Godzilla vs. Fantastic Four

Anybody who knows how much I love comics also knows how much I wear my heart on my sleeve where the Marvel Comics' series Godzilla King of the Monsters is concerned. It's easily the best series of my youth and firmly in my top-five favorite series ever. 

So I was excited to see the original 24 issues reprinted last year in a deluxe hardcover edition and even more excited to learn of a new six-issue series featuring Godzilla and some of the luminaries in Marvel's stable. The first of these is Godzilla vs. Fantastic Four. (Spoilers ahead!)

First, it's obvious the creators went all-in to make Godzilla an integral part of the Marvel Universe, in much the same way that DC did last year with Justice League vs. Godzilla vs. Kong.  This issue includes not just the Big G and Marvel's cosmic-powered quartet, but also Silver Surfer, King Ghidorah, and even a cameo by Galactus. 

The story takes place shortly after Godzilla's first movie appearance. Readers learn very early (page one, panel two, as a matter of fact) that the Fantastic Four tried to help Tokyo during that initial cinematic encounter but arrived too late. Now Godzilla is back, attacking New York City, so Reed, Sue, Ben, and Johnny have a second chance. 

This scenario sets the stage for an issue that is almost entirely action, exactly what most readers want from a pairing of these properties. An added wrinkle comes from the news that King Ghidorah, the three-headed hydra from Toho Productions, is the new herald of Galactus. Thus, it will require the combined might of the FF and the Silver Surfer, Galactus's former herald, to stop him. 

The story goes down smooth and is fun to read. Writer Ryan North has captured the dynamics of the FF's relationships during the Silver Age—the uber-intellectual Reed, the bantering Johnny/Ben dynamic—while modernizing Sue Storm to make her far more capable than she ever was in the early years of the strip. 

One big caveat—and it may be more a matter of editorial dictate than a flaw in North's script—is that nothing in the story makes it abundantly clear this is all happening in the past. Maybe Marvel doesn't want to call attention to the age of its most popular properties, maybe the powers-that-be thought a story spread across six decades would lose dramatic immediacy, or maybe the whole story-across-decades idea is meant to be more of an Easter Egg than a bonafide plot point. 

However, the only real indication I had about the timeframes being adjusted from issue to issue came from the house ad on the back cover: "Godzilla takes on the Marvel Universe across the eras!" The story itself takes a far more subtle approach: the bathtub-shaped Fantasticar and Sue's hairstyle are tipoffs that this isn't happening in contemporary continuity, but it wasn't until a reference by Ben to the Silver Surfer being exiled to Earth that I really figured out the timeframe. (Maybe I'm dense, too—always a possibility.)

Part of the problem is the artwork. It's fashionable in some quarters to slam John Romita Jr., and that's not what I'm doing here. He's a great artist, and pairing him this issue with inker Scott Hanna makes for some clean, easy-to-follow artwork. However, nothing about the visuals screams Silver or Bronze age. Sadly, not many artists from this period are still alive and/or working, so the best readers can hope for is art that replicates that past glory. And this issue, as fun as it is to look at, simply doesn't capture that era.  

Regardless, I'm onboard for all six issues. Here's hoping for a bombastic battle between Godzilla and the Hulk later in April! 

Batman's Strangest Cases

Unlike my previous tabloid-sized purchase, Batman's Strangest Cases wasn't part of my childhood collection. I had never heard of the book until DC reprinted it in March. 

The moody cover—"moody" if you consider comic book pages blowing across a darkened urban landscape to be sinister, I guess—promises "The Greatest Batman Stories Ever Published," a bit of hyperbole considering all five of the stories contained within were relatively new when this collection was released in 1978. Unusual for the time, the creators are listed out front, and it is a murderer's row of talent: Denny O'Neil (who writes three of the stories), Neal Adams, Len Wein, Bernie Wrightson, Frank Robbins, Dick Giordano, and Irv Novick. How recognizable these names were to newsstand patrons of the time is unknown. 

