Bronze Beauties #21: Captain Marvel

As much as drug culture was having an impact on rock music in the 1960s and ‘70s, it was also altering the universes of comic books, and not just the undergrounds. The late Silver and Bronze eras were a mighty cosmic time for some costumed crimefighters.

One such acid casualty was Marvel Comics’ CAPTAIN MARVEL (not to be confused with the Big Red Cheese).

Debuting in MARVEL SUPER HEROES #12 in 1967 and quickly graduating to his own series, Captain Mar-Vell was a member of the alien Kree race who was sent to scout out Earth for possible conquest, but came to love our little planet (much like the Silver Surfer) and rebelled against his masters. Designed by Gene Colan, the original Mar-Vell was clad in a rather unique helmeted white and green outfit. When sales proved less than spectacular, writer Roy Thomas revamped the character into a sci-fi pastiche of SHAZAM!, as a Negative-Zone-stranded Mar-Vell now shared the persona of teenager Rick Jones (former sidekick of the Incredible Hulk and Captain America), who could switch atoms with the hero by banging his “nega-bands” together. Artist Gil Kane redesigned the costume into a red-and-gold, starburst-emblazoned supersuit.

The changes weren’t enough to save the series, however, and CAPTAIN MARVEL was cancelled with #21 in 1970. But two years later, the comic was revived. Writer Gerry Conway and artist Wayne Boring (best known for his 1950s barrel-chested Superman) continued the tale for a handful of issues until #25, when young artist Jim Starlin began penciling the book, soon moving to plotting, then scripting the whole shebang by #29. The concept of the strip was again changed, as a cosmic entity named Eon released Mar-vell from the Negative Zone and gave him the small task of protecting the entire universe (especially the trippier parts of it).

Under Starlin’s watch, Captain Marvel became a trippy, outer space philosopher, searching for meaning while battling the death-obsessed Thanos. Art-wise, Starlin used Steve Ditko’s surrealist space-scapes from DR. STRANGE as a launching point, giving it an acid rock twist that the conservative Ditko probably found offensive. Additionally, Starlin made Mar-Vell’s hair longer (and sadly changed its color from its original silver to a more youthful blonde).

This “most cosmic superhero of all” (as the covers blurbed) blew my little adolescent mind just a bit (as did Starlin’s WARLOCK, coming someday to Bronze Beauties), and while CAPTAIN MARVEL was never one of my favorite books, it is a great example of how far-out superhero comics got in that era. Starlin left the book with #34, but returned to kill off the character in Marvel’s first graphic novel, 1982’s THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN MARVEL.

Here are the covers to #32 (May 1974) by Jim Starlin & Klaus Janson and #37 (March 1975) by Gil Kane & Janson.

COMING IN TWO WEEKS: The first in a series of five weekly Bat-Bronze Beauties leading up to the release of THE DARK KNIGHT!

Civic Duty

Wednesday, May 21, 2008: DAY ONE.
I type this on day one of my (hopefully only) two days of jury duty. It’s my third time being called for Hudson County, NJ, my second for Petit Jury, and last year I was called for (but didn’t serve) Grand Jury.

I don’t really mind it. As Americans, we really are asked to do so little: Vote. Pay taxes. And every once in a while serve as a peer. I can do peer. I do all three of those things with little complaint (yes, even the second) in grateful recognition of the sacrifices of our forefathers. Or something like that.

This is not to say I ENJOY jury duty. Of course, it’s a pain. Getting up at 6:30 to crawl here amid the gray masses for $5.00 is not pleasant, and there are other things I could be doing (although bringing the laptop is a big ol’ plus… if only I’d brought the power cord [31% battery power remaining]).

