HOW THE JLI CURED A CHRONIC CASE OF MARVEL ZOMBIFICATION

The fog of memory has somewhat obscured my first exposure to American comics, but I know that Marvel was my first love – it was either a handful of Avengers, Iron Man and Ghost Rider issues from a jumble sale; the first issue of Mighty World of Marvel (a UK reprint title, the first issue of which began X-Men’s Days of Future Past storyline); or #2 of the UK Secret Wars reprints.

[insert wibbly-wobbly flashback effect here]

Back then, mid-to-late ’80s, pre-internet, there was an insular tribalism to comics fans (totally unlike today’s open-minded fans, of course). I was Marvel. All my comic-reading friends were Marvel. The only people who liked DC were… well, a complete mystery to us. Marvel was inherently and self-evidently cool. Marvel was misunderstood loners, outcasts, outlaws, boozing, brawling demigods and haughty, ankle-winged fish-men. To us, DC was a combination of both dull and silly – stoic, barrel-chested, moralising paragons of virtue, who could lift planets or had magic rings and lassos or could run faster than light, engaged in childishly simple battles of good vs. evil. It was a whole ’nother world, one that in our youthful ignorance we mocked from afar without knowing a bloody thing about it. We were well into comics when Crisis happened. When Byrne’s Man of Steel dropped. When Perez launched Wonder Woman. When Vertigo began. But we never even noticed. Who could be enticed to cross the ultramenstruum when there were Claremont’s X-Men, Byrne’s FF and Stern’s Avengers to read? The only DC title to sneak under our radar was The Dark Knight Returns – one copy passed around the school, almost illicitly, like erotica found stashed in a thicket. Apart from that, it was all Marvel, all the time.

Until the ’90s. While not as comprehensively disastrous as their reputation would have you believe, these years were as unkind to Marvel comics as the ’80s were to jazz. My beloved X-Men in particular were badly hit. Things started to unravel around Inferno, but following the departure of Chris Claremont, after 17 years on the title, three issues into the new adjectiveless series, the title went into a horrible, disastrous tailspin of poor writing, macho posturing, godawful XTREME art and charmless crap. I stopped buying X-Men. I stopped buying Marvel. I stopped buying comics completely.

Unglaublich. 

But the urge never quite leaves, does it? And one day I found myself in our small-town comic shop. Well, not even a comic shop. Largely a roleplaying/wargaming shop with two or three longboxes of back issues tucked away in a corner. But you take what you can get. The owner was a lovely guy, a good friend, but the downside of being on first-name terms with a shop owner is that popping in for an idle browse to pass the time also entails a certain pressure to buy something. And so it was that, pretty much solely motivated by the desire to avoid embarrassment, I picked up two DC comics: Justice League #3 and #4, which came out approx. six years earlier (1987). I’d done a nice thing, but at what cost? I had crossed the Rubicon. Turned to the dark side. May Galactus have mercy on my traitorous soul.

The seeds of my downfall.

So why pick up these issues, as opposed to anything else in that box? For starters, two great covers, with beautifully clear, uncluttered and distinct artwork. They were physical and expressive, full of realistic proportions and relatable gestures – a far cry from the exaggerated Liefeld/Macfarlane-isms that had come to dominate ’90s Marvel comics. The colour palette was also appealing, bold but subdued, a version of reality only slightly enhanced. This art lives and breathes. Both covers outline a story, too. One shows a team in peril, surrounded by Soviet robots, or maybe men in armoured suits, backed up against a wire fence on which hang warnings of nuclear radiation. The other shows a team defeated, a lone figure left to fight an unseen, towering opponent. But in both cases – who was this team? I knew Batman, of course. And was vaguely aware of Captain Marvel and Green Lantern – though not this ginger-haired guy in the flashy jacket. But who were the others? The Justice League, at least as I was vaguely aware of it, was Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash… Who the hell is Booster Gold? Or Blue Beetle? And what kind of vainglorious fool would call himself Mister Miracle? Danger, intrigue, a combination of the familiar and the mysterious, and gorgeous art… who could possibly resist that, even if it was *shudder* the dreaded DC?

Who are you people?

The interiors were no less revelatory. The tone of these issues was quite unlike anything I’d ever read at Marvel – an instantly compelling combination of warm human foible and upfront superhuman action. This series is renowned for its humorous approach, but in these early issues at least, it’s not silly. The humour stems from interaction and friction between a disparate group of characters, but the situations they find themselves in here are actually pretty grave – #3 revolves around the Cold War arms race, mutually assured destruction and nuclear meltdown. But nevertheless, these characters seemed like people first, superheroes second, even though they only appeared in costume. I’d get to know their names later, but right from the beginning these characters were Scott and J’onn and Ted and Dinah, rather than their own colourful alter-egos. The combination of J.M. DeMatteis’s snappy conversational dialogue and Kevin Maguire’s astounding knack for naturalistic facial expressions and communicative body language brought them to unprecedentedly vivid life. Take the scene where Blue Beetle and Black Canary, despite the present danger, forget themselves for a moment and discuss the work of Dostoevsky. It’s from this collision between the everyday and the extranormal that the best Justice League stories emerge.

