Stan Lee

by Bob Batchelor

  Hanna-Barbera Productions launched a second animated television series— The Fantastic Four —which first aired on ABC in the fall of 1967. The show began with a bang: a signal arcing into the nighttime sky and then bursting into a vibrant “4” that called the superheroes to their New York City headquarters. The minute-long introduction took the viewer through a condensed version of the group’s origin story and then showed them battling a variety of bad guys. Aimed at an audience of young viewers, the series emphasized the super strength of the heroes and turned the villains into dangerous, but somewhat campy, versions of how they appeared in comic books. The writers aped some of Lee’s style, showing its early infiltration into mainstream popular culture, as well as the sustained influence of Adam West’s gonzo Batman.

  The inevitable boom-and-bust mentality that seemed to plague comic books continued, however. Although the Marvel cartoons were popular, sales nosedived in 1967 when the televised Batman show sputtered and limped through a final year, more or less pulling all comic books sales down in its wake. DC remained on top, but total circulation across the industry decreased. Spider-Man was Marvel’s highest-selling comic, but only placed fourteenth on the year-end list of top sellers.15 Overall, Marvel did better than most of its competitors. Its books basically stayed even with the previous year’s sales or showed slim increases. Surprisingly, in a down year for the industry, the fact that Marvel circulation remained consistent revealed how hipness and good marketing could overcome market forces.

  The late 1960s were full of changes for Lee. After he rented his teenage daughter a place in the city so that she could study acting, Lee realized that perhaps he and Joanie should move back. The house in Hewlett Harbor seemed too big for just two people. Lee convinced the production company that bought the Spider-Man animation rights to rent him an apartment in the city so that he could serve as a consultant on the series. The year-long tryout convinced the couple that they would enjoy city life. They got an apartment at Sixtieth Street, where they stayed during the week. Then, shortly thereafter, they sold the house and bought an apartment on Sixty-Third with a large terrace, which had been Joanie’s condition. After about two decades of suburban life, Lee and Joanie found their new home in the heart of the Big Apple.16

  Lee’s popularity continued to grow among college students, both as a speaker and de facto leader of the one hundred or so campus chapters of the Merry Marvel Marching Society fan club. The spotlight, however, caused tension with Goodman. “I began to think he almost resented the success of our comics line,” Lee remembered. “I felt it wouldn’t displease him to see sales slip and have my confidence taken down a peg.” For Lee, it seemed that Goodman viewed him as a competitor, just as much as the fledgling publishers and DC, which still dominated the field.17 The situation turned into a double-edged sword: Lee was too valuable and popular to fire, but his fame caused resentments. It didn’t really matter if Lee was toned down or thoughtful in the many newspaper and magazine articles or interviews on the radio, his sound bites fueled the public’s fascination. At the same time, Marvel benefited from Lee’s willingness to be the face of the superhero genre.

  One of Lee’s highest-profile appearances took place on the popular Dick Cavett Show. Realizing that many nonreaders were tuned in—and facing a doubting Cavett, who seemed less than enthusiastic about the idea that comic books were important—the Marvel writer contextualized comics as a significant part of “the age of the offbeat.” In this era, Marvel superheroes specifically represented the decade (perhaps despite their powers and seeming invincibility), because they had human feelings and problems even as they were saving the world from all-powerful aliens, supervillains, and other crises. Lee explained to Cavett—at the time one of the nation’s great promoters of both high- and lowbrow culture—that in Marvel fandom, “our most popular heroes are the most wackiest.” He singled out Hulk (“a green-skinned monster”) and Spider-Man as representative of the quirky era.18

  While Cavett and Pat McCormick, his erstwhile comedian sidekick poked fun at Lee and comics in general, the Marvel chief kept his cool, explaining that Spider-Man’s popularity rested on his status as an “anti-hero hero” who “gets sinus attacks, he gets acne, and allergy attacks while he’s fighting.” Prior to a commercial break, McCormick fired the kind of zinger that Lee had been fighting against his entire career. The jokester snickered, “One thing I like about those comic books is that they’re easy to turn while you’re sucking your thumb with the other hand.”19