But sitting here in the holding pen, I am again confronted with a mélange of everyday American self-absorption that drives me insane. People are asked to silence their cell phones. They don’t (and buddy, that rooster ringer is annoying!!!). They’re asked to respond “Here” when their names are called. They don’t. They don’t throw their garbage away. They laugh at the witty repartee blaring (and I mean BLARING) from REGIS and RACHAEL RAY and THE VIEW. But what really astounds me is that about half the people sitting here brought nothing to read. It’s like that SEINFELD episode where Puddy sits on an airplane next to Elaine with nothing to do, staring into space, driving her to (again) break up with him.

“You sure you don’t want something to read?”
“Nah, I’m good.”


I had lunch today. I don’t normally eat lunch, but with an hour and a half to kill, and not wanting to remain the corral, I figured I’d go get a nosh. And I ended up at Burger King. I don’t really do a lot of fast food, and couldn’t tell you the last time I was in a Burger King, but it was there. I had an Angus Loaded Burger, which is slightly less of a perfect disc than the regular Whopper burgers and something called “cheesy tots.” A woman near me prayed before digging into her repast. I wondered if she was praying not to get Mad Cow.

I will not be returning to Burger King for lunch tomorrow.

Thursday, May 22, 2008: DAY TWO
I got called near the end of the day yesterday for a trial, but I didn’t pass the voir dire. It was a civil trial in which a woman was suing the owners of the two buildings that happened to both be in front of the piece of sidewalk on which she tripped in 2004, hurting her neck, back and ankle. My gut reaction was to smell Bullshit the way she may well have smelled jackpot, and whatever happened to watching where you walk? While I wasn’t about to say out loud that I’d already pre-judged the case, I did answer honestly when the judge asked if I had any opinion on tort reform. I answered (at sidebar) that I thought we were an overly litigious society that too often abdicated personal responsibility, but that I strongly agreed that the right to sue is an important one. I assured the court that I could be impartial, and I did mean it (being a bartender, I’ve learned that while books usually are defined by their covers, it’s wise to retain an open mind).

I returned to the jury box and really thought that I was going to have to spend the next week-plus getting up at 6:30 AM, but as the next juror was called for interview, I was thanked and sent on my way. Relieved, but feeling slightly guilty.

I arrived this morning a half hour early, giant coffee in hand and settled into my little cubicle near the window. After suffering through the requisite two videos about the importance of civic duty and spiel from the clerk, I cracked my book (THE PORTABLE ATHEIST, only half chosen to make people leave me alone) as the TV began again blaring the mind-warpingly annoying Regis and whoever the F.... But that bleating was nothing compared to what happened next.

At about 9:40, over an hour after reporting time, a woman walked in pushing a stroller. And holding her slightly older tot’s hand. Two kids. At jury duty. But no worry… within about ten minutes, the baby started screaming. I mean, SCREAMING. At which point Mom was excused. (Finally, I see a good reason to have kids!)

Okay, so I have some sympathy for the possibility that this woman cannot afford to hire a babysitter. But if she’s that destitute and bereft of friends or family capable of watching the kids, then why didn’t she indicate that in her questionnaire? Or call the court the night before and explain the situation? Was she perhaps that ignorant of the process that she thought she could bring her brats into the jury box with her?

Oh, well, at least I wasn’t alone in my disbelief. I turned the other way and the two enormous women sitting near me were both shaking their heads in disbelief, at which point we all bonded over the stellar parenting skills / social consciousness of this mother of the year.

Oboy, time for Rachael Ray to ring in my brain. Maybe the logic is that by blasting annoying morning television, they’ll make the jury pool BEG to be put on a trial…. Uh-oh…. Hold on…..


POSTSCRIPT:
I lucked out. They pulled the jury for the last remaining trial, and my name did not randomly come up. The selection was completed, and I was freed, FREED, I TELL YOU, to go join Lysa for some well-earned margaritas at our favorite haunt.

I can only hope that I’m done with the legal system for a while…

Bronze Beauties #20: SHAZAM!