While the humanity is bold and upfront in these two issues, they also excel when it comes to action. The sequence in #3 where the League try and fight off the Rocket Reds using minimal force (mostly) is a fantastic showcase of the Leaguers’ capabilities and personalities – from jingoistic arsehole Guy Gardner’s unbridled joy at the opportunity to beat up Russians; to the Martian Manhunter’s swift retrieval of the rogue Green Lantern; to Black Canary’s brutally efficient rooftop takedown; and Mister Miracle’s attempt at détente, following his barely concealed delight at completing another miraculous escape. #4 is even more action-packed, consisting of a long fight between Booster Gold (being foisted on the League against their will by then-mysterious corporate interloper Maxwell Lord) and the Royal Flush Gang. Some great moments here, as the cocky show-off Gold takes down the gang with only minimal difficulty (and a couple of blows to the head). However, he is defeated by the gang’s literal Ace in the hole (a giant adaptive robot), and the League charge ineffectively into the fray, with powerhouses J’onn J’onzz, Captain Marvel and Guy Gardner despatched with alarming ease, while Mister Miracle’s technological hubris takes a beating of its own. It eventually falls to Blue Beetle and Booster Gold to defeat the awesome android in a historic first team-up that foreshadows their future friendship.

Two hugely enjoyable issues in their own right, then, but their impact on me personally was enormous. Firstly, they brought to my attention some characters that would become very close to my heart – like Beetle and Booster, naturally, Black Canary, Captain Marvel. And Mister Miracle was a particularly fascinating character… despite the stupid name and possibly one of the worst costumes I’ve ever seen, somewhat reminiscent of throwaway Fantastic Four character Captain Ultra in its obscene gaudiness. His abilities were vague, potentially rooted in tech and weaponry, but there were hints that he’s far more than just a mere gadget man (as Miracle attempts to fly into a reactor in the midst of meltdown, Batman stops him, saying ‘Not even you could get out of there alive’). He spoke of things like the fire pits of Apokolips and a place called New Genesis, but the lack of explanation suggested that this stuff was assumed common knowledge. Scott Free, as presented on these pages, hinted at a rich, broad mythology, and would eventually lead to my discovery of and infatuation with all things Fourth World and Kirbyesque. 

But it was J’onn J’onzz who completely stole the show, despite (or because of) the fact that he did next to nothing in either issue. His appeal for me was summed up by a parody in Marvel’s humour comic What The…?!, where the Marshmallow Manhunter was depicted ‘reading the latest Just-A-League to  find out what my powers are – if any!’ In amongst all these quippy, bantering, brightly costumed humans stood a stoic, eloquent, imposing and clearly well-respected seven-foot green dude who exuded quiet dignity and a commanding presence. The lack of substantial information about this curious background figure planted a maddening seed in my brain, and over the next decade and more, as I attempted to track down all of his modern appearances, he gradually became my favourite comics character of all time. I may be a Marvel kid at heart, but my true allegiance is to Mars.

More broadly, these two issues showed me that I’d been completely wrong about DC. It was far from staid and boring, far from silly and simplistic. It was a universe that was just as rich and colourful and complex and multi-faceted as Marvel – maybe more so. If, after Marvel had gone downhill, #3 and #4 had not found their way into my hands out of sheer social awkwardness, I might never have crossed that line in the sand to DC. I might never have read all-time great series like Suicide Squad or Flash or the Five-Year Legion or L.E.G.I.O.N or JSA or Crisis or Animal Man or countless others. I might still dismiss DC as a lesser counterpart to Marvel, rather than a complementary entity. In fact, I might never have returned to comics at all. The longboxes in the wardrobe, the piles of comics by the bed, the sagging bookshelves of graphic novels – they’re all the fault of Giffen, DeMatteis, Maguire and a big green bloke wearing a mankini. 

(originally published on the Big Glasgow Comic Page)

A FAREWELL TO MARS

Welcome, friends, fiends and foes alike, to the salubrious confines of the BARGAIN BASEMENT OF DOOOOOM. This week’s celebration of unloved inexpensive obscurities marks the final instalment of my magnificently moreish mighty MARTIAN MANHUNTER month. Specifically, the 2006–7 eight-issue limited series by writer A.J. Lieberman (Batman: Gotham Nights, Harley Quinn) and penciller Al Barrionuevo (Batman: Gotham Nights, The Authority, X-Men). Plus inks by Bit, colours by Marta Martinez and letters by Travis Lanham – isn’t it odd how we comic types often overlook the efforts of the finishing team? 

