Devil Dinosaur #1

I don't think I'm out of line when I say Jack Kirby had a half-assed work ethic during the 1970s.
This isn't to imply that he was lazy, which certainly wasn't the case. But he had a habit of launching books with no clear idea where they were heading.
Kirby was one of those guys, though, whose underdeloped concepts could still outpace his contemporaries on their best days. And the real problem was one of format:Kirby was creating stories with finite arcs for an industry that demanded monthly - and indefinite - installments. The concept of the mini-series had yet to be born, so all of Kirby's ideas in those years were shoe horned into monthly titles.
It's hard to read the first issue of Devil Dinosaur, for example, without wondering how Marvel believed the book had a future. It was a very uniqie idea for a comic, but did anyone at Marvel approach this book with the belief that it would ever reach 100 issues? Or even 20?
Like much of Kirby's other in the 1970s, Devil Dinosaur spun out of Kirby's work on the 2001: A Space Odyssey comic. Moon Boy is a play on Moon Watcher, the primate named in the 2001 novel by Arthur C. Clarke who made first contact with the monolith. Kirby's 2001 comic deviated wildly from the concepts of the film and eventually evolved into an on-going Machine Man series.
Kirby returned to his fascination with "Chariots of the Gods" pop mythology with The Eternals, and again with Devil Dinosaur 1978.
Despite the title, the comic actually follows the adventures of Moon Boy, a primordial humanoid struggling to survive at the dawn of time. Along for the ride is Devil Dinosaur, a thunder lizard rescued from Moon Boy after an attack by carnivorous monkey men. Their attack left Devil Dinosaur's mother and family dead, and scarred his flesh leaving him fiery red.
The book begins years after this assault. Devil Dinosaur has become a legend among the other beasts, and the people who scarred him are planning their revenge. And that's pretty much the whole issue.
The real star of the story, though, is Kirby's art, which is at its biggest and boldest. He takes advantage of the page to present a vision of pre-history that threatens to spill off the page. The panels are often huge: the book begins with a splash page, followed directly by a double splash illustrating the savagery of the story's world. It's a shame graphic novels didn't have a toehold on the industry at this point because, as he proved almost a decade later with The Hunger Dogs, his artwork looked amazing on larger formats. Devil Dinosaur would have been a perfect mate for this format, and might have alleviated the pressure of trying to stretch a story into an on-going series.

Shogun Warriors #1

Go, go Power Rangers!

This installment was supposed to be about the first issue of Omega the Unknown, the cryptic and complex series by Steve Gerber, Mary Skrenes and Jim Mooney. After a few hundred words of notes, though, it became obvious that it was impossible to discuss the issue without discussiing the series as a whole. Expect a column on the entire 10-issue series soon.
For now, here's something completely different: Shogun Warriors.
This wasn't Marvel's first foray into Toyetic licensing (that would arguably be Star Wars) and it wouldn't be their last. This is a mostly forgotten toyline so, consequently, Shogun Warriors is a mostly forgotten series. I have fond memories of this series (as well as the high-quality toys that inspired it) and was a little let down when revisiting the first issue.
After two pages, I had this sinking feeling that I was in Mighty Morphing Power Rangers territory.
The idea of a diverse team of pilots er ... piloting giant robots wasn't a new idea in 1978 when Shogun Warriors debuted. The concept dates back at least to Science Ninja Team Gatchaman, so neither Shogun Warriors nor the Power Rangers can lay claim to territory already annexed by Toho Studios and their Godzilla movies.
The story begins as awakardly as you could imagine. Two giant robots are duking it, one obviously good, the other obviously evil. There little in the way of scale to convey to the reader the weight of giant machines punching each other; these characters might as well be cosplay fans for all the drama the scene has. To make things even more confusing, a number of word bubbles eminate from various points around Raydeen, making him look like a schizophrenic. It's later revealed that these voices are a trio of pilots chosen by our alien ancestors to battle their ancient enemies, the Maur-kons.
The three pilots - a Japanese woman, an African man and a white American - are teleported without warning to the Shogun Sanctuary somewhere in the "far east." Dr. Tambura quickly gives them a corporate presentation on the history of evil on earth, revealing that humanity is the descendants of blonde, white alien ancestors.
These aryan dreamboats had enemies of their own, the previously mention Maur-kons, who look like Asian vampires. The overt racism of the extra-terrestirial "yellow menace" is betrayed by the multinational demographics of the Shogun Warrior pilots, but it's kinda hard not to be a little bit offended by the a backstory that would make Hitler cream.
Anyway, our three heroes take Raydeen out for a spin and clobber the monster of the week, only to learn that two other mecha-warriors are available to them in later adventures - Dangaurd Ace and Combatra.
There seem to be a series of rules that apply to Bronze Age comics, at least two of which are on display in the first issue of Shogun Warriors: Overt Displays of Mythology (even pop mythology like the Chariots of the Gods stuff on display here); and All Stories Lead Directly to the Next (though the opposite applies to DC Comics during this era.)
The book was written by Doug Moench, who would do much better work on books like Moon Knight and Batman.) Bronze Age hero Herb Trimpe provided the art, and he wasn't shy in his admiration of Jack Kirby (the similarities in style could be a coincidence, but I have my doubts.) Trimpe took a lot of shit from Wizard Magazine back in the 1990s, but I think he'll have the laust laugh in the end.