  A comedian like McCormick might have been able to play the dumbed-down nature of comic books for gags on television, but Lee stood at the center of a new comic book universe—one that he mainly created. When Jenette Kahn, later the head of rival DC, was asked what she considered the “most significant event” in the post-1950 comic book world, she pointed to Lee, explaining:

  Comic book characters pick up the unconscious trends of the time and become the spokesmen for those trends. That’s why people can identify so fully that the characters can become part of the mythology. Stan Lee’s characters did that in the sixties. He picked up on anti-Establishment feelings, on alienation and self-deprecation. . . . Stan came in with characters with bad breath and acne, punkier, younger, when young people needed symbols to replace many of the things they were rejecting.20

  Not a bad tribute from Marvel’s primary competitor and rival or considering the lowbrow roots the industry fought to overcome. In a flurry of creativity over a few short years, Lee upended American popular culture and forever changed the way people looked at heroes.

  While Lee fixated on art, word balloons, continuing storylines, and the countless other responsibilities he faced, Goodman searched for an exit strategy. By the late 1960s large corporations started to gobble each other up in a series of mergers and acquisitions. And for Goodman, who had built Marvel from scratch, the wholesale corporate merger-mania provided a long-awaited opportunity to cash out. Martin could finally turn over the business to his son Chip, who had been apprenticing under his father’s tutelage, which would allow the elder Goodman to walk away from the constant upheaval in magazine and comic book publishing,

  At the midpoint of 1968, a budding corporate mogul and lawyer named Martin Ackerman approached Goodman about selling his whole company—both the men’s magazines and the comic book division. Ackerman ran a handful of photo stores, pharmacies, and other concerns under the banner Perfect Film & Chemical Corporation. He fancied himself a major business figure, chomping away on cigars and pushing around staff and underlings, despite his diminutive stature. In a recent deal, Ackerman had extended a $5 million loan to Curtis Publishing, under the stipulation that he serve as president. What Ackerman really wanted out of the transaction was to control the distribution firm Curtis Circulation. Buying Goodman’s Magazine Management collection of periodicals and comic books ensured Ackerman that he would have the content necessary to distribute, a kind of double-dipping that gave him more revenue and control within the publishing industry.

  Goodman, though wracked with internal strife over the thought of selling, ultimately demanded a cash deal and sold the entire business to Ackerman for about $15 million. When Goodman made the sale, however, he pulled Lee aside and promised his longtime writer/editor “warrants,” which he said were like stock options. Not only would Goodman get rich, but he explained that Lee would, too. “My pot of gold had arrived,” Lee thought, “and I didn’t even have to ask!”21 As the deal got closer to fruition, however, Goodman not only didn’t give Lee options, but never mentioned them again. Goodman signed a deal to remain publisher of Magazine Management, while Chip became editorial director, with the assumption he would eventually replace his father.

  Ackerman and his underlings, according to Lee, “told Martin they wouldn’t buy the company unless I signed a contract to stay on.”22 Ackerman saw Lee as the essential element in the purchase, but Stan didn’t press Goodman for a big raise or other long-term financial gains, because he trusted his bo
ss to take care of him. The three-year deal he eventually inked bumped Lee’s salary up, but he started having lingering doubts about Goodman’s backslapping and assurances.

  Lee joined the many Marvel employees who believed that they should also have profited in the sale. “I’ll see to it that you and Joanie will never have to want for anything as long as you live,” Goodman told Lee over at the publisher’s house for dinner the night after the sale.23 Joanie Lee and Stan’s cousin Jean were close friends. The sale called for a party. Ackerman celebrated too—he bought a $1.5 million private jet and a snazzy Park Avenue apartment to conduct business. Lee continued to worry about what might have been if Goodman had fulfilled his promises. Yet, he didn’t press or threaten to leave Marvel, potentially at a time when he could have demanded a hefty fortune to not go running to DC.

