ULTRAHEROES IN CASA DISNEY

Testata

In questi giorni è nuovamente in edicola la prima avventura “preparatoria”, scritta da Del Connell e disegnata da Paul Murry, di quello che diverrà di lì a poco Super Pippo (o Superpippo, come si preferisce indicarlo negli ultimi anni). Si tratta di L’Ultra-Pippo contro Macchia Nera, in Grandi Classici Disney n. 256. Un must che chi non ha letto in precedenza non dovrebbe lasciarsi scappare!

Da quel primo fra i supereroi Disney, la cui storia, in Grandi Classici, è anticipata dalla ancor più prodromica Pippo Fantomas, probabilmente scritta anch’essa dallo stesso Connell, di acqua sotto i ponti ne è passata moltissima.

E se il primo Super Pippo era in realtà “ultra”, secondo una sorta di gergo coniato nello staff mondadoriano di Mario Gentilini in occasione delle traduzioni di Nembo Kid, Lanterna Verde, Batman, Freccia Verde e altri “ultraeroi” della National DC, adesso il più fedele amico di Topolino torna ad essere “ultra” insieme a un gruppo di altri personaggi disneyani dalla doppia identità.

Così, oggi è in edicola un nuovo numero di Topolino, con la seconda “puntata lunga”, dopo il prologo di due settimane fa, della saga degli Ultraheroes.
Di cosa si tratta?
Per spiegare, anche a profitto di chi non segue in modo pedissequo il settimanale, la più rilevante novità di questo inizio anno, ecco il testo del comunicato stampa ufficiale della Disney, redatto per il lancio della nuova idea supereroica che coinvolge i principali personaggi del Calisota.

© Disney per le immagini

Super_pippo

Nel futuro, un incauto scienziato ha creato una macchina con un potere tale da dominare il mondo: Eta Beta, resosi poi conto del pericolo, ha smontato l’Ultrama-
chine nascondendone i pezzi nel passato (cioè, nel nostro presen-
te…), per evitare che l’arma cada nelle mani sbagliate. Ora però Spennacchiotto è riuscito a rubare l’Ultradetector, l’unico strumento capace di individuare i pezzi dell’Ultramachine.

Per fermarlo, Eta Beta ha convo-
cato una squadra di sei supereroi (quattro conosciuti, Paperinik, Paperinika, Super Pippo e Paper Bat; e due nuovi di zecca, Iron Ciccius (Ciccio) e Quadrifoglio (Gastone Paperone)), in grado di lottare contro i Bad-7, la squadra di malviventi formata da Spennacchiotto e composta da Pietro Gambadilegno, Zafire, Inquinator, Spectrus, Macchia Nera, RollerDollar (Rockerduck).
Supereroi e supercattivi si scontrano per impossessarsi delle preziose componenti dell’Ultramachine in diverse località di Topolinia e Paperopoli, mentre Eta Beta e la sua assistente Lyth assistono alle battaglie da Villa Rosa, la tecnologica base degli Ultraheroes da poco ristrutturata. Intanto Topolino indaga sulla sparizione del deposito di Paperone, teletrasportato da Spennacchiotto su un’isola misteriosa per impossessarsi del primo pezzo dell’Ultramachine.

Le battaglie si susseguono e buoni e cattivi sono alla pari, quando Topolino viene catturato da Spennacchiotto, che propone uno scambio: Topolino e Zio Paperone in cambio dei pezzi dell’Ultramachine. Eta Beta accetta a malincuore, ma i Bad-7 ne approfittano per rapire anche loro, impossessandosi delle componenti in loro possesso. Assemblano quindi l’Ultramachine, scoprendo però che non funziona: è Quadrifoglio a svelare il mistero, tradendo i suoi compagni di squadra.

Ha sentito Eta Beta raccontare che esiste un ottavo componente… I Bad-7 si dirigono verso Villa Rosa, seguendo le indicazioni di Quadrifoglio, per impossessarsi di Lyth, l’assistente cyborg di Eta Beta, ultimo elemento per fare funzionare l’Ultramachine. Durante lo scontro decisivo, Spennacchiotto, già sconfitto, attiva l’Ultramachine colpendo Eta Beta e trasfor-
mandolo in un gigantesco e crudele mostro che minaccia la città.