In 1952, after a decade of legal wrangling, National Comics (now DC) settled a lawsuit against Fawcett Publications claiming that the highly popular Captain Marvel was a copyright infringement of their own Superman. As part of the settlement, Fawcett agreed to cease publication of any comic book starring Captain Marvel and his similarly-named “Family.” The characters lay dormant for two decades until, ironically, the same company that killed the Big Red Cheese resurrected him for a new era. Well, sort of.

February of 1973 saw the publication of SHAZAM! #1, with a Nick Cardy Superman welcoming Cap to DC on the cover (proving I guess that there were no hard feelings). Since Marvel Comics had laid claim to both a hero and a comic book called CAPTAIN MARVEL in the 1960s, DC was forced to name their book after the magic word spoken by Billy Batson to transform into the World’s Mightiest Mortal. In time, due largely to the 1974-77 Saturday morning TV show of the same name, generations of kids would mistakenly call Cap by the name of the old wizard who granted him his powers (a confusion no doubt exacerbated by the TV show’s replacement of Shazam with a “council of elders”).

Original artist C.C. Beck was coaxed out of retirement to draw the new stories, but the notoriously crotchety oldster was unhappy with the series from the get-go and left with much grousing after ten issues. Happily, his replacements included masters of the form Kurt Schaffenberger and Bob Oksner (one of my all-time favorite artists).

SHAZAM! #2 (April 1973) sports a photo-art montage cover using (I think) an old drawing of Cap by C.C. Beck flying out of an extremely oversized comic book while three kids gawk in awe. The overall design of the cover is a bit awkward, with a lot of empty space, and the small Cap figure almost competing with the masthead figure, but It has a real Golden Age comics feel to it, crappy photo reproduction and all.

Bob Oksner drew the New Year’s cover to #11 (March 1974), which was based on a 1945 CAPTAIN MARVEL JR. cover. DC did a lot of these iconic posing covers in the ‘70s, the static nature of which turned off most Kirby-bred Marvelites, but I always loved how they lent themselves to poster-like design motifs. I again probably would’ve removed the masthead Cap and rearranged the blurb and the spots of Captain Marvel Jr. and Mary Marvel (you read that correctly), but Oksner’s super-clean cartooning still is some of the most appealing of all to me.


Still, bringing Captain Marvel into the ‘70s was slightly problematic. This pure-hearted man-child character’s tales and look were so light and whimsical that Cap made “blue boy scout” Superman look as dark as that guy in Gotham City. Towards the end of SHAZAM!’s 35-issue run, a more serious, modern take on the character was attempted, but comics fans remained unmoved.

In the decades since SHAZAM!’s cancellation, the character’s been bounced around the DC Universe and reinterpreted many times, with varied success (if he seemed anachronistic in the ‘70s, imagine Cap fitting into the nihilistic post-DARK KNIGHT ‘80s!!). To many fans of the character, the Fawcett Captain Marvel is the only true Cap. But for those of us who read the DC comics and thrilled to (okay, maybe that’s a stretch… how about enjoyed) his Filmation exploits, the simple, fun comics of the Bronze era will always hold a soft spot in our geeky hearts.

NEXT UP: The Marvel CAPTAIN MARVEL!

Beware the Duggars!

So, I caught a story on CNN the other day about an Oklahoma family named the Duggars that’s expecting their 18th child. Eighteenth. Nine times two. Oh, and over the course of 11 years. So the woman is pretty much constantly pregnant. Like a cockroach. Naturally, most of the kids were dressed alike and they’re all home schooled, and the family plans to keep on squirting out progeny “as long as God wills it.”

Now, this story wasn’t presented in the manner I would have (were I a CNN producer, an unlikely career shift), with an apocalyptic tenor akin to reporting on a plague of rats and ignorance putting an end to all mankind, but as a breezy Mother’s Day human interest story. “Oh, my can you imagine how many Mother’s Day cards she gets? Tee Hee, the world keeps spinnin’! Gee, gas is expensive!”

