Crimebuster channels his inner Matlock, though Matlock never addressed a jury with a monkey on his shoulder – Boy Comics #40
Here we go again, with another scintillating old-timey Golden Age offering from Lev Gleason Publications. The original Daredevil and Crime Does Not Pay have made appearances here before, and now we come to Boy Comics, the title that gave birth to one of the earliest long-running teen heroes: the goofily-attired, oddly-sidekicked Crimebuster. C.B. (to his friends — we are friends, aren’t we, Crimebuster?) didn’t haunt the pages of Boy until issue #3, but he rode it all the way to cancellation in issue #119. And what a run — and what a hero — he was.
He went by Chuck Chandler in his civilian guise, and as Crimebuster battled, you guessed it, crime. Any number of threats were grappled with in the thick, meaty monthly editions off Boy, and some were amongst the craziest things to ever come out of the Golden Age. (Check out this article on the half-man, half-woman He-She if you have doubts. Even Freud throws up his hands in bewilderment when trying to unpack that one.) Crimebuster wore as his chosen evil-cowing garb a dopey hockey uniform and cape, though the puck angle didn’t really bridge the gulf between the page and the eyes, and he thus wound up simply looking like an idiot with shorts over tights. His partner in crime-fighting was Squeeks, an organ-grinder’s monkey who often rode about on his shoulder, occasionally descending from those airy heights to pitch in with the busting.
They were the stars, but in some stories they’d both pretty much disappear, as they do in the cover tale in this book. Sadly, we’re not treated to the taut, edge-of-the-seat courtroom drama suggested by that frontispiece, with Crimebuster cross-examining witnesses and sparring against members of the bar. It seems that American jurisprudence and comic audiences in 1948 just weren’t ready for a kid in pajamas and a cape with a literal monkey on his back addressing the ladies and gentlemen (just gentlemen in this case) of the jury. Instead he’s a framing device, bookending a story-long flashback telling of a young woman’s gravitational descent into crime. But it’s a good one. Take heart.
Written by Charles Biro and illustrated by Norman Maurer, the plot opens with Crimebuster agreeing to help an attorney pal of his (the strangely named “Loover”) by subbing in during a grand jury presentation:
Yes, Loover is perhaps the most irresponsible attorney in the history of the world. “I’ve been called away but I’m due in court — what will I do? THANK GOD, IT’S THE KID IN THE CAPE WITH THE MONKEY.”
Marie Martin is the sobbing young woman in need of Crimebuster’s gallant oratory, and Burt Vesey is the oily young man whose freedom hangs in the proceeding’s balance. How oily is he? Just take a look at this mug:
Now that’s a face with only phrenological appeal. And “nail” apparently had a more benign meaning years ago.
In the Crimebuster-cued flashback we’re given Marie’s tale of woe, as Burt tries to wheedle his way into her heart, though Marie, like any woman with eyes, is at first having none of it. Then one night she’s babysitting and Burt invites her to a happening concert which she’s just dying to attend. She gives in to the temptation (the concert, not Burt’s Quasimodo looks) and goes, leaving the baby(!) alone in the house. It’s only going to be for a little while, and no one will be the wiser. Right? Nothing bad could happen. Right?
Wrong:
Marie manages to sneak back in after the fire department arrives, and fakes a swoon just in time to make it look like she was overcome by the fumes. And the firemen got the kid out, right? WRONG AGAIN:
Sweet mother of God, this story is reaching Frosty the Snowman levels of sadness. A scene with the bereaved father follows, where the silent, unspeakable grief is written all over his stoic face, and Marie keeps up her cover story through it all, even as the firefighters tell him that she was lucky to get out with her life and not to blame her at all.
And, though she doesn’t know it and no one else ever will, the fire was started by a cigarette that she had left smoldering when she flitted off to the concert. If you’re thinking to yourself that it’s going to be hard to have any sympathy for anything that happens to Marie after this, you’re not alone.
What a surprise, it turns out Burt isn’t going to be a consoling, redemptive figure in Marie’s life after this tragedy. His weasely nose sniffs opportunity:
He blackmails her into a relationship, one that’s both personal and professional. They embark on a low-rent Bonnie and Clyde spree, starting with heists at Marie’s babysitting jobs (a child dying on her watch apparently wasn’t enough to dry up business) and escalating to other, more brazen thefts, including the diner distract-and-dash shown on the cover:
Note that Marie is a tad more chestular on the cover. Sex has always sold.