Deposito

Ultraheroes e Bad-7 decidono di collaborare e unendo i poteri riescono a fermare Eta Beta, che ritorna a essere quello di sempre. L’Ultramachine viene distrutta, mentre i supereroi tornano alle loro vite normali. Almeno finché il mondo non avrà ancora bisogno di loro…

Da un’idea di Marco Ghiglione e di Gianfranco Cordara, è stato un vero e proprio Ultrateam di disegnatori e sceneggiatori a realizzare le nove storie: Riccardo Secchi ha curato i testi, abilmente coadiuvato da Alessandro Ferrari e Giorgio Salati; Stefano Turconi ha definito il character design, alternandosi ai disegni con Antonello Dalena, Ettore Gula, Emilio Urbano, Manuela Razzi, Roberta Migheli.

A proposito della sua esperienza sul campo, può interessare ai (moltissimi, più del pensabile) visitors del presente blog cosa mi ha scritto Giorgio Salati in un commento di qualche giorno fa. A lui la parola!

Per quanto riguarda Ultraheroes… sì, è stato molto interessante /divertente /istruttivo eccetera. Non che non sia stato faticoso, intendiamoci, però ne è assolutamente valsa la pena.

Le prime idee sono venute da Marco Ghiglione dell’Accademia e da Gianfranco Cordara, caporedattore di Topolino. Poi ci siamo trovati in cinque, con Cordara, Ghiglione, Riccardo Secchi e Alessandro Ferrari a fare brainstorming. Non hai idea di quante idee sono uscite! Avevamo l’imbarazzo della scelta!

Villains

Scelta una “linea”, io Riccardo e Alessandro ci siamo messi al lavoro sullo story line. E’ stato un lavoro intenso e anche istruttivo perché Riccardo, con la sua esperienza anche di fiction, ha una visione strutturale d’insieme davvero notevole. Io e Alessandro buttavamo fuori più idee possibile, e nello stesso tempo ricevevamo una specie di “corso d’aggior-
namento” sulla serializzazione! Anche a livello di coordinamento del “reparto sceneggiatura” il lavoro di Riccardo è stato determinante. Il lavoro è stato piuttosto affannoso perché il tempo a disposizione era poco, speriamo che sia venuto tutto bene!

Intanto, il reparto “grafico”, Turconi in testa, veniva coordinato da Ghiglione; devi vedere l’Accademia com’è tappezzata di disegni Ultraheroes!

Il tutto coordinato dal “deus ex machina” Gianfranco Cordara, che ha svolto un lavoro imponente. Dover coordinare tutti quei disegnatori e sceneggiatori non dev’essere facile!

Sono molto soddisfatto, ci siamo tutti impegnati al massimo cercando di dosare “disneyanità” e “supereroismo”, comicità e drammaticità, mantenendo viva la quotidianità dei personaggi “in borghese” e nel frattempo fargli combattere scontri spettacolari (e qui bisogna ringraziare tutti i disegnatori per il bel lavoro). Non è stato un lavoro facile, ma mi sembra che sia venuto piuttosto bene, e sarei curioso di sapere poi quale sarà la tua opinione in merito.

A proposito di Bill Walsh: lo adoro, per me era un genio della sceneggiatura e soprattutto della sintesi. Basta leggere le prime bellissime storie di Eta Beta e si vede com’era capace di esprimere concetti perfino filosofici in una manciata di vignette. Prima o poi scriverò un post sul blog anche a proposito di questo! Ho per l’appunto i Grandi Classici perché ho visto che c’era quella storia!

La storia fantastica e futuribile di Bill Walsh e Floyd Gottfredson a cui facciamo riferimento è, per la cronaca, Topolino e la fantastica invenzione.

