E.T.’s doofus cousin
This one confused me as a youngster. The (malignant) genius in the product placement/tie-in of Reese’s Pieces being E.T.’s favorite snack had been singed onto my brain by the time this ad rolled around. (Incidentally, there’s something a bit sinister about that, isn’t there? Having a beloved childhood icon closely identified with a sugary, fattening candy? Not up to Joe Camel’s standard, but still…)
I digress. The point is, I’d see this alien Billy Barty-looking blue dude and wonder “Who the hell is this guy? Where’s E.T.?” I guess Hershey Industries Amalgamated Federated Incorporated wasn’t ready to let go of the “Aliens love this crap!” angle. Whatever the reasons for his presence, this nameless interloper was quite a letdown after the great Extra-Terrestrial of my earliest youth. He even looks like he might have an offensive odor, what with his loin fur and all.
Etagramulfabetz indeed.
Head! Pants! Now! – The Flash #177
Sometimes I want to hug the Silver Age. Or buy it a beer.
I had seen this cover before and was desperate to buy it, but the copies that I saw were in rough shape and my condition snobbery held me back. I have my standards, after all. But I recently found this one. And now I shall share its joys with you, Dear Readers.
The (Gardner Fox scripted, Ross Andru and Mike Esposito art-ified) story opens with Barry Allen solving a crime in his regular police day job, using Sherlock Holmes/Miss Marple/Batman-ish deductive reasoning to out a murderer. It’s only after this that things start to go a bit awry. Barry begins getting headaches and showing a Rick “The Model” Martel level of arrogance:
While Barry is busy patting himself on the back, the Trickster (who’s forever associated in my mind with the miles over the top performance of Mark Hamill) is in his hideout/apartment hoping that his latest anti-Flash scheme hasn’t been foiled:
Trickster’s yanking out his hair over nothing, because soon, when the Flash is out doing his Flash thing, he starts getting weird stares from the normally grateful citizens of Central City, and the Scarlet Speedster quickly discovers why:
This creates some problems, and not just the size of the comb-over that he’ll have to grow to cover that up. He can’t exactly go back to being Barry Allen without exposing his identity, so he’s stuck as the Flash while he tries to remedy this disfigurement. He has to explain all this to poor Iris, and you can’t help but love his scarlet cheeks poking out of the phone booth as he crams his huge head inside — a nice artistic touch, if I do say so myself:
His high-speed labors go unrewarded and no cure is in the offing. Then one night, as he’s out getting some air and moaning and groaning, the Trickster hears his lamentations and decides to pile on:
This may be the only time that ragweed pollen has been used as a comic book villain’s weapon. Not that I’m complaining…
The Trickster overpowers the weakened Flash and drags him back to his place to gloat and finish the job. To illustrate the endgame of his diabolic plot, he grabs a Flash-themed balloon and gives a demo:
I think you see where that’s going.
The Flash, realizing the goofy peril that he’s in, tries to fight back, but the Trickster has any number of weapons at hand to exploit his distended noggin:
But something weird happens, because the headaches that have been plaguing Flash ease during the brawl. With his strength coming back to him he manages to knock out his foe and stumble onto the reason for his rapid improvement:
Next time you have a migraine, screw the Tylenol. Just get a radioactive myna(h) bird that makes bad jokes. That’s the lesson here.
The behind bars Trickster has the reaction to his defeat that I think all of us would if we were in his shoes:
Wow. Just wow. Ever come across that tagline for Neil Simon’s The Goodbye Girl? The one that goes “Thank you Neil Simon for making us laugh at falling in love…again.”? Well, in this case I’d like to offer a long-overdue “Thank you Fox/Andru/Esposito for making me laugh at a superhero’s ridiculous temporary deformity…again.”
As I was reading this I couldn’t help but harken back to a cartoon from my high school years, MTV’s The Head, a funny, fun and offbeat series whose protagonist had a friendly alien encamped in his ENORMOUS cranium. It shared an anthology program (Oddities) with Sam Kieth’s The Maxx if you’re looking for a comic book connection here. The bottom line is this: I spent my entire time reading this Flash comic not only luxuriating in its supreme silliness, but also waiting for a little purple alien named Roy to come rocketing out of Barry’s bulbous skull. And I also had the nagging feeling that I needed to get some homework done, because I was always scrambling to finish it during the late-night airings of The Head.
