MORE MORE NAMOR

 I've been having a good conversation with Sub-Mariner fan "John" in the comments for this 2017 post, so I thought I'd dish out a few more observations on Marvel's waterlogged warrior.

One thing I didn't mention in my 2017 essay is that from time to time I go searching through the SUB-MARINER comics of the forties and fifties, looking for stories that fit my specialized category of "mythcomics." What I've found so far as mostly decent formula stories with really fine Bill Everett art. This isn't a knock against the Golden Age version of the character. Dozens of long-lived characters were better served by their art than by their plots or characterization. Everett's SUB-MARINER is in my view on the same level as Jack Cole's PLASTIC MAN; great to look at, but not that much story-wise.

Still, there were some interesting twists here and there. In issue #38 of the second SUB-MARINER series (February 1955), Everett apparently felt that other people's stories had taken his once-popular character and powered him down too much. So his solution in "The Sub-Mariner Strikes" was to "re-power" Namor with the idea of restoring his superman-status. After he's restored to his former status, the Emperor announces that he wants to launch a new war of conquest against the surface-dwellers-- a war that never gets off the ground, aside from the one task he gives Namor: to dispose of an air-breather ship. Namor ends up sparing the humans' lives, though not without regrets, since they act like assholes to him. No further suggestions of aggression by Namor's people take place in the ensuing stories, so perhaps the editors decided that they wanted Everett to confine himself to done-in-one tales.

Then in issue #40-- three issues away from the title's cancellation-- Everett wrote and drew "The Sub-Mariner and the Icebergs," a tale which might have provided some tropes that Stan Lee used in his 1960s revision of Namor's origin.

An American fleet of ships intrudes upon the arctic oceans where Namor's sub-mariners live. Namor immediately believes the flotilla is an invasion force and uses his people's tech to surround the ships with icebergs. In self-defense the ships' leader orders the icebergs dynamited, which causes some destruction of the sea-dwellers' nearby city-- which recalls the mission of Captain McKenzie in the Marvel Origin. Everett then has the Emperor send Namora to sabotage the ships, which resembles the way Namor's mother Princess Fen infiltrates McKenzie's ship with some idea of spying on the humans. (How she was going to spy with her blue skin hanging out was never explained.) 

Namora is captured and held hostage, which forces Namor to talk turkey with the captain of the flotilla. He claims to be the head of a scientific expedition looking for uranium-- and though this isn't necessarily a venture without ANY military applications, it proves true that the humans aren't intentionally encroaching on the sub-mariners. 

Namor accepts the humans' pledge of peace, but his evil cousin Byrrah tries to re-incite hostilities. However, before he can do so, the humans inform Namor that his own interference with the icebergs has triggered an unstoppable seismic reaction that will destroy the sub-mariners' city. Over Byrrah's protests, Namor evacuates his people-- and sure enough, the city is destroyed by a seaquake. The story ends with a plea for peace and a touch of tragedy as the subsea people seek to rebuild "their shattered empire." In FANTASTIC FOUR #4, Stan Lee may have remembered "Icebergs" when he had Atlantis destroyed by nuclear tests and its people scattered, though only a few more Sub-Mariner stories transpired before Namor was reunited with his people once again.

THE READING RHEUM: DON RODRIGUEZ, CHRONICLES OF SHADOW VALLEY (1922)

Except for readers who have a desire to understand the many historical permutations of what I call "the magical fantasy" genre, most people are acquainted with the early 20th-century writer Lord Dunsany in terms of his being an influence on two better-known authors, Lovecraft and Tolkien. The only widely distributed paperback editions of Dunsany's work were six works reprinted releases under the Ballantine fantasy imprint in the early 1970s.

I read most of the Dunsany paperbacks many years ago, except for DON RODRIGUEZ, the author's first published novel. I had enjoyed most of the works in the Ballantine series, both short stories and two other fantasy-novels, so I expected to find the same virtues in RODRIGUEZ as I'd found in the others.