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  • John Doe Don't Know |

    Ciao, a proprosito di Ultraheroes e supereroi in genere, il vincitore del “Pulitzer Prize” del 2001 Michael Chabon ha scritto un saggio sui “superhero costumes” per la rivista un po’ sciccosa The New Yorker, il giorno 10 marzo. OPS! Ma se siamo appena al SETTE!.. O meglio, ormai all’inizio dell’OTTO:
    Buona festa a tutte le donne, intanto.
    La differenza di date dipenderà dal fuso.
    Ve lo condivido.
    John ****
    _http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/03/10/080310fa_fact_chabon/_
    (http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/03/10/080310fa_fact_chabon/)
    Secret Skin
    An essay in unitard theory.
    by _Michael Chabon_
    (http://www.newyorker.com/search/query?query=authorName:”Michael Chabon”)
    When I was a boy, I had a religious-school teacher named Mr. Spector, whose
    job was to confront us with the peril we presented to ourselves. Jewish
    Ethics was the name of the class. We must have been eight or nine.
    Mr. Spector used a workbook to guide the discussion; every Sunday, we began
    by reading a kind of modern parable or cautionary tale, and then contended
    with a series of imponderable questions. One day, for example, we discussed the
    temptations of shoplifting; another class was devoted to all the harm to
    oneself and to others that could be caused by the telling of lies. Mr. Spector
    was a gently acerbic young man with a black beard and black Roentgen-ray eyes.
    He seemed to take our moral failings for granted and, perhaps as a result,
    favored lively argument over reproach or condemnation. I enjoyed our
    discussions, while remaining perfectly aloof at my core from the issues they raised. I
    was, at the time, an awful liar, and quite a few times had stolen chewing gum
    and baseball cards from the neighborhood Wawa. None of that seemed to have
    anything to do with Mr. Spector or the cases we studied in Jewish Ethics. All
    nine-year-olds are sophists and hypocrites; I found it no more difficult than
    any other kid to withhold my own conduct from consideration in passing
    measured judgment on the human race.
    The one time I felt my soul to be in danger was the Sunday Mr. Spector raised
    the ethical problem of escapism, particularly as it was experienced in the
    form of comic books. That day, we started off with a fine story about a boy
    who loved Superman so much that he tied a red towel around his neck, climbed up
    to the roof of his house, and, with a cry of “Up, up, and away,” leaped to
    his death. There was known to have been such a boy, Mr. Spector informed us—
    at least one verifiable boy, so enraptured and so betrayed by the false dream
    of Superman that it killed him.
    The explicit lesson of the story was that what was found between the covers
    of a comic book was fantasy, and “fantasy” meant pretty lies, the consumption
    of which failed to prepare you for what lay outside those covers. Fantasy
    rendered you unfit to face “reality” and its hard pavement. Fantasy betrayed
    you, and thus, by implication, your wishes, your dreams and longings,
    everything you carried around inside your head that only you and Superman and Elliot
    S! Maggin (exclamation point and all, the principal Superman writer circa
    1971) could understand—all these would betray you, too. There were ancillary
    arguments to be made as well, about the culpability of those who produced such
    fare, sold it to minors, or permitted their children to bring it into the
    house.
    These arguments were mostly lost on me, a boy who consumed a dozen comic
    books a week, all of them cheerfully provided to him by his (apparently
    iniquitous) father. Sure, I might not be prepared for reality—point granted—but, on
    the other hand, if I ever found myself in the Bottle City of Kandor, under
    the bell jar in the Fortress of Solitude, I would know not to confuse Superman’s
    Kryptonian double (Van-Zee) with Clark Kent’s (Vol-Don). Rather, what struck
    me, with the force of a blow, was recognition, a profound moral recognition
    of the implicit, indeed the secret, premise of the behavior of the boy on the
    roof. For that fool of a boy had not been doomed by the deceitful power of
    comic books, which after all were only bundles of paper, staples, and ink, and
    couldn’t hurt anybody. That boy had been killed by the irresistible
    syllogism of Superman’s cape.
    One knew, of course, that it was not the red cape any more than it was the
    boots, the tights, the trunks, or the trademark “S” that gave Superman the
    ability to fly. That ability derived from the effects of the rays of our yellow
    sun on Superman’s alien anatomy, which had evolved under the red sun of
    Krypton. And yet you had only to tie a towel around your shoulders to feel the
    strange vibratory pulse of flight stirring in the red sun of your heart.
    I, too, had climbed to a dangerous height, with my face to the breeze, and
    felt magically alone of my kind. I had imagined the streak of my passage like a