Anyhoo. Now I need to go out and find some Flash balloons.
Trying to scan this thing was the real “horror” – The Fantastic Four in the House of Horrors (Big Little Book)
I had grand plans to do a post about this book from 1968, but its size and booky (hardcover) square-bound format make its innards difficult to scan, and its age has made the binding so brittle I dare not push my luck. If you’re unfamiliar with the long-lived but now defunct Big Little Book format, this Wikipedia entry is a good place to start. They’re kind of odd and kind of neat, even if the subject matter is clearly aimed at younger readers. In this one the art half of the content is quite well done, and though the lack of word and thought balloons separates them from the comic book original (giving it a silent film feel), the quality of the illustration is generally worthy of the “World’s Greatest Comic Magazine.” Just to give you an idea of what the inside feels like, with the other page being filled with text:
That scan was gained at the price of great apprehension. I was waiting to hear the spine snap.
And so ends my tepid, abortive foray into the Big Little World of Big Little Books.
A homicidal maniac and Milk Duds. Not exactly the chocolate and peanut butter of combos…
Do you really want your pitchman to be someone known for his (sometimes murderous) mischief? This seems especially dubious when considering the fact that poisoned foodstuffs have at times figured into the Joker’s schemes. Kind of makes cheating with tons of broads and crashing your SUV into a fire hydrant 20 feet from your driveway seem rather tame. What’s next, Bane and Slim Jims? “I enjoy snapping backs, but there’s nothing I like more than snapping into a juicy, spicy Slim Jim!”?
Somewhere Tiger Woods is grumbling…
I’ve never seen a single solitary episode of Married… with Children. I’m hoping that confession won’t brand me as a philistine for the rest of my days. I have a feeling it won’t. It isn’t any sort of aversion to the subject matter that spurred this nigh-absolute ignorance of the show. It’s more that in its heyday my family didn’t have cable or a satellite dish and there was no Fox affiliate within range of the good ol’ rooftop antenna. That’s the only real reason. So if I accidentally call Al Bundy Ted Bundy, don’t get too upset with me. It’s not my fault.
All that said, there’s one thing I do know: Christina Applegate was unbelievably hot back in the day. Oof…
This one-shot salvo (there were a couple of short-lived series and multiple one-shots) in the MwC comic book line strikes right at the heart of comic book fandom, as young Bud Bundy descends into the depths of a full-fledged comic book convention. He goes there to pitch a comic book he’s created, one that has plopped his nuclear family into the roles of comicdom’s most famous foursome:
Is it wrong to say that I find the thought of the Applegate-Thing disturbingly appealing? Wait — I guess the “disturbingly” kind of answers my own question…
Bud heads of to the conveniently local con with one of his buddies to sell the Quantum Quartet and make his fortune. There he comes across every (justified) geek stereotype that you can imagine, many of which can be glimpsed on the cover. There’s also some rather delicious commentary at hand. These few panels skillfully encapsulate so much of what was wrong with the comic book world in the ’90s:
Most of the skewering comes as Bud tries to hawk his idea to various personas and publishers. Perhaps my favorite is “Bobby Leftfield,” of “D.U.N.G.Blood” fame:
Poor Liefeld. The whipping boy of whipping boys. Have they ever had a dunking booth at a con? Wouldn’t Liefeld be the biggest request to be a dunkee?
Even more respected industry figures get tomahawked, like the nine-foot tall Jim Shooter:
This meeting goes south like all the others:
Bud meets with rejection after rejection from every thinly veiled proxy you can imagine, including one for Now Comics, the publisher of this very mag:
Hey! Mr. T is in this too!
So poor Bud doesn’t get his comic picked up, and the world will never know the joys of the Quantum Quartet, just like I’ll never know the wonders of his TV show. Life is cruel.
I’m probably never going to watch a single minute of the show. There’s too much inertia for to overcome for me to seek out a decades-old sitcom. I’ll keep my exposure limited to this book.
I’ll quit while I’m ahead.
(Married… with Children: Bud Bundy, Fanboy in Paradise #1 was scripted by Todd S. Tuttle and Geoff White, pencilled by Tom Richmond and inked by David Mowry. No sign of any involvement by Bud Bundy.)
