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Post by Farrar on Mar 23, 2018 15:54:03 GMT -5
and who is the guy in some kind of super-villain headgear under Sue's forearm? There must be a character guide to this somewhere that includes them, but I haven't found it. Maybe that's Paste Pot Pete? the Trapster? I'll check around.
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Post by Prince Hal on Mar 23, 2018 16:05:52 GMT -5
Two questions, though: who is the guy in the brown leather jacket under Reed's outstretched wrist (Bruce Banner, maybe?)... The ubiquitous Rick Jones D'oh! Of course!
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Post by Hoosier X on Mar 23, 2018 16:11:38 GMT -5
Two questions, though: who is the guy in the brown leather jacket under Reed's outstretched wrist (Bruce Banner, maybe?)... The ubiquitous Rick Jones I was just about to say that! I think the other guy you're curious about is Kang.
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Post by Prince Hal on Mar 23, 2018 16:15:36 GMT -5
and who is the guy in some kind of super-villain headgear under Sue's forearm? There must be a character guide to this somewhere that includes them, but I haven't found it. Maybe that's Paste Pot Pete? the Trapster? I'll check around. Dr. Generico? Generic-Man? Anonymo?
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Post by Farrar on Mar 23, 2018 16:16:41 GMT -5
The ubiquitous Rick Jones I was just about to say that! I think the other guy you're curious about is Kang.Yes, I was just about to say that it was a miscolored Kang--based on the costume design (helmet/colw, collar) and based on the list of villains in the GCD entry. Thanks!
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Post by Prince Hal on Mar 23, 2018 16:23:47 GMT -5
I was just about to say that! I think the other guy you're curious about is Kang.Yes, I was just about to say that it was a miscolored Kang--based on the costume design (helmet/colw, collar) and based on the list of villains in the GCD entry. Thanks! And not the only miscolored figure on that cover. Well done, my friends!
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Post by Prince Hal on Apr 5, 2018 13:00:53 GMT -5
A Comic Lover’s Memories Interlude April 4-5, 1968
I hope you’ll forgive my jumping ahead a couple of years in my chronological account of comics-related memories because of the significance of what happened 50 years ago yesterday. This has only a little bit to do with comics, but I hope you'll forgive my wanting to share it here.
Like so many others, my parents and my father’s family had left city life behind after “the war,” as all my relatives called World War Two. The life they had known for decades was changing. The city (in this case, Jersey City) was no longer the city they had grown up in. Jersey City, like so many other cities, was divided into wards, which were further divided into neighborhoods, but because of its overwhelmingly Catholic population, people identified themselves most often by an even smaller sub-division, the Catholic parish where they lived. And those parishes were further categorized by ethnic group; there were Polish, Lithuanian, German, and Italian parishes, but they were outnumbered by the dozen or so Irish parishes.
We moved from the city before I was four to a town that was in many ways an idyllic cliché: think Pleasantville, Beaver Cleaver’s Mayfield, and a thousand other small towns. It might as well have been a larger version of the scale-model towns through which Lionel trains ran in Sears catalogue ads and department store window displays. (We actually had a freight train that ran through a tunnel and into the lumberyard.) Thirteen thousand, seven-hundred and eighty-two resident lived in three square miles nestled between two “mountains,” (imaginatively named “First” and “Second”), with a beautiful county park, a Shop-Rite, a clothing store, a soda fountain where the hoods hung out, a few candy stores where we bought our comics and baseball cards, a movie theatre, brooks, woods, ball fields, and a library whose lights glowed orange until 9 every weeknight. I mean, it had everything. I loved my hometown. Still do. It was a magical place to grow up.
But in 1968 the magic had started to sputter out.
The two mountains were no protection against the world outside. Unlike Pleasantville’s, our main street, which everybody called “the Avenue,” led to the heart of Newark, a once-proud center of culture and commerce that was fighting a losing battle against crime, neglect and white flight. Newark was over fifty percent black, had more tuberculosis, venereal disease and was poorer than anywhere else in the state, except maybe Jersey City. If there was something terrible to be had, it seemed, Newark had it.
But that’s where I went to high school, with 2500 other North Jersey boys, because our parents thought that a Catholic education would help us to strengthen the wall we’d lived behind all our lives.
One reason that I never had trouble understanding or imagining the concept of multiple Earths in DC comics was that I went back and forth between two earths every day of my high school life. My hometown was Earth-1. Eight miles and 20 minutes from there was Earth-2, Newark, a city ravaged not just by its long-standing ills, but now by the riots of the summer of ’67, which had torn apart the city and left the Central Ward in ruins, and where the remaining white enclave was patrolled by armed vigilantes who dubbed themselves the “North Ward First Aid Squad” in cars they’d armored with steel plates. Despair and anger were palpable in the streets of Newark.