It just gets deeper and deeper for Marie, like some white suburban Native Son. But Burt’s criminal empire comes crashing down when he gets Marie to find him a job at the company where she’s accepted a clerical position, and he botches the interview in a most epic manner:
Stupid criminals.
And that brings us to back to Crimebuster and his grand Perry Mason moment. He carries the day for the forces of, um, good(?):
It’s now that we have to pause to wonder whether or not getting Marie off the hook was the right thing, and whether Burt’s machinations truly amounted to sufficient “time-served.” Her negligence. Killed. A baby. Yet the perhaps poorly named Crimebuster and his dilettante district attorney friend are more than content to let her walk. Again, because it cannot be stated enough: HER NEGLIGENCE. KILLED. A BABY. Maybe wanting to give her a term in a school for wayward girls is Draconian. But maybe not.
Lesson: Never let teens with monkeys set your societal moral compass.
There’s another Crimebuster story inside, where he takes a more proactive role in events. I’d talk about it a little bit, but do you really want to delve too deeply in a plot where the hero takes time to lounge on a sofa while his monkey deep-throats a banana? (The art here is from Carl Hubbell):
C.B. looks to be well on the way to a piped, slippered and smoking jacketed middle age.
Kidding aside, the Crimebuster stories are capably assembled, if simplistic (as with so many Golden Age plots) in message. The art is the standout attraction. Like the Daredevil book reviewed here before, it’s dense and detailed, and has an articulation that was ahead of its time. At times it feels like it could have been at home with the best of Marvel’s 1960s output. Kudos to those involved for that.
As an addendum, amongst the other short offerings that fill out the book’s content is a two-page children’s strip centered on the misadventures of Pete the Pig. If you ever wanted to cross Porky Pig with the sartorial sense of Donald Duck, here you go:
Cartoon pigs are just sworn enemies of pants. If you’re wearing a shirt and a hat, would some slacks really kill you? Even Crimebuster’s “hockey” outfit would be better.
Live with your sins, Marie.
The New Nylon 2 Way Stretch Girdle gives women that attractive no-internal-organs look they crave and men go wild over
If you were a woman in the 1940s and wanted to have a desirable wasp figure, and didn’t want to gnaw on seaweed diet gum to get it, then this nylon girdle might have been perfect for you. Cinch it up and get men whistling at you — every girl’s dream! And it comes in a panty version too! My God, they thought of everything!
Love the copy, by the way. “Guaranteed Whistle-Bait” indeed. Though the woman in the ad looks to be an ambulatory skeleton.
The International Ghostbusters Club ain’t afraid of no ghosts (and they give you stickers)
I’m not sure what the differences would be between the American Ghostbusters and the British chapter, other than perhaps a different, Europeany sounding siren on their version of Ecto-1. (It was fairly Europeany anyway, come to think of it.) Also, seeing that “A Certificate of Anti-Paranormal Proficiency” is included in the loot one got when becoming a member of the club, I’m reminded of Walter Peck’s seething disdain for Peter Venkman’s academic credentials.
To this day, whenever you hear or read “EPA,” it’s hard not to think of Peck and his court order shutting down the basement containment unit. That and him getting doused with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s goo. William Atherton: A man who proved that there are no small roles, only small actors.
Brian Braddock meets Byron Bra-Dhok and readers’ heads explode all over the damn place – Captain Britain #5
Ah, Captain Britain. The tall, Olympian-built champion of the Sceptered Isle, the beefy hero who would one day lead some X-Men castoffs in the team called Excalibur, which is perhaps the most Anglo-Saxon sounding team name ev-
Okay, who they hell is the guy with the basketball head?