Black and Blue, but no red
When I saw this 1976 ad for the Rolling Stones Black and Blue album, my brain said “something’s missing…” Sure enough, a quick search of the internet showed that the Stones’ lips, especially Mick Jagger’s, had been de-rouged. Here’s the front and back of the actual album:
I pulled this ad out of a DC book, so maybe there’s some sort of rule where they can’t have any man’s lips be redder than the Joker’s. Also, being comicized apparently subtracts about a decade from a person’s face. Jagger almost looks healthy in the ad. Keith Richards still looks like shit, though. I guess that’s his comfort zone.
I should confess that I debated infusing this entire post with Stones song titles, i.e. “I felt great satisfaction yesterday when this ad passed under my thumb…” Even telling anyone that I considered doing that is obnoxious beyond belief. Needless to say, I thought better of it.
You’re welcome.
It’s Uncle Sam vs. Wonder Woman in a knock-down, drag-out fight to see who has the best patriotic accents! Or something! What better way to celebrate the birth of the star-spangliest of star-spangled nations?
In “The Left Hand of Oblivion” (Martin Pasko/Ramona Fradon/Vince Colletta), the erstwhile Earth-X Freedom Fighters, with Uncle Sam uttering his usual “fellers” and “consarn its,” march into the United Nations to demand their rights, a move common to super-people:
They’re in bad graces because of a disastrous, property-wrecking battle with the Silver Ghost, and Wonder Woman has been put on the case of tracking them down. Here she is getting her marching orders from old white guys, who are portrayed, perhaps fittingly, as chauvinistic worms:
Cue up the obligatory “good guys fighting good guys” stuff, including heroines from two eras with clashing views on societal norms:
Our friendly neighborhood Wonder Woman corrals the Phantom Lady and the rest of the Fighters, and when they’re brought before the authorities we get a quick lesson in the hygiene problems associated with crimefighting:
Now I’ll never again be able to look at the Human Bomb without thinking of his vicious, nostril-scalding body odor. Excelsior!
There’s some more stuff about a villain called King Samson and a powered glove and Wonder Woman teaming with the Fighters to battle him. It continues into the next issue, and I’ll spoil the ending: Good triumphs over Evil.
I can’t say that this is the greatest comic I’ve ever read, but it’s definitely a better graphic treatment of the Uncle Sam image than that torpid Alex Ross mini from years ago. Consarn it, this is genius compared to that! And speaking of artists, I always enjoy seeing a lady’s name among the creative credits. Ms. Fradon is sort of like Wonder Woman — both ventured into a “man’s world,” but Fradon did it without the benefit of a magic lasso or red boots. Or star-spangled undies.
Have a happy Fourth.
Shuperstar: Redux
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I realize I posted the other AAU Shuperstar advertisement a few weeks ago, but I thought I’d close the book on this character with this far more entertaining bit of tomfoolery. Yes, the scrungy hippie-looking “Dirty Sneaker” is about to use the ghastly might of the Bee Gees to destroy the Earth. Seems plausible.
AAU Shuperstar’s method of disposing with this foe, i.e. kicking him in the ass and rocketing him into space (assuredly killing him), reminds me a bit of an old and odd Superman anti-smoking ad from England. Mostly, though, it calls to mind the Wonderman bits from the (tragically) short-lived TV Funhouse show on Comedy Central, in which a Superman-esque character dispatched romantic rivals by, well, see for yourself — if you’re not familiar, I promise it’ll be one of the funnier things you’ll see today:
“Wonderman … fights a constant crusade to stop crime and get his alias laid!” gets me every time.
And with that, friends, the AAU Shuperstar passes into history, never to be featured here again.
Ugh – Transformers: Dark of the Moon
I realize the Transformers aren’t a pure comic book property, but I’m throwing them into my usual mix of comic book movie reviews because they’re close enough. To this day the original Marvel comic is the only one that I ever subscribed to, and it was contemporaneous with the cartoon in terms of initiating me into the mythos. I’ve talked about my nostalgic, rose-colored-glasses love for the property here and here. The Transformers got me into fiction as a wee lad, so I’m doing this one. Come hell or high water.
I was stunned that I liked the first Transformers. Michael Bay’s pubescent sensibilities and the horrid designs for the Transformers themselves were turn-offs, but I had fun with the story. It was a good ride. But its sequel, Revenge of the Fallen, had me wanting to get a knife, walk down to the screen and slice it to shreds. It was the most offensively stupid and scatterbrained thing I had ever seen. The giant, clanging Constructicon nuts were the least of its problems.