But this first novel is not only devoid of Dunsany's signature use of exalting language, it's written in a tiresome, pseudo-archaic dialect that never uses one word when ten can be fit in. Here's a sample from the first chapter:

Now there were no wars at that time so far as was known in Spain, but that old lord's eldest son, regarding those last words of his father as a commandment, determined then and there in that dim, vast chamber to gird his legacy to him and seek for the wars, wherever the wars might be, so soon as the obsequies of the sepulture were ended. And of those obsequies I tell not here, for they are fully told in the Black Books of Spain, and the deeds of that old lord's youth are told in the Golden Stories. The Book of Maidens mentions him, and again we read of him in Gardens of Spain.

Far worse is the fact that almost nothing of consequence happens in RODRIGUEZ. The titular don is a young man disinherited by his dying father back in the days of medieval Spain. He goes forth to make his own way, planning to acquire both a wife and a castle, not necessarily in that order. This might sound like a good setup for adventure, but Dunsany almost seems to be trying NOT to describe anything exciting. The most engrossing event occurs early in the novel, when the young Don rents quarters in an inn. The evil innkeeper, borrowing a schtick from the stories of Theseus, plans to kill the Don when he sleeps that night and steal all of his possessions. A servant warns the Don, who sets up a trap for the innkeeper and kills him. 

The Don then agrees to let the servant who warned him become his servant, even though the impecunious nobleman doesn't have a lot of money. Then the two wander about getting involved in various paltry events-- talking with a sorcerer who shows them visions of past and future wars, liberating another nobleman from some officious policemen. After the duo go through various unexciting events, the Don eventually makes a contact who initially seems supernatural, but is not, and that individual sets the Don up with a castle, so that he can marry a woman he's conveniently fallen in love with.

The near-total lack of romance and adventure might make one suspect that Dunsany had some notion of emulating satirical works like those of Cervantes or Voltaire. But there's no satire here, and I'm almost at a loss to figure out what Dunsany was trying to accomplish.

The closest clue I can find appears in an online observation about Dunsany's historical significance to the fantasy-genre.

Lord Dunsany's first novel, "Don Rodriguez: Chronicles of Shadow Valley conveys its young disinherited protagonist through a fantasized Spain, gifting him with a Sancho Panza companion, good luck with magicians, and a castle" [The Encyclopedia of Fantasy]. It is a landmark tale for Dunsany, beginning his move from the otherworldly short stories for which his reputation is justly famous to novels, such as the follow-up The King of Elfland's Daughter and The Charwoman's Shadow. L. Sprague de Camp has said: "Dunsany was the second writer (William Morris in the 1880s being the first) fully to exploit the possibilities of ... adventurous fantasy laid in imaginary lands, with gods, witches, spirits, and magic, like children's fairy tales but on a sophisticated adult level." But more than this, Dunsany was probably the single greatest influence on fantasy writers during the first half of the 20th century.H P Lovecraft, in early fiction, like The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, imitated him, and very well.-- FANTASTIC FICTION.

It's probably quite true that in terms of "adult fantasy"-- that is, excluding juvenile-oriented authors like Baum and Barrie-- that Dunsany was picking up on a precedent established by William Morris. Morris is of extreme importance, as De Canp said, to the history of otherworldly fantasy-- but I've read and reviewed Morris' four otherworld-fantasies, and he adopted an archaic, fusty style like what Dunsany uses in RODRIGUEZ. I don't think Morris ever wrote anything as utterly dull as RODRIGUEZ. But perhaps Dunsany had some idea of emulating, not just Morris, but the episodic nature of early chivalric romances. That might explain why he was able to use his more imaginative language in his earlier short stories (which date back to the early 1900s), but for his novel Dunsany chose to follow this dull episodic model. Of his handful of later novels, I've read just two, and I remember both as having the same enchanting combination of beautiful language and engrossing magical concepts I found in the earlier short stories. But RODRIGUEZ barely qualifies as a "magical fantasy story" at all, and then only because of the hero's rather pointless encounter with the sorcerer. I saw one review claiming that the Don makes a small cameo in a 1926 Dunsany novel, THE CHARWOMAN'S SHADOW, which I remember liking and may attempt to reread for comparison's sake in the near future.