This magazine-sized (in length and height, if not thickness) comic is a part of Captain Britain’s 1980s U.K. reinvention. An outgrowth of that character’s adventures in the anthology The Mighty World of Marvel, it follows the format of most larger British comics. Black and white interiors, serialized stories — you’re likely familiar with the drill. What sets this apart from the rest and plays into the presence of Mr. Basketball up there? Well, you know the Marvel multiverse, the interdimensionality that made the Marvel Earth that we all know and love “Earth-616”? The one tended originally by none other than Merlyn, the one that was never wiped out by Crisis nonsense? The one fleshed out by Alan Moore and Alan Davis, who never intended the “616” moniker to have such broad, international, company-wide usage? It’s in here, personified by that differently garbed Captain you see on the cover. The guy who looks to be wearing Union Jack briefs on his head is Kaptain Briton, a fellow member of the inter-dimensional Captain Britain Corps (all gaurdians of the multiverse, no matter if they were good or evil) who hails from Earth-794, a darker reality than our own.
His arrival brings up several discussion points that need airing out, if only for my own sanity. A quick look at the proceedings within should get us going.
What usually happens when a superpowered being comes face to face with his extra-dimensional doppelgänger? Why, they punch each other in the face, of course! (Script: Jamie Delano, Art: Davis):
The two Captains (Kaptins) slug it out while the people tracking Briton from his own dimension arrive at (stately?) Braddock Manor and clue Betsy Braddock (the future Psylocke) and the rest of the CB penumbra in on what’s going on. Finally our Captain shows up with Briton’s unconscious body, he’s handed over to the cops and all seems right with the 616 world. Well, unless you bother to look at the triumphant Britain, who, though clean-shaven, might as well be twirling a mustache:
Yes, this is the evil Kaptin, who makes the switcheroo all too clear when he jams his tongue down his erstwhile sister’s throat and starts a good old-fashioned sexual assault:
Ah, rape. Such a cheery subject.
(Just so you know, the vile act is never consummated, and Betsy uses her psionic powers to mess with Briton’s mind and kill him. HAPPY ENDINGS.)
They’re not exactly germane, but several additional serials follow, including — perhaps to cinch the Britishness of the book — a Doctor Who spinoff reprint (Script: Steve Moore, Art: Steve Dillon). Are there Daleks screeching EX-TER-MIN-ATE therein? You betcha:
Back to the rapist Kaptin.
There are two things we need to chew on here. First is the obvious mind-bender of multiple universes and endless versions of the same people within those universes, implications that get really nuts when you get into the ad infinitum kaleidoscope of alternate Brian Braddocks and Captain Britains. The Captain Britain Corps went to telescopic depths that DC’s multiverse never approached, an extent that becomes clear when you look at the list of members for the Captain Britain Corps on the Wikipedia page. Even Superman, the most venerable and oft-appropriated champion of American comics, has never had his other selves united in the same way, team-ups with the Superboy-Primes of the multiverse notwithstanding. Granted, a lot of Captain Britain variants were faces in a crowd and names mentioned in passing, but still.
Think about this enough, and it gets personal. Have you ever wondered what your alternate versions would be like? How the version of you IN A WORLD WHERE HITLER WON WORLD WAR II would act? How the version of you IN A WORLD WHERE ROME NEVER FELL would look in a toga? How the version of you IN A WORLD WHERE APES EVOLVED FROM MEN would hurl his filth? A WORLD WHERE EVERYONE IS A TOASTER? Hell, maybe there’s a Jahr-Uhd out there who runs a Bog into Moisture website. (Doubtful.)
I don’t know what point I’m making, other than the multiverse crap is all a big, infinite, silly, yet often entertaining mess.
There’s a corollary to this, and that will be our second puzzler. Kaptain Briton begins a sexual assault of Captain Britain’s sister here. In no way am I attempting to make light of rape — God no — but is there an added layer of creepiness involved? Take the assault out of the equation, and suppose Betsy took a liking to this tall, handsome man who reminds her so much of a beloved brother, and wanted nothing more than for him to grind on her. Would that be incest? Is it incest if you diddle a sibling of your alter-Earth proxy, the person who’s you but not you? Is this an extra-dimensional taboo? Would it even be wrong? Can you get locked up for even thinking about it? Or writing about it? (Perhaps exceptions might be made for the later Psylocke incarnation of Ms. Braddock, when she became ridiculously chestular and battled evil in a bathing suit that appeared to be painted on.)
