Zorro's Shadow

How a Mexican Legend Became America's First Superhero

• Publisher: Chicago Review Press
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781641602969
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Critique littéraire de bandes dessinées et de romans graphiques

"SADDLE UP! Andes takes us on an exhilarating, dust-kicking ride through the actual origins and history of the first hemispheric Latinx superhero: Zorro." —Frederick Luis Aldama, editor of Tales from la Vida: A Latinx Zorro's Shadow explores the masked character's Latinx origins and his impact on pop culture—the inspiration for the most iconic superheroes we know today. Long before Superman or Batman made their first appearances, there was Zorro. Born on the pages of the pulps in 1919, Zorro fenced his way through the American popular imagination, carving his signature letter Z into the flesh of evildoers in Old Spanish California. Zorro is the original caped crusader, the first masked avenger, and the character who laid the blueprint for the modern American superhero. Historian and Latin American studies expert Stephen J. C. Andes unmasks the legends behind Zorro, showing that the origins of America's first superhero lie in Latinx history and experience. Revealing the length of Zorro's shadow over the superhero genre is a reclamation of the legend of Zorro for a multiethnic and multicultural America.

PART I

GHOSTS

An era can be considered over when its basic illusions have been exhausted.

—Arthur Miller

1

THE STATUE

Research Log #1

Reforma Boulevard, Mexico City

9:33 AM

IS ZORRO REALLY JUST FICTION? I couldn’t get the question out of my mind as I walked the crowded streets of Mexico City.

The American writer Johnston McCulley wrote the first Zorro story one hundred years ago. He called it The Curse of Capistrano. The pulp magazine All-Story Weekly serialized it in five installments: August 9, August 16, August 23, August 30, and September 6, 1919. That’s the origin of Don Diego Vega and his fictional alter ego, Zorro. Zorro was born in the mind of a white guy from Chillicothe, Illinois. End of story.

Or not . . .

I’ve been on a journey to find the origins of Zorro for the past two years. I’ve read McCulley’s earliest stories; devoured the Zorro comic books of Everett Raymond Kinstler, Don McGregor, and Matt Wagner; and seen all the Zorro feature films, from Douglas Fairbanks to the Republic Pictures matinee serials to the spoof Zorro: The Gay Blade (1981)—and, of course, the Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta-Jones reboots (1998’s The Mask of Zorro and 2005’s The Legend of Zorro). I began my journey with Zorro already established as a cultural icon.1 I’ve been a little obsessed, I suppose.

And of course, I’ve done my research. Scholarly books and articles piled up on my desk. I was, at first, skeptical of Zorro’s status as a superhero. What superpowers does Zorro have? As I explored the literature on superheroes, I discovered two important facets to the question: first, not all “superheroes” have superhuman abilities, and second, Zorro is more of a prototype superhero, one whose abilities were enlarged in the heroes he inspired—for example, the Shadow, the Phantom, the Green Hornet, and Batman.2

My investigation into the origins of Zorro also led me to ask myself, Is Zorro really just fiction? Because if Zorro was a prototype for later superheroes, could Zorro himself have had a prototype? My research began to suggest that he was based on a historical figure.

At first, I was dubious that Zorro was anything more than a romantic fiction, but as it turns out, I’m not the only one to look for the inspiration for the man behind the mask. As I studied further, two real-life inspirations for Zorro emerged.

The first inspiration I encountered was Joaquín Murrieta (ca. 1824–1853), a notorious bandido who terrorized southern California in the days of the gold rush.3 Tales of Murrieta have been much sensationalized, but many associate him with the masked crusader.4 In the Zorro movies with Antonio Banderas, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Anthony Hopkins, Hopkins even portrays an aging Zorro who bequeaths the mask to Alejandro Murrieta, played by Banderas. I began to think that all I had to do was prove that Murrieta was the basis for Zorro to make the Latinx origins of the superhero genre clear.5

Until I encountered inspiration number two: William Lamport, an Irishman of undeniably European origin. I discovered that the second real-life character who allegedly inspired the Zorro stories was the so-called Irish Zorro—an Irish Spanish adventurer who lived in the seventeenth century (1611–1659). He emigrated to Mexico and was captured by the Mexican Inquisition for a conspiracy to rebel against the Spanish Crown. He proclaimed Mexican independence more than 150 years before independence happened in 1810. He was burned at the stake.