  Although Ackerman’s Curtis Circulation took over Marvel’s distribution, erasing the disastrous deal Goodman had been forced to sign ten years earlier, the entire industry reset somewhat as sales flattened. In response, Goodman took a heavy-handed approach with Marvel, threatening layoffs and canceling titles outright, including Lee’s beloved Doctor Strange. The publisher even demanded that comics drop a page (from 20 to 19) in an effort to save money. All the interference boiled Lee’s blood and again got him thinking about quitting the business. Chip Goodman also took the insane step of shutting down the Merry Marvel Marching Society fan club, which Lee felt energized the company’s most loyal readers.24

  Once again, Lee felt trapped. He had done everything in his power to build Marvel into the biggest comic book publisher in the industry, yet the sales slump put him right back in a vulnerable position. Goodman had not come through on his promises and, as a matter of fact, began hinting at another round of mass layoffs, which Lee would have to orchestrate. The writer yearned for a way out but couldn’t figure which way to turn. “It’s time I started thinking of other things,” he said, considering a range of options, from writing a play or film treatment to just creating poems.25 Film seemed the most logical avenue. He even dreamed of taking Kirby and artist John Buscema to Hollywood with him where they could work on set designs or story boards while he crafted scripts.

  While Lee considered his options, the company’s new owner felt its first trembles. Perfect’s board of directors ousted Ackerman. The combination of pressure from running Curtis and his flamboyant, decadent spending habits was too much for the company to bear. They replaced Ackerman with Sheldon Feinberg, another aggressive young executive with a law background. Feinberg led the charge to start fresh, changing the company name to Cadence Industries. He instituted a tight-fisted campaign to reduce the company’s enormous debt. No longer the captain of the ship, Goodman fell in line. He ordered Lee to publish reprints of certain comic lines so that he didn’t have to pay freelancers for creating new pages while Marvel attempted to weather the bleak sales outlook. Inching ever closer to the end of the decade, Feinberg and his young, bellicose team had quite a task ahead. Lee tried to keep the Marvel bullpen in high spirits, but the business side of the corporation controlled decision making.

  The early 1960s hinged on creating new characters and establishing the Marvel Universe as readers took notice of the revolution occurring in the industry at the hands of the perennial second-tier company. In the latter part of the decade, Lee and his crew shifted their emphasis to solidifying Marvel’s standing, as well as deepening and broadening the storylines. Lee also gave some heroes their own solo titles, including Captain America, Hulk, and Iron Man.

  While many publishers watched sales drop, Marvel’s stayed consistent during the downturn. When it upped monthly production, the additional revenue staved off mass layoffs, thus keeping Lee from having to eliminate coworkers and staff members that he considered almost as close as family members. At least the good cheer and hipness factor remained with Marvel. DC went through tougher times, being sold to Kinney National, yet another corporate conglomerate, and still unable to figure out how to compete with its smaller competitor.

  As 1968 unfolded, Lee and Marvel would get increasingly caught up in world events. No one could ignore Vietnam, campus unrest, civil rights protests, or the growing women’s rights campaigns. On the Dick Cavett Show, Lee discussed an earlier Thor issue that had the Norse god criticizing college students who drop out, rather than “plunge in.” At the time of the interview, however, the significance of the protests had changed, as had the world in general. Lee could no longer use a superhero story to write “a good little sermon” in response. “Youth today,” he told Cavett, “seem to be so much more activist, which I think is a very healthy thing.”26

  In 1968, the comic book business stood almost unrecognizable compared to the start of the decade, when The Fantastic Four launched a series of new villains, heroes, and monsters in 1961. All the new solo titles necessitated an increased universe of intricately woven plots and new characters to fill the superhero books. Lee feared that Cadence executives could close down Marvel at any moment, yet he soldiered on, hoping that the superhero universe he created would endure the bumps and blips of the chaotic era.

  CHAPTER 10

  CREATING AN ICON

  What Stan Lee understood better than anyone else associated with Marvel—from his boss Martin Goodman and the Cadence executives overseeing the company to the newest assistant editor or freelance letterer—was that if the company had a spokesperson with stories as large-as-life as the Marvel superheroes, then that person could be almost as significant as the creations. Regardless of the artist, Lee had already put words into Spider-Man, Thor, and the others for years. His voice was the sound of Marvel Comics.

