THE READING RHEUM: "THE CALL OF CTHULHU" (1926/1928)

In my review of the short HPL story "Beyond the Wall of Sleep," I wrote:

Many commentators have talked about HPL's abhorrence for non-white races, and sometimes even for white ethnicities that the author considered decadent. I don't deny that he sported these racist views to make himself feel superior. Yet it's interesting that the first example of a wretched ethnicity in HPL's fiction-cosmos is lowborn "white trash," and the author treats Slater just as condescendingly as he would ever treat any other ethnic figure... In my opinion HPL was always separated from most of humanity thanks to his superb intellectual attainments, meaning that he related no better to most whites than he did to non-whites. Yet because HPL knew that he was of the same common clay as the most ignoble human being, and thus his fiction is filled with examples of his fear of degenerating into something inferior. (In Jungian terms Slater would be "the shadow" who incarnated that dominating fear of bodily devolution.)

I confess that I don't have an encyclopedic knowledge of HPL, even regarding the specific topic of his theories on race. CALL OF CTHULHU, though, far more than the above short story, brings to mind the old quarrel between two theories about the concept of racial evolution (putting aside the question as to how applicable the term "race" is to the human species):

Polygenism is a theory of human origins which posits the view that the human races are of different origins (polygenesis). This view is opposite to the idea of monogenism, which posits a single origin of humanity.

Was HPL a foursquare advocate of one position or the other? Since polygenism was on its last legs in the early 20th century, it seems unlikely that he could have placed total faith in that theory, even if (as one online authority argued) he'd been strongly influenced by the work of Ernst Haeckel. But what I find fascinating about CTHULHU is that it promotes a sort of "psychic monogenism."

CTHULHU proceeds like a detective story, as viewpoint character Thurston labors to collate the voluminous notes left behind by his late uncle Professor Angell, who perished under dubious circumstances. What Thurston eventually learns is that there exists a widespread cult devoted to a collection of archaic cosmic entities, one of whom, Cthulhu, is said to lie buried far beneath the ocean waves. Angell's notes reveal the widespread activities of cultists, many of whom are described as "mongrel" or "degenerate." Yet at the same time Thurston remarks that the mythos worshiped by the cultists "disclosed an astonishing degree of cosmic imagination among such half-castes and pariahs as might be least expected to possess it."

Structurally, this justification is identical to the one HPL uses in "Wall:" that, because cosmic visions appear in the dreams of an uneducated specimen of "white trash," said visions must have some reality outside the brain of the individual experiencing the visions. In the case of the CTHULHU narrative, the visions commonly shared by Eskimo "diabolists" and Louisiana voodoo-worshipers stem from "thought transference," which is the method by which Cthulhu and his fellow Old Ones communicate with one another and with their human servants. But CTHULHU goes a good deal farther, for Angell also discovers a particular sculptor affected by Cthulhu's call-- an educated white fellow, one presumes, since HPL does not say otherwise. This artist, ignorant of the cult or its object of worship, was spontaneously inspired to carve the same image of Cthulhu venerated by the "half-castes and pariahs." Further, during the same period that this one sculptor created his Cthulhu-image, Angell's surveys prove that numerous "artists and poets," as well as individuals who may just be psychically sensitive, experienced their own visions, which either result in strange artworks on in suicide. 

So what do the two groups have in common? All HPL says is that other (presumably white) New Englanders surveyed by Angell-- "average people in society and business"-- had no strong responses during the period when the hypothetical "call of Cthulhu" goes forth. HPL's chauvinism meant that he probably would have not credited "degenerate" peoples as possessing similar social hierarchies between workaday types and visionaries. So my best guess is that he thought that the "mongrels" and the Caucasian visionaries all shared a common psychic receptivity, which I choose to term "psychic monogeny," since no other species save humans are affected by Cthulhu's Call. I qualify this view by stating that at no time in CTHULHU does HPL promote a widespread theory of human psychic abilities, such as we get from a later "demi-follower" of the author, like Colin Wilson.

Though HPL sneered at the "puerile symbolism" of Sigmund Freud in "Wall," the aim of the cultists seems roughly parallel to Freud's idea of the unrestricted "Id." One cultist in Angell's records claims that when the Old Ones rule Earth again, they will "teach [their followers] to shout and kill and revel and enjoy themselves, and all the Earth would flame with a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom." The corresponding theory would be that Caucasians functioned as the "Ego," the "reality principle" that keeps the Id's impulses in check. But since there are no records of what Freud texts HPL read, this is just an interesting side-note.