His legend lived on, however, and in 1872 a Mexican author of romantic fiction named Vicente Riva Palacio wrote a novel based on his life called Memorias de un impostor: D. Guillén de Lampart, rey de México (“Memoirs of an Imposter: D. Guillén de Lampart, King of Mexico”). The theory, recently popularized by an Italian historian named Fabio Troncarelli, is that Johnston McCulley based his Zorro on Palacio’s novel.6 An interesting literary and cultural similarity was apparent between Lamport and Zorro.7 Marketing for Troncarelli’s book made a splash, especially in Europe. Headlines carried zingers like PADDY O’ZORRO, the WEXFORD WOMANIZER, and various other alliterative titles, ad nauseam.

But could it be true? Was Zorro based on a seventeenth-century Irishman?

This brought me to Mexico City, where I hoped to find out if there was anything to the idea. I decided to start my investigation with Lamport, because if Lamport turned out to be the real inspiration for Zorro, my whole claim that America’s first superhero is based on Latinx history and experience would be on far shakier ground. I’m a historian, so I had to do my due diligence, to deal with the European Zorro—establish his merits, see how the evidence stacked up—before I could compare him with Murrieta. For the moment, then, I left aside Joaquín Murrieta’s claims to the mask.

---

Before I found Lamport’s statue, I considered the fictional Zorro as I’d come to understand him. I realized if I was to judge whether Zorro was based on Murrieta or Lamport I’d have to get a clear idea of who the fictional Zorro is.

Here’s the rundown.

McCulley’s Zorro came to the attention of Hollywood not long after the first stories appeared in 1919. Douglas Fairbanks Sr., star of the silent film era, snapped up the Zorro story and made the first film adaptation in 1920. He called the film The Mark of Zorro. Fairbanks gave Zorro more than a dose of athleticism—he jumped, he strutted, he did his own stunts. Fairbanks also gave Diego Vega his dandy characteristics. For instance, in the film, Fairbanks uses a handkerchief scented with perfume to protect his aristocratic nose from the unpleasant smells of plebeians; McCulley wrote that tidbit into later Zorro stories.8 So influential, in fact, was the movie on the early development of the character that editors renamed The Curse of Capistrano as The Mark of Zorro in later printings.9 McCulley continued to write new Zorro stories for the pulps. He would publish four serialized Zorro novels plus another fifty-eight short stories before his death in 1958.10

McCulley set his stories in California under Spanish rule, but he wasn’t clear or consistent about the timeline. It could be the early 1800s or the 1820s, but they were all centered on Los Angeles, or Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles, as it was known then. “The Zorro franchise,” writes Eric Trautman, “exists in a historical vortex; from the beginning, it was more of a fantasy version of Mexico than a historically accurate one.”11 Our hero was the son of a wealthy hacienda owner. He masqueraded at night with mask and cape to fight government and military corruption. His enemies were always upstart, unscrupulous comandantes who mistreated Indians and women. By day, Zorro was the foppish Diego Vega, who read the poets and couldn’t be bothered to ride a few miles to court his love interest. He wouldn’t be caught dead, so he said, playing a guitar under the window of a pretty senorita.12

All McCulley’s Zorro stories contained similar elements and themes. Heroism, love, honor, justice, truth—these were the staples of McCulley’s Zorro, mixed with action, adventure, and derring-do. Zorro had to take up his sword because those responsible for justice were not handing it out. Thus, the caballero, the gentleman—a man of blue blood, pure and noble—became the avenger of the weak.

In retrospect, it’s all pretty paternalistic: white rich guy has to be the hero. But then again, that’s also Batman in a nutshell.

This is the Zorro we know. Created one hundred years ago, he’s been the product of fiction—pulps, movies, serials, TV, comics, cartoons, satires, pornos, reboots, new stories, and crossovers. The legend of Zorro is a product of twentieth-century media. And Zorro always seems to reappear. His story is durable. Like other pop cultural icons, Zorro’s symbolism is not fixed but open to change as contemporary consumers look for what they need in him. Bandits, from Robin Hood to Mexico’s narco-saint Jesús Malverde, have always performed a function for their audiences.13 They are symbols of hope, symbols of justice, symbols of vicarious adventure.