Those eight miles might as well have been eight hundred, and those twenty minutes twenty light years.
I started high school a little more than a month after the riots ended and my education inside and outside the classroom began immediately, with my walks to the bus stop to head back home and my new friendships with kids from all over. Ironically, it was within the walls of the supposed bastion of faith and tradition to which I’d been sent, within the fortress where my parents hoped that my view of the world into which I’d been born, baptized and submerged would be reinforced my that my view was changed forever.
The riots of ’67 had sent a mighty scare through all the nearby towns; rumors flew that bands of rioting black men were driving up the Avenue and attacking homes. My father never owned a gun (I’m sure his time in Korea 15 years earlier had cured him of any desire to own one, if he’d ever had one), but he did bring a baseball bat to the parlor while we watched the news. Those rumors proved to be just that, but the trauma caused by the riots remained deep-seated.
Every summer since 1963 had been scarred by hundreds of riots and uprisings in what were then called the “inner cities,” but which were no more than the outward signs of American apartheid. The summer of 1967 was called “The Long Hot Summer” because of the violence and frequency with which riots erupted.
I always shake my head when I hear people rave about 1967’s being the “Summer of Love.” Maybe in Haight-Ashbury. But not in Newark, pal. Not in Detroit, which exploded just as Newark was calming down. And not in 157 other cities, either.
In Newark, the Central Ward looked like Germany in 1945. James Rutledge was shot 39 times as he surrendered to cops. Billy Furr was killed for stealing beer. Tedock Bell was shot for running from the police. The deaths of Rebecca Brown, Hattie Gainer, and Eloise Spellman (mother of 11) killed at their apartment windows in fusillades of bullets, sparked the worst of the violence. At least 26 people were killed, including one cop, one fireman and eight “suspects.” Hundreds were injured. Eight thousand police and National Guardsmen were needed to restore order. Damage costs soared to over 10 million dollars.
My high school’s neighborhood was largely Puerto Rican and black, nestled between downtown and the western edge of the North Ward. Old and rundown, maybe, but presentable. Because of the riots, the businesses on Broadway had all installed those heavy metal “curtains” that roll down to protect the windows and doors. The blocks between the front entrance of the high school and the Avenue were lined on both sides by a grim and forbidding if Iron Curtain if you had to walk that way after five o’clock.
I really loved my high school. Despite the strength of its walls, the 60s were simmering within and without. We had groups for every imaginable cause. Our school newspaper had political content. Our speech and debate team was filled with guys who knew about history, current affairs, and politics. Several leaned decidedly left; hey, in the face of the upheaval going on around us everywhere, even the rock-ribbed conservative kids had to shift leftward.
My best friend Bob, a classmate since kindergarten, was one of the speech team guys. Much more mature than I in many ways, Bob had become a great admirer of Dr. King. Bob had a beautiful orotund speaking voice even as a kid, and now, he was blossoming into a compelling, inspirational orator. His model for both the style and the substance of his original speeches was Dr. King. He emulated King’s soaring tones, his sonorous musical rhythms and his Biblical phrasing, but more importantly, he had read everything he could about him and was able to explain the man’s beliefs and principles and why he was so important. I was fascinated by Bob’s intellectual curiosity and willingness to teach himself.
To many others, though, Dr. King had become a danger. He had gone beyond simply making what they had thought of as nice speeches about how terrible it was for Negroes in the South. He was taking on the evil of racism in our entire society, and he had taken on the Vietnam War, calling it immoral. No longer was he simply a sincere preacher from down South. He was indicting all enemies of justice, not just Bull Connor and George Wallace. And he saw those enemies well embedded in the North, too. He was stirring things up. He was an agitator, a troublemaker, a firebrand.
Stupid me. I couldn’t figure it. I knew these people who were angered by Dr. King to be kind and generous; they prayed their prayers piously and could recite all the tenets of their faith unfailingly. Once, when a black man, Ernie, came over to paint the upper floor of our house because it was too risky for my father to do anymore, my mother gave him clothes for his kids. My father paid Ernie much more than Ernie had asked for, because, my father realized, Ernie had done his calculations wrong, because Ernie really didn’t know much math.
When my mother told me about what my father had done, long after Ernie had finished his painting, I was so proud of him. He had treated Ernie so respectfully as they sat across from each other in the parlor eating sandwiches and drinking coffee.