Jack Kirby/Harlan Ellison interview

Howard the Duck #8

Don’t blame me, I voted for Howard the Duck

If the Bronze Age of Comics has a patron saint, it's Howard the Duck,a character that represented the fixations of a subculture that was comprised equally of former hippies, grade-school children, jaded commercial artists, and prison inmates.
Howard the Duck, like all of Marvel’s best work, was an act of utter desperation. A stable, profitable industry simply doesn’t give characters like Howard the Duck their own book (similar situations were responsible for such risk-taking ventures as Spider-Man and the international X-Men team.) But desperation is the lifeblood of the comics industry … you can almost watch as collective creativity rises and falls with America’s economy. The best comics are usually written under the worst situations, mostly because there’s a lot less to lose when it all blows up in your face.
And there was nothing like Howard the Duck when you were in the mood for in-your-face outbursts. From the beginning Howard was angry, pretentious, funny, preachy, left-wing fun that made as much (or as little) sense as the average superhero comic. The book began as a perverse parody of superhero books, pitting Howard against such inanities as the cosmic accountant Pro-Rata and the amorous Space Turnip, but the book quickly fell into elements that loaned themselves more freely to social commentary. After a few quick jabs at writers, psychologists, cultists, and the legal system, Howard slipped and fell into slimiest arena of them all: politics.
It remains one of the most fascinating comicbook-related publicity stunts to date, certainly more witty and interactive than the 1-900-KILL-ROBIN stunt DC pulled in the late ‘80s. Writer Steve Gerber set up a small presidential campaign for Howard, following it within the pages of the comic as he sold campaign buttons and openly platformed for the duck on the letters page.
The story began like most Howard the Duck story arcs. Down on his luck and more than a little bored with life, Howard agrees to run as a presidential candidate for the All-Nite Party, a new political party whose motive for backing a talking duck seems dubious, at best. Even Howard thinks there’s something hinky about the whole situation but agrees to loan his face and voice to the campaign because it seems like something interesting to do.
Howard being who he is, he immediately begins to draw all the wrong kids of attention. A contract is put out on his life, and soon assassins begin killing each other for the right to fulfill the contract (Howard only vaguely wonders why bodies keep falling from buildings wherever he goes.) Regardless of not having a platform, political experience, or even American citizenship, Howard quickly begins to top the polls, hedging out Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter in the ’76 election.
Things fall apart, as they always do, when a sex scandal shakes Howard out of the running. A photo of Howard and his … er, “companion” Beverly is leaked to the press, showing them taking a bath together. The photo is a poorly made forgery, taped together from separate images, but it doesn’t matter. Howard loses his support and the election, and moves on to his next adventure (well, actually he goes insane in the next story arc, but that’s not really relevant here.)

