Death of the Hero

There’s a trope I’ve discussed before called Death of the Author. It’s not about the literal passing of a given scribe, but rather the idea that their work is something that exists independently of their personal intents, politics, etc.

So for example, not everything Orson Scott Card wrote has to be viewed through the lens of Mormonism (or worse). It’s also a useful philosophy for reconciling, say, still being able to laugh at old Bill Cosby or Jeffrey Jones performances despite revelations about their personal behavior that weren’t so funny.

These thoughts came back to me the other day as Dawn and I were using our Disney+ subscription to watch some of the classic black-and-white Zorro show from the 1950’s. Come on, sing it with me: “Out of the niiiiight, when the full moon is bri-i-iiiight…”

No? Ahem. Well, anyhow, here’s a show set in 1820s Los Angeles under Mexican rule, where every character is meant to be Hispanic, and the cast list features such Latino luminaries as Guy Williams, Gene Sheldon, Henry Calvin, Britt Lomond…

Now part of this is due to the (in)famous nature of old Hollywood where if you wanted a career of note you got yourself a good ol’ American stage name. Guy Williams was born Armand Joseph Catalano, raised by his Italian immigrant parents in New York City, so I suppose the argument is there that he’s at least Latino-adjacent. Does it matter when he’s such a dashing Don Diego de la Vega, aka Zorro?

These are questions we ask nowadays, and it’s in large part because the history of Hollywood is–not to mince words–pretty god dang racist in terms of who was allowed to be on the silver screen. Zorro is chock full of white folks. But Dawn (who, recall, grew up a Sanchez) watched the Zorro show in syndicated re-runs as a kid and loved seeing the adventures of all these Mexicans and Spaniards on her television. Valorous, villainous, beautiful, hideous, and everywhere in between… that plurality I still feel is so important to in-depth representation.

And now here she is grown up watching again, aware that almost exactly zero of the people she’s watching are actually of Hispanic descent (shout out to Sacramento-born Elvera Corona for the recurring character of dancer Pilar Fuentes… oh, she wasn’t credited in the original airings? Well, uh, she has speaking lines, at least). But it’s still a fun show, and not really an offensive show (especially for its time), and young Dawn had no idea and even less care that the Mexican flashing that gallant smile as he fought for justice was in reality some Italian guy out of New York who wasn’t even allowed to go by his Italian name.

King T’Challa (better known as Marvel’s Black Panther) was created by white New Yorker Jewish dudes. Ripley, Buffy, Xena… all creations of white men. Does that take away from their myth and inspiration? It doesn’t seem so. The Hero is greater than the creator, greater than the circumstance, and inspires regardless of intents and purposes.

The Hero is dead. Long live the Hero.