And yet. And yet.
Though I never heard the “N-word” at home, it was clear that when it came to black Americans, my parents thought there were good ones and bad ones. Nat King Cole was good. Muhammad Ali was bad. Roy Campanella was good. Malcolm X was bad. Joe Louis was good. H. Rap Brown was bad.
So when I first heard that Dr. King had been shot, we happened to be watching the news on television. I immediately turned to my father and asked him, hopefully, “Dad, did you like Martin Luther King?”
I so wanted him to say, yes, I sure did. But I knew that wouldn’t be his answer, despite his respect and concern for Ernie, despite the Catholicism that pulsed within him, despite what Bob had been telling me about King, and despite what my own gut had been telling me for months about Dr. King and about what was going on in our country.
I used to be able to remember exactly what he said to me, but I just can’t recall it any more. All I remember is that I was disappointed by his answer. I probably shouldn’t have been. I probably knew what it was going to be. Martin Luther King was a boat-rocker, an asker of questions, a disturber of the peace, and thus a looming threat outside the walls my parents had been building around us all their lives.
The next day, I went to school as usual. I walked the mile or so to school, walked down the back driveway into the basement, where I would face the eight-flight walk to the freshman floor. But when I got to the basement level and started my trudge upstairs, I realized that I was the only kid there.
Down the corridor came an older kid, who said, “What are you doing here? There’s no school today because of King being killed.”
I never thought to ask him why he was there.
“You’ve gotta get outta here. There’s gonna be riots. That’s why they closed school.”
Somehow we’d never heard anything at home that morning. Nothing on the radio, which was the only way you knew that there was no school.
Suddenly, the way back home got scary. Ten minutes before, with no knowledge of what “they” were expecting, I had blithely walked from the bus. Now I felt as if I were going to go back through a minefield.
For some reason, I went back via Broadway, the front entrance of the school instead of going back the way I’d come. Just after I hit the street, I saw two young black kids, about my age, walking toward me, a boy and a girl.
I knew this was going to be bad. The girl, who was walking a step or two ahead of the boy, started walking directly toward me, her eyes partly closed, her face expressionless. As I veered to my right, she veered to her left. I kept veering. So did she. She wants to bump me, I thought. Inevitably, that would happen.
When it did, and our shoulders glanced against each other, I apologized and continued walking. Now it was the boy’s turn. He was wearing a black fedora and a black raincoat. He also was expressionless, but it was clear he was going to try to cut me off. He came up to me and we stood face-to-face.
“Why’d you hit my sister?” he asked.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “And I told her that I was sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into her. I’m sorry.”
I was able to continued walking without bumping into him and, keeping the same moderate pace, I moved on. I still remember thinking to myself to be ready to feel something hit my back: a kick, a punch, a push. But I knew I shouldn’t look back.
Nothing happened. I kept walking toward the Avenue past the Iron Curtain, as it finally dawned on me that the streets were nearly empty, and that there was an ominous feeling in the air. Now I wondered if there would even be a bus to take me back to Earth-1 if I managed to get to the stop safely.
Well, I did, and a bus did arrive and within 20 minutes, because I was one of the very few people on the bus, I was back home from Earth-2.
On Earth-2, I might have been the sorrowful black boy. I might have been so upset and angry that I would have wanted to beat up or threaten or just scare the piss out of the stupid little white kid who came down to Newark in his suit jacket and tie to go to the big Catholic school.
I’ve thought about that moment and that boy often, and how lucky I was that he had the wherewithal not to lash out.
And I wonder, had I been the boy on Earth-2, if I would have been able to do the same. That moment has stayed with me all my life. I wonder who that boy and his sister were, and what ever happened to them. If I were ever to meet them, I think I’d want them to know how grateful I was to them and what a profound effect they, like my friend Bob and my high school experiences, made on the way I’ve looked at the world ever since.
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Post by Rob Allen on Apr 27, 2018 18:38:02 GMT -5
Prince Hal, I intended to reply earlier but I couldn't let this post of yours go by without comment. You vividly brought to life an era and a milieu that I recall as well. You didn't name your home town but described it well enough for an old New Jerseyan like me to recognize. I think my high school and yours played each other in several sports. We had a riot in my home town in 1967 too. It was smaller than the Newark riot, but it was a smaller city. My family learned about the riot from the TV news. My brother and I went outside to find out if we could hear anything, but we were miles away from the conflict. I turned 11 in December 1967, so I wasn't yet in high school or even junior high when Dr. King was killed. I don't remember if the schools were closed that day or not. There were some incidents of racial violence in junior high over the next few years, but the tension seemed to slowly ease after about 1970. Thanks again for writing a memorable post.