To my further horror, with a little research, I found out that the Duggar family (helmed by, I shit you not, Jim Bob and Michelle) are mini-celebrities, the glib subjects of a TV show and a Discovery Health sub-website featuring such jovial sections as “Fun Facts” and “Name That Duggar!” Where’s the subsect on guessing how cavernous Michelle’s vagina has become? Do the babies just whoosh right out at this point, ala the Catholic Mom at the beginning of MONTY PYTHON’S MEANING OF LIFE? Just as disturbing to ponder, how, uh, difficult is it to, um, inseminate a vessel so large?

Brr. Anyway. If there were any example of proof that the so-called “liberal media” doesn’t exist, this story is it. Where’s the voice offering the possibility that this sanctimonious, narcissistic Divine overpopulation is a BAD thing not only for the Duggar clan (I was tempted to use a K there) but for the world at large? (My pal Bob did point out that in 2005, San Francisco Gate columnist Mark Morford wrote a blisteringly brilliant response, when the Duggars had a paltry brood of 16). Family values, my ass.

Not that I was shocked by the tone of the coverage. Despite the fact that I watch it A LOT, I really have a ton of disdain for CNN (and all the US cable news networks, MSNBC's brilliant and correct Keith Olbermann aside). The mewling prattle of the smiling anchors, usually unable to hide their own personal biases (I’m glaring at you, Tony Harris) is all morning-show friendly, regardless of the airtime. They happily propagate political non-issues, keeping stories like a dearth of flag pins and Reverend Wright in the public eye. The war is questioned while the military is paradoxically celebrated as infallible. Non-news stories about car crashes and house fires and liquor store robberies get coverage because, and ONLY because they have video (which should be an easy rule of thumb for television journalism: Would it be a worthwhile story if there were no pretty pictures to look at? No? Then it’s not news.).

Again, I’m not shocked. As with almost everything I see on the “news,” the clueless, happy tale of the Duggars just reinforces the ever-deepening rumbling in my gut that repeats a prophecy in a painful, gastric loop, sounding something like… “We’re fucked.”

Bronze Beauties #19: Tarzan

Tarzan’s media adaptations have been as spotty as a leopard skin loincloth. He’s been in bad movies and good movies, bad TV and good TV, bad comics and good comics. The problem with most of his comic book adaptations mirrors that of his weaker films and TV shows: The lord of the jungle is usually portrayed as a short-haired, clean cut veritable park ranger who just happens to live in a tree and has apes for relatives.

The Tarzan comic strip, begun in 1929, remained true to Edgar Rice Burroughs’ stories, lavishly illustrated by the legendary Hal Foster and later Burne Hogarth, Russ Manning (and other lesser stars). But Lord Greystoke’s comic books (beginning in the 1940s) published by Dell, Gold Key and others usually featured a more watered down version of the character (at least visually).

But in 1972, DC Comics acquired the rights to Tarzan comics, picking up with the numbering left off by Gold Key. TARZAN #207 began a retelling of the origin, followed by adaptations of other Burroughs novels and stories, written and drawn by Joe Kubert, by that time already a legend through his work on Hawkman, Viking Prince, Sgt. Rock and other titles. But to my eyes, the artist (then in his early 40s... my age!!!) was about to create his signature work. Kubert’s fluid, naturalistic, yet scratchy pen proved a perfect match for the character and his environs. This ape-man had long hair, scars and a savage, yet regal visage, set against a jungle that looked foreboding but beautiful, populated by beasts that were obviously not drawn from stuffed animal reference and visited by gorgeous, often dangerous women!

Kubert (who also edited the series and its spin-offs KORAK, SON OF TARZAN and WEIRD WORLDS) handled the vines of TARZAN through most of the 1970s, until Marvel acquired the rights in 1977. That series was drawn by the likewise legendary John Buscema, and in a style that seemed to ape (no pun intended) Kubert’s style, but it never quite captured the jungle flavor to the perfect extent that DC's did.

