Pioneering artist of comic-book fame, Jack Kirby, needs recognition

TRABUCO CANYON, Calif. - Growing up, Neal Kirby didn't know the man in the basement would be famous.

He didn't foresee the legions of fans, the hosannas heaped by comic-book cognoscenti, the $100-million movies that would make characters named Wolverine, The Incredible Hulk, and - as of this weekend - the Fantastic Four immortal.

To Kirby, the man opposite the artists' easel in the room downstairs was not Jack Kirby, arguably the most famous comic-book illustrator of his age.

To Neal, he was simply: "Dad."

"I don't think any of the artists of his generation thought they would become - as they are today - literal icons," said Neal.

Neal stops and looks fondly at a Fantastic Four poster he keeps in his house - one of a stack of original documents and reproductions left by his famous father, who died in 1994.

"Dad didn't think, 'Oh this is like a Leonardo - it's going to last the ages,'" Neal said, pointing to the illustrations.

He smiled and said, "But it probably will."

Jack Kirby and his contributions to the world of whimsy and adventure created by Marvel Comics in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s will be seen by millions when his name is featured in the opening credits of a movie about his most legendary characters: the Fantastic Four. It is the first such honor for Kirby, the Fantastic Four's original illustrator, whose collaboration with writer Stan Lee is widely believed to have revolutionized the comic-book business.

The recognition, Kirby's family said, comes a day late - and many millions of dollars short.

"Marvel and the film people act like they're doing us a favor," said Neal, 57. "I'm like, 'Well gee, you're about 44 years too late.'"

He is not alone in his sentiments about his cigar-smoking, tough-guy dad from Depression-era New York who created some of the most legendary comic-book heroes of his age - then forfeited them as a Marvel "work-for-hire" contract artist.

"To a lot of the faithful, the hard-core people, there is a feeling that Jack Kirby was stiffed," said Michael Mallory, author of the book "Marvel: The Characters and Their Universe."

"Part of it was just sentimental, and part of it is that he is regarded as one of the greatest comic-book artists there ever was. Someone with that much talent and productivity should have been rewarded more."

At issue: the hundreds of millions of dollars Marvel Comics made from films based on the power-hungry villains, buxom ladies, and muscle-bound heroes Kirby created.

Kirby and other contract artists were paid by the page - sometimes as little as $20 for strips that might sell today as collector's items for $25,000 or more, and which inspired blockbuster films like the "X-Men" series.

Although their contracts gave Marvel ownership of the characters they produced, a lawsuit in the late 1980s allowed artists like Kirby to reclaim some of their original artwork. In return, they had to relinquish rights to the characters themselves, according to Neal.

Marvel Comics, which settled a remuneration lawsuit with Stan Lee in April that awarded the writer 10 percent of profits from the Spider-Man films and other films, declined to comment on the Kirby case.

Such contractual disputes may be rooted in the inability of anyone to predict just how famous Marvel characters would become.

Comic books were held in such low esteem in the 1950s and '60s that politicians sometimes railed against them and parents considered them "mindrot," Mallory says.

"They said that comics would poison the minds of our youth," Neal recalled. "Thank God for Elvis - he took their minds off of comics."

Neal Kirby himself doesn't remember being particularly impressed by his father's profession.

Only once did he get actively involved in his dad's work, suggesting the type of sports car for a Kirby secret-agent character: Nick Fury: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"It was right after the first James Bond movie came out with his Austin Martin," Neal recalls. "So I suggested Porsche for Nick Fury. I think I got it out of a car magazine."

Later the family made light of the muscle-bound heroes and their form-fitting outfits that populated the Kirby comic universe.

"The family joke was: If they wore spandex, he probably created them," Neal said.

Most of the time, Jack worked alone and spoke little about the gods and monsters he penned.

"It was just a job," Neal recalls. "Then every couple of weeks he would bundle up his pages and go to (Marvel in) New York."

More memorable to Neal were the moments of kindness and principle his World War II veteran father displayed, especially to the less fortunate.

Neal's voice chokes with emotion describing his father taking a homeless man into a bar mitzvah at a synagogue in New York and feeding him.

"He was very generous, very good spirited, very socially liberal," Neal said. "When my mom bought grapes during the farmworkers strike, my dad threw them out the window."

And while his creations achieved renown - Captain America was the most popular cartoon figure in the United States during World War II, while the Fantastic Four launched the longest-running comic-book series in history - Kirby did not.

"He was probably the most humble person you'd ever meet," Neal said.

To remedy the relative obscurity of their father's legacy, Neal's sister Lisa Kirby announced Wednesday the creation of an online Jack Kirby museum, the start of what she hopes will eventually be a Jack Kirby Museum and Research Center.

In the house he shares with wife, Connie, 52, and youngest daughter Jillian, 9, Neal Kirby keeps artwork that might one day join the museum's collection: inked 11-by-17 sheets of original Captain America strips, as well as less-known wild West and space-alien illustrations.

On the walls upstairs hang quasi-comic-book illustrations of biblical themes: a muscle- bound God, superhero warriors riding toward the battle of Jericho, Jacob wrestling with what looks like a space-age angel.

"The theme was always good vs. evil - and good always wins," Neal said. "It's very basic stuff that people can relate to."

Kirby was famous for his action-packed style and flair for details so complex that the "inkers" who translated his pencil sketches into panels occasionally balked at the sheer amount of work a "Kirby" required.

"His specialty was making superheroes look super," Mallory said.

"All of his drawings had a larger-than-life quality, with these kinds of characters who were bigger, stronger, bolder than ever before."

His characters were also curiously flawed - self-loathing loners like "The Thing" appalled at their new superpowers, which separated them from ordinary people.

The struggle of heroes whose bodies were changing in ways they could not always understand or control struck a chord with the young, mostly male adolescent comic-book readers.

"These were real-life genuine problems that kids can relate to - that was the real innovation," Mallory said.

The shift from the square-jawed perfection of older super heroes like Superman helped revitalize the moribund comic-book business and ushered in a new age of darker, more complex themes.

It also coined what Mallory and others call "The Marvel Method," in which the writer no longer dictated the story line of a comic strip.

Instead, writer and artist worked together on a series of treatments and storyboards to develop both plot and character, before penning the final strip.

"It gave the artist a lot more creative input, which also could lead to the feeling they weren't being compensated enough," Mallory said.

Neal said legacy - more than lucre - was at stake in ownership disputes.

"A check for a million dollars would be nice," he said. "But at this point it's not about the financial issues. Me and my sisters are just trying to make sure (Kirby) gets the credit he's due. And not just for my father, but for all the artists."

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(c) 2005, The Orange County Register (Santa Ana, Calif.). Distributed by Knight Ridder/Tribune News Service.