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Post by Prince Hal on Apr 28, 2018 13:23:08 GMT -5
Prince Hal , I intended to reply earlier but I couldn't let this post of yours go by without comment. You vividly brought to life an era and a milieu that I recall as well. You didn't name your home town but described it well enough for an old New Jerseyan like me to recognize. I think my high school and yours played each other in several sports. We had a riot in my home town in 1967 too. It was smaller than the Newark riot, but it was a smaller city. My family learned about the riot from the TV news. My brother and I went outside to find out if we could hear anything, but we were miles away from the conflict. I turned 11 in December 1967, so I wasn't yet in high school or even junior high when Dr. King was killed. I don't remember if the schools were closed that day or not. There were some incidents of racial violence in junior high over the next few years, but the tension seemed to slowly ease after about 1970. Thanks again for writing a memorable post. 1. Thank you, Rob. Glad you liked it especially, because you knew the times well, too. 2. I think you're probably right, Rob, IIRC. 3. Much appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to read and respond, Rob. PS: You may recall that Asbury Park blew up in the summer of 1970. Hundreds were injured, close to 50 people were shot and the west side of town was left in ruins after a nightmarish week at the height of the tourist season. Those were sad sad times.
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Post by Prince Hal on Jun 26, 2018 23:18:35 GMT -5
A Comic Fan’s Memories, Part 30 The Lure of the Legion, Part One
If you’ve been paying attention to my somewhat spotty remembrances of comic times past, you might recall my mentioning the Hi-Way Sweet Shoppe, the dark, dusty mecca where we’d sometimes wander in search of a comic book and a Coke served from the soda fountain in a conical paper cup tucked neatly into a silver base. The great thing about getting a Coke this way instead of plucking one of those small green glass bottles from the cold water deep within the giant cooler was that Tony could customize your order to taste. Tony knew all the secrets of that alchemical wonder machine at the end of the lunch counter; he could add just that extra little bit of caramel syrup that would make your Coke that much sweeter and heartier. Or, he could spray in it a little more seltzer… if you were the kind of weirdo who liked it that way. More important to our story today, though, is that it was at Tony’s store (actually a dingy front for his bookmaking operation) where I saw Adventure 312, the first-ever comic I can recall buying off the stands. Tony's looked a lot like this, but much dingier and less well stocked. Tony’s, therefore, was the unlikely portal through which I was whisked into the thirtieth century, when the Science Police guarded the solar system, the United Planets tried to maintain the peace, and the Legion of Super-Heroes — teenagers all -- protected not just the Earth, but the universe. Until I started high school and had a bit more money in my pocket, I rarely could buy more than one comic at a time at the candy store. Months would go by when I didn’t buy even one comic. I think the 15 copies of Adventure I amassed in my first few years as a comics fan were the most of any single title I had in my little collection. Given that I didn’t have much bank in those days, and that I wasn’t roaming the Avenue on a daily basis looking for comics, I guess it says something that I would so often spend my occasional 12 cents to read about the Legion. So why was it the Legion that I followed more closely than any other comic? If there’s anything to the notion that it’s the first impression that is most powerful, I think of the cover of Adventure 312. To quote myself from way back in the ninth entry in this series, “ I loved everything about it, but I was especially grabbed by the deep black cover… It seemed important, but… this was no celebration, but a solemnity, a serious story about sacrifice. (A concept that any parochial school kid was familiar with.) Superboy, whom I knew well by now, was there, but he was joined by other costumed heroes whom I’d never heard of. And the logo. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, and can barely do so now, but there was something so cool about the lettering, the color scheme, and the very name of the comic -- Adventure -- that I found irresistible. And “Legion…” Impressive, conjuring up the majesty and the glory of the Roman legions, while “Legionnaires” suggested the romance and derring-do of the French Foreign Legion. Ever since, the starkness and solemnity of that cover have remained in my memory. Unlike so many other great covers, however, it was matched in its effect on me by the story that accompanied it. It was heady stuff for a kid of nine, immersed as it was in the mystery of death, the nobility of true friendship, and, of course, the theme of sacrifice that ran through the entire story. I had this Hardy Boys book. From my grandmother's attic, I think. This one, too.