Dark Horse has reprinted Kubert’s DC TARZAN material in expensive hardbacks, but as usual, the stuff looks much better in its original bronze era newsprint (and they are affordable as well). Here are the covers to #221 (July 1973) and #234 (Dec. 1974) by the amazing Joe Kubert.

Bronze Beauties #18: The Invincible IRON MAN!

My high school pal Chris Hess’ favorite superhero was Iron Man. I found this an odd preference. Oh, I’d pick up the odd issue of ol’ Shellhead (as Stan Lee used to call him), the war-borne alter ego of industrialist Tony Stark, a man with a heart condition and a drinking problem (that came later). But he always felt to me a perpetual B-lister. Part of the problem was his costume. Not its appearance, but rather, even as a kid, I just didn’t believe it.

Iron Man, at least as he was depicted until recent years, represents one of my (and Paul Pope’s) biggest beefs with superhero design: The lack of thought or care given to the practicality of costumes combined with a lazy depiction of them as clothing.

Most superhero artists draw costumes as simply lines on a neutered naked body. Characters are usually drawn with every muscle delineated and shaded, while the costume fits so snugly that nary a wrinkle appears, even at the joints. Meanwhile, boots sit flush against flesh despite having pants tucked into them and things as bulky as mechanical web-shooters magically disappear under a form-fitting glove (I always wondered if Tony Stark’s nose was squished under his iron mask).

Granted, it’s COMICS, and a certain amount of creative license is not only allowed, but welcome. We all accept that the length of Batman’s cape will widely fluctuate depending upon whether he’s standing on the roof of police headquarters or dramatically leaping off of same. Likewise, the eyes on his mask (and Spider-Man’s and any other character’s whose face is hidden) can open, close or change shape with his emotions. I have a much harder time accepting that Black Canary does martial arts in fishnets and high heels.

Certainly, too much believability isn’t the solution. Alex Ross’ hyper-realistic painted comics attempt to depict costumes as being of the real world as everything else. The problem is, this approach flies in the face of what makes comics work as an artform. “Cartoonist” is not an insult. Ross’ approach is not without its appeal, but that appeal is limited, and ultimately his work a novelty.

Anyway, as for Iron Man, I never got the visual impression that his costume was made out of METAL. Most artists just drew his armor the same way they’d draw any other superhero’s outfit, with only the metal bands around the neck and shoulders seemingly made of any kind of iron. Check out how Herb Trimpe draws IM on the (super-cool) cover of issue #39 (July 1971). In a startlingly underground-looking illustration, the hero looks more like he’s clad in red and yellow VELVET than iron! And Trimpe wasn’t the only one… Gil Kane (one of my favorite artists of the era) was notorious for making every character look like their costumes were spray-painted on.

Jack Kirby & Al Milgrom’s cover for IRON MAN #93 (Dec. 1976) makes more of an effort to depict the armor as, well, ARMOR, but then again, with his trademark squiggle lines, Kirby had a way of making FLESH look metallic!

Iron Man’s armor has been explained as being constructed out of millions of microscopic collapsible “cells,” held together by a powerful force field, which explains how he can bend his elbows and knees. But the explanation always felt like an afterthought to rationalize cloth-looking armor. In the awful ‘80s and ‘90s (as dark a period in comics as other culture), IM’s armor became bigger, more complicated and clunkier, adding dozens of variations to the arsenal. And of course, the upcoming movie depicts the Golden Avenger in a variation on the comics design that seems both believable and… metal.

Hey, you think Joel Schumacher got his idea for Bat-Suit nipples from Iron Man’s little nubbins?

Next Bronze Beauty: TARZAN!

PLAN B (Blue Business Shirts)

I’ve chosen to live a life that allows me the luxury of (among other things) not owning a suit. Some might find this trivial, but on hot summer days when I see guys walking down the street all Jos-A-Banked (ties not even loosened), I just don’t understand why they’re not keeling over from heat prostration. I think I might actually have a heat allergy, the discomfort that I feel when the temperature goes over 80 is so severe, I need to don the softest, most threadbare garments I own. I simply cannot deal (I should probably get that checked out).

