Seeking truths behind masks
While that story situates Moore’s now iconic costumed heroes in the thorny paranoia of Cold War New York City, Lindelof ’s take is set in Tulsa, Okla., and skates toward the fury of our world’s present issues. In this HBO series set 30 years after the events of the original story, masked vigilantes (in other words, “superheroes”) are outlawed due to their tactics, remixing the central question to Moore’s original story: Who watches the watchmen?
The change of setting also allows for the historical, philosophical underpinnings and geopolitical concerns of Moore’s alternate (but not so unfamiliar) reality to extend beyond the MasonDixon Line while filling in a particular racial analysis that some may find jarring, especially at the onset. With Tulsa, specifically, it sets the story in a city that was a flourishing African American epicenter in the early 20th century, a place with its own “Black Wall Street.”
“So, I’m reading it, right? And get through the first five pages and I’m like, ‘He’s doing Black Wall Street,’ ” King says during a press event in New York. “So, that just blew me away and I’m thinking, ‘Man, what the f— is this about to be?’ ”
If his work on “The Leftovers” and the spirit of the source material is any indication, there’ll be no handholding here. The first episode, airing Sunday night, hits hard, fast and from seemingly every direction while examining Moore’s questions about superhero culture: How and why are policing and superherodom so entangled? What do the symbolic masks of America’s history, both fictitious and very real, reveal about the myriad complexes that are constantly ebbing and flowing with the times?
And during a period where proclaiming and projecting various identities has taken on its own form of currency, the new “Watchmen” series is concerned with the equally significant, but perhaps even more insidious, question of anonymity.
In the social order within the show’s Tulsa, both the police and the militia wear masks, to protect their identities. King takes a pause after being asked about the show’s interest in the times, of the inevitability and the necessity of violence in struggles for freedom from surveillance and undue policing. “It’s so hard to be able to express everything I feel emotionally about the history of black people and law enforcement in America. There’s so many layers to it. But in this story, and in our country, it’s bigger than just the police versus black community.”
King points to the levels of corruption, from corporations to politicians, that lead to blatantly racist outcomes for black people in this country: “It’s not just dealing with the police aspect, it’s dealing with the racial part — that goes deeper — the systemic part of it.”
Depicting heroes in a realistic world means having to reckon with the stereotypes, tropes and the stubborn delusions of whiteness, classism and generational trauma. Lindelof told Indiewire that it was reading TaNehisi Coates’ work, specifically, the writer’s 2014 essay “The Case for Reparations,” that challenged, “confused” and “embarrassed” him into thinking more intentionally about race in his work — both in terms of onscreen issues and personnel decisions. This show maintains his galaxybrained ambition, encouraging the most inclusive staff he’s ever culled to create a nineepisode season aspiring to be unlike any vigilante experience on the silver screen.
“Damon does a really good job of just saying, ‘I’m gonna put that out there and let that sit with you,’ ” King says slapping the table, “He’s not telling you what to think . ... It’s obvious for an audience member to know who he thinks is right or wrong. But he does a good job at presenting different kinds of responsibility in the state of where we are.”
Now King is talking about anger. And heartbreak. She shifts to the subject of her son, who, like any 23yearold black person who is even remotely connected to the news, inherits an almost indefatigable anger. “My heart breaks,” her voice lowers and she puts a hand on her chest, “He shouldn’t have to be that angry. He shouldn’t have to be so consumed with so much pain that hasn’t been dealt with.”
“Watchmen” has an understanding that many people are either disillusioned, numbed or enraptured in frustration about the blatant retrograding of Western politics. The show, at times, serves as an extrapolation or outlet for deeply hurt, outcast people to exorcise or amplify their own demons.
As Angela Abar, a cop who becomes known as the costumed Sister Night, King secretly takes on a number of separate postures — from docile to domineering. I wonder what putting on the costume unlocks for her, especially because the subject matter is one of reallife weight and the show, itself, forces one to consider the gravitas of anonymity.
“When I put that on, everything changes with me,” she says, waving her hands. “When I walk out of my trailer, I wanna kick the door down! I imagine football players feel this way. You’re putting on your armor to go out to battle. It changes your body language, your whole approach. I think that’s representative of humans ... we’re always switching masks to adapt, to protect.”
King shares Angela’s protective nature, too. “There’s a natural responsibility that I feel like I have as a storyteller to use my platform to satisfy the artist in me but also not neglect the fact that some real serious s— is happening,” King says. “I’m hoping that in my time here, I’m able to see a real shift towards people truly considering another person’s journey.”