Next week will see the release of a new Marvel Masterworks, featuring what I think are the finest stories from my Captain America run with Mike Zeck and John Beatty. I wrote an introduction for the book and you can read it below...
As I write this introduction, it’s June, 2024. Yesterday, June 18th, would have been Mark Gruenwald’s 71st birthday. Mark, who died in 1996, when he was a shockingly-young 43, was one of the most important creators—no, not just a creator, a creative force—in Marvel’s modern history. As I said in my introduction to our previous Masterworks, Mark loved comics with an almost transcendent passion, an unbounded enthusiasm—and that enthusiasm infused everything he did. As an editor, he shepherded some of Marvel’s greatest characters through memorable runs, and was the prime architect behind the mammoth Handbook of the Marvel Universe. As a writer, he co-authored the very first Marvel limited series, Contest of Champions, wrote one of the earliest, and finest, superhero deconstructions, Squadron Supreme, and had a classic ten year run on the very book we’re here to discuss, Captain America. More important than all of that: Mark was a truly good person.
Back in the 1980s and 90s, a trip to the Marvel offices from my home in upstate New York usually meant I’d be spending the entire day there—not just discussing work with my editors, but catching up on our lives, discussing (to purloin a phrase) life, the universe, and everything with an extraordinary editorial staff that included Danny Fingeroth, Tom DeFalco, Bob Budiansky, Carl Potts, and Ann Nocenti. Mark’s office was always one of my first stops. Gruenwald was smart, charming, funny, genuine—and I always looked forward to our talks. When he took over as editor of Captain America from the erudite and amiable Jim Salicrup, there was no “getting to know you” phase, no circling each other warily, wondering if this partnership would work. No, we hit the ground running: our relationship already built on a foundation of mutual respect, both creative and personal.
Mark’s knowledge of the Marvel Universe ran deep—far deeper than mine, and I was a fairly obsessive fan—and one of the things I enjoyed about working with him was the challenges he’d throw my way. Knowing my penchant for digging into the bad guy’s heads, he’d pick a villain—the Viper, the Porcupine, the Scarecrow—and ask for a new and deeper take. If I wasn’t familiar with the character, he’d fill me in on their backstory. We’d then bounce around ideas—in some ways, the best part of the job—after which I’d go off and write the story. Mark wasn’t the kind of editor who’d sit over your shoulder, questioning every creative choice, every line of dialogue, every twist and turn. I had freedom when I was writing these stories. Freedom to take Captain America in any direction I chose, following my own unique creative road. And if, on occasion, that road was leading toward a cliff-edge—all writers screw up occasionally, that’s why God made editors—Mark was always there to gently pull me back.
One of my favorite memories of Mark involves the three-part Deathlok epic included in this volume. I’d read some of the early Deathlok comics, but wasn’t intimately familiar with the complex mythology built by creators Rich Buckler and Doug Moench and continued by other writers. Mark, of course, was—and, knowing that 1983 (the year we were crafting these stories) was also the year the Nth Commandos initiated the Purge that created Deathlok’s future (see? I told you it was complex), he suggested we do a story building on that, teaming Cap and Deathlok to prevent that dystopian future from happening. (And also explain why the Marvel Universe of 1983 wasn’t an apocalyptic hellhole.)
When I expressed some hesitation—all this backstory seemed a little too complex for my tastes—Mark went above and beyond: creating a document, and a detailed timeline, that clearly explained the entire history of Deathlok and his world and where it could go from there. (I thought this extraordinary effort alone should have earned Mark a co-plotter credit, but every time I brought it up, he refused.) Problem was, I still couldn’t wrap my head around what the story would be about. Yes, we wanted Cap and Deathlok to stop the Nth Command, but I always wrote from the inside out. I wanted to know what the inner journey of the characters, Deathlok in particular, was going to be. (I had a handle on Steve Rogers and his psyche; by this time I knew Steve as well as I knew my best friends.) If I couldn’t unlock that door, I wasn’t going to do the story. In fact, after wrestling with the material for a while, I called Mark and told him I couldn’t crack it. He didn’t try to push me, didn’t try (as another editor might have) to dictate a path for me to follow. He simply said, “Okay, then we won’t do it.”
And, as often happens, as soon as I let go of the idea, the solution came: Deathlok’s journey was about personal identity. About a man literally searching for, and finding, himself: reuniting the fragments of his shattered psyche. Once I tumbled to that, once I understood Luther Manning, the entire three-part saga came together. And Mark, as always, allowed me to tell the story in my own way. I’m sure, given the chance, he would have done it differently—but he respected my voice and vision, stepped back, and let me follow my muse. The result was—for me, anyway—the peak of my collaboration with Mike Zeck. And it wouldn’t have happened without Gruenwald. Thanks, Mark, for everything. Wherever in the omniverse you are, know that you’re still appreciated. And sorely missed.
Now on to Mr. Zeck: If you look through these Masterworks volumes that collect the DeMatteis-Zeck issues, I think you can see the growth, the evolution, of our creative partnership. A little tentative in the beginning, perhaps, but growing in confidence, in chemistry, with each succeeding issue. The best writer-artist collaborations result in a kind of mind-meld. You begin to intuitively understand each other, to flow with each other in service to the story, and, by the time we were creating the tales collected here, Mike and I had achieved that. Looking back, I’m struck once again by Zeck’s ability to convey action and emotion with simplicity and power, and to tell a visual story with what appears to be effortless fluidity—but is actually hard-won mastery of the comics form. When I was scripting from Mike Zeck art (and all these stories were done in the so-called Marvel style: I’d write a detailed plot, Mike would pencil from that, after which I’d supply the finished script), I never had to over-explain anything, adding clunky exposition to make up for lack of clarity in the art. With Zeck, the action and primary emotions were crystal clear, and I was free to dive deeper into the characters, to add more layers, more texture, to the stories.