But even if I DID find myself in some alternate universe where I toiled at a job where I had to wear a suit, I would not fall into the sartorial trap that’s ensnared so many of the gray masses. I would never, ever wear one of those goddamn blue business shirts. Those things seem to be a badge of corporate pride along with Tag Heuer watches and slicked back hair. But to me, the blue business shirt is a badge of conformity that screams “I give up! My life is not my own!” as brightly as a white surrender flag (and those blue shirts with the white collars and cuffs... are the Devil incarnate).

What makes it even worse is when the blue business shirt dudes wear those things out socially. I don’t care if you’re going out for drinks after work, stop by the damn Gap and buy a T-shirt. (My friend John has been known to do this so not to appear corporate when going out straight from the office).

The chances that I’m going to get a job that requires attire other than my usual jeans and T-shirt are unlikely. It’s just that there are precious few situations in which I can picture myself schlepping to an office again every day. Which brings us to Plan B.

As in, the latest in a long line of TV commercials that try to flatter corporate types into thinking that they’re some daring rebels who live outside of the constraints of mainstream society due to some ever so slight variation from the norm either in what they do on the weekend or some slight tic in their day to day business doings.

A recent ad for Brother printers shows a group of businessmen (and the token powersuited woman) on an elevator, all in shades of gray (literally) with sour expressions on their pusses as the elevator drags them up to their hideous, hated corporate gigs. In the midst of the gray mass is one man in color (but not of color), clad not in a suit, but in a (you guessed it) blue button-down shirt, although sans necktie. He has a supercilious smirk on his face, as if his life is far and away better than the nine-to-five drudgery of his fellow elevator riders.

But when Johnny Blueshirt gets to his floor, we find that…Oh my God, he works in an office!!! But wait, it’s not just any office! This utopia is in COLOR and the dress code is business CASUAL, and when Johnny passes a co-worker, he flashes him a PEACE SIGN (I shit you not)!! Then, in the ultimate fuck-you to Plan A, Johnny walks over to the office’s Brother Printer, which apparently represents a bold alternate business lifestyle akin to tossing out the kitchen coffeemaker and installing a Jagermeister tap!

This is NOT Plan B. It’s at best Plan A2. Tie or no tie, Xerox or Brother, it’s still doing what you’re supposed to do, working a job where you have to be in an office every day from a to b, doing the bidding of your evil/benevolent (whatever) overlords, constantly fretting that downsizing or another office birthday party is looming.

I’m not trying to say that Plan A or even A2 is an inappropriate choice for everyone. Lots of people are genuinely fulfilled, enjoy their work, even (shudder) like wearing suits, and hooray for them. But it drives me batty when this lifestyle is portrayed by Madison Avenue (by necessity the most delusional of the corporate drones) as being in any way rebellious or daring. But all advertising is about either flattering or shaming its potential audience. You’re so beautiful! You’re so fat! Your baby is the most important person on the planet! Your car is a piece of shit!

Thing is, outside of spots for beer, fast food or video games, I doubt we’ll ever see advertising that truly celebrates the individual that fully rejects Plan A, not out of sloth or apathy or irresponsibility, but as a conscious, passionate choice that leads to a different, perhaps less lucrative, but in other ways more fulfilling life. If Brother had any balls, they’d run an ad depicting some tattooed, jeans-clad, hirsute social anarchist running off copies of his nutty political manifestos on a Brother copier while his gay lover printed out copies of his Photoshop collages of Jesus fellating Simon Cowell. Now THAT’S Plan B! But that ain’t gonna happen. Ever.

Which is fine… the lack of comprehension, indignation or outright rejection by the Blue Business Shirts is all simply… part of the Plan.