See You in the Funny Papers, Stan Lee: A Thankful Reflection on His Works and Imagination

I was working from home last Monday--in part, thinking about the random encounter table mentioned in my last post--when my wife came into the dining room and informed me of Stan Lee's passing. I can't say it was a surprise given his recent health issues, but it was nevertheless saddening. The surprising part was the wholly inappropriate dialogue that followed in the media, questioning not only his legacy but frankly our right--as individuals--to value the brand of entertainment he revolutionized.

Stan was a huge part of my childhood--a favorite uncle, even though we never met. He introduced my Saturday morning cartoons in a way that made me feel like he was speaking directly to me--that he'd created characters like Spider-Man and The Hulk just for me. My allowance money might as well have been direct deposited at the local drug store where I was continuously buying what my grandmother called "funny books." Her choice of words didn't reflect a language barrier, mind you. She didn't call them "funny books" because she couldn't remember the term "comic book." Rather, she called them that because of a generational bias--as she'd grown up thinking of the melding of cartoon art and newsprint exclusively as a vehicle for sophomoric comedy. But I knew that comics could be a portal into other worlds filled with action and adventure--and I also knew that I had my boisterous, colorful "Uncle Stan" to thank for many of those worlds.

To be sure, Stan didn't invent comic books or superheroes. And while he did usher in "The Marvel Age of Comics"--a decades-long era of dominance by that brand and its characters--it would also be appropriate to note that numerous other writers and artists contributed to building the brand and its success as well as the multimedia empire to follow. But there can be no denying that he was the harbinger of, and the spirit of, a revolution in his industry and art form. And despite several recent protestations to the contrary, what he and his peers created was indeed art.

I'm not going to try to sell you on the idea that the Marvel comics of the 60s, 70s, or 80s were the Shakespearean plays or Greek mythology of our day--though they were paradigm-shifting. That said, there has always been a tension between what people choose to label as "high culture" and what they choose to label as "low-brow." Historically, those distinctions have often had a lot to do with socioeconomic class--with the wealthy and educated using such labels to devalue the preferences and pastimes of the lower class. Today, it appears to have more to do with various traditional media outlets wanting to regain control of the narrative--to re-establish themselves as taste-makers even as new media continue to drown out their voices.

In both cases, their arguments stem from a logical fallacy--which is to suggest that you can use value judgments to rank cultural phenomena. You can like jazz or you can dislike jazz--which is a subjective decision. Alternatively, you can compare two jazz performances using generally accepted and highly standardized criteria--ones recognized by jazz musicians and aficionados--and rate one as better than the other according to those criteria. But what you can't do is to say that jazz is better or worse than rap--because you can't really stack art forms against each other without introducing a ton of subjectivity. In essence, how you rate them says more about how you value the people who like them than it does about the intrinsic value of those pastimes.

And that may be the oddest thing about the recent backlash against Stan Lee's legacy--as his fandom is diverse, multi-generational, and relatively well educated. It would be a stretch to call those fans--their feet planted firmly in the mainstream--a fringe group. So their rejection of the subjective value judgments of those railing against the "infantilization" of pop culture is every bit as valid as the assertions of Lee's detractors.

In many ways, I think I've grown to like and understand Lee even better as I get older--as he was never one to act his age. While he'd been part of the comics industry for many years, he was heading into his 40s when he created many of his signature characters--the Avengers, the X-Men, and more. He was recording voice-overs for cartoons in his late 50s. My children recognize his voice from some of their favorite video games of recent years--games created when he was in his 80s and 90s. And we have yet to see the last of his cinematic cameos.

Dylan Thomas famously wrote "Do not go gentle into that good night, old age should burn and rage at end of day." While the admonition is general, how each of us chooses to act on it is deeply personal. And if you take Lee's own most famous admonishment just as seriously, then it's also true that with great power comes great responsibility. For most of us, the greatest power we wield is in the shaping of our own life stories--in exercising the responsibility to decide where and how to spend the limited moments of our lives. It is therefore one of the more peculiar aspects of modern life in America that we have a ceaseless interest in telling other people how to live, effectively usurping both that power and the associated responsibility.

For my part, I've found that being a comics fan has helped me relate to my children and my nephews--a source of endless conversation and familial bonding. And I can't count how many times it's been an ice-breaker among new acquaintances and colleagues who either enjoyed comics as kids or have since become hooked on Marvel movies and TV shows.

So if you like to fish, then fish. If you like to sail, then sail. If you like to immerse yourself in the works of creators like Gene Roddenberry, George Lucas or J. R. R. Tolkien, then go ahead and do that. It's your journey--your course to chart. And if an incredibly enthusiastic pied piper with greying temples, sunglasses, and a broad grin happens to lead you down a path full of green giants, wall-crawlers, and super soldiers, you can follow with confidence. It may not be the road less traveled, but it's not such a bad place to end up after all.

Excelsior.