DENSITY=EXCESS

 This essay exists for the most part to draw a line between both 2013's THE NARRATIVE RULE OF EXCESS and its corollary from 2017, EXCESSIVE COMBINATORY FORCE, and the more recent LOVE, DENSITY AND CONCRESCENCE from 2025. In the last of these, I wrote:

because density has a stronger association than does concrescence with the quality of some physical substance, it also proves somewhat better for describing the finished product. I might say, using my most recent emendations of my potentiality terminology, that "Dave Sim's work excels at dealing with didactic cogitations, while Grant Morrison's work excels at dealing with mythopoeic correlations." That quality of excellence can be metaphorically expressed as a given work's density, in that such density shows how thoroughly the author was invested in a given set of fictional representations (sometimes, though not usually, on a subconscious level).

In contrast to my meager usage of the term "density," I probably have many references to "excess" scattered throughout this blog, since that philosophical concept was thoroughly explored by one of my major influences, Georges Bataille, particularly in the first of his works I ever read, VISIONS OF EXCESS.  In the two linked essays above, my main concern was to apply Bataille's concept to my own concepts of the two forms of sublimity. I won't get into those formulations here, for I'm concerned that excess is a general rule, like density, for judging the presence or absence of excellence in fictional works.   

The difference between the two concepts relates to authorial motive. The author who achieves excellence in one or more of the four potentialities does so because he/she becomes engaged enough with the material to DESIRE to give it a density, a thoroughness, that seems to be like that of lived experience. The creator of a poor work, within whichever potentiality one judges the work by, has no desire, or next to none, to convey investment in the material to his audience. The creator of a fair work has some desire, but only up to a point. It's only the creator of a good work who's totally invested with respect to at least one potentiality.

One example of authors investing "excess effort" in various potentialities can be seen in a comparison I floated between the Lee-Kirby FANTASTIC FOUR and the Drake-Premiani DOOM PATROL. I still believe that the Lee-Kirby work shows an excess of the mythopoeic imagination and that the Drake-Premiani work does not. However, I now realize that the later issues of DOOM PATROL put forth a density of specification with respect to the dramatic potentiality. More simply put, even though the Lee-Kirby FF set the early standard for using soap-opera dramatics, one might argue that Drake was, over time, better at finding interesting ways to exploit the dramatic conflicts of the team and its opponents, at creating the illusion of character progress. In contrast, though Stan Lee was the boss in the collaboration with Kirby, he often let Kirby "have his head"-- and Kirby was not really a "details man." On close study the sixties FANTASTIC FOUR has a rather herky-jerky progress with respect to its characters' serial development, even if Lee's dialogue usually managed to paper over any perceived discontinuities. I said that I doubted that artist Premiani contributed much original material to the collaboration; he probably just drew whatever Drake related in his full scripts. Drake wasn't often capable of mythopoeic imagination, unlike Kirby. But he conveyed a sense of density in the interrelations of the Patrol members, because that was the part of his inspiration to which he best related.              

MYTHCOMICS: THE INHUMANS SAGA, FANTASTIC FOUR #44-48 (1965-66)

 

The title of FF #44"-- "Lo, There Shall Come an Ending"-- is more appropriate than its creators knew, for it can be seen as the ending of the First Phase of the Lee-Kirby FANTASTIC FOUR. The first phase of the title was marked by a blend of both science-fiction explorations and regular crimefighting adventures, usually done-in-one-issue stories. The Second Phase plays up the FF's science-fiction milieus, and some storylines last four or more issues. Further, the later issues of the First Phase initiated the first shakeup to the super-group's status quo, for in FANTASTIC FOUR ANNUAL #3-- cover-dated October 1965 and taking place in between the continuity of FF #43 and #44-- as Reed Richards makes an "honest woman" of Sue Storm. Most comics-critics would probably agree that the period in 1965 marked the greatest creative phase for the two collaborators. As specified before, Lee probably allowed Kirby to pursue more ambitious storylines than they'd been attempting earlier, a creative period I believe ended with issues #67. After that, the issues 68-102 comprised the Third and Final Phase, in which the creators largely returned to a new status quo, mostly repeating previously seen menaces.

