Black Panther
In July of 1966 the first African superhero, Black Panther, debuted in a Marvel comic book. Three months later, a pair of African American revolutionaries founded the Black Panther Party. As usual, Marvel’s masterminds, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, channeled the spirit of their time at a time when comics were kid stuff.
Although comic book superheroes have long been as mainstream as baseball and Pepsi, it’s taken more than half a century for Black Panther to get his own movie. With race in the headlines again, maybe the time is right for an African hero whose special powers are tempered by his own doubts over the role he should play.
In Black Panther, the title character is the persona of T’Challa, newly enthroned (and insecure) as King of Wakanda after his father was assassinated at the U.N. by a terrorist. To the eyes of the world, Wakanda is an impoverished land of cattle herders. But for those who can see, Wakanda is a place of marvels. It is the site of a miracle mineral, vibranium, which endows the kingdom with a hidden dimension of high tech and high-rise architecture. T’Challa sallies forth in a flying saucer. However, his power has primeval roots. An herbal potion and shamanic ritual transform Wakanda’s king into the Black Panther, instilling him with the agility of a jungle cat. And yes, he has a costume. In his Black Panther mode, he wears a kinky form-fitting black leather body suit studded with steel.
The movie’s perkiest character is T’Challa’s rebelliously brilliant sister-inventor Shuri, played by Letitia Wright with a sassy twinkle as she unveils gadgets James Bond would envy. Most of the other characters speak in the regal dialogue of a 19th-century novel. Chadwick Boseman is solemn as the Sphinx as T’Challa. The burdens of office sit heavily on his shoulders. The monarch must weigh the downsides and the ups of his social activist ex-girlfriend, Nakia (Lupita Nyong’o), her campaigns against human trafficking and ivory poachers and her call to open Wakanda’s sealed borders to refugees. He must fight the racist soldier of fortune Ulysses Klaue (Andy Serkis) and his gang of plug uglies out to steal the vibranium. And—spoiler alert!—more dangerous still is the unanticipated challenge from the lost African American branch of Wakanda’s royal family (fiery eyed Michael B. Jordan).
Like a lost kingdom from Edgar Rice Burroughs, Wakanda is a place where spears and bone necklaces emerge from flying machines and the ancient keeps company with the futuristic. Black Panther is a fantasy drawing from pride in African heritage. At the same time, with its Amazon warriors and the wise counsel of the royal family’s women, Black Panther becomes a symphony of female empowerment. The men are generally evil, wrongheaded, hapless or lacking discernment. The women save the day.
Black Panther sounds several political notes amid the poorly designed computer-graphic carnage. In the end, T’Challa must navigate between the conservative isolationism of his ancestors and the temptation of young radicals to set the world ablaze. A message for our time? With few exceptions, the 3D cinematography is more annoying than engaging.