CTHULHU shows HPL expending far more effort in chronicling all the details of the Call's influence upon humanity before he gets to the Big Apocalyptic Moment. As in the short story DAGON, the monster and his forbidding island only remain on the surface long enough to suggest the terrors that will come when Cthulhu and his kindred enjoy full reign; then they disappear, leaving narrator Thurston to realize that "we live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity." Why does Cthulhu Island re-appear so briefly, which would imply that the stellar configurations are not quite right for the Old Ones' rebirth? And if it's not time, why does Cthulhu send forth his call? HPL does not say, so one can only guess.

It's implicit that in most if not all stories, HPL wanted to believe his own kindred were at the top of the cultural and racial matrix-- also eclipsing, I should emphasize, all those Caucasians with whom the author didn't identify. Yet had HPL been a true follower of racial polygeny-- a specter that sometimes appears in certain works of his contemporary R.E. Howard-- then it would be easy to dissociate the activities of "people of color" as being foreign to the nature of "the white race." The horror is made far greater by the intimation that all the grotesque people who embrace chaos share the same base nature as the most sophisticated spawn of humankind.

CRISES AND CONTINGENCIES

 Though I don't follow any regular serials from "the Big Two," the TPB market makes it quite evident that both companies remain as heavily invested in "multi-feature crossovers" in 2024 as they were in 1986, when such rival serials as SECRET WARS and CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS duked it out for sales supremacy. In fact, because "multi-feature crossovers" is an unwieldy mouthful, I'm considering a new term,"clusterfubars." The whole purpose of most crisis-events since 1986 has been to fuck up the status quo beyond all recognition, even if the original status quo later reasserts itself or is replaced by some other manageable state of affairs.

I have not written a great deal about clusterfubars here, though the most involved essay is probably 2008's EARTH SHATTERING CHANGES AT THE LAST MINUTE. I argued that the commercial comics-medium's penchant for "earth shattering changes" was nothing new. In fact, though I didn't explore the topic in a more systematic manner, I quoted anthropologist Lee Drummond on the subject of crises in fiction, be they in myth or in popular fiction:

...the figures of myth do not live solely by virtue of the operation of a collection of sentences woven into a 'plot'... The critical thing about the doings of Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, Darth Vader, R2D2, C3PO, and the rest is the elemental level of crisis-- identity crisis-- that lies right at or just beneath the surface of their actions: Will the Force or its Dark Side triumph? Will R2D2 survive? Will Luke discover the awful truth of his paternity?

Before examining the applicability of "crises" to myth and fiction generally, though, I would be remiss not to define what would be the opposite of "crisis narratives" (especially after one of my recent essays  faulted Joseph Campbell for not providing counter-examples to a proposed term).

I duly looked up antonyms for the word "crisis," and was surprised to find "contingency" listed as a SYNONYM for the word. Every connotation in which I've heard the two words suggests the opposite. A crisis is some event that few if any participants can foresee or avoid. A contingency is some event with which forethought can cope, at least up to a point. The application of each term may also depend on a given subject's span of knowledge. For the majority of persons around the globe, the appearance of the Covid virus was a crisis. For Anthony Fauci, who coordinated the use of gain-of-function research with the Chinese lab in Wuhan, the virus' appearance would have been a contingency, something he could anticipate happening if things went south.

Drummond is broadly correct that a lot of fiction of all genres and mediums depends on "crisis narratives." The theatergoer who views OEDIPUS REX learns nothing about the day-to-day life of King Oedipus or his family. Everything in that play and its sequels is defined by an unforeseeable crisis. And comedies are no different from tragedies in a structural sense. The AMPHITRYON of Plautus centers upon the merry mix-up that ensues when the title character returns from the wars, and must be prevented from finding out that the supreme god Jupiter is schtupping Amphitryon's wife, at least until Jupiter successfully impregnates the woman with Hercules.