Marvel recently dusted off Howard for a new mini-series (*cough* … economic depression) but arrived a little early to take full advantage of the latest presidential debacle. It would have been nice to see Howard back in the political ring, especially with such high-minded rivals like John "Bomb Iran" McCain, and Barack "What, Me Worry?" Obama. That’s the great thing about comics and politics, though … tomorrow always brings new issues.

DC Comics Presents #8

And now, for no good reason, is “The Sixty Deaths of Solomon Grundy”

There just aren’t too many experiences in life like reading a pre-Crisis Superman comic. While some of the absurdities of the character survive today, they pale in comparison to the sublime absurdity that dominated the “plots” of many Bronze Age stories.
I’m a little sad for those who grew up without these intellectual calisthenics, which forced readers to justify contradictory concepts in order to make plot holes meet. As a character, Superman was a walking (flying?) obstacle in his own stories. He had grown so powerful over the years that it was almost impossible to tell a plausible Superman story. From anarrative point of view he was crippled by his own godhood.
An an example of this DC Comics Presents 8, which pits the Man of Steel against the brawny intellects of Solomon Grundy and Swamp Thing. After a Reader’s Digest version of Swamp Thing’s origin, the story begins in-progress with Swampy, Superman, and Solomon Grundy meeting — by chance — in a sewer junction beneath Metropolis. As it turns out, Swampy and Superman were both searching for Grundy for different reasons … Swamp Thing wants a sample of Grundy’s tissue in hopes that it could cure his condition, while Superman was after the pasty-faced brute for attacking a passenger train (which we don’t get to see.)
And that’s just the first three pages.
Because superheroes are so quick tempered, it takes all of three panels for these guys to get into a slugfest. Any other time Superman would just rip through these guys like tissue paper, but writer Steve Englehart (who is capable of much better work than this) has more than a dozen pages left to fill. And Superman hasn’t had a chance to say “Moons of Krypton!” yet, so you know there’s got to be more to this story.
In a series of incidents that are really too perpostous to try and relate here, Grundy knocks Superman out with a punch and joins up with a duplicitous Swamp Thing. In the course of the adventure Swamp Thing loses an arm (which seemed to happen a lot back then), accidentally clones an army of Grundys, and tries to convince Superman to exile them to another planet. Even though exiling his enemies to an alien world/alternate dimension was usually Superman’s answer to everything prior to the Crisis, he doesn’t go for it this time. Instead he flies around the city and “tags” the monsters with an antidote that will “cure” them of being alive.
We don’t get a good look at Superman’s murder spree, since the Grundy Army is introduced only three pages before the end of the story. Swamp Thing takes his shot at a pious monologue before finally wandering off to wherever it is he goes between series.