MYTHCOMICS: "BLACK MAGIC IN A SLINKY GOWN" (BAFFLING MYSTERIES #6, 1952)

I didn't remember to dedicate this month, the month of Halloween, to mythcomics in a horrific vein. However, in one sense Halloween is as much celebrated for all forms of fantasy, not just horror, and I've already suggested how the two super-genres are intrinsically tied together in this essay.  So my choice of a Mary Marvel story about "sky spirits" makes a good contrast to a tale centered on the specter of fear-- even though I've chosen another obscure story that even most Golden Age fans have forgotten. As I've done with many such stories with no definite credits, I'll assign total credit for the script to the artist whom fan-artists have tentatively identified as Mike Sekowsky.

Despite the title, neither anything magical nor any slinky gowns play a special role here, and GOWN isn't even explicitly about sexual enticement. However, I feel sure that when Sekowsky conceived the story in 1952, he would have been riffing on one of the most popular tropes seen during the horror-comics boom of 1948-1954. That trope is that of the conniving "black widow" murderess. No matter what form of phenomenality each story utilizes, the basic setup is always one in which a scheming woman marries a man, often older than she is, and then plots to murder him, usually with the help of a male lover, often younger than the intended murder victim. 

The story proper introduces the reader to slinky Leonore Black (complete with a telltale hourglass on her dress in the splash panel). Leonore has just married an older, richer man named Richard, but before so doing, she broke off an engagement with a more age-appropriate young man, Dan. Dan is not however Leonore's co-conspirator, and so his only function in the opening scene is to inform the reader that Richard happens to have a huge collection of dead spiders. Leonore coyly references her intention to knock off her new husband, but Dan doesn't pick up on the allusion.

Richard doesn't have long to enjoy his marriage to Leonore. He shows her his dead spider-collection-- the provenance of which is never explained-- and remarks that he fell in love with Leonore's arachnid-like allure. But Leonore is not swayed by flattery, for she carries out her next part of her plan by changing into a giant black widow spider, wrapping Richard in webbing, and giving him with a presumably poisonous bite. Leonore certainly wins no prizes for subtlety in her method of murder, but the police are duly stumped by a victim covered in webs, and no blame attaches to the newly-made widow. Her new status, though, gives her a cultural excuse to wear black all the time.

Leonore also isn't worried about social proprieties, for in a matter of days she's chatted up Dan and talked him into proposing to her. Apparently, even though she's soliloquized about using Richard's money to go after spider-killers everywhere, she harbors some idea of attempting a normal life with Handsome Dan. He takes her to visit a friend who runs a local aviary, and to Leonore's horror, the aviary guy likes to feed some of his birds with -- spiders. Leonore doesn't expose herself right away, but she does tell Dan an abridged "origin story." Young Leonore had an early fascination with spiders. Her paternal unit passed away, and her new stepfather tended to beat both Leonore and her mother. A black widow spider seemingly intervened, killing the stepfather. And after that, with no explanations related to either magic or super-science, Leonore simply manifests her "inner spider," and this gives her the power to change into a giant black widow.

Leonore of course has no intention of letting Dan's aviary friend off the hook, and he's her next target. The second murder makes even a dullard like Dan suspicious, so he invites his fiancee to his laboratory for a chat. Once there, Leonore, who perhaps is not the most attentive listener, learns that her intended is a zoologist, and that his lab is full of boxes conveniently labeled as containing toads, lizards, and wasps. Though Dan has not killed any spiders so far as the reader knows, Leonore picks up on his suspicions and decides that it's time for another extermination. Providentially, Dan has "giant wasps" in one of those boxes, and as soon as the insects are released, they attack the giant spider and sting it to death. Dead Leonore conveniently reverts to her original human form and Dan decides not to divulge her secret to the world.