But what would be a "contingency narrative," which is to say, a narrative whose conflict does not hinge upon some larger-than-life crisis? There are some archaic examples of such narratives in theater and in folklore, but it's correct to stress that contingency narratives really took off with the rise of naturalistic literature, particularly in 18th century Europe. I deem Daniel Defoe's two best-known works, ROBINSON CRUSOE and MOLL FLANDERS, to be novels built around a constant flow of contingencies relating to what the main characters must do to survive and/or prosper.

And since I'm primarily concerned with the medium of comic books, where do contingency narratives appear in the history of comics? Even most of the celebrated comics-stories, as agreed-upon by elitist critics, depend largely on types of crisis, even when they may be predicated on such low-level "crises" as mistaken identity (which is a not infrequent "gotcha" in a lot of one-shot horror stories). Teen comedies like ARCHIE are probably the least "crisis-like," being usually predicated on simple formula situations that the thoughtless protagonist fails to foresee (Archie makes a date with two girls on the same night; they find out and beat him up or the like.) Most such stories are one-shots, too. Some continuing comic strips, such as GASOLINE ALLEY, presented an ensemble of characters having low-wattage adventures without any dire consequences. The first superhero to regularly exploit both narrative forms was the Lee-Ditko SPIDER-MAN, who would support himself and his ailing aunt with money (contingency) made from photographing his own heroic actions (crisis), quelling the rampages of Doctor Octopus or The Lizard.

At some point in the eighties, many superhero fans-- those that dominantly embraced the superhero genre above all other genres-- clamored for low-wattage incidents in the lives of the characters they liked. These pleas brought forth various "day in the life" contingency narratives. Arguably, in subsequent decades, this fannish preference increased the frequency of other stories in which slow-paced drama took the place of fast-paced adventure. However, the same decade, as noted above, also cemented the new business model of the clusterfubar. The Big Two sought to monetize crises by having them affect numerous features at the same time, on the theory that interested readers would purchase titles they didn't normally buy in order to keep apprised of all segments of the extended crisis narrative. I have no idea as to how well this practice works as an overall sales strategy, but it's been in place for about forty years, so someone must be making money from it.

Single features like the venerable SPIDER-MAN appear to be far more guided by crisis narratives overall, rather than by a balance of both narratives. Features with large character-ensembles-- X-MEN, TEEN TITANS-- are even more awash in constant fervid crisis narratives, so that what used to be called "soap opera" is more like "disaster opera." 

More observations on this theme to come later, possibly.

WEIRDIES AND WORLDIES

 I introduced the term "weirdies" in this essay as a description for a subset of characters in the comics-medium, and I justified the term in part with a reference to a label DC Comics had used in the late 1990s: "the Weirdoverse." But the proximate source of the term was a chapter in Brian Aldiss' 1973 history of science fiction, BILLION YEAR SPREE (revised in 1986 as TRILLION YEAR SPREE). 

Aldiss' "spree," while very readable, was typical of most science fiction histories. The author had no general theory of all metaphenomenal forms of literature, and in that respect he probably knew his audience well, as being almost exclusively interested only in the genre of science fiction. Most science-fiction histories are blithely uninterested even in SF's two best-known rivals for metaphenomenal popularity: "horror" and "fantasy," and Aldiss's SPREE conformed to this paradigm for the most part. But though I have not read any edition of SPREE for over twenty years, I remember well one chapter in which Aldiss more or less accounted for the less reputable (to SF fans) forms of the metaphenomenal, and that chapter was entitled, "ERB and the Weirdies."

"ERB," of course, was Edgar Rice Burroughs, who, in addition to creating a certain ape-man, was renowned for a host of otherworldly adventures that most purists would not deem "science fiction." I'm not certain, but the portmanteau "science fantasy" may have been devised, if not strictly for Burroughs, then for everything that didn't satisfy the supposed rigor of mainstream science fiction. As for "The Weirdies," I believe this category took in all the horror and fantasy authors who were popular during the heyday of American pulps, with special reference to the "Big Three" of WEIRD TALES: H.P. Lovecraft, Robert W. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith. Aldiss's analysis of all four authors struck me as generally condescending, even when he admitted having enjoyed this or that particular "weirdie" work.

I interpret the proponents of mainstream science fiction as having a superiority complex toward horror and fantasy via my interlinked concepts of freedom and restraint. With much the same logic used by elitists who boost naturalistic canonical literature above all other forms, fans of mainstream SF consider their favored genre to possess "cognitive restraint," the propensity to take boundless fantasies and make them reflect "real" issues in society or culture. Horror and fantasy are not incapable of such restraint, but the overall perception of both genres aligns with my concept of "affective freedom." The grotesques of Lovecraft and the arabesques of Smith are seen as stemming mostly from an appeal to affects/emotions, and to purists, that gives those genres less intellectual rigor.

