnotic gas" (D'OH --!! So much for Plan "A," then.), and is summarily whisked away by jet to...
... Behind the Iron Curtain!
[Cue Screams. Organ Music.]
Lobbed (and none too gently, I might add) into an awaiting cell already containing all the other kidnapped scientists , the dishevelled doctor is unable to transform himself into The God of Thunder until a gaggle of guards enter and herd the men into separate cells. ("There is psychological strength in unity! Alone, you will be unable to resist our persuasion!")
(By the way: did you know that this story has never, ever been
reprinted, so far as I can tell? Just imagine.)
Away from prying eyes at last, the doctor (meso)morphs into the absurdly biceped Thor, and proceeds to open himself up one jumbo economy-sized can o' whupaass on the panicky, shrilly-bleating Red soldiers. [See panel reproduction, accompanying]
"Oh, mighty Odin!" the thunder god shouts towards the heavens. "Greatest of the Norse Gods -- hear thy eldest son! Unleash thy fury, Father! Destroy this citadel of evil!"
Well: quicker'n you can say "yea, verily," something on the order of eleventy-gajillion or so lightning bolts rain down upon the unsuspecting fortress, and pretty much reduce the entire affair to so much matchsticks and kindling.
As the battered and bedraggled soldiers squabble with one another, in the ruins, over whose fault all of this might ultimately be ("So, Thor was your helpless prisoner, was he? Imbecile! You will pay for this blundering!"), a bemused Thor watches from the sidelines and observes:
"I could capture them all... but I won't! I'll let them punish each other for their defeat!"
A scant six years later, the portrayal of Russians in mainstream American comics graduated from that of Slavering, Soulless Beast-Men to Tragically Misguided Pawns of a Malevolent Political Machine with the publication of TEEN TITANS #18 (1st series).
1968: the top five musical chartbusters are Judy In Disguise (John Fred and His Playboy Band); Green Tambourine (The Lemon Pipers); Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay (Otis Redding); Honey (Bobby Goldsboro); and Tighten Up (Archie Bell aand the Drells). Moviegoers are making Funny Girl; 2001: A Space Odyssey; The Odd Couple; Bullit; and Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet the five top-grossing pictures of the year.
Compare the films and records on that list with the onesdetailed for 1962... and you can readily see for yourselves: it's already a different mind-set; a different world.
Summoned to Stockholm, Sweden in order to thwart international "master jewel thief, Andre LeBlanc" in his publicly stated intentions to filch the country's crown jewels, The Titans (Robin; Kid Flash; Wonder Girl; and Aqualad) are asked by Sweden's police force to work alongside yet another super- powered teen, specially flown in from Russia for the occasion: the dour and single-minded Starfire. [See cover reproduction, accompanying]
Wellllllllll... okay. Maybe not all that different.
Yet.
Emotions start out tense and strained between the youthful emissaries of East and West right from the git-go, and pretty much stay that way throughout. [See panel reproduction, accompanying]
"Pleased to meet you," a smiling Kid Flash offers to his Russian counterpart.
"I cannot say the same, American!" a tight-lipped Starfire responds. "I am here only out of duty to my country -- nothing more!"
Later on, the friction between Team USA and Team Moscow is further exacerbated when Kid Flash (geez... does this guy ever shut up?) innocently wonders within earshot of Starfire: "I still don't know why we need anyone to help us! We do well enough on our own!"
"So," Starfire sneers, in heated response. "At last, the American air of superiority shows through! But -- you are not superior to me!"
This sort of chest-puffing and spear-rattling goes on andendlessly on until The Titans Plus One have their first encounter with the wily LeBlanc (who, incidentally, speaks in authentic, grade-"A" Pepe LePew... like so: "Come now! You deed not really theenk I would be that easy to take, deed you?" And like that, there.)
Getting completely in one another's way with the practiced ease of five year veterans of the Ringling Brothers "Clown Circus," the Titans and Starfire allow LeBlanc to escape... leading to the highly testosterone'd exchange detailed in the accompanying page reproduction, above.
By the time we've belly-crawled our ways towards the story's fitful resolution, however -- with the five youths finally giving the concept of Genuine Teamwork more than simply the easy, requisite lip service -- we've got Kid Flash shaking Starfire's hand in fond farewell, with the former mumbling: "What do you say to someone when you've been as bone-headed as I have?" (The other Titans, at this point, are courteous enough towards their hyper-accelerative amigo NOT to make loud coughing noises into their gloved hands.)
"No matter what else you Americans may be," Starfire grudgingly concedes, "... you have taught me something... that all men, regardless of their beliefs, must learn to live together! For when your ideologies and mine have long since turned to dust... MAN MUST STILL SURVIVE."
That was -- to underscore the point -- a mere six years after the publication of "Prisoner of the Reds."
Now let's set the dial ahead another eight years... and take a look-see at how things are going, comics detente-wise.