I went into Dark of the Moon with that awful mixture of hope and fear. The hopes were dashed and the fears were confirmed. This thing is abominable. Let me tell you why.
- Most of the “humor” in the film is aimed at lower primates, but the entire audience in my screening yukked it up like there was no tomorrow, so maybe I’m a stick in the mud. Then again, it seemed that this was a particularly imbecilic crowd, perhaps drawn by the siren-call of a Bay movie. People talked throughout. One guy ACTUALLY ANSWERED HIS CELL AND BEGAN A CONVERSATION AT A NORMAL “TALKING IN YOUR HOUSE WITH NO ONE AROUND” VOICE. Sometimes it seems that we live in a nation of fat, crude, stupid people, and in this case they all crammed themselves into one Arlington cineplex. There wasn’t a lot of noise in the theater coming from clinking Phi Beta Kappa keys, if you catch my drift. Screw Air Marshals, we need Theater Marshals. Heavily armed ones, at that. (Sorry for getting off-topic. I needed to vent.)
- Leonard Nimoy voices a Transformer named Sentinel Prime. I thought he’d retired from showbiz. He should have. He adds nothing, and at one point utters one of the most memorable lines in Star Trek lore, crammed into this dung heap of a movie just because. He must be getting feeble-minded, because I can’t believe the man who always carried himself with a great deal of dignity (well, not always) would consent to that. I almost threw up on the head of the guy sitting in front of me when I heard it.
- Pete, the head security guard from The Jerry Springer Show, has a cameo in this. And the guy who played Terry Tate, Office Linebacker in those great Super Bowl commercials from almost a decade ago is in it too. Hey, how about that.
- Much has been made about the action in Chicago in the last portion of the movie. Yes, shit blows up. A lot. But it gets numbing, and there are far, FAR too many stretches where the Autobots inexplicably disappear. It’s Transformers. Not Sam Witwicky, His Girlfriend’s Hot Ass and Pals.
- Apparently Washington, D.C. is a five-minute drive from both Chicago and Cape Canaveral. And it has towering skyscrapers. I’ve lived here for over a decade and I never knew those things. Huh.
- Bay and his editors must snort a Scarface level of cocaine when they splice movies together. This one jumps around like an over-excited Daffy Duck. At one point in the Chicago battle, Bumblebee goes from right next to Sam to a Decepticon prisoner in a matter of seconds with no explanation for how he made the transition. It’s maddening.
- Yes, the flying squirrel suits are a great gimmick. But there’s really not much reason for their inclusion. The military uses them to get into a surrounded Chicago, but other troops somehow get in, along with Navy SEALs, without their use. It seems they were thrown in “just because.” This movie should have been called Transformers: Just Because. Because that’s what it feels like most of the time.
- I’ll give Shia LaBeouf a pass. I really can’t blame him for any of the problems here, as much as I may want to. None of the onscreen talent can be lambasted since they aren’t given much to work with. But poor John Malkovich… Bay must have been holding one of his loved ones hostage. If only the Sam Raimi Spider-Man 4 had been made and he’d been the Vulture, this public shaming, this Hollywood equivalent of being placed in the stocks, might have been avoided.
- It would be nice if I could tell one Decepticon from the next. Shockwave is a new big bad, with a pet drill thingy that looks like a Dune sandworm, but I’m not sure when he was killed. The design of the Transformers has been screwed up since day one, with them too busy for the human eye to distinguish and the Decepticons lacking the bright colors that at least the Autobots are blessed with. They all look alike.
- I can’t finish without dropping one f-bomb. Here it is. I fucking hated this movie.
Four years ago I was going through a very tough spot in my life. I went to see the first Transformers and I’ll be damned if my spirits weren’t brightened for a couple of hours. Things aren’t so bad now, but this one was so unfathomably terrible it put me down in the dumps for hours afterwards. It’s a waste of time, money and material. There’s a lot of action, but it’s more akin to a deafening bombardment than a thrilling spectacle.
Transformers: Dark of the Moon gets one pair of Devastator balls out of five. Avoid this thing like the bubonic plague.