Now, as a result of reviewing the JUSTICE LEAGUE DARK story-line, I began thinking more about what qualities made certain comics-characters seem like "weirdies." The Wiki article alleges that most of the Weirdoverse characters were aligned with the "mystery/occult" genres. This may be true of three of the four: NIGHT FORCE, SCARE TACTICS, and THE BOOK OF FATE (i.e, one of various titles about the sorcerer-superhero Doctor Fate). Yet, the fourth title under this rubric was CHALLENGERS OF THE UNKNOWN, and even a quick look at online copies of this 1997 series indicated that it was not steeped in the tropes of horror or fantasy.

I don't think "weirdies" are purely allied to the supernatural in itself, and the 2018 incarnation of JUSTICE LEAGUE DARK bears this out, in that two of the members are productions of "mad science" like Detective Chimp and the Man-Bat. By the same token, those characters with opposing connotations-- what I now term "worldies"-- can also include any number of characters with supernatural associations, like Thor and Wonder Woman. (The Amazon Princess gets her occult mojo ramped up for her membership in the 2018 JLD.)

"Worldies," as I conceive them, may possess all manner of supernormal powers, but they seem to be tied to a commonplace representation of "the world," in much the same way that prose SF stories take place in logically consistent worlds with one or more "wonders" in them. "Weirdies," though, exist BETWEEN the commonplace world and another, twilight realm wherein nothing is logical or consistent. I relate Aldiss' use of "weirdies" to the origins of the word "weird," taken from an Old English word meaning "fate," which connotes an illogical order superimposed over mundane existence. I may devote some future posts on OUROBOROS DREAMS to some of the more interesting forms that the "weirdies" take in the comics medium.

MYTHCOMICS: [THE LORDS OF ORDER] JUSTICE LEAGUE DARK (2018)

The story-line I've designated as THE LORDS OF ORDER appears within two TPB collections, respectively subtitled "The Last Age of Magic" and "The Lords of Order." I've chosen to designate all pertinent material under the umbrella-title LORDS OF ORDER because said characters constitute the primary menace. Not all of the material collected in these two compilations is relevant to the main plot, which appears principally in issues #1-3, 5-6, and 8-12. Cutoff points for the narrative are problematic, and without reading the entire 29 issues of this JLD incarnation-- the second to focus on a "Justice League of Weirdies"-- I would not be surprised to learn that one or more raconteurs kept some of the subplots going to the bitter end. But issue #12 at least supplies some conditional closure, supplied dominantly (though perhaps not exclusively) by writer James Tynion IV and artists Alvaro Bueno and Daniel Sampere.

I'll explain my highly complex term of "weirdies" in a subsequent post. I have read a few of the issues of the 2011 JUSTICE LEAGUE DARK series and I found them unremarkable. Tynion, however, did show a greater facility for exploring aspects of DC's "weirdoverse" (a term DC itself advanced for a quartet of inter-related "supernatural" titles during the late nineties).

Taking place following the so-called "DC Rebirth," ORDER builds upon a relatively-new rethinking of the DC multiverse, to the effect that it's mirrored by a "dark multiverse," possibly inspired by the so-called "Dark Web of the Internet." I believe that Tynion is the first to claim that all of the magic in Regular Multiverse has been stolen, a la the Fire of Prometheus, from the Dark Multiverse, but he may have had inspirations from previous works. 

The DC Universe, like its One True Business Rival, is and always has been something of a never-ending palimpsest. For instance, the character of Nabu, perceptor of the hero Doctor Fate, appears with little backstory in the character's 1940s origin tale. But not until the 1970s is Nabu said to be a member of "the Lords of Order," the opposites of their eternal foes "the Lords of Chaos," both of whom were probably borrowed from the early 1960s prose stories of Elric by author Michael Moorcock. In general Nabu and his fellow Lords were depicted as positive forces in comparison to their antagonists. However, even as early as a 1987 AMETHYST min-series, the Order-Lords sometimes came off cold and unfeeling,

Tynion posits that in the earliest phases of DC prehistory, the Lords were responsible for codifying all the rules and rituals surrounding the magic called up from the Dark Multiverse. But now the denizens of that domain are coming to reclaim their stolen powers, though the Dark Multiversals are something of a side-threat in ORDER. The Lords have decided to cut their losses and eradicate magic from the non-dark multiverse, and that forces Justice League Dark to get involved.