 While male authors don't have a monopoly on the creation of female monsters, real or figurative, I can't avoid noting that nearly all the authors writing and drawing horror comics during this boom-period were men. That probably had some effect on the sheer quantity of "black widow murderess" stories. However, in GOWN, the monstrous female is barely motivated by killing for profit, given that her primary focus is the defense of the tiny arthropods with whom she's obsessed. The influence of her brutal stepfather makes Leonore more sympathetic than most cold-hearted vixens, even though her insanity is no less obvious. Real black widow spiders certainly are known for slaying the males who mate, or try to mate, with them, though at least one online source says that the lady arachnids are usually motivated purely by hunger. Leonore clearly doesn't eat her victims, though a few horror-publishers of the period might have been willing to go there. But the script does play around with one other spider-trait. In the course of the origin-story, Leonore mentions, seemingly to no point, that "I spend hours at the spinning wheel." The only symbolic reason to mention this, since it has no relevance to the plot, would be because Leonore wants to "spin" in some way analogous to the way (some) spiders spin webs. It's at least of passing interest that spinning wheels are dominantly associated with females, because in most tribal cultures, women weave and sew clothing for everyone. 

The monster-woman's last name of course references "black widow spider." Her first name, derived from "Eleanor," doesn't have any spidery connotations, but it does have a general horror-association, in that it sounds like the name of the deceased heroine from Poe's "The Raven."    

THE UNIQUENESS OF '66 BATMAN

Just a forum-post to clarify some of the unique factors of the TV show, responding in part to a claim that the program went downhill because of the number of episodes required in the second season.

______________

I guess we are at loggerheads on the episode thing. In terms of sheer quantity, going from a half-season for a show with about thirty half-hour episodes to a full season of 60 should not have been any bigger deal than an hour-long show with a half-season of, say, 15 episodes suddenly getting a full season order of, say, 30 episodes. 

HOWEVER, I do concede that with BATMAN, even the producers were to an extent making things up as they went along. Doing two episodes of BATMAN a week was in my outsider's opinion far more difficult than doing a weekly hour of even a good western like, say, RAWHIDE. The rules on how to do westerns had been well established long before RAWHIDE. Everyone involved in making the series would have grown with westerns, both juvenile and adult, and everyone would have known what a good western needed.

BATMAN was almost sui generis for television. ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN followed various tropes of comic book stories, but I don't think that show consistently represented the comic book of the early fifties. Some episodes roughly captured the feel of some comic stories, but the low budget meant that overall SUPERMAN couldn't really be that much like SUPERMAN the comic. Similar factors also limited other low budget adaptations like SHEENA and cheap original cartoons like COURAGEOUS CAT.

But BATMAN actually had a high budget (though some accounts claim that the showrunners acted like they had to pinch every penny). The makers could actually make the Caped Crusader as way out as the source material. But most adults had at best a friendly contempt for comic books of all genres. Hence Dozier came up with his two-pronged approach: render the comics tropes as accurately as possible to please the kids but seek to please the adults with ironic humor. Yet that balance was hard to sustain, and as we've discussed, in the end a lot of raconteurs defaulted to zaniness rather than distanced camp. 

 

THE READING RHEUM: DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS (1951)

Though I read assorted novels and short stories by British author John Wyndham in my formative sci-fi years, I never got around to what many would consider his most famous work, DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS.

I saw the 1962 movie adaptation at an early age, in which the Triffids were alien invaders. But one of the big surprises for me was that in the original book, the walking plant-monsters are the bioengineered creations of an unidentified Earth-nation, implicitly Russia. In addition, similar causes bring about the plague of blindness that leaves all of humanity vulnerable to the Triffids, though Wyndham doesn't devote much space to the plague's origins.