I don’t know that we want to delve too deeply into such things, but we might as well mull it over a little.
Anyway. Junk food for thought. Thank you, Captain Britain, for stimulating minds all across the globe with your endless other selves, some of whom try to rape your sister. EXCELSIOR.
Uranium = Hostess Fruit Pies (at least according to Iron Man)
I never would have guessed that Hostess Fruit Pies would be acceptable alternatives for an armor-clad, uranium-craving villain named Battle Axe. Nevertheless, here we are, with Hostess’ semi-fruitish confections passing as menu substitutions for fissionable material. Having suspicions about the nutritional content of the Fruit Pies, I might take my chances with radiation poisoning, melting internal organs and all. But I suppose we have to trust Iron Man on this, and it’s Hostess junk food for everyone.
Then again, maybe Tony Stark is on one of his epic Machine-Man-fighting benders. Ya buy yer ticket, ya takes yer chance.
(Also, could the secret to breaking the nuclear standoff with Iran be held in this old one-page advertisement? Your move, international diplomatic corps.)
Is one of your New Year’s resolutions to get in shape? If so, let Joe Nazario’s oily shoulders be your North Star.
I no longer frequent Gold’s Gym, but for many years I had a membership there, and I was always struck by the number of short-time resolutioners who made a go at working out after the calendar turned. They would arrive, looking uncomfortable in their ill-fitting shorts and t-shirts, fumble about the equipment and free weights, generally clog up the whole gym, then disappear within weeks, never to be seen again — at least until the next year. It’s in their honor that the above ad is presented. Hunky Joe Nazario’s 90 second plan (to “Dominate Others With Fantastic Brute Strength!”) may not be the shortest path to fitness (that land-speed record belongs to another), but he certainly fits right into the Atlas/Jowett continuum of sinewy comic book beefcakes. And maybe if you haggled a bit, you could have had a complimentary vat of body grease thrown into the package.
Anyway, GET CRACKING, YOU TUBS.
“Now that’s what I call ‘a sticky situation!'”: The Star-Studded Blog into Mystery One Paragraph Year in Review Super Spectacular
I thought about doing a quick cliff notes post on happenings here on the blog in 2012 (hence the clip show allusion in the above title, lifted from the South Park sendup of that genre), but I just don’t have the energy. That, and there’s really nothing all that important amongst the annum’s detritus. Hard to get all fired up about stuff like the Kool-Aid Man, you know? But, so as not completely waste the time of anyone bothering to read this, if I had to pick out one post from the past twelve months that sums up what’s best about comics — how something inherently trivial can nevertheless carry great potency — it would be this. There you go. Happy New Year.
There will be no Winter Olympics this year. There will be this old Lake Placid Chiquita Banana stickers ad, though.
The 1980 Lake Placid Olympics were held in my general neck of the woods (literally). These were the last modest Olympics, before the scope of staging such an event grew out of control, and a smallish resort town in a region of other small towns could afford to hold them. (Now every four years they threaten to consume an entire nation’s economy.) I used to play high school baseball against Lake Placid’s squad in the shadow of the unlit torch and never stopped loving the isolated majesty of the ski jumps, but I was too young when they took place to remember them, so I’m bereft of any tales about where I was when the Miracle on Ice happened. WAH.
Even more vexing than missing memories, I wasn’t old enough to collect these special Chiquita stickers designed for those games. And I like bananas, so completing a set would have been no great struggle, I assure you. Such an assemblage would certainly today fetch upwards of $.10 on eBay. You could even get yourself a little collector sheet to stick them on, which makes them kind of like the Marvel Stamps from the 1970s, the removal of which scarred for life any number of desirable comic books. No bananas were harmed in the assembly of this collection.
Question: Did companies have to license this Olympic stuff back then? I see no indicia on this ad, and definitely not the legalese that weighs down more modern marketing. Now if you even mention “Olympics” without paying money to the notoriously corrupt IOC, a team of sharp, Europeany lawyers swoops down to pounce. And God help you if you link five rings together. Was Chiquita a full-fledged partner, or were they functioning in the Wild West of Olympics licensing? I have no idea.