As with Geoff Jones' cosmic restructuring from a couple of years earlier, "the plot is not the thing" here. Tynion uses some of the same team-members seen in the earlier series, particularly Swamp Thing and Zatanna, but other members are de-emphasized, such as the popular mage John Constantine. Wonder Woman, a heroine with a foot in both magical and scientific worlds, becomes the leader of the 2018 group. The new lineup includes BATMAN's monstrous foe Man-Bat and Detective Chimp, a DC character from the late Golden Age who was reworked into something of a supernatural sleuth, as well as being tied to marginal sword-and-sorcery crusader Nightmaster. Tynion throws out a lot of subplots for the various characters, but none of them are extraordinarily consequential for the Lords of Order narrative. And only one Lord of Chaos, the LEGION OF SUPER-HEROES villain Mordru, becomes tangentially involved as well.

The most visionary aspect of ORDER is the way Tynion depicts the passing of the old order. The denizens of DC-Earth did not beseech the Lords of Order to give them magic, but once many of those denizens built their lives around the existence of things mystical, the Lords seem a bit like Promethean Indian Givers. To his credit, Tynion does not simply dodge the problem he's created with a wave of his hand. Magic does get eradicated, but the heroes are able to bring it back by what one might call "returning to the factory default," which means that all the old rules have to be rewritten. The ORDER narrative concludes while this reboot is still in progress, but it's a more effective conclusion to yet another multiversal reshuffling.

Bueno and Sampere provide better than average design elements that put across the mood of the eldritch, particularly in the image of the Wonder Tree (though this creation was the result of a yet earlier Tynion narrative).

NULL-MYTHS: THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS, THE GOLDEN CHILD (2019)

With most of the works I term "null-myths," it's easy for me to see how the artists involved messed up the symbolic discourse of something like a simple formula-tale. But with Frank Miller's newest work in his ongoing DARK KNIGHT RETURNS series, I have no idea what Miller was trying to accomplish.

The original DARK KNIGHT RETURNS from 1986, while not flawless, remains a monumental story, as well as signaling the irreversible movement of the superhero genre into the domain of adult, rather than juvenile, pulp. In 2001 Miller returned to that "future-Batman" universe and produced THE DARK KNIGHT STRIKES AGAIN, which resembles nothing more than an artist tossing together a bunch of wild ideas into a semblance of story, though some critics liked STRIKES just because it was so brain-fried. In 2015, Miller collaborated with Brian Azzarello to produce THE DARK KNIGHT: MASTER RACE, which I asserted to be the closest thing one could get to Miller doing a Justice League story, and this was the first worthy successor to the original 1986 work. In 2015, Miller collaborated with Azzarello and John Romita Jr on the single-issue outing, THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS: THE LAST CRUSADE. This prequel to RETURNS purported to show some of the events that led up to the murder of Jason Todd.

GOLDEN CHILD begins a few years after MASTER RACE. Superman's daughter by Wonder Woman, Lara, is about the same, but the super-couple's son Jonathan is now perhaps five years old. Rather than displaying the talents of either parent, Jonathan possesses some non-specific mental powers, while he's drawn with receding hair, as if to give him a resemblance to all the "big-brained future men" that once populated pulp magazines and Silver Age comics. Superman is only briefly seen, and it's later explained that he and other adult heroes are off on some mission. Batman's heir Carrie Kelley still maintains the role of Batwoman. We later learn that the three youngsters are charged with keeping an eye on things, and for some reason that leads Lara and Jonathan to go floating around Gotham City, as Lara scorns the masses of humanity, much as she did in MASTER RACE.

A riot breaks out between political factions. One is a group of violent hoods wearing Joker-style costumes, one of whom shouts the slogan, "Buy American! Be American!" The other faction is not identified by anything but a couple of signs expressing dislike of Donald Trump, and they're getting the worst of the encounter until Batwoman and her cadre of erratically-garbed Bat-enforcers show up and kick butt. The Joker-goons flee.