The stories are all Bronze-Age fun, situated in the period where Batman was receiving the serious treatment by DC, but before he became the grim-and-gritty poster-child of the late 1980s to today. 

My favorite story in the volume is the first, "Red Water Crimson Death," a team-up of sorts between the Dark Knight and Cain, host of DC's long-running House of Mystery anthology series. The latter stays in character throughout, breaking the fourth wall to narrate and offer sly asides to the audience, thus eschewing the caption boxes so prevalent in most mainstream titles of the time. It's an exciting tale that takes Batman from the mean streets of Gotham to the shores of Scotland for a real gothic-inspired mystery. 

The second story is the oft-reprinted first meeting between Batman and Swamp Thing, from the seventh issue of Swampy's own book. The moody artwork by Wrightson is the main draw here (no pun intended), as I found the story didn't age as well as I thought it would. The visual of Swamp Thing in a yellow trenchcoat and fedora evokes memories of the golden age of detectives, which even in the 1970s was fading fast. A house ad at the end of the story promotes the second issue of The Original Swamp Thing Saga, a series of reprints that were my initial introduction to Len Wein and Wrightson's classic series. The wraparound cover depicts Swampy's battle with the Frankenstein Monster and Werewolf surrogates from issues three and four. 

The third story in Batman's Strangest Cases is "The Batman Nobody Knows." According to the opening caption box, "three ghetto-hardened kids" have joined Bruce Wayne on a camping expedition in the woods, a scenario that in our jaded twenty-first century feels suspect on its very face. The kids each share their impressions of Batman as crimefighter, supernatural force, etc., culminating in an appearance by the real deal, whom the kids write off as Bruce Wayne in a not-so-impressive costume. A funny little short, this one serves as a segue into the final two tales, both of which are fairly oozing with gothic trappings. 

In "The Demon of Gothos Mansion," our hero sets out to help Alfred Pennyworth's niece, who has taken a teaching job at a desolate estate "one hundred miles from the nearest town." Little does she—or Batman—know that she has been recruited to help bring to life a demon, Ballk, at the cost of her own life. Batman ingeniously escapes a death trap. More escapades ensue. 

The final entry, "A Vow from the Grave," involves a group of displaced circus performers (what we'd once uncharitably characterize as "freaks") and an escaped murderer. As with all the stories in this volume illustrated by Neal Adams and Dick Giordano, this one is saturated—almost literally, given the incessant rainfall—with atmosphere, making them great candidates for the giant-sized treatment in this volume. 

One refreshing aspect of all the stories is the way Batman is portrayed as fallible, albeit within the boundaries of pulpish fiction. In other words, he's a trained fighter who will come out on top by the end of every adventure (this is never in doubt), but he is by no means invincible. In "Red Water Crimson Death," a loose step leads a common thug to get the jump on him, causing Commissioner Gordon to insist that our hero go on a vacation. "You're no good to me dead!" Gordon exclaims. 

Similarly, Batman looks like he's putting in some effort to dispatch bad guys on a dock in the Swamp Thing story, while O'Neil sees fit to add a caption in "The Demon of Gothos Mansion" to explain how Batman's defeat of two country thugs, armed with a sycthe and axe, is possible only because of "long years" of training. In Batman stories of the last few decades, such victories are treated as foregone conclusions, and our hero would never be tripped up by something as mundane as a loose step. The character is poorer for being divorced from his roots as a regular person in a costume and elevated to near-deity status in today's comics and films. 

A final observation is how much narrative ground can be covered so quickly in these stories. It takes exactly one page of story to get Bruce Wayne from Gotham City to a secluded country estate in "The Demon of Gothos Mansion," an entire story that, in 15 pages, is a marvel of economy. Similar efficiency is evidenced in "A Vow from the Grave," which has the same truncated page count. I know it's Old Man Shouts at Cloud territory to bitch about decompression in modern comics—and, listen, I love a lot of modern books—but it's so refreshing to read a complete story in just one sitting. 