Incidentally, we’ve gone far afield when it comes to Olympics mascots, at least since the days of the understated raccoon you see above. First there was Whatizit/Izzy, the much-maligned frontman for Atlanta in 1996, and then the hideous monstrosities known as Wenlock and Mandeville, the mascots for this past London Olympics. Those latter clowns looked to be lifted from an early-70s Jon Pertwee Doctor Who episode.
If you have to bring Batroc the Leaper in to help sell your mag, then the game is already over
“Gee, Marvel, I never once thought of reading Crazy, your satire magazine, since I already have Mad and Cracked to sate my juvenile humor appetite. But after seeing your ad with Batroc the Leaper, who combines the bounding, overbearing Frenchiness of Pepe le Pew with the ethnic villainy of Boris Badenov, I’ve changed my mind. I will now turn to you for my parodies of Star Wars, Jaws 2, All in the Family and Happy Days. Batroc’s ridiculously long mustache has helped me see the error of my ways.”
— Words never spoken or thought by anyone, anywhere, ever.
The monster in Steve Ditko’s Dragon Lord isn’t Steve Ditko’s Gorgo (though it’s pretty much Steve Ditko’s Gorgo) – Marvel Spotlight (Vol. 2) #5
Not long ago we paused to glance at an issue of Charlton’s Gorgo, one of that company’s many second-tier monster books. Illustrated by Steve Ditko, that particular story retold the first encounter of Gorgo (and Gorgo Jr.) with civilization, and was hence an Americanized version of a source material film that was a British ripoff of the venerable Godzilla franchise. (Lost yet?) It was a crappy comic book, with hack story elements and over the top caricatures of Soviet apparatchiks, but Ditko’s art, as always, shone through. Unexpected delights even amongst the compost pile, as usual.
And here we are, with the first appearance of one of several characters at Marvel to carry the Z-level moniker of “Dragon Lord.” The monster on the cover (drawn and inked by Frank Miller and Bob Wiacek), may look a little familiar to you. All giant bipedal lizards, after all, look like Godzilla. And yes, this comic features art from Ditko. Ditko drawing another Godzilla story that isn’t a Godzilla story. Huh. Mark Twain was right about history maybe not repeating itself, but sure as shootin’ rhyming.
In this case, it seems that Ditko was actually doing a Godzilla story, at least as he was putting pen to paper. Over at Comic Book Resources they say that this senses-shattering origin of Dragon Lord was actually a fill-in book for the old Marvel Godzilla book — you remember, the one with Dum Dum Dugan and his hat chasing our hero/monster all over the damn place, and sometimes crossing over with the mainstream Marvel universe. Fill-ins were rather common back in the day (and somewhat confusing to young readers accustomed to the regular crew and regular storylines, as it was for me as a kid when the Transformers book suddenly lurched into reprinting a UK plot), and it would appear that this one was left on the scrap heap when the license was lost. Then, a while later, not wanting anything to go to waste, Marvel slapped it in the burnoff anthology that was the second iteration of Marvel Spotlight.
Or so the story goes.
Godzilla’s name is never mentioned in these pages. Nor does the Steve Ditko Godzilla really scream GODZILLA! at you at the top of its lungs. But it’s him. You don’t even have to squint that hard. Part Godzilla, part Gorgo, part something else is…THE WANI.
The Marv Wolfman-scripted plot opens in 16th century Japan, with fishermen upsetting the gods or something and a giant beast called Godzilla the Wani rising from the briny depths to kill everyone and stomp on a lot of houses. All appears lost, right up until a valiant (but up to that point failing badly) samurai does a kamikaze dive with gunpowder strapped to himself, which sends the creature to a watery exile. The samurai’s sacrifice leads to subsequent generations vowing to restore the family’s honor should Godzilla the Wani ever return, a vow initially made in an angsty panel that echoes roughly ten thousand others in Ditko’s repertoire:
The years pass, the decades pass, the centuries pass, and generation after generation learns the mystical skills that will one day (hopefully) come in handy while battling their family’s bane. Then, in present day America, when Tako Shamara gets word that a giant monster is on a rampage, he knows that his time has come. He rushes home, startles and horrifies his wife by putting on goofy old clothes and strapping a sword to his hip, and starts summoning things in the backyard grill:
That scene reminds me of Richard Dreyfuss and Teri Garr in Close Encounters. A LOT. “Roy, our friends don’t call anymore…”
Godzilla The Wani is drawn to Tako’s magic, and soon a proxy war is raged, with Tako creating a series of spectral monsters to battle the very real one before him. But he didn’t think to, you know, evacuate his family beforehand, WHICH WAS REALLY STUPID OF HIM:
Tako, next time leave the monster fights to trained professionals. Give Dum Dum a call. Or the Orkin Man. SOMEBODY.