    red-and-blue smear on the windowpane of vision. I had been Batman, too, and
    the Mighty Thor. I had stood cloaked in the existential agonies of the
    Vision, son of a robot and grandson of a lord of the ants. A few years after that
    Sunday in Mr. Spector’s class, at the pinnacle of my career as a hero of the
    imagination, I briefly transformed myself (more about this later) into a
    superpowered warrior-knight known as Aztec. And all that I needed to effect the
    change was to fasten a terry-cloth beach towel around my neck.
    It was not about escape, I wanted to tell Mr. Spector, thus unwittingly
    plagiarizing in advance the well-known formula of a (fictitious) pioneer and
    theorist of superhero comics, Sam Clay. It was about transformation.
    The American comic book preëxisted the superhero, but just barely, and with
    so little distinction that in the cultural mind the medium has always seemed
    indistinguishable from its first stroke of brilliance. There were costumed
    crime-fighters before Superman (the Phantom, Zorro), but only as there were pop
    quartets before the Beatles. Superman invented and exhausted his genre in a
    single bound. All the tropes, all the clichés and conventions, all the
    possibilities, all the longings and wishes and neuroses that have driven and fed
    and burdened the superhero comic during the past seventy years were implied by
    and contained within that little red rocket ship hurtling toward Earth. That
    moment—Krypton exploding, Action Comics No. 1—is generally seen to be Minute
    Zero of the superhero idea.
    About the reasons for the arrival of Superman at that zero moment there is
    less agreement. In the theories of origin put forward by fans, critics, and
    other origin-obsessives, the idea of Superman has been accounted the offspring
    or recapitulation, in no particular order, of Friedrich Nietzsche; of Philip
    Wylie (in his novel “Gladiator”); of the strengths, frailties, and neuroses
    of his creators, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, of Cleveland, Ohio; of the
    aching wishfulness of the Great Depression; of the (Jewish) immigrant
    experience; of the mastermind stratagems of popular texts in their sinister quest for
    reader domination; of repressed Oedipal fantasies and homoerotic wishes; of
    fascism; of capitalism; of the production modes of mass culture (and not in a
    good way); of celebrated strongmen and proponents of physical culture like
    Eugen Sandow; and of a host of literary not-quite-Superman precursors, chief
    among them Doc Savage.
    Most of these rationales of origin depend, to some extent, on history; they
    index the advent of Superman, in mid-1938, to various intellectual, social,
    and economic trends of the Depression years, to the influence or aura of
    contemporary celebrities and authors, to the structure and demands of magazine
    publishing and distribution, et cetera. To suit my purpose here, I might
    construct a similar etiology of the superhero costume, making due reference, say, to
    professional-wrestling and circus attire of the early twentieth century, to
    the boots-cloak-and-tights ensembles worn by swashbucklers and cavaliers in
    stage plays and Hollywood films, to contemporary men’s athletic wear, with its
    unitard construction and belted trunks, to the designs of Alex Raymond and
    Hal Foster and the amazing pulp-magazine cover artist Frank R. Paul. I could
    cite the influence of Art Deco and Streamline Moderne aesthetics, with their
    roots in fantasies of power, speed, and flight, or posit the costume as a kind
    of fashion alter ego of the heavy, boxy profile of men’s clothing at the
    time. When in fact the point of origin is not a date or a theory or a conjunction
    of cultural trends but a story, the intersection of a wish and the tip of a
    pencil.
    Now the time has come to propose, or confront, a fundamental truth: like the
    being who wears it, the superhero costume is, by definition, an impossible
    object. It cannot exist.
    One may easily find suggestive evidence for this assertion at any large
    comic-book convention by studying the spectacle of the brave and bold convention
    attendees, those members of the general comics-fan public who show up in
    costume and go shpatziring around the ballrooms and exhibition halls dressed as
    Wolverine, say, or the Joker’s main squeeze, Harley Quinn. Without exception,
    even the most splendid of these getups is at best a disappointment. Every
    seam, every cobweb strand of duct-tape gum, every laddered fish-net stocking or
    visible ridge of underpants elastic—every stray mark, pulled thread, speck of
    dust—acts to spoil what is instantly revealed to have been, all along, an
    illusion.
    The appearance of realism in a superhero costume made from real materials is
    generally recognized to be difficult to pull off, and many such costumes do
    not even bother to simulate the presumable effect on the eye and the spirit of
    the beholder were Black Bolt to stride, trailing a positronic lace of Kirby
