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.  

The Big Goodbye to Big Chuck

 A significant slice of Northeast Ohio history passed on Monday with the death of Chuck Mitchell Schodowski, better known as the "Big Chuck" half of the Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show and the Big Chuck and Lil' John Show. The programs were mainstays on WJW-TV for fifty years, give or take. 

If you grew up in the greater Cleveland area—including my own Stark County—in the 1960s through the 1980s, largely before the rise of cable TV, you recognize the seismic impact of Big Chuck. Friday nights were must-see TV long before NBC coined the term. Once the 11 PM news was over and meteorologist Dick Goddard had warned how much lake-effect precipitation other parts of the viewing area could expect, it was time for the opening lines, seared into our collective memories: 

Now, from high atop the Television 8 building

In the best location in the nation

On the shores of beautiful Lake Erie— 

It's the Big Chuck and Lil' John Show!

Or, if you were just a few years older, it was the Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show, with top billing going to Robert "Hoolihan" Wells, who starred with Schodowski from 1966 to 1979. ("Lil' John" took over when Wells moved to Florida, and the laughs kept coming.)

Here's the opening bit, complete with charmingly cheesy stop-motion animation that relocates King Kong from the Big Apple to the North Coast: 

The show followed a predictable pattern. The two hosts would introduce a scary movie and fill the commercial breaks with ad-libbed patter and silly skits. The movies were seldom top-shelf. For every House on Haunted Hill, viewers could count on two or three turkeys like Robot Monster or The Bat. 

(It appears turkeys weren't always on the show's menu. A perusal of the Internet Archive reveals they once showed The Exorcist. During a commercial break, Big Chuck held up a copy of Hostage to the Devil by Malachi Martin and began to expound on an allegedly true-life exorcism on the east side of Cleveland, prompting Lil' John to give him a friendly shove and remind him "not to get too heavy and out of character.") 

The skits were what made the show. They were often parodies of popular TV programs, and most outlived the original shows by many years: Ben Carson became Ben Crazy, Payton Place birthed Parma Place, and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman morphed into Mary Hartski, Mary Hartski. Classified under "you probably couldn't do that today" were the "Certain Ethnic" sketches, like the laundromat bit at the top of this page. Big Chuck, Hoolihan, Lil' John, and the occasional guest star from the WJW news team wore many hats in these productions, all of which were punctuated by the distinctive laugh track at the end (a Google search credits Jay Lawrence, a Cleveland disc jockey from the 1960s). 

The show had a significant impact on me. I invited friends over on Friday night to watch the show and then sleep over. Both iterations—Hoolihan and Lil' John—were part of Friday night Pepsi and popcorn marathons that included CBS's Wonder Woman and The Incredible Hulk. By the time Dallas rolled around at 10 PM, the second part of the night's festivities—using a cassette recorder to create our own versions of Big Chuck and Lil' John—was well underway. We wrote cue cards, conscripted available voice talents (my parents and little sister), and filmed in such exotic locales as the basement and the bathroom (where a flushing toilet was repeatedly recorded with the microphone dangling over the bowl until my mom yelled at us to stop wasting water). 

Honestly, anticipating the show was often as much fun as watching it. It started the Saturday before with the new TV Guide, purchased by my mom at Sparkle Market.  Because Big Chuck and Lil' John was a regional show, it was never listed as such in the TV Guide. Instead, readers just had to know that whatever movie was listed in the 11:30 PM Friday slot for Channel 8 was the one. Of course, this was decades before you could look up The Killer Shrews online and find out it was a disaster, so all you had to go by was a one-sentence description and then six days of waiting to see if the movie delivered on that sentence's promise. 

I've never been a night owl, so staying awake until 11:30 after a long day of school was often a challenge, even if I took a nap, and making it to the closing credits at 1:30 or 2:00 AM was almost out of the question. Because of this, many of my memories of the show are wrapped in a semi-conscious daze, waking up for some scary parts of the movie or an especially funny Ben Crazy skit. Too often, I'd wake on the floor to the test pattern and realize I'd missed the entire show. Ugh. 

At some point, the show's softball team traveled to Alliance to play a charity game against the local firefighters. I was star-struck. It had never occurred to me, a child of rural Washington Township, how close Cleveland was, or that the larger-than-life characters I saw on TV could be real people who would show up a couple miles from my house. I'm not sure I would have been more excited—or dumbfounded—if the entire Star Wars cast had shown up to play ball. 

When the family bought its first VHS player—a big, bulky thing that doubled as a doorstop—I recorded a few episodes of Big Chuck and Lil John, but watching it in the day and fast-forwarding through the commercials wasn't the same. It was a "you hadda be there" type of show. And when grade school turned to junior high, I lost most of my interest in Big Chuck and Lil' John, which is probably pretty common, too. 

It wasn't until a few years later that I learned how many television markets around the country had their own versions of Big Chuck, Hoolihan, and Lil' John, and how the rise of cable TV and expanded network programming (late-night news programs, especially) sounded the death knell for so many of these low-budget, locally-filmed programs. 