Because Lee may not have been exercising as much editorial input as before, INHUMANS SAGA has a more disjointed structure than most of the previous storylines. For reasons I'll enlarge upon shortly, I believe Kirby didn't have a consistent narrative worked out for his Big Reveal of Medusa's true nature. But Lee and Kirby are entirely on the same page so far as realizing how the Thing and the Torch react to the increase in the domesticity factor at the Baxter Building. Ben Grimm becomes maudlin about the chances of his enjoying any wedded bliss with Alicia, and Johnny Storm seems manifestly uncomfortable with his sister's "Suzie Homemaker" routine. For the first time within a FANTASTIC FOUR story, the Torch alludes to Doris Evans, his girlfriend from his own solo strip. Her character appeared irregularly in the TORCH feature from 1963 to 1965, but Johnny didn't have any romantic arc in the FF magazine, just a few minor dates with characters who never appeared again. Ben Grimm would never get any fulfillment of his romance with Alicia during the Lee-Kirby years. However, INHUMANS SAGA was clearly meant to shake up the previous status quo with respect to the younger Storm sibling.

Just as the Torch decides to hit the road and seek out his girlfriend, Medusa decides to hide herself in Johnny Storm's car. She never admits that she was coming to seek aid from her former enemies, though this would seem to be the only logical reason for her to be lurking around the Baxter Building. She puts a gun to Johnny's head and forces him to drive out of the city to get away from some menace named "Gorgon," presaged by the sight of his cloven hoof creating a earthquake under Johnny's car. Johnny and Medusa get away, but Gorgon pursues by stealing a helicopter from the FF. At no point does either the superhero or his comely captor make reference to the way Johnny let Medusa go free in issue #43, so clearly Lee had decided to let that plot-thread unravel. But connubial matters seem to be on Johnny's mind, for he "coincidentally" takes Medusa to the grounds of the very university where Reed proposed to Johnny's sister. To be sure, Lee has the hero do this so that, by dumb luck, the two of them revive the android Dragon Man, plunged into a coma in FF #35.                             

Dragon Man, more or less a child in an artificial body, forms an attachment to Medusa, only to fight Gorgon when the latter arrives. Medusa tries to flee both of them, but the flying android seizes her and takes her-- back to the vicinity of the Baxter Building, for no plausible reason. The four heroes alternate between fighting the dragon-creature and the goatish-faced Gorgon, until Gorgon finally explains his purpose in seeking Medusa: to take her back to her people. But this brief convo is just an interlude to set up events in issue #45.

Gorgon escapes with Medusa, but the Invisible Wife is able to work her feminine charms so as to pacify the childlike android. The Torch gets some down-time, and readers soon learn that the only reason the script brought up Doris Evans was to dispense with her. Depressed that his steady wasn't waiting breathlessly for his call, Johnny goes for a walk and meets the first real love of his life, Crystal of the Inhumans. (Stan captures the youth's passion by having him think that Doris seems "like a boy" next to the redheaded enchantress.)

Crystal, seeing the Torch demonstrate his power, mistakes him for one of her people, The Inhumans, and she happily invites him to meet her family, which includes new faces Karnak and Triton in addition to Medusa and Gorgon. Lee doesn't tell us much about the relationships of these five characters-- six if one counts their teleporting dog Lockjaw, and seven with the absent Black Bolt, who shows up for the next installment. Again, the writer-editor might have been deferring to Jack Kirby to fill in some blanks, but neither of them bothers to account for why Medusa was afraid of Gorgon back in issue #44.