    crackle, into a ballroom of the Overland Park Marriott. This disappointing
    air of saggy trouser seats, bunchy underarms, and wobbly shoulder vanes may be
    the result of imaginative indolence, the sort that would permit a grown man
    to tell himself he will find gratification in walking the exhibition floor
    wearing a pair of Dockers, a Jägermeister hoodie, and a rubber Venom mask
    complete with punched-out eyeholes and flopping rubber bockwurst of a tongue.
    But realism is not, in fact, merely difficult; it is hopeless. A plausibly
    heroic physique is of no avail in this regard, nor is even the most fervent
    willingness to believe in oneself as the man or woman in the cape.
    Even those costumed conventioneers who go all out, working year-round to amass, scrounge, or counterfeit cleverly the materials required to put together, with glue gun, soldering iron, makeup, and needle and thread, a faithful and accurate Black Canary or Ant-Man costume, find themselves prey to forces, implacable as gravity, of tawdriness, gimcrackery, and unwitting self-ridicule. And in the end they look no more like Black Canary or Ant-Man than does the poor zhlub in the Venom mask with a three-day pass hanging around his neck on a lanyard.
    This sad outcome even in the wake of thousands of dollars spent and months of
    hard work given to sewing and to packing foam rubber into helmets has an
    obvious, an unavoidable, explanation: a superhero’s costume is constructed not
    of fabric, foam rubber, or adamantium but of halftone dots, Pantone color
    values, inked containment lines, and all the cartoonist’s sleight of hand. The
    superhero costume as drawn disdains the customary relationship in the fashion
    world between sketch and garment. It makes no suggestions. It has no agenda.
    Above all, it is not waiting to find fulfillment as cloth draped on a body. A
    constructed superhero costume is a replica with no original, a model built
    on a scale of x:1. However accurate and detailed, such a work has the tidy
    airlessness of a model-train layout but none of the gravitas that such little
    railyards and townscapes derive from making faithful reference to homely
    things. The graphic purity of the superhero costume means that the more effort and
    money you lavish on fine textiles, metal grommets, and leather trim the
    deeper your costume will be sucked into the silliness singularity that swallowed,
    for example, Joel Schumacher’s Batman and Robin and their four nipples.
    In fact, the most reliable proof of the preposterousness of superhero attire
    whenever it is translated, as if by a Kugelmass device, from the pages of
    comics to the so-called real world can be found in film and television
    adaptations of superhero characters. George Reeves’s stodgy pajamas-like affair in the
    old “Superman” TV series and Adam West’s mod doll clothes in “Batman” have
    lately given way to purportedly more “realistic” versions, in rubber,
    leather, and plastic, pseudo-utilitarian coveralls that draw inspiration in equal
    measure from spacesuits, catsuits, and scuba suits, and from (one presumes)
    regard for the dignity of actors who have seen the old George Reeves and Adam
    West shows, and would not be caught dead in those glorified Underoos. In its
    attempts to slip the confines of the panelled page, the superhero costume
    betrays its nonexistence, like one of those deep-sea creatures which evolved to
    thrive in the crushing darkness of the seabed, so that when you haul them up
    to the dazzling surface they burst.
    One might go farther and argue not only that the superhero costume has (and
    needs) no referent in the world of textiles and latex but also that, even
    within its own proper comic-book context, it can be said not to exist, not to
    want to exist—can be said to advertise, even to revel in, its own notional
    status. This illusionary quality of the drawn costume can readily be seen if we
    attempt to delimit the elements of the superhero wardrobe, to inventory its
    minimum or requisite components.
    We can start by throwing away our masks. Superman, arguably the first and
    the greatest of all costumed heroes, has never bothered with one, nor have
    Captain Marvel, Luke Cage, Wonder Woman, Valkyrie, and Supergirl. All those
    individuals, like many of their peers (Hawkman, Giant-Man), also go around
    barehanded, which suggests that we can safely dispense with our gauntlets (whether
    finned, rolled, or worn with a jaunty slash at the cuff). Capes have been an
    object of scorn among discerning superheroes at least since 1974, when Captain
    America, having abandoned his old career in protest over Watergate, briefly
    took on the nom de guerre Nomad, dressed himself in a piratical ensemble of
    midnight blue and gold, and brought his first exploit as a stateless hero to
    an inglorious end by tripping over his own flowing cloak.
    So let’s lose the cape. As for the boots—we are not married to the boots.
    After all, Iron Fist sports a pair of kung-fu slippers, the Spirit wears brown
    brogues, Zatanna works her magic in stiletto heels, and Beast, Ka-Zar, and