Now, not every issue of Adventure was as emotionally powerful as this first one, but that didn’t bother me. For better or worse, the stories of the Legion were early-60s versions of what today is called YA literature. In their pages, pre-teens like me were getting some insight into the secrets of adolescence, courtesy Edmond Hamilton and Jerry Siegel. Like the Hardy Boys, whose adventures also were an important part of my early reading, these teenagers were astonishingly independent, courageous, and one heck of a lot smarter than most of the adults running the show. So often, those of us of a certain age look back on MAD as one of the greatest influences on our growing up; it introduced us to the joys of and satire in general. Once steeped in the skepticism and sarcasm of MAD, we never looked at any authority figure, tradition or convention in the same trustful way. It was as if every issue of MAD came complete with a communicable case of jaundiced eye. (Thank the gods!) But, as harmless as the adventures of the Legion may seem now, there was flowing through them a similar, far more subtle current. Time after time, this gaggle of super-powered kids was charged by befuddled, apparently incompetent adult authorities with the protection of the universe. (Writing about this in the wake of the inspirational marches of this past year led by the kids of Parkland – talk about a Legion of Super-Heroes! – and the jaw-dropping admiration those young people have induced from the so-called grown-ups makes the obeisance paid the Legion in the mid-2900’s seem less unbelievable.) Li’l Hal gradually noticed that trope, and was thrilled that these kids, at least, had the power to solve problems on their own. And they suffered trying to do so, because tragedy could strike without warning when the entire universe was the setting, as it had in Adventure 304, when Lightning Lad was killed. Killed. He died. That just didn’t happen in those days. And he’d been dead almost a year. Who knows if Mort Weisinger intended to bring him back? If he did, he certainly strung out LL’s return for an excruciatingly long eight issues… an eternity in the Silver Age. And when he returned, it was at the cost of another being’s life. That was a zero-sum game those Legionnaires were playing on the cover of Adventure 312. Later on, Lightning Lad would lose an arm in battle (to the “Super-Moby Dick of Space”), and though 25th-century medicine could fit him with a “robot arm,” that arm, like Ahab’s leg, was never covered up. We always saw it, cold and metal, yet another reminder that as great as these kids seemed to have it, there were costs to be paid for becoming an adult, and none of them were fair. Star Boy was expelled for violating the Legion’s code against killing… even in self-defense. Triplicate Girl, died in battle against Computo, vaporized on the cover of Adventure 340, and though as it turned out, it was of just one of her bodies that was destroyed, the impact was powerful. There was the poignant plight of Kid Psycho, whose power was virtually limitless, but cost him years of his life when he used it; and of course, the heroic and irreversible death of Ferro Lad. Punctuating these world-shaking events were moments less devastating, but painful nevertheless as the Legion and we encountered petty romantic jealousies; unrequited love; star-crossed love; betrayal of all kinds; even fatalism, when Jim Shooter tantalized us with hints of the tragic futures of heroes we had yet to meet in Adventure 354 in “The Adult Legion.” Next Time: "Eight Reasons I Loved the Legion"
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Post by beccabear67 on Jun 27, 2018 0:20:58 GMT -5
I had all but one of those Adventures, but in my case they were from a dusty old bookshop whose owner had cases of unsold stock from the previous proprietor. It was the early '80s and he had a Price Guide, but that was a few years out of date and these '60s comics weren't all into two and three figures (average price was around $1.50, but sometimes less if you were buying a lot at once). Whoever had been through the boxes before me hadn't cared so much for the Legion or the Doom Patrol so I bought one of every issue there and I'd say these two titles there was the most of. I was in a little better luck with the Marvels that there were still quite a few X-Mens somehow and I had a nice long run of them that I'll probably not be able to ever assemble again (from #7 to 51 and then it got spotty). The Adventures starring the Legion were extremely charming, I even had a few early numbers with no Legion, just Superboy and I think Aquaman and Green Arrow. You must also have had those first few stories by teenaged Jim Shooter. Funny how he started out killing Ferro Lad and later made 'history' again with Phoenix as editor. I'm pretty sure I never had more '60s issues of any title than I had of Adventure... oldest was #252 and went all the way to #425 (all kinds of gaps throughout though). Before any of that I had one of those '70s 100 pagers when I was little, and it had a John Forte Legion story reprinted where the girls revolt (they used this idea a few times, once the super-pets revolted and the girls did it again a second time too). I kept hoping I'd find that comic in it's original appearance. It was funny how often DC had stories where characters would suddenly seem to turn bad and attack another character, and this one had it in spades, very weird. Only with the internet can I now see going through the covers which issue this had originally been, #326. So glad John Lennon came along to end war (including the war of the sexes). Thanks for stirring up the dusty memories Hal!
