I have almost no experience with the “manga” format. When I was growing up, the comics I read were all about superheroes — caped heroes battling cartoonish villains. I never felt drawn to manga because what I saw of it was stylized teen characters with exaggerated proportions and doe-eyed expressions, often veering into a sort of uncomfortable fetish territory. I get that it’s a style some folks enjoy — it’s just never been my vibe. For a long time, I assumed all manga was like that.
There was an exception, though. One I didn’t even realize was manga at the time.
But first, a little context.
American comic creator Frank Miller’s breakthrough was in the late 1970s, when he took over Marvel’s Daredevil. He saved a series that was on the brink of cancellation. Comic heroes then were saturated in optimism and moral clarity — colorful costumes, noble speeches, and squeaky-clean virtues. Miller popularized a gritty, dark world of realism that many of his contemporaries lacked. His conflicts took place in rainy, dark alleys, among garbage cans and feral cats. It often felt dirty, noir, and, well, downright unpleasant. The setting for Daredevil was New York’s Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. Poverty, crime, and urban decay were commonplace. And the main characters were more morally compromised; antiheroes, really. Like those found in Sergio Leone’s spaghetti Westerns.
I first encountered Miller’s work through Ronin (1983) and Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (1986). Those two stories opened my eyes to what comics could be — raw, uncomfortable, and narratively rich.
This leads to my actual introduction to manga. I learned in 1987 that Miller was involved in a project titled Lone Wolf and Cub. He was bringing this traditional Japanese story line to an American comic audience. The internal content was by the original creators – Kazuo Koike and Goseki Kojima. The cover art and written introductions were by Frank Miller. The books leaned heavy into the moody illustrations, and were intentionally light on written dialogue and narration.
The series centers around a falsely accused samurai, roaming the country, seeking revenge on the corrupt individuals that caused his fall from grace. Along with the fierce warrior is his toddler son. These stories are credited with introducing the now commonplace trope, emphasizing the dark, morally complex antihero, and his protection of an innocent dependent. Western examples include the 1994 movie Leon: the Professional, and the Star Wars TV series The Mandalarian.
Combined, the Lone Wolf and Cub stories directly inspired more than 15 adaptations — from live-action films and TV to stage plays and reprints. And that doesn’t even touch the myriad works that borrow its theme and emotional resonance.
I was reading a recent article that casually mentioned “the Lone Wolf and Cub trope,” and it brought me back — actually back into a box of old comics under my desk. It was only through starting to re-read the 1987 series that I came to a realization: manga, like any storytelling medium, isn’t monolithic. It can be for mature audiences — and by that, I don’t mean risqué content. I mean mature in the sense of layered, morally complex, and emotionally resonant. Stories for adults who’ve seen the world, and who want their art to reflect some of their larger truth.
Even if the stories are about samurai and ninjas.
-Toph