    Mantis wear no shoes at all. Perhaps, though, we had better hold on to our
    unitards, crafted of some nameless but readily available fabric that, like a
    thin matte layer, at once coats and divulges the splendor of our musculature.
    Assemble the collective, all-time memberships of the Justice League of America,
    the Justice Society of America, the Avengers, the Defenders, the Invaders,
    the X-Men, and the Legion of Super-Heroes (and let us not forget the Legion of
    Substitute Heroes), and you will probably find that almost all of them, from
    Nighthawk to the Chlorophyll Kid, arrive wearing some version of the classic
    leotard-tights ensemble. And yet—not everyone. Not Wonder Woman, in her
    star-spangled hot pants and eagle bustier; not the Incredible Hulk or Martian
    Manhunter or the Sub-Mariner.
    Consideration of the last named leads us to cast a critical eye, finally, on
    our little swim trunks, typically worn with a belt, pioneered by Kit Walker
    (for the Ghost Who Walks), the Phantom of the old newspaper strip, and
    popularized by the super-trendsetter of Metropolis. The Sub-Mariner wears nothing
    but a Eurotrashy green Speedo, suggesting that, at least by the decency
    standards of the old Comics Code, this minimal garment marks the zero degree of
    superheroic attire. And yet, of course, the Flash, Green Lantern, and many others
    make do without trunks over their tights; the forgoing of trunks in favor of
    a continuous flow of fabric from legs to torso is frequently employed to
    lend a suggestion of speed, sleekness, a kind of uncluttered modernism. And the
    Hulk never goes around in anything but those tattered purple trousers.
    So we are left with, literally, nothing at all: the human form, unadorned,
    smooth, muscled, and ready, let’s say, to sail the starry ocean of the cosmos
    on the deck of a gleaming surfboard. A naked spacefarer, sheathed in a silvery
    pseudoskin that affords all the protection one needs from radiation and
    cosmic dust while meeting Code standards by neatly neutering one, the shining
    void between the legs serving to signify that one is not (as one often appears
    to be when seen from behind) naked as an interstellar jaybird.
    Here is a central paradox of superhero attire: from panther black to lantern
    green, from the faintly Hapsburg pomp of the fifties-era Legion of
    Super-Heroes costumes to the “Mad Max” space grunge of Lobo, from sexy fish-net to
    vibranium—for all the mad recombinant play of color, style, and materials that
    the superhero costume makes with its limited number of standard components, it
    ultimately takes its deepest meaning and serves its primary function in the
    depiction of the naked human form, unfettered, perfect, and free. The
    superheroic wardrobe resembles a wildly permutated alphabet of ideograms conceived
    only to express the eloquent power of silence.
    A public amnesia, an avowed lack of history, is the standard pretense of the
    costumed superhero. From the point of view of the man or woman or child in
    the street, gaping up at the sky and skyscrapers, the appearance of a new hero
    over Metropolis or New York or Astro City is always a matter of perfect
    astonishment. There have been no portents or warnings, and afterward one never
    learns anything new or gains any explanations.
    The story of a superhero’s origin must be kept secret, occulted as rigorously
    from public knowledge as the alter ego, as if it were a source of shame.
    Superman conceals, archived in the Fortress of Solitude and accessible only to
    him, not only his own history—the facts and tokens of his birth and arrival on
    Earth, of his Smallville childhood, of his exploits and adventures—but the
    history of his Kryptonian family and, indeed, of his entire race. Batman
    similarly hides his story and its proofs in the trophy chambers of the Batcave.
    In theory, the costume forms part of the strategy of concealment. But in fact
    the superhero’s costume often functions as a kind of magic screen onto which
    the repressed narrative may be projected. No matter how well he or she hides
    its traces, the secret narrative of transformation, of rebirth, is given up
    by the costume. Sometimes this secret is betrayed through the allusion of
    style or form: Robin’s gaudy uniform hints at the murder of his circus-acrobat
    parents, Iron Man’s at the flawed heart that requires a life-support device,
    which is the primary function of his armor.
    More often, the secret narrative is hinted at with a kind of enigmatic,
    dreamlike obviousness right on the hero’s chest or belt buckle, in the form of
    the requisite insignia. Superman’s “S,” we have been told, only coincidentally
    stands for Superman: in fact, the emblem is the coat of arms of the ancient
    Kryptonian House of El, from which he descends. A stylized bat alludes to the
    animal whose chance flight through a window sealed Bruce Wayne’s fate; a
    lightning bolt encapsulates the secret history of Captain Marvel; an