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Post by Prince Hal on Jun 27, 2018 23:17:03 GMT -5
A Comic Fan’s Memories, Part 30 The Lure of the Legion (Part Two)Marvel was rightfully being credited with revolutionizing characterization in comics, there were other titles in the DC Universe that were no less human and melodramatic, like Doom Patrol, Metal Men, and Metamorpho. The Legion stories were less frenetic and dynamic in tone and style than Marvel’s, yes, but the emotions in them were no less powerful. I think it can be argued that the formalism of the DC house style, exemplified by the precise, but subdued, pencils of Curt Swan and earlier on, by the stiffness of John Forte’s art, may have actually contributed to the power of the emotions conveyed in the stories. Where the Torch and the Thing routinely went ballistic, and Sue Storm and Reed Richards wore their hearts on their sleeves and spoke in fluent soap-opera-ese (Like so many other Marvel characters), the Legionnaires suffered in silence, stoically, complete with the requisite > chokes< and > sighs< of the Silver Age at DC. Neither approach is preferable; truth be told, Marvel and DC each could have used a goodly portion of what the other was serving. The restraint that was a part of the emotional lives of the Legion was also applied to the world they inhabited. Monsters, creatures, non-human races, and other civilizations were nothing like their counterparts at Marvel. Where Kirby’s creatures could barely be contained within the borders of a page, Swan and Forte were regimented, rarely going beyond standard window-pane page layouts. Not until young Jim Shooter came aboard did the 25th century begin to look less like a 1950s movie and take on more of the epic quality Kirby brought to virtually everything he ever drew. Even then, though, most planets were Earthlike in culture and political structure; the bad guys were essentially standard-issue SF super-villains types who could have been bedeviling Superman or the Flash; and the plots were often based on romance comic tropes like jealousy, doubt, betrayal, revenge, infatuation, and the never-ending war between the sexes. Considering the likely audience for the Legion, this is just the kind of milieu you’d’ve expected. But however unsophisticated all of that might appear to contemporary fans, it was fun, because at the time, there really was no genuine emotion in DC’s superhero comics, outside of the Weisinger Superman line, that is. And the emotional meltdowns that were such a part of those comics inevitably made the characters -- Superman, Lana Lang, Jimmy Olsen, and the Lane sisters, Lois and Lucy were the usual suspects – come across as puerile, histrionic, and asinine. Because they were acting like teenagers. Which made no sense to me. In the Legion, on the other hand, all those kinds of behaviors were much more palatable, since the Legion was at heart a Superhero Club made up of young teens. Unlike the man- and woman-babies in the Superman line, the Legionnaires were young kids; they were supposed to act stupid and immature. "All of you guys are YOKO!" Cliques are dangerous.Oddly enough, this made the series more realistic, even in the pre-Shooter days. Shooter certainly upped the ante on a lot of what made the Legion fun. The romances became more interesting, the characters developed more personality, and there were more alien races bent on domination. That last may have been a reaction to the kind of space-spanning sagas spun by Stan and Jack, but even in his space opera tales, Shooter and Swan told them in human-sized proportions; there were no Daliesque Negative Zones, no photo-collages of the vastness of space, no hierarchy of immense cosmic beings like the Watcher, Galactus, and the Stranger. The cosmos in Adventure Comics The cosmos in Fantastic Four
Outside of Mordru and the Time Trapper, I don’t think the LSH had a nemesis who was of the species Cosmicus Sapiens Marvelus. (Validus was just a big dude.) The closest Shooter came to a Galactus figure was the Sun-Eater, and he was portrayed not as an eternal celestial essence, but as a kind of outer space version of the shark in Jaws. The Legion vs. the Sun-Eater Teenage behavior in the e30th centuryThe tight-lipped fortitude of the Legionnaires served them well. They endured and bore up without snapping… or at least not every other page in every single issue as the FF seemed to. The Legion had a job to do and they did it. No whimpering, no whining. So, to summarize: why did I love the Legion? Let me count the ways… 1) To reiterate, the Legionnaires acted like teenagers. Unlike the Teen Titans, who talked the way Bob Haney thought teenagers talked, the Legionnaires spoke the King’s English, even if they hailed from Titan or Zoon or Bgtzl. But, much credit to their early chroniclers, Edmond Hamilton and Jerry Siegel, they acted like teenagers. They formed cliques, clung to their significant others, lost their tempers, stalked off in fits of pique, stoked the fires of secret crushes, and though they were often misunderstood by adults, they rarely gave each other the benefit of the doubt, either, instead tending to gang upon any Legionnaire who acted in a way they thought was un-Legionnairey. And they loved rules and fairness, no matter how absurdly they had to twist into pretzel shapes to see the rules allowed. 