The second big surprise is that the Triffids are not the stars of the novel. Since H.G. Wells' WAR OF THE WORLDS, the template for nearly all alien-invasion stories that followed, the majority of these stories emphasize some bland (sometimes nameless) viewpoint character who describes the powers and proclivities of the invaders. Some alien-invasion stories have chosen a course opposed to that of Wells by emphasizing a larger-than-life hero who seeks to defeat the invaders, but obviously such narratives put aside Wells' attempt to emphasize a common-man narrator.

Wyndham's viewpoint character, biologist Bill Masen, has much in common with the nameless protagonist of the Wells novel. However, during the apocalypse that causes British society to fall into chaos, Masen only occasionally discourses on the Triffids. Masen's concern, like that of Wyndham, and unlike that of Wells, is to provide numerous camera-eye views of how the society falls apart, and what can be done to build it back again. The ambulatory plant-creatures are more of a secondary menace, not least because the social chaos brought about by the blindness-plague would have come about had the Triffids never existed. I theorize that Wyndham chose to use the Triffids as proxies for foreign invaders, given that human agents weren't a possibility in a world where all countries had been equally devastated by the twin menaces.

TRIFFIDS is a good read, but Masen is nothing more than an authorial insert, providing bland takes on the various factions that arise in the absence of the social contract. Somewhat better in terms of characterization is the hero's girlfriend. She was a minor celebrity in the vanished social order thanks to having written a racy book (though author Wyndham never really tells readers what was racy about it). However, she's absent for a large portion of the story, so Bill Masen is the functional focal icon of TRIFFIDS. My memory is that the 1962 movie abandons the structure of the book and pursues the Wells template unabashedly. I plan to confirm that soon with a re-watch of the film that gained a measure of immortality through inspiring the following lyrics from ROCKY HORROR:

And I really got hot
When I saw Janette Scott
Fight a Triffid that spits poison and kills

 

QUICK POST ON ROOT CAUSES

 My response to a political post regarding the "root causes" solution of illegal immigrant incursions.

___________

Now, we've heard for a long time about "root causes," which in this case consist of the U.S. taking steps (which will almost certainly cost the country money in some manner) to "build up" the chaotic countries so that in theory their citizens won't want to travel to the U.S. I have no faith in this solution. I understand why Liberals of all stripes would like this latest manifestation of dollar diplomacy, since it allows them to think of themselves as generous sponsors of our "little brown brothers." (The Taft quote applies here since the Left has repeatedly characterized border security as racist.) One major problem with this solution is that a lot of immigrants-- even the ones who intend to work an honest day's work if they get in by hook or crook-- are coming here not just for free stuff (though that doesn't hurt) but because the U.S. already has the advantages of a fully articulated system of social benefits. Underdeveloped countries may or may not develop such systems if we give them lots of patronage, but they won't develop them any time soon. And the cartels that have battened onto the Liberal permissiveness toward illegal immigration-- what do they care about preying on penny ante operations in Honduras, when they've already got a foothold in the richest country in the world?

Even if this "root cause" approach could have *some* limited good effects, the plan also fails overall in that its main motivation is to allow Liberals to virtue signal in order to gain political advantage. Building up other countries is not, in the final analysis, America's responsibility.

MYTHCOMICS: "MARY MARVEL GOES OVER THE RAINBOW" (WOW COMICS #14, 1943)

This 1943 tale, written by Otto Binder and probably drawn by his brother Jack, is "metaphysical" in the sense of taking discriminate phenomena and attributing abstract aspects to them. I analyzed a story with a similar trope-- that of "light versus darkness"-- in THE PERIL OF PAINGLOSS. Here Mary Marvel encounters a war between "color" and "blackness," the latter to be understand in the visual sense, as the absence of all color perceptions.

In her civilian ID of Mary Batson, the heroine reads a newspaper story in which a reputable scientist claims that the legend of the "Pot of Gold at the Rainbow's End" is real. Mary, being patriotic, wonders if this treasure could be used for America's war effort. At the same time, a crook named Porky Snork talks his gang into seeking out the same golden horde. Meanwhile, Mary finds out that the person claiming to have seen the pot of gold is not reputable science-guy Tinkerman but his self-important son Creighton.