Overall, I really enjoyed Batman's Strangest Cases, three of which were brand-new to me. For $14.99, it was a fun stroll through the Bronze Age. 

Batman's "Special All-Villain Issue!"

  

The book above is my original, well-loved copy of Limited Collectors' Edition 37, better known as the Batman "Special All-Villain Issue" from 1975. The tabloid-sized comic has followed me across six houses and multiple milestones—pre-teen, teen, college student, single guy, married guy, father, and now empty-nester. 

As proof of its heavy usage, see my attempts to complete the word search on page 52. I never did find "(Mr.) Roulette." 

Having the answers on the inside back cover didn't help because I'd already cut up that page to make the 3-D diorama. 

The image above is DC's recent reprinting of the title, exact in every way except for the updated price and some tiny type identifying it as a product of 2025 (and the obligatory line about the book being released in a time when racism was more prevalent, which explains why it's full of nothing but white people). 

And can we take a moment to admire the draftsmanship of the incredible Jim Aparo on this cover? Wow! 

As I re-read these 64 pages of golden-age goodness, I was amazed at how many panels were still imprinted indelibly in my memory, fifty years later. 

This stunt by the Joker, which led to a bus careening off the road and killing all the passengers, is still horrifying. 

The Penguin's appearance is probably my least favorite of the "5 Thrilling Batman Tales" in the book, but I remember tracing this panel a time or two because I liked the trajectory of Batman's punch.

The reprint of a series of Sunday strips featuring Two-Face (but not the Harvey Dent version of the character) remains memorable because of a conclusion at a drive-in theater and the finality of the last panel.

Boys and girls, crime does not pay!

Contrast that Two-Face finale with the silliness of this Scarecrow takedown by the Boy Wonder (and a Bob Kane signature on a panel that he probably never came close to actually drawing). 

And, finally, we have Batman roping Catwoman to end her latest caper. 

All in all, it's a fantastic collection of vintage Batman material. To my seven-year-old self, however, everything was fresh off the showroom floor in a book that I inhaled as part of my comic-book DNA. 

Reading it again was fantastic, even if I didn't try the word search this time. 

Chasing the Boogeyman by Richard Chizmar

 

I've tried to avoid spoilers in the comments below, but readers may find Chasing the Boogeyman better experienced with fewer preconceived expectations. Just sayin'. 

In Chasing the Boogeyman (2021) author Richard Chizmar explores the fuzzy boundary between reality and fiction via his main character, author Richard Chizmar. 

Boogeyman is a recent example of a narrative sleight of hand extending back at least as far as Dante's Divine Comedy—the writer inserting himself or herself into the story. For Dante, that meant a trip through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, accompanied by a different guide for each leg of the journey. 

Pulp writer Edgar Rice Burroughs did something similar. He claimed in the opening pages of some John Carter of Mars and Pellucidar novels that the stories were manuscripts delivered into his hands by various means. While Burroughs wasn't a fully realized character in these stories in the same way Chizmar is in Chasing the Boogeyman, the earlier author used the trick in much the same way—to create an extra layer of reality around a fictional world. 

In comic books, this technique has been used sporadically, as well. Writer Stan Lee and artist Jack Kirby appeared at least twice in The Fantastic Four, first in issue 10 and then in the book's third annual. The standard conceit over the years is that the duo was merely chronicling the adventures of the real-life FF in comic-book format. Writer/artist John Byrne pulled a similar stunt several decades later, in issue 262, when The Watcher summons him to chronicle the trial of world-devouring Galactus. 

Back in the world of prose literature, Stephen King famously inserted himself as a character in the Dark Tower series, which has a special bearing on Chizmar, who has collaborated with the horror writer on multiple occasions and wears his admiration for King proudly on his sleeve. 

