The best part of director David Gelb’s affectionate documentary is that Stan Lee narrates his own story throughout, thanks to audio clips culled from numerous media appearances, and extensive interviews conducted shortly before he died in 2018.
(Walt Disney had the same failing, claiming proprietary credit — and 22 Academy Awards — while conveniently overlooking the people who did the actual work.)
Following a promising first act, Gelb’s film devolves into one-sided hagiography: the film equivalent of Lee’s insufferably narcissistic books, 2002’s Excelsior! The Amazing Life of Stan Lee and 2015’s Amazing, Fantastic, Incredible: A Marvelous Memoir.
(Sean Howe’s Marvel Comics: The Untold Story gives a far more balanced view of what actually occurred.)
Gelb’s failure to adopt an impartial approach is unfortunate, because Lee’s early career would be no less impressive.
He was born Stanley Martin Lieber in New York City on Dec. 28, 1922. From a young age, he wanted to make something of himself — to gain steady employment — in great part because his father was so frequently out of work. Young Stanley’s first job was as an office boy “for the city’s second-largest trouser manufacturer,” but that stint proved brief; he was fired the week before Christmas.
In 1939, he became the “third assistant office boy” for Martin Goodman’s fledgling Timely Publications, which immediately unleashed a wealth of pulp magazines, digest-sized magazines and comic books. The latter debuted with Marvel Comics No. 1, released in October that year; the cover story featured the Human Torch.
Numerous other titles quickly followed, featuring superheroes such as the Sub-Mariner, the Patriot, the Angel, the Destroyer and — most significantly — Captain America. Jack Kirby did much of the artwork, alongside writer Joe Simon; both are heard briefly, as they recall those early days.
When Simon proved too busy to meet a deadline for Captain America Comics No. 3 (May 1941), 19-year-old Stanley got his first credit for a two-page text story titled “Captain America Foils the Traitor’s Revenge.” Wanting to “hide” behind a pen name, he adopted a shortened version of his full name, and became “Stan Lee.”
His first credit for a full-length story — “The Red Skull’s Deadly Revenge,” with art by Al Avison — came in issue No. 16 (July 1942) of the same book.
It’s indicative of Gelb’s failure to fact-check his subject, when Lee claims — in his narration — that he was asked by Goodman to “write some stories” when he was 16; simple math reveals that he was 18 when he earned that first text credit, and 19 when he wrote the second full story. This similarly refutes his claim that he was 17 when becoming a writer and editor after Kirby and Simon left Timely, in late 1941.
Granted, that level of responsibility is impressive even for a 19-year-old, although he initially wasn’t able to enjoy it for long; World War II service intruded. He wound up in a film unit based in Astoria, Queens, and was assigned to re-write some needlessly wordy military manuals; he did so by delivering the same information via comic strips, which significantly reduced reading and training time.
This was the epiphany moment, as Lee realized the value of comics as a viable medium not merely for entertainment, but also for educational purposes.
(Will Eisner, famed creator of the newspaper strip The Spirit, made a lengthy and quite successful career of similar comic art work for the military.)
Lee returned to Goodman’s company following the war, and met and married his wife Joan in 1947. That same year, he was featured on the November cover of Writer’s Digest, for an article titled “There’s Money in Comics!”
Goodman re-branded Timely as Atlas Comics in 1951, by which point the company was grinding out almost 100 titles every month. Lee’s earlier epiphany notwithstanding, all of those titles were designed solely for children; he was told to use no words of more than two syllables. The sameness became a slog that found him at very low ebb as the next decade dawned. “I felt I was wasting my time,” he admits.
He credits Joan with his salvation, when she suggested that he create characters that he liked: relatable, fallible characters, with issues and insecurities. The result was Fantastic Four No. 1, with artwork by Jack Kirby; it hit the stands in late 1961, and was a smash hit. Goodman again re-branded his company that year, now calling it Marvel Comics.
Emboldened by his success — and now allowed to employ a college-level vocabulary in his scripts — Lee next courted the young adult market by envisioning a teenage superhero, complete with angst and anxieties. Goodman nixed that concept, but Lee outflanked him. Knowing that the poorly selling Amazing Fantasy was scheduled to be canceled after issue 15 (August 1962), Lee boldly debuted this new character — Spider-Man, with art by Steve Ditko — and got away with it, because “nobody paid attention to the contents of a title’s final issue.”
In this case, plenty of people paid attention; that issue sold so well that Goodman relented, and Spider-Man got his own title the following March.
Spidey and the FF soon were followed by Iron Man, Thor, “revived” versions of Timely characters Sub-Mariner and Captain America, and many, many more.
Gelb charts this career arc with a mostly captivating blend of photographs, newsreel footage, comic book covers and interior art, and even Stan and Joan’s home movies. I say “mostly” because these traditional elements are accompanied by dozens of meticulously detailed, dollhouse-style miniature tableaus that depict key events not otherwise captured for posterity.
These miniatures, credited to artist Lacie Barker, are gorgeous; they’re designed to look hand-crafted, but could be CGI. Either way, they’re stunning … but wholly out of place. This film grinds to a dead halt every time cinematographer Ernesto Lomeli slowly pans over each one.
Lee’s rapidly advancing fame, by the mid-1960s, grants Gelb far more television and media-related interview footage; Lee’s delight in his own greatness also becomes more apparent … and increasingly teeth-grinding.
To their credit, Gelb and Lee do touch on the uncomfortable circumstances surrounding Ditko’s departure from Marvel in the spring of 1966, following his work on Spider-Man No. 38; the artist clearly was unhappy about not being acknowledged as the character’s co-creator. Granted, Lee envisioned Spider-Man, but Ditko brought him to life; he created the costume and wrist-web gimmick, along with similarly concocting an expanding roster of colorful super-villains.
Kirby left under a similarly angry cloud in the summer of 1970 — after penciling Fantastic Four No. 102 (September) — although Gelb fails to provide any details. (Lee’s credit-hogging was one of several reasons; the straw that broke the artist’s back was an unjust new contract that Goodman refused to negotiate.)
We do, however, get to hear a portion of Robert Knight’s lengthy 1987 Earthwatch interview with Kirby on New York City’s WBAI-FM, on the occasion of the artist’s 70th birthday. Lee makes a surprise phone call to congratulate his former colleague, but the conversation quickly devolves into a highly uncomfortable argument, as Lee — in true Walt Disney fashion — repeatedly insists that Marvel’s rise to greatness was due solely to him, him, him.
Awk-ward.
Then, just as it seems things will get more interesting, this film’s narrative stops in 1972, when Lee is made publisher: a “kick upstairs” that ended his career as writer and editor. (“I reached the pinnacle of idleness,” he laments.)
After fleeting glimpses of Lee’s subsequent rise as a lecture circuit darling, Gelb leaps forward to 2010, when Stan was named Marvel’s Chairman Emeritus; we see some behind-the-scenes footage as he shoots his cameo for 2011’s Thor.
To say this four-decade gap feels clumsy is an understatement, although it’s perhaps understandable. Lee’s creative and business efforts, during those 40-odd years, often were less than stellar; there’s a certain logic to focusing on the thrilling rise through Timely, Atlas and that great first decade with Marvel.
Even so, the story — Gelb’s film — feels incomplete, as if a massive third act has been ripped away. Worshipful fans probably won’t care, but viewers desiring more balance — and more honesty — will be dissatisfied.
Rolling Stone critic David Fear dismissed this flick as a “lame infomercial.”
I can’t disagree…
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