John Beatty—one of the finest inkers in the business—was the icing on the artistic cake. I don’t know if the average reader understands the power an inker has: the wrong one can drag even the greatest artist down, while the right one can lift the pencil art up to another level. (Understand: It’s not generally a question of good or bad inking, it’s about mismatched styles. Inker A may do wonders when working with Penciler B, but put them together with Penciler C and it’s a disaster. And, yes, it’s the same with writers and artists.) Mike and John were a stellar team and they’d built on their chemistry month after month, fusing into an almost singular entity. Beatty brought a heroic shine to Mike’s pencils that was absolutely perfect for Cap: the most genuinely heroic of Marvel characters.
Zeck and Beatty had to take some time off along the way and we were fortunate enough to have one of the all-time Marvel greats, Sal Buscema, step in for two issues. I was a huge fan of the Cap stories Sal did with Steve Englehart, for my money one of the greatest Captain America runs ever, and I was delighted to work with him—laying the groundwork, however unconsciously, for our future collaboration on Spectacular Spider-Man. (But that’s another introduction for another time.) Sal only provided breakdowns—the gorgeous finishes were provided by Kim DeMulder—but he’s such a pro that all the visual information I needed was there on the page. Take a look at the sequence on page 86 of this volume, as Cap sprints across the top three panels, then leaps, swinging up to the rooftop—or the sequence at the top of page 109, where Sal communicates the danger and desperation of Cap’s fall by focusing on his boots and hands—and behold a master storyteller at work.
(Along with the Buscema issues, this collection also includes a terrific Falcon mini-series by Christopher Priest (then known as Jim Owsley), Mark Bright, and Paul Smith, and an equally-terrific, and wildly cosmic, Cap annual by Peter Gillis and Brian Postman.)
During this period, we were joined by another, vital part of our Cap crew: assistant editor Mike Carlin. The Great Carlini—who would go on to a long and celebrated career at both Marvel and DC—impressed me from the start. He wasn’t just there to fetch Gruenwald’s coffee or erase errant pencil lines on the art. No, Mike was full of ideas and enthusiasm, and it was clear from the start that he would evolve into a skilled editor. It also helped that Mike was, and remains, one of the nicest guys in the business. He’s also the only editor to put my face (along with Zeck, Beatty, and Carlin himself) on the cover of a comic book, as part of the infamous “Assistant Editor’s Month” event. The “Bernie America” back-up story in Captain America #289 was great fun to write—and perhaps a rehearsal for the sublime silliness of my Justice League International run with Keith Giffen—and I remain inordinately fond of the Mo-Skull (and his partners Larry-Skull and Curly-Skull. Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk).
These stories also brought back the Bucky of the 1950s, who I named, for reasons that have long since escaped me, Jack Monroe. I’d always been fascinated by that lost chapter in Cap’s history, brilliantly developed by Englehart and Buscema during their run, and bringing in Jack—a young man out of time, with a dark, troubled past and no one to turn to but Steve Rogers—brought a new, dramatic element to the book and also expanded our bench of strong supporting characters. Stripping away the Bucky identity and transforming Jack into Nomad—another nod to Steve and Sal—allowed us to both honor the past and move Jack Monroe into the future.
But my favorite Cap supporting character from this era remains Bernie Rosenthal. Bernie wasn’t some melodramatic romantic device, she was (for me, at least) a very real, three-dimensional woman—a Jewish New Yorker, but free, I hope, from hoary “New Yawk” tropes—and I did my best to deepen and expand the Steve-Bernie relationship. When I wrote them together, they were never “Captain America and his girlfriend,” they were two people, two equals, who loved and respected each other and worked hard to keep their connection strong. Bernie’s presence in the book helped ground the stories in what I hoped was genuine, relatable emotion. She remains a favorite to this day.
But what’s a hero without a villain to oppose—and we had one of the greats with the Viper. The three-parter that kicks off this volume is a personal highlight from the run, thanks in no small part to the presence of the woman also known as Madame Hydra. Traumatized in childhood, certain of humanity’s corrupt, irredeemable nature, determined to burn America, and eventually all the world, to the ground, Viper was terrifying because, from her perspective, she was right. Seen through one lens, humanity is corrupt and beyond redemption. What better opponent for a man who always sees the best in us? Who embodies our highest ideals and most cherished hopes? The Viper trilogy also allowed me the opportunity to take a hallucinatory dive into Steve Rogers’ psyche—a journey brought to harrowing visual life by Zeck and Beatty—digging a little deeper into his childhood, illuminating more of Cap’s past.
The aforementioned Deathlok story really was a peak for our team—we were in the proverbial zone, doing our best work together without even realizing it—but it also turned out to be our last hurrah. By the time Cap returned from the distant year of 1993 (funny how time changes our perspective), Zeck and Beatty had been recruited to illustrate Marvel’s first maxi-series, the classic Secret Wars. Mike and I wouldn’t work together again till we did Kraven’s Last Hunt, four years later. That Spider-Man story is considered a classic—and, if it is, a good part of its success rests on the foundation Mike and I built with Captain America: the artistic muscles we developed, the creative chemistry that emerged from years of collaboration. We weren’t starting from scratch on KLH, we were picking up where we left off and continuing from there. So that’s one more debt of gratitude I owe Steve Rogers.
I continued writing Captain America for another year—and I’m proud of the work the late, great Paul Neary and I did with our massive Red Skull epic (a story I’m sure we’ll be exploring in our next Cap Masterworks volume)—but the Zeck-Beatty era was magical: a period of creative challenges and creative growth. I’m very grateful these stories have been collected in this beautiful edition and that new readers will be able to discover them for the first time.
©copyright 2025 J.M. DeMatteis