If the technique of authorial insertion has a specific name, I'm unaware of it. Surrogate author is close, but that involves a writer who creates an avatar (often with a different name) and then fictionalizes the stories involving that avatar. Metafiction most often means characters with a self-awareness of themselves as characters, something that doesn't really happen here. 

What Chizmar does is more closely akin to Tim O'Brien's technique in The Things They Carry. There, O'Brien, a real-life Vietnam veteran, mixes fiction among autobiographical bits, to readers' delight and sometimes chagrin. (I can speak to the latter as a teacher whose students have sometimes been angry at how seamlessly O'Brien weaves truth and fiction. Despite the book's clear label as a novel, as soon as a first-person narrator named Tim O'Brien appears, they struggle to determine what is "real"—as I suspect O'Brien wants them to.)

Similarly, Chizmar's introduction drops readers directly into Boogeyman's plot, with no indication that he is already "in character." We are compelled to believe, even when a quick check of the book's spine still reveals "Fiction" and a perusal of the Internet reveals no information on a serial killer named the Boogeyman terrorizing folks in Maryland in the 1980s. A foreword by James Renner cleverly does the same. The web of credulity is spun early and often in Boogeyman.

Throughout the novel, Chizmar explores the realities of life in a small town. In this case, Edgewood, Maryland. As he writes in chapter one, "It's important that you carry with you a clear picture of the place—and the people who live there—as you read the story that follows, so you can understand exactly what it is we all lost." 

It's a gambit that almost cost him a reader. I found the first chapter interminably long, even as I recognized what Chizmar hoped to accomplish by presenting this idyllic scene of Edgewood's daily life. I suspect the nostalgia hits many readers in a sweet spot by allowing them to recognize their own pasts or wish they had been fortunate enough to have similar formative experiences. For this reader, at least, less would have been more, or at least easier to digest in smaller portions throughout the remaining chapters. 

That's a small criticism, however, because once the book moves past the opening chapter, it becomes riveting. As the titular Boogeyman finds and kills each new victim and the fictional Chizmar becomes more involved in the investigation, the pages turn themselves. Here, Chizmar weaves in the realities of life as a neophyte writer and publisher (of the well-respected Cemetery Dance magazine and publishing imprint) with the mounting dread felt by his family and other Edgewood residents. Adding to the verisimilitude are black-and-white photos of the major characters and sites in the novel, following most chapters. 

The book reaches a satisfying conclusion, with a few surprises that don't contradict the sense of reality that has been carefully built throughout the narrative. In short, it works. 

I've added Chizmar's other books to my to-read list. He's a good one. 

Untold Legend is back ... and bigger!

I've written before about how I find DC's revived tabloid-sized books irresistible. Seeing that beautiful art in larger dimensions enhances the reading experience, especially when the book was designed for that size (like the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali and Superman vs. Wonder Woman releases last year). 

But even when the stories were originally published at the standard comic-book size, seeing them bigger is a revelation. It allows the reader to become more immersed in the story and scrutinize the art in a new way. 

Case in point: The Untold Legend of the Batman, a three-issue limited series originally published in standard size in 1980 and newly given the 10" x 14" treatment. I've read this is the first time current DC management has re-released a book at the bigger dimensions that wasn't originally published that way, leading to speculation about what other treasures in the vault might merit this upgrade. Bring 'em on, I say. 

I first read issues one and two of Untold Legend back in 1980. The third issue, alas, never made it into my collection. It wouldn't be until years later that I ran across a paperback-sized, black-and-white reprint and read that last installment.

The Untold Legend of the Batman is a solid book, even when I discount the nostalgia factor at work. Writer Len Wein summarizes the Darknight Detective's career to that point, streamlining his origin so that it is easy to digest, even as he includes some of the more esoteric plot points of earlier decades—Bruce Wayne's father wore a prototypical version of the Batman costume when Bruce was just a boy, Bruce was the first person to wear the Robin costume while he was training to be a detective, etc. 