    eight-legged glyph immortalizes the bug whose bite doomed Peter Parker to his glorious and woebegone career.
    We say “secret identity,” and adopt a series of cloaking strategies to
    preserve it, but what we are actually trying to conceal is a narrative: not who
    we are but the story of how we got that way—and, by implication, of all that we
    lacked, and all that we were not, before the spider bit us. Yet our costume
    conceals nothing, reveals everything: it is our secret skin, exposed and
    exposing us for all the world to see. Superheroism is a kind of transvestism;
    our superdrag serves at once to obscure the exterior self that no longer defines
    us while betraying, with half-unconscious panache, the truth of the story we
    carry in our hearts, the story of our transformation, of our story’s
    recommencement, of our rebirth into the world of adventure, of story itself.
    I became Aztec in the summer of 1973, in Columbia, Maryland, a planned
    suburban utopia halfway between Smallville and Metropolis. It happened one summer
    day as I was walking to the swimming pool with a friend. He wore a pair of
    midnight-blue bathing trunks; my trunks were loud, with patches of pink,
    orange, gold, and brown overprinted with abstract patterns that we took for Aztec
    (though they were probably Polynesian). In those days, a pair of bathing
    trunks did not in the least resemble the baggy board shorts that boys and men wear
    swimming today. Ours were made of stretchy polyester doubleknit that came
    down the thigh just past the level of the crotch, and fashion fitted them with a
    sewn-on, false belt of elastic webbing that buckled at the front with a
    metal clasp. They looked, in other words, just like the trunks favored by
    costumed heroes ever since the last son of Krypton came voguing down the
    super-catwalk, back in 1938. Around our throats we knotted our beach towels (his was
    blue, mine a fine 1973 shade of burnt orange), those enchanted cloaks whose
    power Mr. Spector had failed to understand or to recall from his own childhood.
    They fluttered out behind us, catching the breeze from our imaginations, as
    Darklord and Aztec walked along.
    Darklord carried a sword, and wore a Barbuta helmet, with a flowing crusader
    cloak and invulnerable chain mail of “lunar steel.” Aztec wore tights and a
    feathered cloak and wielded a magic staff tipped with obsidian. We had begun
    the journey that day, through the street-melting, shimmering green Maryland
    summer morning, as a pair of lonely boys with nothing in common but that
    loneliness, which we shared with Superman and Batman, who shared it with each other
    —a fundamental loneliness and a wild aptitude for transformation. But with
    every step we became Darklord and Aztec a little more surely, a little more
    irrevocably, transformed by the green-lantern rays of fancy, by the spider bite
    of inspiration, by the story we were telling each other and ourselves about
    two costumed superheroes, about the new selves that had been revealed by our
    secret skin.
    Talking, retying the knots of our capes, flip-flops slapping against the
    soles of our feet, we transformed not only ourselves. In the space of that walk
    to the pool we also transformed the world, shaping it into a place in which
    such things were possible: the reincarnation of an Arthurian knight could find
    solace and partnership in the company of a latter-day Mesoamerican wizard. An
    entire world of superheroic adventure could be dreamed up by a couple of
    boys from Columbia, or Cleveland. And the self you knew you contained, the story
    you knew you had inside you, might find its way like an emblem onto the spot
    right over your heart. All we needed to do was accept the standing
    invitation that superhero comics extended to us by means of a towel. It was an
    invitation to enter into the world of story, to join in the ongoing business of
    comic books, and, with the knotting of a magical beach towel, to begin to wear
    what we knew to be hidden inside us.

  • Claudia |

    All’anima del comunicato stampa: hanno raccontato mezza trama!?!
    Incrocio le dita per il progetto, un successo farebbe comodo in casa Disney.

  • Moise |

    Ciao Luca 🙂
    Vivi ed io siamo tornati or ora da Trebisonda ed è stata un’esperienza davvero piacevole 🙂 Grazie dei Buoni & Energetici Pensieri: sono serviti molto!
    Per quanto riguarda UltraHeroes, devo dire che sono davvero curioso di vedere come si svilupperà la storia e, prima di esprimere un’opinione, vorrei leggere tutta la saga. Al momento, l’unica domanda che mi pongo è: ” dov’è finito Archimede ??? ” Un ‘geniaccio’ così imprescindibile (è anche il ‘master tecnologico’ di Paperinik) non può mancare… vogliamo farlo latitare? magari spedendolo a qualche comodo ‘Congresso degli Inventori’? Archimede – ancorchè ‘ingombrante’ per la sua quasi onnipotenza’ scientifica – non può essere ignorato a favore di un pur eccellente (e, in quanto Topolinese, inevitabile) Eta Beta… Apparirà in futuro? Aspettiamo lo sdipanarsi delle trame…
    Saludos Moise

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