2) Characters and costumes. I don’t think any series had ever had the number of regular costumed characters that the Legion did. You had a couple of dozen Legionnaires, six Substitutes, the five heroes of Lallor, a half-dozen in the Legion of Super-Villains, seven Wanderers, and of course, the Fatal Five. Not to mention a host of Legion rejects, a batch of one-time guest stars in full regalia (e.g. Jungle Lord and Magnetic Kid), and the Science Police. It was a perfect way to toss in any number of the kinds of uni-powered heroes that twelve-year-old kids invent, but that would never be able to be the star of a comic, and toss them into stories. 3) The stories were a nice mix of “save-the-universe” tales and soapy melodrama. It was a delicate balance that kept the title from getting too predictable, and often the melodramatic aspects slipped not the epics, which was great. 4) Despite the enormous number of characters, and despite the three (at least) tiers of heroes in the Legion (like all high school kids, the Legionnaires belonged to tribes), readers liked them all, either because they were big guns (Mon-El and Saturn Girl) or because they were, well, weird (Bouncing Boy and Matter-Eater Lad.) 5) We readers got to vote for the Legion leader. Pretty cool. 6) There were some seriously good stories: the two-issue battle vs. Computo the Conqueror; the saga of Lightning Lad’s trials and his eventual resurrection; “The Lone Wolf Legionnaire;”* the trial of Star Boy; the battle against the Sun-Eater; and the dramatic debut of Mordru jump to mind. Mordru visits Smallville Computo, the "heartless jukebox" "Call me Superboy." You used to be our friend, Star Boy, but we may have to kick you out of our club.
7) Unlike virtually every other DC comic, there was a great deal of attention paid to continuity. Only in the Legion strip was the date of the year in which the stories took place identified; it was always a thousand years after the year in which they were published. It was as if these adventures, unlike those of any other DC characters’, were taking place almost in real time. This only makes sense, because the Legionnaires were teenagers, and those teenage years end when you turn 20. NERD ALERT: I looked through the Legion Constitution, and though it does not state that you had to leave when you “aged out” of your teens, I always got the impression from the stories that this was a club for kids and kids alone. That’s why there was an Adult Legion, after all. 8) Running beneath the surface of the entire Legion saga was the notion that the Legion had a chip on its collective shoulder. It smacked a little of the chutzpah displayed by Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in movies like Babes in Arms: “Hey, you adults, you ain’t so perfect. We can show you all a thing or two, even though we may be just kids!” In the end, it seems, the Legionnaires just wanted to do what all kids have always wanted to do: prove to an often dismissive adult world that they were capable of adult behavior and achievements. *A classic teen romance story between the quiet girl and the JD. You could just about hear Light Lass singing, "My folks were always putting him down; They said he came from the wrong side of town. They told me he was bad, but I knew he was sad. That's why I fell for the leader of the pack." "He's bad, but he's good-bad..."
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Post by beccabear67 on Jun 28, 2018 13:35:44 GMT -5
There was depth and cosmic grandeur alluded to in those comics, and sometimes more than alluded to. I felt like there was space to enhance things as a reader in your own imagination that maybe other/later/supposedly better comics lacked. The X-Men had that teen club appeal originally too but lost it somewhere, obviously it was completely gone by 1975 up to when Kitty Pryde was introduced (at Jim Shooter's instigation by the way that it be a 'school' again). And then there was 'the planetary chance machine', eep! Edmond Hamilton was/is one of my all-time favorite sf writers however.
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Post by brutalis on Jun 28, 2018 14:07:52 GMT -5
You hit it on the proverbial nail head Prince Hal that the Legion appealed to the young teen better than most any other comic book series ever did. When I found the LOSH I was instantly hooked and enjoyed that it "spoke" to me in a way that was different from the other comic book heroes did. It reflected the joys many of us found entering into junior high and high school as our limited social practices began to expand and take in a larger variety of learning and people. Like the Legion did, suddenly I was part of something vaster and grander in scale in high school during my teens. I was growing and learning as an individual and as a part of a group interaction. Growing up in a localized area I was limited to one large neighborhood with no access to other parts of the larger city until I was allowed to ride the newly enlarged bus system as i began high school. That opened new doors for me with lots of adventures as I could travel and meet and see new people outside my own community section. I could connect with the concepts and ideas being explored in the pages of the LOSH that I was reading. This was a time when my own world was suddenly exploding with new things. I was delving deeply into history/historical writings and devouring anything on mythology and foreign cultures while learning to enjoy different forms of writing and specific authors i didn't have access to in our limited school library. Science Fiction was becoming a large portion of my reading and viewing (thank you to Mr. Roddenberry's Star Trek) providing me with all sorts of newer concepts and considerations. All the different powers,cultures and races found in the LOSH spoke to me of a greater world outside of my own home boundaries. The urge to explore and expand my own personal universe was helped by my reading the Legion's adventures...