So far, it sounds like the sort of thing that happens in Gotham City in any era. Then Lara and Batwoman converse in some Bat-habitat, and it's revealed that somehow this mundane fracas was organized by-- Darkseid, Ruler of Apokolips and the Guy Who Got His Thunder Stolen by Thanos. Neither heroine comments on the hoods' Joker-motif, but since they don't seem surprised when the Miller version of the Clown Prince is walking around, all alive again, I guess the reports of his earlier extinction were grossly exaggerated. And these two reigning DC villains have teamed up in order to-- elect Donald Trump????

Is there an alternate Earth on which someone could write a good satire based on this dippy concept? Anything is possible in the multiverse. But Miller didn't write one, in part because he drops whatever critique he has of the Presidential candidate and zooms right to the Big Honking Battle-Scene. Joker flees when Lara and Jonathan show up at the campaign HQ and attack Darkseid, who apparently decided to visit Earth with none of his usual Apokolips retinue. An odd sidebar: Jonathan grabs a couple of midget-looking guys in Joker-makeup and Lara tells her brother to drop both midgets-- who launched no attack-- from a great height. Are they robots, like the animated dolls Joker used in the 1986 story? Who knows? (We don't see Jonathan do so, anyway.)

After some super-power exchanges, Jonathan uses his undefined powers to zap Darkseid while Lara turns his own omega-beams against him, and the villain seems to get disintegrated. BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE!

For three pages the disembodied spirit of Darkseid shunts around the cosmos for a while, meditating on his status as "the end of all that is" and marshaling his power to destroy the Earth-- which I think he could have done a long time ago if that was his motivation, and without rigging any elections.

Then, as if to compensate for all the cosmic chaos, Batwoman spends the next eight pages with "street-level" action, taking down the Joker and his thugs. Then Batwoman hears Donald Trump broadcasting a speech that's apparently having a hypnotic effect on the populace, just as Darkseid did briefly in a separate scene. (So, if Darkseid and Joker could do that the whole time, why were they bothering with the ballot boxes?) Batwoman jams the hypnotic signal, and Darkseid just happens to manifest the next moment, blowing up a few city streets. 

Lara shows up, and the two super-beings fight for a couple of pages before Darkseid casts his hypnotic mojo over her, his speech implying that he's got plans for her nubile body. Jonathan hurls another humongous power-zap at the overlord, freeing Lara, and then--

And then Darkseid kneels on the ground while Batwoman shows up and gives a speech about how the spirit of free-thinking mankind will never die. Or something like that. And that's the end of the story.

This muddled and incoherent excuse for a narrative probably resulted from Frank Miller's attempt to serve two masters, and both are Jack Kirby-- though for argument's sake I'll call one "Social Commentary Jack" and the other "Cosmic Jack."

The figure of Donald Trump, while a valid target for well-done satire, is just the half-baked spawn of Miller trying his hand at the social commentary Jack Kirby worked into his NEW GODS saga. Trump-as-Darkseid-pawn is just a retooling of Glorious Godfrey, Kirby's religious-fanatic satire of Billy Graham. However, Godfrey made sense within the context of Kirby'[s setup. His Darkseid used assorted strategies to find the Anti-Life Equation within the minds of the teeming Earth-people, and Godfrey was just one of such strategy of mental manipulation. 

But in the latter half of GOLDEN CHILD (a title that doesn't seem to have much meaning), Miller's Darkseid-- who never has any reason for his election-fixing scheme-- suddenly pivots into Cosmic Kirby territory. Yeah, Kirby-Darkseid spouted some Macbeth-like line about being a "tiger-force," but he didn't go jaunting around the universe like Galactus, playing the role of Cosmic Hot-Shot. This sort of powerhouse doesn't need to play mental games, or to employ maniacal clowns as stooges. And given that he almost decimates the world, one wonders what errand kept the elder heroes busy wherever.

GOLDEN CHILD, in short, is nothing but a leaden bore.

ADDENDUM: Raphael Granpa shows himself to adapt well to the Millerverse despite the incoherence of the story. Granpa came to prominence with the highly enjoyable graphic novel MESMO DELIVERY, a hyper-violent shaggy dog story. Possibly Miller had some notion of emulating Granpa's more successful foray into wacky humor.