Moon Knight #1, #4

Requiem for an Origin

After a few dodgy stories as a back up in Marvel’s off-continuity magazine, The Rampaging Hulk, Moon Knight got a shot at carrying the burden of an on-going series in 1980. Behind the wheel were Doug Moench and Bill Sienkiewicz, which might seem like an obvious choice from a firm vantage point 20 years later, but must have seemed like a risky venture at the time. With the exception of Master of Kung Fu, Moench was still a dabbler, writing for just about every comic book genre on the market, from Master of Kung Fu to Fantastic Four (where he and Sienkiewicz first paired on a regular basis,) not to mention some of Marvel’s psuedo-adult magazines. Sienkeiwicz was still in the shadow of Neil Adams, and hadn’t really made his mark on any particular book.
To call the creative team “unrefined” might be understated. Coupled with Moon Knight’s more-than-passing similarity to Batman, the character entered the solo market on rather shaky legs. For all the “this ain’t your father’s Batman” nonsense touted in the press, Moon Knight had very little offer that Batman could not easily top.
As the series opens, readers got a look at the origin of Moon Knight, but faithful fans of the character were met with a story that bore no resemblance to the events depicted in Werewolf By Night (where Moon Knight first appeared.) We begin in Egypt, following mercenary Marc Spector, an underling to the bloodthirsty warlord Bushman. Despite being a bit of a bastard himself, Spector decides that Bushman is getting too mean and greedy for even his tastes. Spector eventually revolts and finds himself abandoned in the desert, where he stumbles across a cult of moon worshippers. Spector seems to die and is revived by the statue of a moon god named Konshu. When he awakes, he takes on Konshu’s garb and wages a brief war against Bushman and his army.
The origin was rushed, ending halfway through the issue in time for Moon Knight to get involved in a related adventure. In fairness, Marvel wasn’t spending a lot of money of big openings for new series in those days, so Moench didn’t have many pages to work with.
Part of the revision to Moon Knight's origin was the revival of pulp serial devices. Like The Shadow, Doc Savage, and The Avenger, our silver hero got a supporting cast of agents to herald his entrance into the conflict.
Marvel has never been fond of retrofitting its continuity, so when his baffling new origin was introduced, most readers probably chalked it up to apathy or ignorance — if they were aware of the character at all. But in issue four we learn that Moench had been cooking up a story that would tie Moon Knight’s various origins together.
For the unitiated, we learn that Moon Knight was supposedly created by an international crime cabal interested capturing a werewolf for use in their nefarious schemes (Werewolf By Night’s leading lycanthrope Jack Russell.) “The Committee” hires mercenary Marc Spector for the job, equip him with a nifty costume, and set him into action. Spector has a change of heart and decides not to let the werewolf run free, steps out on the bad guys and keeps his new identity.
This, apparently, was all a lie, or at least a misrepresentation of the truth. Moon Knight’s number one aid, Frenchy, reveals he approached the crime cabal with the “idea” of Moon Knight, and tricked them into funding Spector’s scheme to become a crime fighter. The Committee returns in issue #4 to exact petty revenge on Moon Knight, using an army of mercenaries that come across like a homoerotic version of Quentin Tarantino’s “Fox Force Five.”
If the book seemed to have an identity crisis, it was all a part of the plan. Spector had as many identities as he had agents, fragmenting the character to the point of insanity … is he a wealthy socialite, a mercenary, a superhero, a cab driver, an Egyptian god, or something else? If the “complexity” of the character confuses you, don’t be alarmed. At one point Spector gets so confused himself that he’s becomes a drooling vegetable that can’t even tend to his most basic needs.

Teen Titans #44

"The Man Who Destroyed the Titans" is one of the first comics I remember reading. I had been "reading" comics since before I could actually read; I even have photos of me when I was three years old holding a copy of Action Comics, back around 1974 or so.
But there are a few "firsts" I remember, though I have no idea which one was actually first. Teen Titans #44 is one of them.
This was the second attempt (at least) at a Titans monthly, and is pretty good tale. While not the deepest story in the world, it has the prerequisite amount of angst and dramatic conflict needed for a Titans story.
The conflict is the least compelling aspect of the main plot. Doctor Light is up to his usual nonsense and manages to abduct (and torture) Robin and Wonder Girl. After being rebuffed for his lack of powers, Mal Duncan puts on the old Guardian costume (along with an high-powered exo-skeleton) and manages to save them.

Marvel Premiere #35 — 3-D Man

I like the 3-D Man.
There, I said it.
This affection for the character doesn't have any great depth or mystery behind it. The first time I ever saw the character was in an issue of Marvel Universe, and I was struck by his costume. I was one of those odd kids of the '70s who actually got to see some classic 3-D movies in the theater, and my discovery of 3-D Man arrived right at the cusp of the 3-D revival of the 1980s. (This revival didn't last very long, thanks to the cinematic abominations like Jaws 3-D, Friday the 13th Part 3-D, Amityville 3-D, Metalstorm, etc.)
I'll be damned if 3-D man wasn't a little hard to find, though. His appearances were limited to a handful of Marvel promo books which had very little demand among later fans. The books were worthless, so they should have been inexpensive ... but there was no profit in them so retailers tended not to stock them.
It's an odd book from top to bottom, something typical of Bronze Age books. Meant as a throwback to a time when Marvel had no superheroes, the character begins as a test pilot in the 1950s. After a run in with the Skrulls (predating their first appearance in Fantastic Four) he acquires the power to ... well, I'm not exactly sure. He apparently has three times the strength, speed and stamina of a normal man but, unlike normal men, spends 21 hours of the day trapped inside the lens of a pair of glasses.
During a three-part story arc (Marvel Premiere 35-37) 3-D Man grapples with the evils of rock and roll, aliens, brainwashing and the explanation as to what might really have been behind the Bermuda Triangle (the Skrulls.)
It's all a little hard to swallow as nostalgia, though, because the book takes place just a few years before the first issue of Fantastic Four hit the stands ... and Ben Grimm is even referenced directly in the story as a notable test pilot. For some reason, though, 3-D Man is a character stuck by editorial conceit in 1958, while the rest of the Marvel Universe was allowed to move on. I have no idea how this issue was addressed in his later appearance in The Incredible Hulk, and the character was later re-vamped as the deadly dull Triathlon in The Avengers.