Wein could've phoned in a standard "album" issue of greatest hits, but he was always a more ambitious writer, so he also gives readers a mystery. An unknown enemy is destroying souvenirs and assorted bric-a-brac in the Batcave, and Batman and Robin must find out who it is. Each new destruction prompts a flashback, so eventually readers are treated to all the salient events that make Batman who he is. Or was—forty-plus years of history have since occurred. 

The art is top-notch. John Byrne, at the time a mainstay of Marvel Comics, pencils the first issue, covered by the inks of longtime Batman artist Jim Aparo. It's a pleasing collaboration. Again, the bigger size caused me to study a birds-eye-view image of the Batcave on page one longer than I ever have before. Ditto the splash page that follows—Batman pulling a shredded costume from a box. 

Sadly, Byrne hung around only for the first issue. But Aparo takes over all the art chores for the next two, so visual continuity doesn't skip a beat. As pieces and parts of Batman's past are systematically assaulted, our hero increasingly loses his equilibrium, and nobody draws Batman losing his shit quite like Aparo. 

The flashbacks are tidily arranged. Issue one covers Batman's youth and his tragic origin; issue two introduces Robin, Alfred, and select members of the Rogues' Gallery; and issue three deals with the supporting cast (the man who designs and builds the Batmobiles, Commissioner Gordon, Lucius Fox, Batgirl). 

The mystery, such as it is, is also resolved in the third issue, albeit implausibly. When the mystery villain and his motivations are revealed, readers are left to wonder why Batman isn't more upset that his memorabilia has been destroyed (especially his father's costume). 

Still, it's all great fun. Add seven pages of Batcave schematics, a gallery of the original covers, and house ads for other DC books of the time, and it adds up to $12.99 well spent. 

Books With Staying Power

I accepted a Facebook challenge a few weeks ago: "Choose 20 books that have stayed with you or influenced you. One book per day for 20 days, in no particular order. No explanations, no reviews, just covers."

It was an enjoyable exercise that made me think about titles and authors and what has given them longevity in my life. But it was hard not to comment on my rationales. So I decided to do that here, hopeful it might inspire others to do the same. 

My first choice is I Am Legend (1954) by Richard Matheson, a stone-cold classic I reread every few years. In very few pages—it's more of a novella—Matheson creates a world ravaged by a virus that turns most of the population into vampires. The protagonist, Robert Neville, is one of the few survivors. He lives a life of isolation, foraging for supplies and killing vampires by day, hiding in his fortified house by night as his neighbors surround the house and taunt him. 

I love the new twist on classic vampire stories, including a pseudo-scientific rationale for the creatures, the post-apocalyptic, urban setting, Neville's resourcefulness, and—most of all—the incredible perspective shift at the conclusion that makes the reader recognize that "normal" and "abnormal" are concepts that depend on majority consensus. 

I Am Legend has been adapted into several movies. The best is The Last Man on Earth (1964), with Vincent Price as Neville. Other attempts are The Omega Man (1971), with Charlton Heston, and a 2007 version with Will Smith, the first to keep the novel's title. 

My first edition of the book is the Science Fiction Book Club edition shown above, but I gave it away many years ago. I now have a smaller paperback that includes some of Matheson's short stories. 

The Illustrated Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (1975) features photographs from various American International Pictures adaptations of his work. The book contains no copyright credits, so the provenance is sketchy—appropriate for the stories of villains, scoundrels, and homicidally disturbed people inside. 

Upping the macabre factor, the book came to me through dubious circumstances. It's a former library book that was stolen (not by me) from the stacks. As I read stories like "The Black Cat" and "The Tell-Tale Heart," where criminals were revealed and sometimes met with gruesome fates, Childhood Me dreaded some type of cosmic retribution for not returning the book. (I still have it, as the ratty photo above attests.) Adding to the unsettling vibe is the graffiti of some young Rembrandt who added obscene comments to some of the photos. I didn't know what a "gronk" was until I saw the word issuing from Vincent Price's mouth on page 67. I used my context clues and figured it out.