Johnny summons his partners to the conveniently deserted neighborhood, setting up a big donnybrook between the crusaders and the fugitives in issue #46. And now Kirby shifts the conflict to a new plane. The story is no longer "Medusa's afraid of being captured by Gorgon," it's "all of the Inhumans are afraid of being captured by an entity called The Seeker." It's quite possible that Kirby's original idea was that Gorgon would be working for the real villain of the story. Then he may have realized that he wanted Gorgon to be more sympathetic, so the artist changed horses in midstream and concocted the Seeker, a pretty colorless flunky armed only with super-weapons and some henchmen. When we meet the Seeker later in #45, he seems even less well-informed than Crystal as to who is and isn't an Inhuman, for he rather comically gets the idea in his head that the Dragon Man must be one of his people, based on nothing but news reports of the android's recent rampage. (I guess he would've made the same assumption had the rampager been anyone from the Hulk to the Living Totem.) Dragon Man never really coheres with the rest of the SAGA, and after one more big battle with the FF in the next issue he's summarily packed off to some installation. Kirby may have revived the monster just to give regular readers a touchstone in the midst of this panoply of new characters.

The FF-Inhumans battle wraps up when one of the Seeker's agents abducts Triton-- though the agent somehow misses the other five Inhumans (and super-pooch Lockjaw) engaged in a big fracas nearby. Crystal and Johnny are torn asunder amid many Romeo-and-Juliet histrionics. The heroes later track down the Seeker, and he finally provides the SAGA's big exposition moment, giving the good guys a brief history of the hidden race of genetically manipulated superhumans. The Seeker doesn't explain why he and his men, if they are Inhumans, don't have super-powers, nor does he cite any reason for wanting to take the six fugitives (and dog) back to the "Great Refuge." aside from stating that their return is the will of "Maximus the Magnificent." 

Reed allows the Seeker and his minions to leave with Triton but puts a tracer on their ship. The colloquy between Reed and Sue makes clear that despite Sue's contributions to the team, Reed wears the pants in the family. On a sidenote, some fans liked to believe that Lee alone was responsible for Reed's chauvinism, and that their idol Kirby would never be so toxic-- except that later in this issue, Sue displays a feminine flightiness that's clearly been concocted by Kirby.      

So where did the five Inhumans (plus dog, but minus Triton) go, when they teleported away from New York? Why-- they shunted their way to the Great Refuge, the very place they were supposedly attempting to stay away from, in order to live covertly among the humans. We meet Maximus, ruler of the Great Refuge, though it's quickly revealed that he's taken over from his brother Black Bolt, who was supposed to be the designated monarch of the Inhumans. What happened to exile Black Bolt and his fellows, whose relationships are far from pellucid (though Medusa calls Crystal her sister here)? Kirby hasn't allowed much space for exposition here, for suddenly Black Bolt re-assumes the Inhumans crown and the craven Maximus allows it to happen. The villain's only ace in the hole is that he has some sort of doomsday weapon, designed to eliminate the humans with whom Inhumans have been forced to share the planet.

Finally, when the story's close to being over, Lee and Kirby deliver the sociological moral: the Inhumans, like the Japanese before the advent of Admiral Perry, are wrong to isolate themselves from the rest of the world. Reed's utterly positive that the super-powered race has nothing to fear from humans, which strikes a false note given all the times Marvel heroes got hassled for "being different." But the argument becomes academic when Maximus triggers his human-killing weapon.     

                            

In the conclusion-- wrapped up in the first seven pages of issue #48-- there follows an unintended "WATCHMEN moment," for the heroes are unable to prevent the villain from triggering his doomsday device. What defeats Maximus is not heroism but his own hubris: his belief that his people are a race apart from human beings, despite their having arisen from a common stock. No one on Earth perishes from the device of Maximus. However, the "Good Inhumans" are spared the decision as to whether to embrace inclusiveness, for Maximus seals off the Great Refuge with his own version of an Iron Curtain. Cue more fiery bathos from Johnny Storm, though he doesn't get much time to grouse, for this issue also begins the first installment of the three-part GALACTUS TRILOGY.       