Bride of Frankenstein. Bride of Chucky. Queen Kong. And M.O.D.A.M. – Captain America #413
I’ve spoken before of my man-crush on M.O.D.O.K. His huge head, his useless little T-Rex arms… C’est magnifique. One of my earliest posts on this blog dealt with his Gene Colan-pencilled senses-shattering origin. It doesn’t get much better than a Mental Organism Designed Only for Killing, does it?
Well, M.O.D.A.M. might have something to say about all that.
Perhaps to balance out the intra-organizational gender discrepancy in the deformed freaks with giant heads and psionic powers department, A.I.M. in their infinite malevolent wisdom decided to make a second Mental Organism for their nefarious schemes. Enter M.O.D.A.M. An anonymous A.I.M. agent called upon to take the huge-head treatment, she was at first named S.O.D.A.M. (Specialized Organism Designed for Aggressive Maneuvers), but that sobriquet was perhaps too close to the term for vile/disgusting/awesome sexual acts. It was subsequently changed to the Mental Organism Designed for Aggressive Maneuvers that most know her/it by. Got that? Good. Cause I’m not typing that crap out again.
M.O.D.A.M. was essentially M.O.D.O.K. with redder lips, sharper teeth, longer, more functional arms (sort of like Doctor Octopus tentacles) and a little metal brassiere for her withered, shriveled breasts. The basic look, hovering chair, bad attitude and awful Bill Gates haircut were still there. That’s about all you need to know about her.
This issue (Mark Gruenwald/Rik Levins/Danny Bulanadi) had Captain America squaring off against any number of second-tier (and lower) Marvel villains, as shown in this opening page blast:
It’s a testament to M.O.D.A.M.’s grandiosity that she outshines the Wrecker, Batroc the Leaper, Rhino, the Beetle, Shocker, Stilt-Man, Man-Bull, the Man-Ape, Killer Shrike, Scorpion, Speed Demon, Boomerang and others (perhaps a Partridge in a Pear Tree as well) combined.
Then again, maybe that’s not all that hard to believe.
Here she is at her bitchy, peremptory best, dealing with an erstwhile ally, Superia:
How’d you like to be set up with her on a blind date? Check please!
At least she might make for some decent conversation, as evidenced by this mid-fight discourse on women’s lib:
M.O.D.A.M. ain’t got time for that shit.
So how does Cap eventually defeat her? With a poke to the eyes, of course!:
Now there’s an eye-poke that would make Moe Howard beam with pride.
M.O.D.A.M. is one of those characters that make you either love or hate comics. For me it’s love. Love love love.
And speaking of love, it doesn’t seem that M.O.D.A.M. and M.O.D.O.K. ever hooked up. Their psionic beams never crossed while zapping some poor sap like Lady and the Tramp sucking the same strand of spaghetti. Sad. Who among us wouldn’t want to at least know the physical logistics of that coupling?
When two dimensions just won’t do…
I loathe 3D in theaters, so I’m not all that eager to have it in the comfort of my own home. If you’re the exact opposite, then perhaps Tru Dimension is for you.
I missed out on the Valiant train back in the day. Without a comic shop within a hundred leagues of my house, my comic buying was necessarily newsstand based, and it was rare to see anything but the big titles find their way onto the rack (I can recall being stunned one day to see *gasp* a Spawn mixed in with the usuals). Alas. I do, however, remember reading Wizard at the time and being intrigued about the universe that was being forged on the backs of the old Gold Key books. Valiant was the anti-Image of its day, with story taking precedence over flashy art, something that might have flown over my adolescent head even if they’d been available to me. But they did in comics what Marvel is doing with their Avengers movies, i.e. establishing characters, cross-pollinating with cameos and then throwing everything together in a humongous event (Unity in Valiant’s case). It’s a fun formula.
I wish I could have enjoyed it while it was all new. It’s a small regret, but a regret nonetheless.
I’ve only in recent years had the chance to read the Valiant titles. I’m quite fond of the first arc from Magnus, Robot Fighter, and the caveman in alien armor aspects of X-O Manowar can be a good deal of fun, but I (and others) find the real star of the line to be Barry Windsor-Smith’s Archer & Armstrong.
Windsor-Smith was clearly the artistic heavyweight in the company’s early days. As their art director his covers graced any number of titles, but A&A was his baby and he made it his own. An improbable buddy story, with a huge, slovenly immortal and a slight, shy, crossbow-wielding Buddhist as its stars, it was a literate globe-trotting romp that holds up remarkably well twenty years on.
