And when, in the 1960s, countless demonstrators from my generation went into opposition to a brutal American war in Vietnam, they did so still garbed in cast-off "Good War" paraphernalia — secondhand Army jackets and bombardier coats — or they formed themselves into "tribes" and turned goodness and victory over to the former enemies in their childhood war stories. They transformed the V for Victory into a peace sign and made themselves into beings recognizable from thousands of westerns. They wore the Pancho Villa mustache, sombrero, and serape, or the Native American headband and moccasins. They painted their faces and grew long hair in the manner of the formerly "savage" foe, and smoked the peace (now, hash) pipe.
American mytho-history, even when turned upside down, was deeply embedded in their lives. How could they have known that they would be its undertakers, that their six-shooters would become eBayable relics?
You can bet on one thing today: in those streets, fields, parks, or rooms, children in significant numbers are not playing G.I. versus Sunni insurgent, or Special Op soldier versus Taliban fighter; and if those kids are wielding toy guns, they're not replicas from the current arsenal, but flashingly neon weaponry from some fantasy future.
As it happens, G.I. Joe — then dubbed a "real American hero" — proved to be my introduction to this new world of child's war play. I had, of course, grown up years too early for the original G.I. Joe (b. 1964), but one spring in the mid-1980s, during his second heyday, I paid a journalistic visit to the Toy Fair, a yearly industry bash for toy-store buyers held in New York City.
Hasbro, which produced the popular G.I. Joe action figures, was one of the Big Two in the toy business. Mattel, the maker of Joe's original inspiration and big sister, Barbie, was the other. Hasbro had its own building and, on arriving, I soon found myself being led by a company minder through a labyrinthine exhibit hall in the deeply gender segregated world of toys. Featured were blond models dressed in white holding baby dolls and fashion dolls of every imaginable sort, set against an environment done up in nothing but pink and robin's egg blue.
Here, the hum of the world seemed to lower to a selling hush, a baby-doll whisper, but somewhere off in the distance, you could faintly hear the high-pitched whistle of an incoming mortar round amid brief bursts of machine-gun fire. And then, suddenly, you stepped across a threshold and out of a world of pastels into a kingdom of darkness, of netting and camouflage, of blasting music and a soundtrack of destruction, as well-muscled male models in camo performed battle routines while displaying the upcoming line of little G.I. Joe action figures or their evil Cobra counterparts.
It was energizing. It was electric. If you were a toy buyer you wanted in. You wanted Joe, then the rage in the boy's world of war play, as well as on children's TV where an animated series of syndicated half-hour shows was nothing but a toy commercial. I was as riveted as any buyer and yet the world I had just been plunged into seemed alien. These figures bore no relation to my toy soldiers. On first sight, it was hard even to tell the good guys from the bad guys or to figure out who was fighting whom, where, and for what reason. And that, it turned out, was just the beginning.
The Sequel (August 2009): Nobody's mentioned it, but the most impressive thing about the new movie, G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, comes last — the eight minutes or so of credits which make it clear that, to produce a twenty-first century shoot-em-up, you need to mobilize a veritable army of experts. There may be more "compositors" than actors and more movie units (Prague Unit, Prague Second Unit, Paris Unit) than units of Joes.
As the movie theater empties, those credits still scroll inexorably onward, like a beachhead in eternity, the very eternity in American cultural life that G.I. Joe already seems to inhabit. The credits do, of course, finally end — and on a note of gratitude that, almost uniquely in the film, evokes an actual history. "The producers also wish to thank the following," it says, and the list that follows is headed by the Department of Defense, which has been "advising" Hollywood on how to make war movies — with generous loans of equipment, troops, consultants, and weaponry in return for script "supervision" — since the silent era.
Think of G.I. Joe as a modern American zombie. "He" may never have existed, but he just won't die. More on that later.
As a start, I'm sure you want to know about the new Joe movie which was meant, like Star Trek earlier in the summer, to reinvigorate a semi-comatose brand by retelling its ur-story. In the process, the hope is to create a prequel to endless sequels that, like the Transformers series (also from a toy that was an eighties hit), will prove to be Hollywood's Holy Grail of endless summer, bringing in global mega-profits forever after.
I caught G.I. Joe, the Rise of Cobra, one sunny afternoon in a multiplex theater empty of customers except for a few clusters of teenage boys. So where to start? How about with the Joes' futuristic military base, all flashing screens, hi-tech weaponry, and next generation surveillance equipment, built under the Egyptian desert. (How this most postmodern of bases got under Pharaonic sands or what kind of Status of Forces Agreement the Joes have with the government of Egypt are not questions this film considers.) But here's the thing: well-protected as the base is, spectacularly armed and trained as the Joes are, it turns out to be a snap to break into — if you happen to be a dame in the black cat suit of a dominatrix and a ninja dressed in white.
And then there's that even spiffier ultra-evil base under the Arctic ice (a location only slightly less busy than Times Square in movies like this). It's the sort of set-up that would have made Captain Nemo salivate.