  When journalists began sniffing around the company in an attempt to experience the hubbub firsthand, Lee seized a crucial opening. Reporters may have scratched their heads, expecting to come across someone younger, but they recognized that the enthusiastic, witty, quote-a-minute Lee had tapped into youth culture. For decades he had survived Goodman’s downsizing and financial whims, repeatedly serving as a de facto one-man publishing company. So, when the press looked for a spokesman to contextualize the company’s rampant success, Lee jumped at the chance. The new role not only played to his ego, but also allowed him to try out some of the acting chops that he not-so-secretly harbored, dating all the way back to his teen stage aspirations with the WPA.

  Lee also grasped the monetary and branding value of serving as the company face. From one perspective, he grew up in the midst of the Great Depression and remembered listening to his parents shout at one another, usually about having no money. How would they manage to pay the rent without groveling to her relatives, who were better off than the Liebers? The challenge for Lee’s father was joblessness, which the son could not abide. If he stepped into a role that made him essentially indispensible, then that position equaled job security. He carried a deep aversion for unemployment or even the hint of being underutilized. With his father’s humiliation a painful memory, the idea shook Lee to the core.

  In addition, the spokesperson role from a branding viewpoint ensured that Marvel remained in the public eye as new opportunities developed. Lee did not have to be a supergenius like Reed Richards to realize that the superhero craze would lead to an increased number of entertainment options that would build on Marvel’s reputation—and Lee’s. The public reaction to the superhero characters he helped create stacked up on his desk in the form of three hundred to four hundred fan letters each day. In some sense, Lee realized, he could become a real-life “Mr. Fantastic” just by capitalizing on his natural strengths and gregarious personality.1

  The public role made Lee virtually indispensible. Ironically, as Lee’s position expanded, he subsequently became further entrenched as a company man. He realized that his fate—as always—remained deeply entwined with Marvel comics. Although many comic book insiders would accuse Lee of self-aggrandizement for assuming this self-created mantle, he smartly moved in a direction that played on his natural talents. He was never going
to be an inspirational chief executive—he never fully engaged with the business side of the organization—but he could rally crowds and fans. In addition to engaging with enthusiastic college students, he could just as effectively talk up comic books to worried parents or curious journalists.

  After spending decades toiling in virtual obscurity and chagrined when people learned of his occupation, the tables turned when Marvel found itself at the center of the cultural zeitgeist. Lee leaped at the prospect of establishing himself as a brand both within and outside the company.

  Goodman remained the prototypical business leader, keen on revenue and profit. He lacked the sense of pure creativity needed to appreciate the work being done by Lee, Kirby, Ditko, and the Marvel bullpen, but he created a financial infrastructure that enabled the artists and writers to flourish. And he continued to serve as a foil to Lee, even as the latter’s power increased and Goodman’s power lessened. Lee may have bristled at the financial maneuverings necessary for running a company, but he understood that Goodman and the Cadence management team played a critical role in the company’s success.

  Keeping the comic book division running, Lee had developed broad insight and experience with finances, but it never moved him the way the creative pieces did. He understood the need to build on the momentum of the new breed of superheroes Marvel created, but he remained somewhat removed from the corporate business decision making and the obsession with numbers that fueled middle management. Plus, he had no real time to get too intricately involved with finances. The expansion of titles per month meant that Lee had to corral a growing team of staffers and free-lancers. Titles had to hit publication deadlines. Missing the mark cost the company money in penalty fees and potential sales. The ironic aspect of Lee’s concentration on marketing Marvel was that it took place after so many years. “I had to write just about everything,” he recalled. “I was the editor. I was the art director. I was the head writer. So because of that, for better or worse, I had my personality stamped on those comics.” It is important to remember, though, that the front-end creation—from writing to artwork and production—was the glitzy outcome that required a great deal of behind-the-scenes effort. “I was designing covers, writing cover blurbs, writing ads, the soapbox column, the Bullpen page,” Lee explained.2 The culmination of Lee’s many creative roles over decades prepared him for the spotlight, which he had been yearning for from his earliest days in comic books and certainly at least dating back to his 1947 Writer’s Digest article about making money writing comic books.