As most Marvel-fans know, the Inhumans did not remain isolated from the Fantastic Four but rather became the most regular supporting-cast members of the series during the feature's second and third phases.  Indeed, for a time Crystal even takes Sue's place as the group's female member. Whereas I think that Lee and Kirby probably worked together on deciding the nature of the Fantastic Four's members, Kirby probably conceived the Inhumans without input from Lee. It's rather hard to say what the King was going for, though. Unlike both the Silver Surfer and the Black Panther, who also emerged during the Second Phase, the Lee-Kirby Inhumans have just one dominant character-trait: dourness. They all feel like road-company spear-carriers from a Shakespeare historical play, and during the Lee-Kirby years they don't bounce off one another as do the members of other Marvel teams. Only Crystal shows a range of emotions, and that may be because Kirby had some idea of her functioning to "merge" the two families. Rather than just letting the Torch have a mundane girlfriend the way Ben Grimm had Alicia, I think Kirby wanted to tap into the pomp and circumstance of stories about royal families coming together-- though I can't say he was ever consistent in putting across this ideal. I commented elsewhere that I didn't think Stan Lee ever had much interest in the Inhumans, and that may be because Kirby didn't put that much thought into the characters' eccentricities. There are various mythic "bachelor threads" that don't coalesce very well, not least the apparent "runaway bride" thread dealing with Medusa. But the master thread, dealing with the Human Torch's struggles to chart his own romantic destiny through an exogamous marriage, proves strong enough to give INHUMANS SAGA high-mythicity.       

NEAR-MYTHS: "LO, THERE SHALL COME AN ENDING," FANTASTIC FOUR #41-43 (1965)

 

For my four-hundredth mythcomic, I'm going to put the original "Inhumans Saga" under the myth-scrutiny lens. But Lee and Kirby built up to that ambitious multi-parter with a less impressive three-part arc, lasting from FF #41-43. I'm not going to examine this arc-- which I'll just call "Ending" after its final installment-- in depth, because the story doesn't really have any. But "Ending" does play into one of the major elements of the Inhumans Saga in the way the arc presents the character of Medusa.

Before getting into the story proper, I have to make the usual disavowals: I don't believe Jack Kirby created the FANTASTIC FOUR stories on his own, as he (in)famously claimed in a JOURNAL interview. But I believe he created most of the iconic characters in a process of discussions with credited editor/writer Stan Lee, and that creative interaction made even a minor story-arc like this one more consequential than many of Kirby's solo outings. Also, it is indisputable that after a certain point Lee did start to follow Kirby's lead more than in the earliest collaborations, because Lee himself said that he did so.   

There's nothing very venturesome about the villains of this arc: the Frightful Four, making their third appearance as a team here, following their previous appearances in issues #36 and #38. Three of the members were just recycled reprobates from other strips: the Sandman from the Lee-Ditko SPIDER-MAN and both the Wizard and Trapster from HUMAN TORCH. The fourth member of the so-called "Evil FF," though, made her debut in FF #36 under the name "Madame Medusa." No origin is provided for the long-haired villainess, nor does she voice any particular reason for joining these three criminals-- all of whom at least had previous jousts with the Human Torch-- in their mission to overthrow the Fantastic Four. I could easily believe that Kirby created Medusa and worked her into the story without yet knowing what he and Lee would do with her, in terms of origin or motives. So Kirby and Lee just played her as a standard super-villain, eliminating crimefighters for some vague purpose of gaining power later on.   