Oh, and don't let me forget the introductory scene about a Scottish arms dealer in seventeenth century France condemned to having a molten mask fitted over his face for selling weapons to all sides — and his great-great-great-something-or-other who's doing the same thing in our world. Then there are those weaponized exoskeletons lifted from Iron Man (which also had its own two-faced arms dealer), the X-wing-fighter-style space battle from Star Wars but transposed under the ocean (à la James Bond in Thunderball), not to speak of the Bond-ish scene in which the evildoer, having captured the hero, introduces him to a fate so much worse than death and so time-consuming it can't possibly work.
And how can there not be a scene in which a famous landmark (in this case, the Eiffel Tower) is destroyed by the forces of evil, collapsing on panicked crowds below — as in Independence Day or just about any disaster film you'd care to mention? Throw in the sort of car chase introduced a zillion years ago in Bullitt, but now pumped up beyond all recognition, and, oh yes, there's someone who wants to control the world and will do anything, including killing millions, to achieve his purpose (ha-ha-ha!).
Is that clear enough? If not, it doesn't matter in the least. Movies like this are Hollywood's version of recombinant DNA. They can be written in the dark or, as in the case of this film, in a terrible hurry because of an impending writers' strike. All that matters is that they deliver the chases and explosions, the fake blood and weird experiments, the wild weaponry and futuristic sets, the madmen and heroes at such a pace and decibel level that your nervous system is brought fully to life jangling like a fire alarm.
These, today, are the son et lumière of American youthful screen life. Their sole raison d'être is to deliver boys and young men — and so the franchise — to studios like Paramount (and, in cases like Joe, to the Department of Defense as well): the Batman franchise, the Bond franchise, the Terminator franchise, the X-Men franchise, the Bourne franchise, the Iron Man franchise, the Transformers franchise. And now — if it works — the G.I. Joe franchise.
After all, the first word that appears on screen without explanation in this latest junior epic is, appropriately enough, Hasbro. We're talking about the toy company that is G.I. Joe and, in a synergistic fury, is just now releasing an endless range of toys (G.I. Joe Rise of Cobra Night Raven with Air-Viper v1), action figures, video games, board games, Burger King give-aways, and who knows what else as synergistic accompaniments to this elaborate "advertainment."
Barbie's Little Brother
Hasbro first brought Joe to market in 1964. He was then 12 inches tall and essentially a Barbie for boys, a soldier doll you could dress in that "Ike" jacket with the red scarf or a "beachhead assault fatigue shirt," then undress, and take into that pup tent with you for the night.
Of course, nobody could say such a thing. Officially, the doll was declared a "poseable action figure for boys," and that phrase, "action figure," for a new boy toy, like Joe himself, never went away. He had no "backstory" (a word still to be invented), and no name. (G.I. — for "Government Issue" — Joe was a generic term for an American foot soldier, redolent of the last American war in which total victory had been possible.) Nor did he have an enemy, in part because young boys still knew a version of American history, of World War II and the Cold War. They still knew who the enemy was without a backstory or a guide book.
Though born on the cusp of the Vietnam War, Joe prospered for almost a decade until antiwar sentiment began to turn war toys into the personae non gratae of the toy world and, in 1973, the first oil crunch hit, making the 12-inch Joe far more expensive to produce. First, he shrank and then, like so many of his warring kin, he was (as Hasbro put it) "furloughed." He left the scene, in part a casualty, like much of war play then, of Vietnam distaste and of an American victory that never came.
Despite being in his grave for a number of years, as the undead of the toy world he would rise again. In 1977, paving the way for his return, George Lucas brought the war flick and war play back into the child's world via the surprise hit Star Wars and its accompanying 3¾-inch high action figures that landed on Earth with an enormous commercial bang. Between them, they introduced the child to a self-enclosed world of play (in a galaxy "far, far away") shorn of Vietnam's defeat.
In 1982, seeing an opening, Hasbro's planners tagged Joe "a real American hero" (which once wouldn't have had to be spelled out), and reintroduced him as a set of Star-Wars-sized action figures, each with its own little bio/backstory. Hundreds of millions of these would subsequently be sold. The Joe team now had an enemy as well, another team, of course, and in this case, though the Cold War was still going full blast in those early years of Ronald Reagan's presidency, it wasn't the Russians.
As it happened, Hasbro's toymakers did a better job of predicting the direction of the Cold War than the CIA or the rest of our government. They sensed that the Russians wouldn't last and so chose a vaguer, more potentially long-lasting enemy — and in this, too, they were prescient. That enemy was a bogeyman called "terrorism" embodied in Cobra, an organization of super-bad guys who lived not in Moscow, but in — gasp — Springfield, U.S.A. (Hasbro researchers had discovered that a Springfield existed in every state except Rhode Island, where the company was located.)
In story and style, the Joes and their enemies now left history and the battlefields of this planet behind for some alternate Earth. There, they disported themselves with bulked-up weaponry and a look that befitted not so much "real American heroes" as a set of superheroes and supervillains in any futuristic space epic. And so, catching the zeitgeist of their moment, at a child's level, the crew at Hasbro created the most successful boy's toy of that era by divorcing war play from war American-style.