MYTHCOMICS: ["THE KINGDOM OF NO"], DOOM PATROL #26-29 (1989)

[The umbrella-title I've bestowed upon these four issues is taken from the solo title of issue #29.]

I analyzed the second appearance of Grant Morrison's absurdist "Brotherhood of Dada" in this 2019 post, because I liked it better. But the Brotherhood's first appearance is a well-crafted mythcomic as well, though the absurdity takes a different form.

The two Brotherhood stories summon to my mind a dichotomy I explored in a 2009 post, THE UNBEARABLE FULLNESS OF EMPTINESS. In this post, I commented upon an essay by literary critic David Sandner, who suggested a hermeneutic approach to the super-genre of fantasy, depending on whether the author utilized his fantasy-concepts to stress the emptiness of existence (Lewis Carroll) or its fullness (J,R.R. Tolkien). I won't take the time to expatiate on any notion that Morrison's TALES OF HOFMANN belongs to the hermeneutic of fullness. But a story with the title THE KINGDOM OF NO fairly broadcasts its indebtedness to a philosophical penchant for absence.

Following a prologue introducing a couple of the master villain's hench-persons, Morrison and Richard Case give their readers their first look at Mister Nobody, a cubist distortion of a human figure standing in a cluttered room in Paris. Nobody descants to his newly formed band of nutzoid supervillains on the room: "All the toys, all the comic books, all the silly, useless things that people lose or throw away: they all end up with me." It's perhaps counter-intuitive for Morrison's character to blather about easily abandoned commodities, given that he's writing a comic book aimed largely at a readership of hardcore comics-collectors. Still, the metaphor passes muster, since comic books were originally conceived as throwaway entertainment.

Nobody takes six pages to detail his origin, or rather, his rebirth. He had been an ordinary henchman to the original Brotherhood of Evil, foes of the original Doom Patrol, but he decided to subject himself to an experiment designed to give him superhuman powers. For "three days and three nights, the traditional Celtic period of mystical trial," he endures sensory isolation, and the result is that he transforms into Mister Nobody, taking his new cognomen from the famous if anonymous children's poem. He then rejects the original Brotherhood's acceptance of the meaningless terms of good and evil by bestowing on his five henchmen the title of "The Brotherhood of Dada," referencing the Dadaist movement of the early 20th century.

Nobody's doctrine of meaninglessness doesn't keep him from expounding on such luminaries as the writer Thomas DeQuincey and the artist Piranesi, who are clues leading to Nobody's absurdist Holy Grail: a painting that devours the reality within which said artwork was created. The villains find and steal the painting from its owner, and then unleash its power, which begins by swallowing up the whole city of Paris.

The new Doom Patrol, however, is well suited for combating such esoteric threats. While Robotman remains the one "normie" link to the original group, the new version of Negative Man discourses on humanity's occupation of a "virtual universe recursion," while new member Crazy Jane derives her powers from her plethora of multiple personalities. The three of them invade the painting, where they find that their foes can now confound with purely artistic principles, derived from such movements as impressionism and futurism.

However, the over-confident super-crooks don't realize that their presence calls forth an apocalyptic menace, "The Fifth Horseman," who apparently got left out of the New Testament like, well, someone's discarded comic book. 

Yet, although Crazy Jane is integral to staving off the Horseman's power for a time, it's nonsense-meister Nobody who triumphs in the end. Since Jane says the Horseman feeds on "ideas," Nobody, his henchmen and the Patrol manage to steer the monster into the artistic realm of Dada, "the kingdom of no, where even language fails" (and thus the perfect place for a Lewis Carroll hootenanny). The threat is nullified, the heroes escape the painting, and the capricious criminals are left inside the recursive art-universe, though Nobody alone will manage to break free for his second outing by Morrison and Case. And so the world of normality is apparently preserved, though the reader is more than a little persuaded that the only true presence is actually an absence.

DEPARTMENT OF COMICS CURIOSITIES #32: "THE AMAZONS OF NESBO" (FEATURE COMICS #37, 1940)

So this standard "jungle hero meets city ruled by women" sports not one but three suspicious names:

The culture itself is named NESBO...

The queen is named SOPHO (like "Sappho")...

And there's a minor character named LEBA.

Whoever was writing under the Quality Comics "house name" John Charles apparently had a bee up his bonnet-- and it wasn't a drone...