1976. You're hearing Saturday Night (The Bay City Rollers);
Convoy (C.W. McCall); I Write the Songs (Barry Manilow);
Theme from Mahogany (Diana Ross); and Love Rollercoaster
(The Ohio Players) whenever you turn on the radio. (Geez,
but that was a laaaaaaame year for tunes.)
Rocky; the Streisand remake of A Star Is Born; the even
worse remake of King Kong; Silver Streak; and All
the President's Men are the top five box office draws, cinematically
speaking. (How we ever survived that fateful year is a constant
source of wonderment to me. I mean... damn near everything
just plain ol' sucked, didn't it?)
Wellllll
not
everything.
Steve Gerber, after all, was writing Marvel's DEFENDERS comic.
That certainly didn't suck.
Working with an exceptionally loose-knit bunch which included (at various stops along the way) Dr. Strange; The Incredible Hulk; Luke Cage; The Valkyrie; Nighthawk; The Son of Satan; and -- most importantly, for our present purposes -- the Soviet-born Red Guardian, Gerber's Defenders were a cheerily anarchistic lot, jiving with (and jibing at) one another with the easy, casual elan of teenaged siblings. More than practically any other mainstream comic of the day -- save, perhaps, for Gerber's equally eccentric HOWARD THE DUCK -- the series all but defined the concept of antic, high-spirited fun in the "spandexed superguy" genre.
When the aforementioned Red Guardian (a.k.a., Sovietneurosurgeon "Tanya Belinsky") draws some unwelcome heat towards her teammates by dint of her very presence on American soil (a rock is thrown through the group's window, with an attached note reading: "How can you call yourselves Americans, while you harbor a COMMUNIST in your home?"), the doctor sets out to investigate the matter, sans the proffered assistance of her crime-fighting comrades-in-arms. [See page reproductions above and accompanying]
"... for though you pretend to represent a whole people," the Guardian exclaims, whilst bringing her craven foemen to heel, "... they are no more to blame for your stupidity than I am responsible for wrongs committed by the Soviet state!"
(Fourteen years earlier, this same comics company published "Prisoner
of the Reds." Not to belabor the point unduly, or nothin'.)
When one of her assailants is injured in the resulting melee (due, it should be noted, to the carelessness of one of his own fellow thugs), the Guardian's professional instincts surge to the fore, and she quickly takes all appropriate steps to secure emergency medical attention for the man...
... only to discover -- too late -- that this, too, was merely another aspect of the snare that's been set for her.
"You certainly are a remarkable little lady, aren't you?" her revealed nemesis snarls. "Well, surprise! I'm a remarkable little lady, too... with a lot of remarkable little relatives who're trapped in your country, because of its emigration policies! 4000 years -- and we're still in bondage! But no more!"
[Again: notice how it is no longer the people who are counted as Evil/Lost/What-Have-You ("... than I am responsible for wrongs committed by the Soviet state"); it is the Soviet state itself which is the villain, here. ("... trapped in your country, because of its emigration policies!") The former is a dehumanization of an entire people, many of whom would doubtless have preferred to live anydamnwhere else than where they were, by accident of birth; the latter places the onus for the USSR's ills squarely where it belongs -- on the monolithic state itself.
[Methinks the average comics scripter was way, waaaaaay ahead of the curve, glasnost-wise... at least, when contrasted and compared to the politicians of the era. I'm just sayin'.]
The polemic accompanying the prose becomes more than abit heavy-
handed, ultimately, as the Guardian finally forces a face-to-face confrontation with her nameless, faceless bete noire ("This experience should prove exceptional for you, Doctor! You'll learn what it's like to be crushed by a faceless, iron- handed foe -- !")... but: no matter, ultimately. The line of progression -- from unthinking enmity to considered empathy -- has, finally, been drawn.
In 1962, the very notion of a Russian super-hero (or -heroine) would have been more than simply unthinkable; it would have been counted as all but heretical.
By 1976... the storytelling Rubicon (as it were) had been crossed.
There aren't all that many instances where I'm actually proud of the American comics medium, re: the treatment it has historically afforded the "alien" and disenfranchised.
It wasn't until 1966 that Marvel Comics finally got around to introducing
a black man as an honest, for real, no foolin' super-hero [FANTASTIC FOUR
#52; the Black Panther].
Both Marvel and DC have less-than-enviable track records when it
comes to promoting their distaff adventure characters with the same zeal
as they do their more "masculine" properties. And you don't even
wanna get me started on how The Big Two handled the entire youthful
"dissent movement" of the '60's. (That's another screed, for another
time.)
Nonetheless: it is my contention that -- in this one tiny, sequestered socio-political storytelling "arena" (if you will) -- the medium achieved an early adolescence, and rocketed its way to full-fledged adulthood in record time...
... and: that's really not such a terrible thing, when you stop and
think about it.
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