ON AN evening near the end of August in 2021, on one of those late-summer impulses to be free and easy while you still can, my wife and I went to Prospect Park, very close to our home in Brooklyn, for an outdoor showing of The Black Panther. We had seen it before, at the time of its 2018 release, in a local theater where part of the spectacle took place offscreen: people who showed their enthusiasm for the film (set in a fictional African nation) by wearing colorful, lavish outfits, complete with headdresses. The scene in the park was a little different. As the sun was going down, families, couples, and groups of friends arranged themselves and their blankets, chairs, food, and beer on the Long Meadow, taking in the pleasant air, the faint smell of bug spray, and the comforting sound of the many amiable and simultaneous conversations. When it was dark, a couple of people got up and spoke with self-deprecating humor, thanking the sponsors and introducing the film. Finally, The Black Panther started.
Two things stood out for me in that viewing—one that I had remembered from the first time, one that I hadn’t. I had remembered an early fight scene: the had called into question the very definition of an action hero, had invited us to rethink the concept. If a hero is not, all things being equal, the one who triumphs, if he is not the strongest person in his own story, then who is he? And why do we follow him?