Perhaps this issue best exemplifies the slow pace that was never languid, the idylls that were never dull, that made the book so wonderfully unique.
“Trouble in Paradise” (inked by Bob Wiacek) has the duo arriving in the Riviera to spend some downtime at one of Armstrong’s long life’s many accumulated estates:
Before they head over to his private island, they stop off at a hotel to freshen up, and the place is most familiar with Mr. Armstrong:
On the row over — freshly clothed and pomaded — Armstrong corrects Archer on the true nature of the “Andy,” one of his many wives, who awaits them:
She ain’t a goddess, but Archer manages to forget this clarification when confronted to Mrs. Armstrong’s stunning nudity:
An aside: Could you say “retarded person” now without the P.C. Police (perhaps justifiably) swarming on you? Maybe only in fiction…
Armstrong cools down his little buddy’s ardor by tossing him into the drink. There Archer comes face to face with one of Armstrong’s “pets,” a dino named Flo:
No, Archer doesn’t get eaten.
The three spend a quiet evening chatting, and Archer manages to put his foot in his mouth when the long-parted couple attempts to retire (to do what long-parted couples are wont to do):
Another aside: In a lesser comic that painting would have been Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, or Munch’s The Scream. Leighton’s Flaming June is a bit more obscure, and that makes its use a bit more gratifying — at least to me.
That night, Archer has another close encounter with that other denizen of the island:
But things take a surprising and far less menacing turn:
Awwww.
I realize Windsor-Smith is a highly regarded name in the comics world, but is it possible that he’s still somehow underrated? Maybe? Just look at this stuff. It’s so distinctive and so well-paced, saying a lot without blaring it out of a megaphone, and it’s still refreshing all these year later. The early issues of A&A were collected a few years ago (First Impressions), and it’s a book I’d recommend picking up for anyone with the slightest interest in the material. It’s worth the price of admission. And it doesn’t look like Windsor-Smith will be making any more any time soon.
I’m not sure when exactly Valiant started coming apart at the seams. Maybe it was when Jim Shooter left. Maybe it was when they started intoducing characters called Ninjak (I mean, really…). Maybe it was when they started catering full-blast to speculators. Maybe it was that Valiant/Image crossover (Deathmate) that had interminably delayed issues, one of which Bob Layton had to force Rob Liefeld to complete at veritable gunpoint.
Or maybe it was when the “BWS” stopped gracing A&A. Yeah, I’ll go with that one.
Flying shield, my ass…
It’s a frisbee. It’s okay to call it a frisbee. Frisbees are great.
It’s not a flying shield.
A personal tribute to Gene Colan – Detective Comics #556
I never met Gene Colan, but I’m very much saddened by his passing. It doesn’t come as a surprise. I’ve known that his health had been in decline, and in recent months it’s been in a very precarious state. But he lived out his full allotment of days. This isn’t a tragic case of someone being cut down before they really have a chance to get started, and Colan has left behind a magnificent and indelible body of work. For that reason, I write this post not to mourn his loss, but to briefly remember his work and how it affected me. Those are the only two cents that I can add to the chorus of lamentations.
So that I don’t re-cover already trod ground, I’ve discussed Colan at various points in the brief history of this blog. There was a post about his work on the Jemm, Son of Saturn maxi-series. There was one about his famous work on The Tomb of Dracula. There was one about an early Daredevil book featuring a high-flying battle versus Stilt-Man. And others — you can find them all here. But I’ve never written about his time on (perhaps) the greatest comic book character of all.
Batman.
Looking back at books that I recall having as a kid, Colan pencilled some of the very first Batman comics that I can remember owning, and, consequently, my earliest memories of the cape and cowl are intertwined with Colan’s unmistakable hand. I could have chosen any number of books from his ’80s time on the character, from back when I first read them, but when I pulled a box off the shelf in the archives (i.e. closet shelves) and flipped through the comics, this (#556) was the issue that grabbed me. I had this one. And I’ll always remember that cover (inked by the late Dick Giordano — life is really starting to feel like the last scenes in Six Feet Under). It scandalized me a tad, not on a “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” level, but still…
Who is this pale broad, and why’s Bats playing tonsil hockey with her? What led to this smooch?
Let’s find out.