Tako manages to get the last of his proxy monsters out of there before the whole place is leveled and his wife and children are killed, but still Godzilla the Wani looms large. Then, for reasons unknown, it starts obeying Tako’s commands:
And off Godzilla the Wani goes, back to its own time, and its own place in the sea:
The Comic Book Resources post linked to above suggests that those last panels were altered to basically cut Godzilla out of the frame and make it seem that he was disappearing, instead of doing his usual walk back to the ocean that he did after every movie. Makes sense.
You can easily see how easily this story was rejiggered to accommodate a standalone, unGodzilla plot. The Wolfman text boxes are extensive, and you might read Godzilla’s sudden, late in the game change of heart as part and parcel of the somewhat more tame version of the character that was featured in Marvel run (in which he was something akin to the Hulk, harried by military forces and just wanting to be left alone). And what we’re left with at the end of it all is an odd little artifact: an introduction to a character whose appearances would be few and far between, and a fine sampling of Ditko’s strengths. I mean, look at that pink magic-monster, and tell me you don’t smile and think a little bit of J. Jonah Jameson’s Spider-Slayer. Just a little?
So Ditko never technically got to do a Godzilla book, even though he did a Godzilla rip-off and an apparently repurposed Godzilla. Mark that down on your cards if you’re keeping score at home.
While you’re taking a break from Angry Birds to watch movies on the tablet of your choice, remember how your forefathers suffered
The word “portable” has certainly changed definitions over the years. I just broke down and bought a new laptop, and went for the slim ultrabook kind. Computers — even full laptops, we’re not even getting down to the wafer-thin iPads and such — are now nothing but a few pieces of paper in width. AND JUST LOOK AT THAT CLUNKY THING UP THERE. Imagine lugging your Luminavision (Luginavision) to whatever god-forsaken “sales presentation” you might have to make. This was walking to school uphill in the snow both ways, folks. Didn’t Dana Carvey’s Grumpy Old Man character talk about using one of these? “That’s the way it was and we liked it!”
By the by, it looks like something that a person would watch snuff films on. Didn’t I see George C. Scott watching porn on a Luminavision in Hardcore?
Hey, all you had to do back in the day was down some candy and mail a buck and a half, and you could have had yourself a Cylon pen. A Cylon pen THAT LIT UP. This gem would be perfect for signing any major document, whether a prenuptial agreement, long-term commercial lease or living will. Impress your Battlestar Galactica-loving friends! Pair it with your Superman belt buckle and island girl wallet and make yourself an unstoppable dapper force! Lorne Greene would be proud to hold such a magnificent writing implement!
(Sadly, the end product is a bit more plasticy than one would hope.)
POW! RIGHT IN THE CHRISTMAS KISSER! – The Honeymooners #3
Christmas is finally upon us, bringing to an end the run-up we’ve had here on the blog, and I can think of no better way to cap of the festivities than with a Yuletide comic based on the classic TV show The Honeymooners. You see, Ralph Kramden’s four color shenanigans weren’t limited to goofy crossovers with wrestling legends like Captain Lou Albano. He and Ed Norton and Alice and Trixie also had this nice little square-bound Christmas Special, which gives both Ralph and Alice the Frank Capra It’s a Wonderful Life treatment. No, this comic doesn’t see Ralph killing himself, his wife and his two friends by augering a magic flying car into the Hong Kong Garden. SORRY TO DISAPPOINT YOU. “She’s a Wonderful Wife” imagines — or tries to, as we shall see — what life would have been like for the two halves of our starring couple if they had never met.