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Post by rberman on Jun 28, 2018 17:26:29 GMT -5
A Comic Fan’s Memories, Part 30 The Lure of the Legion (Part Two)1) To reiterate, the Legionnaires acted like teenagers. Unlike the Teen Titans, who talked the way Bob Haney thought teenagers talked, the Legionnaires spoke the King’s English, even if they hailed from Titan or Zoon or Bgtzl. But, much credit to their early chroniclers, Edmond Hamilton and Jerry Siegel, they acted like teenagers. They formed cliques, clung to their significant others, lost their tempers, stalked off in fits of pique, stoked the fires of secret crushes, and though they were often misunderstood by adults, they rarely gave each other the benefit of the doubt, either, instead tending to gang upon any Legionnaire who acted in a way they thought was un-Legionnairey. And they loved rules and fairness, no matter how absurdly they had to twist into pretzel shapes to see the rules allowed. 2) Characters and costumes. I don’t think any series had ever had the number of regular costumed characters that the Legion did. You had a couple of dozen Legionnaires, six Substitutes, the five heroes of Lallor, a half-dozen in the Legion of Super-Villains, seven Wanderers, and of course, the Fatal Five. Not to mention a host of Legion rejects, a batch of one-time guest stars in full regalia (e.g. Jungle Lord and Magnetic Kid), and the Science Police... 3) The stories were a nice mix of “save-the-universe” tales and soapy melodrama. It was a delicate balance that kept the title from getting too predictable, and often the melodramatic aspects slipped not the epics, which was great. 4) Despite the enormous number of characters, and despite the three (at least) tiers of heroes in the Legion (like all high school kids, the Legionnaires belonged to tribes), readers liked them all, either because they were big guns (Mon-El and Saturn Girl) or because they were, well, weird (Bouncing Boy and Matter-Eater Lad.) 5) We readers got to vote for the Legion leader. Pretty cool. 6) There were some seriously good stories: the two-issue battle vs. Computo the Conqueror; the saga of Lightning Lad’s trials and his eventual resurrection; “The Lone Wolf Legionnaire;”* the trial of Star Boy; the battle against the Sun-Eater; and the dramatic debut of Mordru jump to mind. 7) Unlike virtually every other DC comic, there was a great deal of attention paid to continuity. Only in the Legion strip was the date of the year in which the stories took place identified; it was always a thousand years after the year in which they were published. It was as if these adventures, unlike those of any other DC characters’, were taking place almost in real time... 8) Running beneath the surface of the entire Legion saga was the notion that the Legion had a chip on its collective shoulder. It smacked a little of the chutzpah displayed by Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in movies like Babes in Arms: “Hey, you adults, you ain’t so perfect. We can show you all a thing or two, even though we may be just kids!” In the end, it seems, the Legionnaires just wanted to do what all kids have always wanted to do: prove to an often dismissive adult world that they were capable of adult behavior and achievements. When I came to comics as a kid in the late 1970s, I had access to my older cousin's trove, almost all DC, heavy on pre-Shooter LSH in some combination of original issues and "52 pages for 25 cents" reprints. In retrospect, I think that the author was working out his own frustrations with feeling ostracized in high school. The very first LSH story sets the tone: What if there was a club so exclusive that even Superboy wasn't cool enough to be in it? How terrible he'd feel! Then when rejection turns out to be a practical joke at his expense, he's not mad at the cool kids who toyed with him; he's grateful to be inducted into their hazing society, which appears to have no purpose except to induct (or refuse to induct) and then expell members. (Superboy also plays a prank back on them to get even, which apparently is how to solve conflict in the 30th century.) Most of the stories are about "why are my so-called friends so mean to me?" (answers: mind control, alien doppelganger, temporary insanity, a test for them, a test for me, the only way to protect me from a greater harm, All a Big Misunderstanding, etc.) Looking at these as a set, I'm struck by how often Sun Boy was the source of the drama in one way or another. I think you nailed it when you made the connection to romance comics. These stories are transitionary between the romance and super-hero genres, with Jim Shooter's advent as writer firmly marking the ascendance of heroics over hurt feelings as the primary source of dramatic tension.
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