It’s important, after a century, to delve into Zorro’s origins. If we’re going to create an icon that represents our hopes and symbols of justice, that sparks our imagination, we need to deal with the ghosts of Zorro’s past, put them to rest, and move on toward a more inclusive future. Telling better stories starts with telling the old, uncomfortable stories from the past.

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I snapped out of my academic reverie and focused on the object before me: the statue of William Lamport. I stood in front of an enormous monument to Mexican independence looking for the Irishman. The monument looked a bit like the July Column in Paris, or Nelson’s Column in London’s Trafalgar Square. The Mexican victory column is called El Ángel de la Independencia (“The Angel of Independence”). It’s 311 feet high, with a golden angel on top. It stands in the center of the city’s main boulevard, Reforma, which is lined with shops, banks, and tourists, and at the time, with Día de los Muertos a few days away, the orange marigolds of the dead—the cempasúchitl—were in full bloom.

I scurried across the road toward the monument, which works as a convenient roundabout in the center of the boulevard. Stairs climb toward the base of the stone tower. Everywhere, groups were taking pictures. I circled the monument once—names of Mexican independence heroes and cultural icons adorn the stone; robed and seated women representing Law, Justice, War, and Peace guard each corner of the column’s base. One statuary installation is of a child leading a lion, as if to say that the birth of the Mexican nation came with untamed power. Miguel Hidalgo, the priest who set off insurrection in 1810, Vicente Guerrero, and others stand on the pedestal before the column rises to a staggering height.14

Where is the Irish Zorro?

I saw a door that led into the monument. There’s a mausoleum inside where, until recently, the actual remains of many of the independence heroes were interred.

The door was locked.

I peered through a darkened window and saw it—or him, I should say: William Lamport in marble, perfectly straight, staring up at the horizon. A partially opened interior door blocked half of the statue. I saw someone’s foot and part of a leg jutting out of the door. I knocked.

I knocked quite a bit. From the shadows I saw a police officer—or security guard, it was hard to know which. He motioned at me that they were closed. I knocked again, adding a contrite facial expression. He kindly opened the heavy brass door.

The police officer emerged with a full bulletproof vest and a smile. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and stood about five foot two. He said in Spanish that I couldn’t come inside and that the mausoleum was closed for the next year for renovations.

A year?

I explained my story. I was researching William Lamport. Is that his statue? I asked. I whipped up my courage and asked if I could take a picture. He kindly let me do so.

We talked, the police officer and I, about William Lamport, known as Don Guillén de Lampart in Mexico. He told me about several books on Guillén.

“This is sort of funny,” I said, “but have you ever heard that Guillén de Lampart was the inspiration for Zorro?”

“Yes,” he looked at me with a broad smile. “There are some who say yes, and some no. There’s quite a controversy about it.”

The police officer gave me a five-minute dissertation on the different theories. “Perhaps,” he said, “as the legend of Guillén de Lampart went farther north it changed, and over time became the legend of Zorro.”

Is it me, I thought to myself, or is this police officer really well informed?

I thanked him profusely for his time. A crowd had gathered around us. My thoughts spun in many directions.

What am I missing? I wondered. What in William Lamport’s history ties him to the legend of Zorro?

2

THE PYRE

IN 1659, WILLIAM LAMPORT stood not far from where I was that day, but he could never have imagined that there would one day be a statue in his honor. At the time, honor was far off from Lamport indeed. He wore a conical pasteboard dunce cap painted with demons suffering the torments of hell. His cloak had a black cross of Saint Andrew, and it, too, carried demonic images—fitting clothing for one condemned by the Inquisition.1

In his lifetime, Lamport was a scholar, a sailor, a soldier, a seducer, and a spy. Like Zorro, Lamport escaped secret dungeons, but in contrast to our masked hero, the Irishman advocated radical social revolution. Zorro always fought for the oppressed of Spanish California, but he was no insurgent. “Z...