The impetus for the split is poor Ralph out shopping for Alice’s Christmas present. He knows she’s had her eye on a red dress, but the $199.95 price tag literally makes him faint, and he’s at a loss for how he’s going to pull this off. Just his luck, he runs into an old friend named Sammy Whitherspoon (who looks like Arnold Stang’s comic book doppelgänger), who has his own ideas on how to scrape together some short-notice Christmas dough (spot the typo!):
“Albino fir trees” is one of Ralph’s tamer attempts at making money (I’m sensing a pattern between the albino fir trees and Captain Lou Albano), but the fact that he spent the money that was supposed to go towards Christmas dinner and the tree doesn’t sit well with Alice — much like a certain fairy tale about three beans for a cow. They have one of their high-volume arguments, complete with empty threats of TO THE MOON violence, and decide to spend Christmas Eve apart:
This is where the story gets a little different. The writer and artist — Robert Loren Fleming and Win Mortimer, respectively — here make their appearance. They’re putting together this Honeymooners Christmas Special, and realize that they’ve maybe made it a little too depressing. It’s a problem in need of a solution:
Despite their best efforts to show both Ralph and Alice how bleak life would be without them together (their tiny apartment is occupied by roughly 30 yokels running a still), they still keep winding up together. When Ralph helps out a downtrodden widower by taking him to the Salvation Army, guess who’s running the show:
And when Alice brings an orphan, worried that Santa Claus will forget him, to the big man himself, guess who’s under the beard and hat:
Not quite satisfied with how things keep turning out, Fleming and Mortimer leave their studio to go get some chow. Yet (cue the strumming of a harp) the pages are magically completed in their absence, with Ralph returning home to find that everything has worked out just fine:
And just who finished these pages? Who’s writing the big comic book of life, which controls Fleming and Mortimer and you and me?:
Existence is a comic book. I can live with that.
‘Nuff said. Merry Christmas.
(Just so you know, the Art Carney interview promised on the cover at no point touches on his role in The Star Wars Holiday Special. Which seems such a waste.)
The comics were hung by the chimney with care, in the hopes OH GOD WAIT DON’T DO THAT
Batman out in the cold on Christmas – Alex Ross
I’m working on a post for Christmas morning, one that looks at a nice comic from a series we’ve examined here before, and one that hits every holiday trope under the sun. It will send you straight to the Moon, as it were. Until then, I thought I’d post some links, just in case people wanted to have a little Christmas-themed comicy reading as they sip cocoa and wait for the sound of sleigh bells and such.
Here we go, in run-on sentence format: This past month we’ve looked at such forgotten fare as A Boy and His ‘Bot, She-Hulk’s infuriating encounter with Nick St. Christopher, Frosty the Snowman telling the most depressing dying donkey story you’ll ever read, Peter Parker facing a depressing Christmas and battling a gun-wielding burglar dressed as Santa (and lots of ladies’ hinders!), a not cheap but not overly expensive idea for a comic Christmas gift, Superman lamenting his Christmas duties while battling the Parasite and meeting a foster brother he never knew he had, and the first Frank Miller Batman story, which of course had a Santa getting shot in the back.
Merry Christmas. And Happy Festivus, for all you Seinfeldian agnostics out there. The unadorned aluminum pole, airing of grievances and feats of strength await.
Who among us wouldn’t travel back to Christmas past if we knew we’d find a Rom action toy under the tree?
While the classic Rom toy was a clunky lump out of the box, it was a minor cultural touchstone, an early lesson in the power of licensing to flesh out a brand into more than the sum of its (inarticulate) parts. Parker Brothers, board game people to that point, took a risk with this dalliance into the cutthroat world of toys, and it paid off for them. And it wound up spawning a long-running comic, and giving me one of the treasured comic storylines of my youth, an unheralded Bill Mantlo penned and Steve Ditko drawn masterpiece that brought a Spaceknight’s journey to its bittersweet end. Hence Rom the Space Knight became a classic toy in spite of its Frankensteinian stiffness.
And Rom also had one of the greatest goddamn TV commercials in the history of the universe, an epic of the genre. So there’s that, too.
Basically what I’m saying is TICKLE ME ELMO AND FURBY, EAT YOUR HEARTS OUT. YOUR COLD, DARK HEARTS.
Jared
blog into mystery 