Every generation has its legends. Every generation creates its myths. Every generation has a monster. And every generation needs a hero.
Mine was a 6-foot-5 bodybuilder covered in green greasepaint.
This weekend, millions of people will undoubtedly go watch director Ang Lee’s computer-generated Hulk in the latest comic-book-to-movie-screen extravaganza, aptly named “The Hulk.” For many of them, this image of the jade giant will be the one they remember. Older fans will “ooh” and “ahh” over the special effects, which will be astounding. New fans will experience for the first time the power of the unleashed child within — who always seems to be really peeved — and this CGI creation will forever after be what they see whenever the Hulk is mentioned.
Which is fine. This is hardly the first time the Incredible one has been reborn in the media. Few other comic book characters have gone through as many changes (so to speak) and remained relatively true to a surprisingly complicated persona.
The basic premise has remained the same: Bruce Banner. Milksop scientist. Caught in an experiment gone awry. Massive exposure to gamma radiation. Unleashed repressed rage. Turns into a rampaging green powerhouse if he gets mad or stubs his toe or something. An atomic age Jekyll and Hyde, or maybe something by Kafka but with more explosions.
Throughout the 40-year span of the comic book (which has itself stopped and started several times, with four name changes) there have been three cartoon series, numerous action figures and toys, and one live-action television show that helped convince my parents not to have me taken away.
I collected comics from a very young age, amassing many boxes of them and reading them over and over, arguing the finer points with my friends (“Because with his glasses on, Clark Kent looks completely, totally different, you moron!”) and annoying my parents. Not only was I wasting my limitless potential by reading silly stuff like that, I also had a bad habit of financing my comic collection from the parental Super Funds of money carelessly left on dressers and forgotten change from errands. Dad once unknowingly funded my obsession by carelessly providing a collection of silver dollars in a small, locked bank hidden deep in the back of the top shelf of his locked closet — where, really, anyone could stumble upon it.
My four-color stories provided me with a rich fantasy life, one that my parents couldn’t see and certainly didn’t understand. How could I explain to them that comics, then as now, tap into the archetypical myths and transcribe them anew for a younger audience? Where the tales of Spider-Man evoked the feelings of adolescent turmoil and clearly displayed the price of personal responsibility, where the trials of the X-Men demonstrated the evils of racism, where Superman showed us that ultimate power meant you took care of others less fortunate, the Hulk gave us a glimpse into our inner, uncontrolled selves. Plus the Hulk picked up whole entire tanks and threw them into buildings — Boom! Heady stuff, indeed.
I’m not sure, but I think Mom could tell that sometimes, when she was dressing me down for something (wholly undeserved, of course) that I was imagining I was turning my massive body and leaping through the living room wall. I even acted this out once, sort of, by faking a seizure and throwing myself behind the couch where I roared, Hulk-like, and pulled off my Coca-Cola T-shirt to reveal an identical, shredded Coke shirt beneath, the better to display my awe-inspiring musculature.
Today this would be performance art, especially if I added chocolate syrup. Then, all I received was a silent look between two grim adults who were wondering to themselves how much psychiatric evaluations run per session. What happened when the neighbors found out that their kid wanted to be a cartoon character? What was next? Popeye?
It didn’t help that my 11-year-old physical stature resembled someone who, after his inner turmoil triggered a monstrous physical change, might somehow enlarge beyond all belief into someone who looked like an underfed Bruce Banner.
In 1977 a man named Ken Johnson kept me out of the funny farm (youth division) by producing “The Incredible Hulk,” starring Bill Bixby and Lou Ferrigno. I was there, of course, perched in front of the set, waiting to see my fantasies brought to life.
It was pretty bad. The rationale for Banner becoming the Hulk was lame and self-serving, the “science” was painful to see, the metamorphosis effect wasn’t even as good as the overexposed freeze-frame effects in the 1960s Wolfman movies, and the Hulk’s makeup kept coming off, possibly because of the weight of his astounding gamma-powered eyebrows. The stunts were absurd, the plot was hokey and the ending was trite. I loved every minute of it.
And, amazingly, my parents . . . well, they watched it with me, anyway. It was proof that someone besides their whacked-out kid liked this stuff, and after all, it wasn’t much worse than the ‘The Six Million Dollar Man.’ Plus it had that nice actor from “My Favorite Martian.” Television, the logic went, was made by adults, so therefore it was OK. I was sane after all, probably. From then on, when I raced through the house as a screaming engine of devastating destruction — and doing an admirable job, I must say — they could tell themselves that I was pretending to be a TV star.
When I watch the movie this weekend, and I wouldn’t miss it, I’m still going to miss watching Lou Ferrigno strain to push over a car. I’ll miss the green flesh-tone flip-flops he wore when the Hulk had to run through the woods. I’ll miss watching Banner’s beard mysteriously appear and disappear during the change. I’m going to miss the haunting “Lonely Man” theme music as Bill Bixby slings his bag over his shoulder and walks away during the credits. And I’ll miss my own gamma-irradiated youth.
But I’ll probably love the movie, because I hear he picks up a whole entire tank and bashes things with it. Boom!