Since
its inception, Marvel’s DOCTOR STRANGE has been such a triumph of
visual design that a fair number of quality artists—Colan, Rogers,
Starlin, and a host of others—sought to play baroque games of form
and shape in the Sanctum That Ditko Drew. That said, though Ditko’s
visual rendition of the doctor’s very strange worlds remains
unsurpassed, the feature’s scripting was usually not quite as
distinguished. Thus, though I’ve argued for the mythic depth of
many tales from both of STRANGE’s co-creators Steve Ditko and Stan
Lee, I’ve found little complexity in the Lee-Ditko stoiies of the
“master of the mystic arts.” It’s been suggested that one of
the two creators took some inspiration from the sixties bestsellers
of alleged Tibetan monk T. Lobsang Rampa, insofar as those books
introduced Western readers to complex concepts (however borrowed) of
Tibetan sorcery. But if Rampa was the proximate source for DOCTOR
STRANGE, neither Ditko nor Lee pursued any other aspects of esoteric
tradition, Eastern or Western. While I would not have wanted to see
the creativity of the feature straight-jacketed by adherence to occult
doctrine—a failing of Steve Englehart’s version of the character—
some metaphysical motifs might have kept the feature from having been
so dominated by two principal plots: either Doc Strange goes to some
alien dimension to fight tyrannical rulers there, or he defends Earth
from being invaded by such extradimensional forces.
“And
There Will be Worlds Anew” was ostensibly the sole creation of
artist P. Craig Russell (more on that matter later), and there’s no
more esoteric tradition in either his art or script than in most
other adventures of Marvel’s Sorcerer Supreme. However, Russell
does pattern his stand-alone story on a metaphysical motif common to
Western art: the close association of Beauty and Death. Many Russell
works make no bones about his narrative inspirations, often adapted
from or patterned after famous (and public-domain) operas like
PELLEAS AND MELISANDE and Wagner’s RING continuity. In re-reading
‘Worlds,” I didn’t pin down any specific narratives on which
Russell might have modeled his tale, though I did think of Poe’s
little-known story “The Island of the Fay,” in which the main
character fantasizes seeing the same scene from two viewpoints: a
beautiful faerie-bower and a desolate wasteland.
For
the first eight pages, “Worlds” isn’t much different from the
average Doctor Strange story. Brooding in his domicile after a
quarrel with his lover Clea, the magician receives tidings that she’s
been kidnapped by an unknown entity. The hero seeks out “the Temple
of Man,” which is apparently mainly a big old occult library.
Strange’s characterization carries more currents of self-doubt than
is usual, but it’s not significantly different from the Strange of
more formulaic stories. And after the magician’s quest takes him to
a never-visited dimension called Phaseworld, his first action is to
engage in battle with the dimension’s ruler Lectra, much as the
doctor would in many previous adventures. Lectra only wins the
conflict by a standard villain-trope: she shows the hero an image of
his beloved in captivity, and he’s forced to surrender to preserve
Clea’s life.
However,
with the standard Marvel pyrotechnics out of the way, Russell then
devotes the remainder of “Worlds” to portraying the beauties of
Phaseworld. The two mages set out for Lectra’s home city,
Allandra, transported across “the currents of space” (and a
relatively mundane-looking ocean) in a mystical ship. On the way a
sea serpent attacks, and Strange wounds the creature before Lectra
can explain that the beast is meant to guide them through stormy
seas. Lectra thus gets to strut her stuff by forcing the storms to
cease, conjuring up the Biblical motif. Once the seas are calm, the complex
golden city of Allandra rises from the depths.
Russell
makes Allandra a true faery-dwelling, all spires and minarets, with
no indication that it was ever meant to be lived in. Up to this
point Strange has seen no sentient beings except Lectra and a
ship-crew of undead sailors. But the city has even fewer signs of
life, causing Strange to think, “It is magnificence itself, a city
of floating form and sculpture. And yet, beneath the fascination, I
sense death.”
Once
the two sorcerers arrive at the palace, Lectra outlines her plan to
make Strange her consort. She doesn’t have the usual motive of
wanting to spawn offspring, though, for her purpose is to meld her
sorcerous powers with those of the hero in order to preserve Allandra
from doom. She attributes the decay of her world to her sister
Phaydra, who then makes an appearance, and the latter remains silent
in contrast to Lectra’s volubility.
However, the silent woman keeps
company with a type of bird almost iconic in ballet and opera: a
lovely white swan. The swan, name of Tempus, is able to speak for
Phaydra, accusing Lectra of beginning their world’s doom by
usurping the throne for “vainglorious lusts.” The two sisters
battle magically. Strange interrupts the fight, wanting nothing but
his missing beloved. The swan metamorphoses into an angel-winged man,
and reveals that Clea was never Lectra’s prisoner. The revelation
causes Lectra to hurl a spell at Tempus, but when he deflects, her
magic destroys a “soul mirror,” leading to the deaths of both
sisters and the world of Allandra. Strange alone escapes and returns
to his own world.
The
conjoined but opposing natures of the sisters is the dominant theme
here, though only once does Russell gloss those natures, having the
hunky swan-stud state that Lectra “possesses the evil of the mind”
while Phaydra “holds the truth and good of the heart.” I’d like
to say that this interpretation is supported by the Classical Greek
names Russell invokes, but his characters don’t parallel in any
meaningful way the stories told, respectively, of Classical Electra
and Classical Phaedra. My best guess is that in the story of Electra,
she represents Thanatos, since she’s willing to sacrifice Orestes
so that their mutual father is avenged, while Phaedra is Eros, given
that her passion for her stepson would’ve harmed no one had it not
been forestalled by the priggishness of Hippolytus. But again—just
a guess.
The original story appears with both scripting and co-plotting
credits for Marv Wolfman, but in a COMICS JOURNAL interview Russell
denied that Wolfman had done anything but provide dialogue. Many
years later Russell persuaded Marvel to re-publish the story with his
revisions to the art and the script, and as I have not read this
version I cannot comment. Still, Russell’s art nouveau approach to
the master magician was at least an improvement on the character’s
generally-neglected metaphysical potential.
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