As a kid, I loved Poe because he expanded my vocabulary. It was a struggle to figure out what was going on in some of his stories (the Latin at the start of "The Fall of the House of Usher" flummoxed me), but the plots were similar to what I was enjoying in various comic books of the time. Ironically, Poe's ambition was to be a great poet and magazine editor. The stories for which he is so famous today, and which make up the bulk of this and many other collections of his work, were quick one-offs written for money, always in short supply for the author. 

When asked to name my favorite short story, "The Cask of Amontillado" is often my answer. It is the perfect example of Poe's famous dictate about the "unity of effect" (see his Philosophy of Composition). Every incident, line, and detail in the story leads to the moment when Montresor buries Fortunato alive in the catacombs beneath the former's home. Why? "For the thousand injuries" that Fortunato has given him, although the reader never learns what these are. The ending also frustrates the hope that good always wins out over evil. Fifty years after the crime, Montresor still hasn't been caught. Not even the Latin at the end—In pace requiescat!—kept me from recognizing the badassery at work here. 

I had hoped to cover all twenty books quickly, but this is taking longer than expected. More titles and reminisces to come! 

Superman vs. Wonder Woman — a clash for the ages on all of the pages!

 DC Comics has found my nostalgic sweet spot with its tabloid-sized treasury reprints. First, it was Superman vs. Muhammad Ali in August, and now it's Superman vs. Wonder Woman. 

I missed both books when they were released in the 1970s. The distribution of tabloid-sized comics was hit-and-miss in my area.  Even when I found them, the price tag scared my parents—and me. For two dollars, I could buy five or six regular-sized comics. Since I relied on the charity of others for my four-color fix, I had to be strategic in my acquisitions. 

So I'm grateful to see these stories reprinted, in their correct size, at a price that—while considerably more than two dollars—is still far less than decent copies of the originals would set me back today. 

And Superman vs. Wonder Woman is worth every dime. Writer Gerry Conway and artists Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez and Dan Adkins take full advantage of the bigger size and page count to deliver an epic story. 

The plot is streamlined and simple. In 1942, the two heroes discover information about the top-secret Manhattan Project, three years before the historic atomic bomb test detonation in New Mexico. Their investigations lead them first to fight and then to collaborate to foil a plot by Baron Blitzkrieg and Sumo (the "last true samurai of Japan!"),  who are intent on stealing components of the project. 

Conway wisely leaves plenty of room for epic-sized artwork, and Garcia-Lopez and Adkins respond with breathtaking double-page spreads (like the one below) every few pages. Garcia-Lopez is a master of figure work; his Superman and Wonder Woman crackle with energy. Even in the story's quieter moments, the art shines. A two-page image of Blitzkrieg, standing on the coast of Mexico and staring out at a waiting submarine, provides a stunning view of the horizon, a distant fort, and swooping gulls. 

Some of the panels remind me of the work of Joe Kubert, filled with movement and emotion. The page below has a distinct Alex Toth vibe, especially the second panel of Diana Prince striding toward the elevator. Since both Kubert and Toth were master draftsmen, I have no complaints! 

For a story published in 1977, when many mainstream comics struggled with presenting strong, independent female characters, Conway's script is filled with empowering moments for Wonder Woman. In the page above, Diana muses, "Much as I love America, it is a country ruled by men ... and men are sometimes foolish ... blind to their humane responsibilities." Decades before the term "toxic masculinity" came into vogue, Conway appears to be describing it here. And in a nation moving decisively and tragically in that direction once again, the words struck a chord. 

Atomic dangers, fisticuffs galore, a sprinkling of social commentary, even a cameo by Franklin Delano Roosevelt: Superman vs. Wonder Woman has it all, wrapped in the conceit of a secret government dossier being made public for the first time. It's fun!  

And it occurs to me that the forty-eight years between the book's publication and today is greater than the thirty-five years between the story's setting and 1977. Not sure why that makes me pause, but it does.