SO ARE ATLANTEANS MAMMALS OR NOT?

Greetings friends and fiends. Let me take you by your unkempt woolly paws and lead you into the fetid confines of the Bargain Basement of Dooooom – an exploration of the backwaters of comics history, uncovering the glittering shitters to be found for scraps and pennies in the discount bins. This week it’s an unsung treasure from 2005–6: DEFENDERS. 

This five-issue mini-series reunited (more or less) the classic line-up of Marvel’s original loose gathering of loners: Doctor Strange, Namor, Hulk and Silver Surfer. So far, so blaaah. Despite the big-name cast, even in its heyday, the original Defenders title was often a workmanlike but uninspiring read. What differentiates this latterday take is its unusual creative team – writers J.M. DeMatteis and Keith Giffen (a multi-talented type, who even drew Defenders back in the ’70s) and penciller extraordinaire Kevin Maguire. In keeping with the reunion theme, this trio were the brains and digits behind the groundbreaking 1980s Justice League run. And you know how good that is, right? Right.

Those familiar with their work will surmise correctly that Defenders is not an entirely serious and reverent book. The non-team’s non-members were never exactly bosom buddies, and here their antipathy is pretty much the star of the show. Many of the plentiful acres of dialogue are given over to bickering, insults, snips, snipes and jibes between the protagonists. These writers have always favoured characters, gags and idle banter over plot – and with Maguire’s uncanny skill at rendering facial expressions at their disposal, who could blame them? And yet, like the best of the JL era, the silliness is offset by strong, pacy and surprisingly high-stakes storytelling.

The dastardly plot: By means of various mystical contrivances, Strange’s feckless arch-nemesis, the Dread Dormammu, accompanied by his libidinous, Machiavellian sister Umar, manages to kick the crap out of Eternity, the living embodiment of the Universe and goes on to reshape all creation in his depraved, pitiless image, complete with warped S&M versions of the Marvel roster. It falls to Strange, Namor and Banner to take down a self-appointed god and restore everything that is.   

Must admit, I’ve never been overly fond of yon Sorcerer Supreme, but he’s a delight here – an appealing combination of absurdly pompous, charmingly manipulative and desperately pragmatic, all wrapped up in vintage Clark Gable chic. And the Doc can make with some serious vintage Ditko-esque psychedelic hoodoo when he needs to. As for the Hulk, well… suffice to say that this series will satisfy the curiosity of those who’ve ever wondered what he’d look like basking in post-coital afterglow. All three of you.

And then there’s Namor. Those who share my affinity for the Avenging Son will devour every moment of his generous panel time he gets here. Even haughtier and more arrogant than usual, this version of the Sub-Mariner is an intolerable scene-stealing amphibious arsehole par excellence. And this is, for me, his definitive visual realisation – superhumanly confident, visibly slippery, supremely arched of eyebrow, and ostentatiously lacking in nipples, which both raises and answers several questions about Atlantean childrearing.

On the downside, devotees of Norrin Radd won’t be best pleased. Barely in the book at all, played entirely for (weak) laughs and thoroughly out of character, the Surfer gets a really raw deal, his negligible presence something of a pustulent blemish on an otherwise great little run. It’s easy to ignore his scenes, so let’s do just that. Whose scenes? Exactly.  

Finally, Giffen and DeMatteis’s writing is as fun and snappy and exciting and gleefully stupid as you’d expect, but it’s Maguire’s art that really makes this book a must-read. Take the best of his outstanding and characterful 1980s JL work, add two decades of improvement and the throbbingly vibrant 21st-century colour work of Chris Sotomayor, and you’ve got something that fair bounds from the page and into your eyeball.

’Til next time… happy rummaging, cheapskates.

(originally published on The Big Glasgow Comic Page)

WE WHO ARE ABOUT TO BECOME SMOKING PUDDLES

Greetings, true believers and mendacious sceptics alike.

Allow me to introduce myself. I’m M’att M’atzz and this is yet another bloody blog about comics, on which I shall occasionally ramble about things that have passed before my eyes in my 30-odd years as a reader, collector and obsessive.

The first few instalments are modified versions of articles previously published by The Big Glasgow Comic Page, as part of a series called ‘Bargain Basement of Dooooom’. The aim is to highlight to some of the golden nuggets you might find sitting neglected amid the fetid dregs of the discount bins and clearance longboxes. These are the titans of the 50p box, the heroes of the three-issues-for-a-quid heap. The underrated, the untraded and the unsung. The ugly, the unsure and the completely invisible.

First up, for your delectation, I present Strikeforce: Morituri. Written by Peter B. Gillis (Micronauts, What If?, Defenders) and drawn by Brent Anderson (no, not the guy from Suede, but the outstanding artist of X-Men: God Loves, Man Kills and later Astro City), this sci-fi tale spanned 31 issues between 1986 and 1989.

Existing entirely outside of Marvel 616 continuity (aside from a couple of cheeky Easter eggs), S:M has a simple but intriguing concept. Earth is under siege from ravaging aliens. To repel them, an experimental process has been developed that gives people potent metahuman abilities – but there’s a sizeable catch. The process invariably kills the volunteers – messily, mind – within one year.

Despite the big concept, this is very much a character-driven series. Gillis throws together a bunch of naïve young recruits, who we follow from introduction through training to deployment – and eventual demise. Not just anyone can volunteer, as the Morituri process only works on the few people with compatible DNA. Instead of a bunch of gung-ho badass scrappers, we get a motley crew, including a promising young writer, a devout Christian, a self-described wallflower. The series ruminates on themes of sacrifice, change, death and what constitutes a meaningful life. What motivates these people to pay the ultimate price? Altruism? Glory? Self-realisation? Anger? How will their decision affect their lives? And what goes through the minds of those who send these young people to their fates?

It’s not all mordant philosophising though – after all, there’s an enemy to fight, and the Horde comprise a particularly foul and unconscionable antagonist. This lot resemble a distorted reflection of a Dr Seuss creature – think a bunch of jowly, shaved Sneetches adorned with pet spider crabs and the skulls of their enemies. There’s plenty of brutal battles here, and it’s not long before S:M lives up to its tagline – ‘We Who are About to Die’ (based on the pre-combat mantra of Imperial Rome’s gladiators). It’s pretty clear that not only are no characters safe, but no one is getting out of this alive.

With its big sci-fi concept, imaginative, understated powers (particularly the quietly intriguing but effective analytical abilities of Adept) and, most importantly, relatable, sympathetic characters, S:M was a compelling, if under-the-radar series. And Anderson’s art is superb throughout. Clearly an admirer of Neal Adams, his work is solid and dynamic, clear and expressive, with occasional flashes of layout brilliance. For me, the emotional, explosive, multi-faceted climax of #12 is possibly the greatest single page of Anderson’s career.

Naturally, Strikeforce: Morituri’s focus on mortality gave the series an in-built shelf life. By the end of the first year, most of the original cast were little more than smoking puddles (hardly a spoiler, given the circumstances), and the series started to get a bit stale, giving way to a steady stream of paper-thin, unlikeable and similarly doomed replacement characters. After Gillis and Anderson’s final issue (#20), the creative team changed and the series became both unreadable and visually hideous. But those first 12 issues are very highly recommended, and the next eight are worth your pennies too.