When Porky and his thugs show up, Mary changes into her heroic identity, but can't manage to stop the malcontents from stealing the balloon Creighton meant to use to track down the rainbow's end. Mary flies after the balloon, towing Creighton behind her, perhaps less for his guidance than for his potential for comedy relief. When both protagonists and antagonists arrive at rainbow's end, they learn that the rainbow actually creates the pot of gold, as all the colors of the spectrum "drip" off the rainbow and coalesce into the fabled treasure.

Mary contends with the petty thieves, and the balloon drifts to the top of the rainbow, where all see a colorful city dwelling. Mary rather rashly punctures the balloon, and the crooks fall from the basket. However, the greedy men are rescued by a "Batplane" piloted by Mister Night, a mysterious figure in black. Mary clouts the new villain, but he escapes with Porky's gang, so Mary and Creighton decide to investigate the city. It turns out to be inhabited by "sky spirits" whose purpose is to dispense color to the mortal world.

King Color informs Mary that Mister Night was exiled from Rainbow City, and that he's probably planning some fell scheme against his former brethren. Sure enough, Night has apparently been waiting around for some plug-uglies to fall into his lap, since his first gambit is to send the thugs after Jack Frost.

(Jack Frost, incidentally, comes into the matter because there was a tradition in which the frosty fellow was portrayed as being the entity who "painted" plants with autumnal colors.)

Mary thwarts the thugs but Mister Night rescues them, while revealing that his real purpose was to kidnap "Aurora, Spirit of Dawn." The dark villain's true plot is to eliminate all colors from the mortal world, so that he can become Earth's ruler. Mary flies to "Night Land" to rescue Aurora, without whom dawn can't transpire on Earth. However, for all her myriad powers, Mary can't see in absolute darkness. She changes to her human self so that the magic lightning will illuminate the landscape. The same light allows Night to see and capture the intruder. However, because the story's running out of space, the fiend doesn't take the time to either clobber or gag Mortal Mary. She easily "shazams" her way back to her super-powered ID and slugs Night, though he escapes into the darkness of his domain. 

With Aurora returned to her celestial duties, all that's left is the wrapup, as Porky's gang once again tries to acquire the pot of gold (with the use of a toboggan, yet), only to be captured by Mary. She also returns Creighton Tinkerman to his home, though one can wonder how much approbation he received for the discovery of Rainbow City, whether Mary donated the pot of gold to the war effort or not. I haven't found evidence that Mister Night ever returned, though Binder helpfully equates the shadowy evildoer with real-life world-beaters like "Hitler and his henchmen."

The inventiveness of Otto Binder's story is underscored by the writer's clear avoidance of the standard association of "pots of gold" with "leprechauns." How this association came to pass has received some online speculation, and I rather like (without necessarily advocating) the idea that rainbows became associated with wealth because at times heavy rainfall might uncover buried gold. Of course that's probably too reductive by half, and the real correlation is probably all sorts of supernatural spirits have been tied to underground stores of wealth, whether of natural or man-made provenance. Binder makes a strong association between "wealth" and the pleasures humans feel at the variety of natural colors, and extrapolates those pleasures into a race of color-bestowing spirits. Of course, the title suggests that Binder was aware of the use of the phrase "Over the Rainbow" in a famous song for the 1939 WIZARD OF OZ. There aren't any strong similarities between this story and the OZ film, though of course the latter also foregrounds the experience of prismatic beauty. It's interesting, though, that he includes Jack Frost as one of these dispensers of color-beauty, because when Frost paints plants with autumnal hues, that presages the "temporary death" of such plants worldwide, when Winter, the time of darkness, holds sway. I suppose Binder could have had Mary capture Mister Night like she would any common troublemaker. But it's fitting that he did not do so, since the darkness symbolizing Death is inextricably intertwined with the forces that bring forth light and Life.