The story (“The Bleeding Night”) is scripted by Doug Moench and inked by Bob Smith. The lady’s name is Nocturna, an astronomer who had the color accidentally drained from her skin and who took up a life of crime for various convoluted reasons. By the time of this issue she had put that life of villainy (largely) behind her. She had befriended Batman/Bruce Wayne in both of his identities and had also taken on a motherly role with the Jason Todd Robin. But there were forces not content to let her go quietly into that good night. Hence this issue.
Oh, and there’s red rain coming down on Gotham (someone call Peter Gabriel). That pesky Crisis on Infinite Earths and all. Not that that really matters.
The Night-Slayer is out to revenge himself on Nocturna (his former partner in crime), and he’s killing members of the Black Mask’s old gang under the mistaken belief that they’re working for Nocturna. While that’s going on, Nocturna and Robin are spending some quality time at her old stomping grounds, quality time that’s interrupted by none other than Harvey Bullock:
Robin gets in between Bullock and Nocturna, and later, back at the station, our grizzled gumshoe ruminates with Commissioner Gordon about the relationship between the Boy Wonder and this dairy-skinned dame:
It’s a real thrill to see those deductive skills at work. Okay, maybe not.
The star of the book — let’s not forget about him — is out stopping the Night-Slayer from offing any more remnants of Black Mask’s organization. This nice page fully highlights Colan’s dexterity in portraying fluid action:
“FRAK” and “SWOK” make for a hell of a one-two combination, no?
That life saved, Batman seeks out Nocturna at her observatory:
And, finally, the lip-lock:
I could go on and on about what you see in these scans, but I think they speak for themselves. I’ve droned on before about my love of Colan’s work, and I won’t bog things down by rehashing all that. But I will say that Colan’s style seems perfectly suited to Nocturna’s flowing black garb, especially seeing as how it’s slit real high. A perfect combination of sex and danger, right? Could you imagine a better artist to capture her on a page?
And that cover… Batman holding a hot damsel in his manly pipes I’m sure fueled the early stages of an Adonis Complex for me.
Excuse me for a moment. I need to sigh.
I was seven years old when I read this book in 1985. It’s stayed with me. It’s going to stay with me for a good while longer. And I suppose that’s all that needs to be said.
Rest in peace, Mr. Colan.
A pair of white go go boots would definitely complete the look – Shade, the Changing Man #3
Steve Ditko’s time at DC never gets the play that Jack Kirby’s does. He didn’t have the sheer volume that Kirby turned out, and it’s kind of hard to compare Hawk and Dove to the Fourth World. Even within Ditko’s oeuvre, Shade, the Changing Man certainly doesn’t have the cachet of, say, the Creeper, but his brief original run (which was done in, like so many other books, by the DC Implosion) had its moments.
The character of Shade, his origins and his environs are all a bit bewildering to a neophyte, a category which included me at the outset of this post. The short of it is that he’s from a planet in another dimension (Meta), he was wrongly accused and convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, and now he’s a fugitive from the law. Oh, and he has something called an M-Vest which gives him some powers and lets him change his appearance. Hence the “Changing Man” appellation.
All of that takes a back seat, though. The real star of the comic was, no surprise here, Ditko’s art. Here he is illustrating a flashback featuring Shade and an ex-fiance who’s sworn revenge on him, laid out with his classic 3×3 panel format:
No one could do other dimensions and the trippy points between like Steve. Here’s Shade travelling through said weirdness, and check out the demons he confronts there, which sort of remind me of Ditko’s later work with Marvel’s Dire Wraiths:
I’ll end the scans with this, perhaps my favorite aspect of this early Shade mythos. The “big bad” was a mechanized creature named Sude (which was manipulated by others, sort of like a Wizard of Oz type thing) that looks like it’s a demonic cross between Pac-Man and Mr. Kool-Aid:
Michael Fleisher had the somewhat thankless task of plugging words into Ditko’s art and general outline. The end result is plodding and a tad verbose, almost making one wish for the tsunami of exposition that was Mr. A. It makes this book — and the rest of the series — to be a not all that rewarding a read, though the art is nice to look at for a spell.
Shade had his ass Vertigoed and repurposed in the ’90s, but he’s been largely forgotten since. I really don’t care. He looks like if Starfox raided Magnus, Robot Fighter’s wardrobe and the concept behind him isn’t all that engaging. But I’d pay good money to see Sude make a latter-day appearance. Maybe he could team up with the modern Egg Fu.
Jared
blog into mystery 