The Teen Titans return (again)

Wow.
Not long before the first issue hit the stands, DC let creators Marv Wolfman and George Perez take their new Teen Titans idea for a test drive. A short, 16-page story was inserted into the pages of the Superman team-up book DC Comics Presents to let a wider audience get a look at the series. It was not only a savvy business idea, but a solid story, as well.
Wolfman forgoes the usual introductions by throwing a very confused Robin into a future where a thriving new group of Teen Titans — which had been disbanded for months in his reality —
battle an extra-dimensional organism. The story tricks both Robin and the reader into off-the-cuff introductions and character exposition without every bogging down the story, which is something a 16-page sampler couldn't afford to do.
The tale has an interesting structure. Robin begins to lose his equilibrium while dealing with a mundane terrorist threat (so mundane that, like the jewel heist in Reservoir Dogs, it is never shown in panel). He loses consciousness several times, awakening in a false future where he and a new group of Teen Titans fight to send an alien blob back to its dimension. The story mirrors inward, first to dream then to an alien dimension, before the team accomplishes their goal and Robin is hastily pulled back to his own reality. It’s revealed that Raven, the mysterious new “witch” on the team, has manipulated Robin into confronting his own doubts about the Titans in anticipation of a more aggressive effort to draw her players to the battlefield in the first issue of the on-going series. The fact that Robin’s vision of the future comes to pass — though this particular conflict never does — is only icing on the cake.
Wolfman and Perez leap the usual hurdles of introduction stories with ease, and set the stage for a much more elaborate “cute meet” in the first issue of the on-going series.

What exactly is the "Bronze Age" of comcs?

I've got a friend with a theory that defies mathematics.
Even though the 1970s came to an official end on Dec. 31, 1979, it took a few more years before the decade really gave up the ghost. He argued that the 1970s didn't end until sometime in 1982. Taking the flawed math into account, I suggested a better date: May 25, 1983 ... the day Return of the Jedi was released.
Comic book "ages" are even more difficult to pin down, because we don't have music, movies, politics and fashion as guideposts. In comic books the tides change at a glacial rate, and many times fans have found themselves in a world, much like Howard the Duck, that "they never made."
Over at Wikipedia, editors have picked very loose dates for the Bronze Age, pinning it loosely to "the early 1970s to the mid 1980s." It was a period neither marked by the unprecedented imagination of the 1960s, nor the cynicism of the so-called "Dark Age," ushered in by books like Watchmen, The Dark Knight Returns and The Punisher: Circle of Blood (though these books are less to blame than the artists and writers who made careers out of misunderstanding these books.)
If the Bronze Age has any one defining aspect, it was an attempt to bring counterculture attitudes into the mainstream. Books like Omega the Unknown, Howard the Duck, Tomb of Dracula, Silver Surfer, The New Gods and Conan the Barbarian brought a rebellious literary quality to a medium often cited as a beacon of illiteracy. Until the early 1970s, the mythic qualities of comic books had mostly been a product of the subconscious. During the Bronze Age, though, many writers and artists actively explored these subtexts and merged fantasy and reality in a way never seen before in the medium. What had begun as unassuming morality plays for children quickly evolved into murky, often violent philosophical explorations. Which is why, for many people, the Silver Age of comics came to an end in 1973, when Gwen Stacy died in Amazing Spider-Man 121.