Still later, I learned that Schodowski had ties to Ghoulardi, an early Cleveland-based horror host (real name: Ernie Anderson) who carved out his own niche in television history. Schodowski's nickname came from his hitting prowess as part of the Ghoulardi All-Stars softball team, according to the wonderful Turn Blue: The Short Life of Ghoulardi documentary, which covers Big Chuck's significant contributions to that earlier show. 

I'm sure many people of a certain age around Northeast Ohio are thinking about those days today, remembering a regional celebrity who left his mark in laughter. 

Omega the Unknown (2008)

Since Omega the Unknown was one of the seminal comic-book experiences of my childhood, I don't know why it took me seventeen years to read the character's revival mini-series, but it did. 

Written by Jonathan Lethem with Karl Rusnak, illustrated by Farel Dalrymple, and colored by Paul Hornschemeier, Omega's 2008 mini-series is collected into a gorgeous hardback that accentuates the reading experience. Cleverly designed endpapers and chapter breaks grow in meaning once the reader has finished the story. 

And what an odd story! In a nod to the original, short-lived series, written primarily by the legendary Steve Gerber with Mary Skrenes and drawn by Jim Mooney, this new iteration runs just ten issues and is jam-packed with weirdness. In a way, this is one of the most underground comix-style books Marvel has ever published, pushing the mainstream envelope in much the same way as the original Omega. That series felt like the precursor to Epic Comics of the 1980s and especially Vertigo offerings of the 1990s. Still, its impact was diluted by substitutions to the original creative team and, one suspects, editorial tampering that failed to make it more commercial. The 2008 Omega, on the other hand (pun sorta intended, as the main character fires energy blasts from his palms), was designed with a finite end in mind, and the same creators are along for each chapter. 

This "new" Omega initially follows the story beats of the original. Titus Alexander (Alex) Island, a homeschooled teenage genius, has his life upended when a traffic accident kills his parents. He then learns they are robots. Simultaneously, an alien hero—the titular Omega—makes his presence known. Omega shares a symbiotic bond with Alex, one that only strengthens as the teen is hospitalized and then released into the care of one of his nurses. He finds himself in public school, where a different facet of his education begins. 

The first issue or chapter is an homage to the original Omega. Even so, Lethem and Rusnak insert several new twists. The primary one is the introduction of the Mink, Washington Heights' own superhero, who is far more (and less) than he seems. Dressed in a purple-and-red costume, the Mink employs a small army of lookalikes and a strong PR game. Meanwhile, his headquarters houses a labyrinth where he sequesters his enemies, including a collection of robots who have traveled to Earth to infest the population with hostile nanotechnology. 

With each succeeding installment, Lethem and crew move further afield from Gerber's original premise, whatever that was. As they do, Dalrymple's illustrations become increasingly looser, moving away from mainstream superhero art to become something more akin to an R. Crumb production filtered through Dali. 

Dalrymple is a big part of the series' charm. His rendition of Washington Heights—the inhabitants, streets, schools, and vendors—is a delight. Readers learn that Omega is himself an artist; the hero's comic-book creations are featured prominently, necessitating a completely different style, rendered by Gary Panter. Similarly, the Mink's propaganda comics provide colorist Paul Hornschemeier with an opportunity to step briefly into the illustrator's role. 

The story gets out of control in later issues, where dialogue and captions are occasionally so thick they crowd out the artwork, and the authors' attempt to say something grandiose about marketing and franchises isn't given the space it needs to breathe. The final issue is a wordless installment, balancing the overly talky middle chapters. Here is where some exposition would be helpful to knit together some of the plot points and themes. 

But the loose ends may be the point. Just as the original Omega never offered closure —the book was canceled on a cliffhanger that was resolved unsatisfyingly by a different creative team several years later in the pages of The Defenders—this reimagining sends readers out of the book with some memorable images and lingering questions. 

It was gratifying to read comments in the back of the book by Lethem and Rusnak about how the original series impacted them when they read it as kids. Many of their comments reflect my own impressions and, I suspect, those of many who read Omega at a formative age. For me, the Hell's Kitchen setting of the original and its unflinching portrayal of student life in an urban public school scared the shit out of my eight-year-old self. Those parts of the series were much more compelling than any of the traditional superheroics; although I must admit, it was the Incredible Hulk, smashing his way across the cover of Omega #2, that initially drew me to the series. What was going on before and after that fight scene was far over my head, but it stuck with me. 

Revisiting Omega courtesy of this twenty-first-century revival was a lot of fun. The disadvantage for new readers might be the loss of recognizing how the reimagined parts mesh with the original. But the creators wisely realized they couldn't build their mythos entirely on a project that had failed thirty years earlier, so they crafted a compelling, self-contained world that offers a thoughtful meditation on friendship and collaboration, wrapped in a witty subversion of superhero tropes. It works wonderfully. I'm just sorry I waited seventeen years to find out.