By the time 2006 rolled around, J’onn J’onzz had undergone a few changes. In the wake of the traumatising events of Infinite Crisis, 52 and, particularly, World War III, he had become increasingly disillusioned with and disconnected from humanity. His solo series actually began with a chapter in DC’s 2006 Brave New World anthology, in which J’onn, masquerading as an agent from the DEO (Department of Extra-normal Operations), meets a man who has found a strange medallion that fell from the sky. J’onn recognises it as a Martian artefact, meaning that he may not be the last of his kind, not alone on Earth. He is shaken by the revelation, and when next we see him he has fully embraced his heritage, suddenly appearing in public in his natural, pointy-headed form, wearing some brand-spanking-new, slightly BDSMish Martian strides – his first costume change in 50 years.

J’onn’s traditional, minimal pants-and-braces garb had survived that long for a reason – while not exactly a design classic, there’s a certain elegant, almost naïve simplicity to it, not to mention a quiet confidence. He doesn’t need to update his costume to move with the times, because, as a giant, bright green, hairless, centuries-old alien, he transcends notions of fashion and cool. That said, I actually quite liked the new costume on an aesthetic level, although being clad in blue-black and red leather from the beautiful pea-green chin south does convey a different, more remote and alien image – quite pointedly so. 

Leading directly out of Brave New World, the series itself is essentially an espionage/sci-fi thriller. The discovery of the medallion leads J’onn to a group of incarcerated Martians, who may not be all they seem. Along the way, he becomes mired in a shadowy conspiracy, is hunted by government operatives and his fellow heroes, and crosses a few long-held moral rubicons too. As an odd twist, the human supporting cast have distractingly familiar names – Giggs, Ferguson, Keane, a female agent called Rio Ferdinand… As a walking, talking geek cliché, I know little about sport, and rank football somewhere between nasal torture and bathing in dead badgers in the panoply of experiences this world has to offer, but even I recognise that lot.

Much as this foray through J’onn’s solo books has been a delightful indulgence for me personally, it’s true to say we’re not necessarily going out on a high note here. I have mixed feelings about this series. On the plus side, Barrionuevo’s art is largely excellent – at its best it recalls, even approaches the diligent and stylish drama of Ivan Reis or J.G. Jones. On the other hand, it sometimes looks weirdly awkward or hurried… in particular, the perspective of J’onn’s sizeable noggin appears to present almost insurmountable challenges when in three-quarter view. Story-wise, it’s an engaging enough mystery, even if the supposed twist in the tale is both predictable and extremely tired. And there are some great scenes – despite a tense build-up, a confrontation between J’onn, his friends and some leaguers (Green Lantern, Zatanna, Green Arrow, Vixen, Black Canary) is all over extremely, derisively quickly, and off-panel to boot, the crushing of puny pink humans a foregone conclusion.   

However, J’onn’s characterisation and his inner struggle – do his loyalties lie with Earth or Mars? – don’t quite ring true. He’s suffered far worse tragedies than any of his peers can imagine, yet has for the most part remained a gentle, noble soul whose strength is his compassion. He’s always been a lonely, isolated figure, but has often made the hard choice to side with his adopted home, rather than accept easy and familiar companionship. Here, however, weakened by fresh tragedies (such as the Infinite Crisis-era deaths of Blue Beetle and Maxwell Lord), the pull of his race is stronger than ever, and his essential empathy with humanity dwindles. This is why the new, bad-ass, leather-clad, pointy-headed J’onn who breaks the rules to get the job done, goddammit, though superficially cool, just doesn’t feel like the Martian Manhunter. Rather than a fresh direction, it comes across like a phase, a mid-life crisis. It’s the last-son-of-Mars equivalent of a Harley Davidson and a toupée. 

And indeed, it wouldn’t last long. The events implied at the end of series go absolutely nowhere, and this incarnation of the Alien Atlas would soon meet an untimely and brutal end in the first issue of Final Crisis. As upsetting as this was at the time for fans of the Manhunter, it now seems like a kindness. It’s almost as if this act of aliencide was Grant Morrison – whose portrayal of J’onn in JLA is pretty damn definitive – killing off the grim conehead story and providing the opportunity for a purifying rebirth (which would, of course, be provided by DC’s arch-necromancer Geoff Johns a few years later).

However, in a further twist, the New 52 incarnation of J’onn appears to be a reversion to this short-lived detached, angry, clandestine outsider with suspect motives. Which, y’know, is fine… but he’s not really the big guy I know and love.

Thank you for reading, and for your patience while I’ve indulged my love of all things green and Martianful.

Next time: SOMETHING ELSE. 

(originally published on The Big Glasgow Comic Page)