We can be thankful that they’re tackling the Maha Yogi together and not the Kama Sutra – X-Men #47

The pre-cancellation days of the X-Men weren’t all that spectacular — or uncanny, for that matter. The stories could be rather dull, and they didn’t hit their angst-ridden stride until after Marvel had put its 60’s prime in the rearview mirror.

This issue’s main story is no exception. As “The Warlock Wears Three Faces!” begins, the X-Men have been disbanded by order of the F.B.I. and Professor X is (apparently) dead. In the course of this particular plot, Beast and Iceman defeat Maha Yogi/Merlin/The Warlock, who’s using a stage act in the big city to hypnotize an army for himself one paying audience at a time.

This is the opposite of scintillating. Nothing about it grabs you. The only panel that caught my fancy was this one:

I think the verbose Hank McCoy just proposed that they go pick up some broads, but I’m not 100% positive.

I found the backup, a summary of Iceman’s abilities, to be a bit more entertaining, mainly for the pointless ends to which he can direct his powers.

In “I, the Iceman,” by Arnold Drake, Werner Roth and John Verpoorten, we learn that he can make ice-erangs:

And he can make ice-ladders — don’t step on the top rung! Or any of the rungs, for that matter!:

Here he is metaphorically comparing penis-sizes with the Human Torch:

Since this comic was published in 1968 and the Mets won the pennant and the World Series in the very next year, the Torch’s boast rings pretty hollow.

Finally, Iceman ruminates on how he’d fare in the coldest of environs:

So, after saying that space has no moisture, and that his powers need moisture, he says that he’d still be intrigued by the challenge?

Bobby Drake, you’re an idiot.

If someone wanted me to pick out a prime exemplar of Marvel’s Silver Age, this puppy would be pretty far down the list of options.

(And, in case you’re wondering, the feature was scripted by Gary Friedrich and Arnold Drake, pencilled by Don Heck and Werner Roth, and inked by John Tartaglione. That’s a lot of chefs in the kitchen — and therein might lie the reason for the story’s mediocrity.)