"Ending" is largely formulaic. At the start of #41, the Thing quits his partners, feeling like they've been taking advantage of him. He's captured by the Frightful Four, and the Wizard brainwashes the hero so that he wants to destroy his former allies. The three older villains are all routine in their characterization, but Lee and Kirby do start expanding on Medusa a little. As the "evil counterpart" to Sue Storm, Medusa seems briefly interested in Mister Fantastic, and by the way Kirby depicts this scene, it's pretty standard "evil girl has a yen for noble hero." But nothing more comes of this momentary infatuation, here or in any other FF story I've come across. As Lee's dialogue for the scene states, Medusa has no feelings about the other three heroes, and in the second part of the tale, she shows her willingness to mousetrap the Torch, knock him out, and deliver the youth to the Wizard's tender mercies.

         

However, in the concluding installment, all one can say is that by that time, Kirby had decided that he wanted that story to end with Medusa getting away, so that she could make a separate appearance in the beginning of the Inhumans Saga, starting in FF #44. Judging only from the art-- which might or might not have some ancillary story-notes in the margins of the original artboards-- the Torch chases the long-haired villainess and seems to pause while she gets away. The Torch returns to his partners-- including a de-brainwashed Ben Grimm-- and from the art alone, one can't be sure that Kirby meant (a) to have Mr. Fantastic question the younger hero about failing in his task, or (b) to have the older hero imply that Johnny Storm allowed the comely criminal to escape just because she's hot and he's a horny teenager. Then nothing more is said about the hypothetical "torch" Johnny might be carrying for Medusa for the rest of the Lee-Kirby run. However, in issue #44 Medusa will meet the Torch one-on-one again, and though there's no romantic vibe between them, here Lee and Kirby introduce the idea that Medusa is a member of a race of hidden superhumans, and Johnny does forge a love-connection with one of them-- to be sure, one more age-appropriate than Medusa would have been.

It's not impossible that Kirby never meant to imply that the Torch had the hots for Medusa. He might as easily have hesitated to overtake the villainess because his flame was getting weak, which was a common thing in those days. (Note the above panel where Johnny complains that because his flame has gotten weaker, Medusa can defeat him with the equivalent of a wet mop.) Lee might then have decided to toss out the idea of Johnny having a fiery twinkle in his eye for the older female, just because it was more dramatically interesting than Johnny just complaining that his flame was about to go out. If Kirby hadn't mentioned his burgeoning plans for Medusa to Lee, then to Lee that would have been as good an idea to pursue as any other, even if they didn't follow through. But whether the two creators were on the same page when they ended "Ending," they soon began a new phase in the career of Marvel's First Family.          

NEAR MYTHS: THE THING VS. THE IMMORTAL HULK (2019)

 

Though "TTVTIH" (FF vol 6 #12) doesn't have the symbolic discourse of a mythcomic, it does ring in one of the best takes on that near-mythic question dear to the hearts of Marvelites: "who's stronger, the Hulk or the Thing?"

 

Now, in a technical sense the real question wasn't "who was stronger." If Lee and Kirby had been in any way ambivalent when the two characters first met in FF #12, "The Hulk vs. the Thing" in FF #25 made it abundantly clear that the larger Hulk had the strength advantage. The real question was "what can the Thing, the FF's heavy hitter, do to beat an unbeatable adversary?" Issue #25, which focuses mostly on the Thing and the Hulk, and its second part in #26, which brings in the Avengers as well, is practically a masterclass from Jack Kirby in the depiction of dynamic combat-scenes (even despite the ham-fisted inks of George Bell). During the same period, the Thing often had battles with other powerhouses, such as the Sub-Mariner and the Silver Surfer, and some of these battles were repeated. But without checking I'd guess about 10-15 later artists attempted to exploit the suspense of a Thing-Hulk battle once again. Some of these latter-day battles were adequate, and others mediocre, but none of them even came close to the high standard of Lee and Kirby-- until 2019.

The great cover by Esad Ribic presages what turns out to be an exceptional story built around yet another contest between Orange Guy and Green Guy, drawn by Sean Izaakse and scripted by Dan Slott. And, almost unbelievably, Slott makes a silk purse out of one of Marvel's hoariest "sow-ear" plots: the one where the villainous Puppet Master uses a radioactive puppet to force one hero to attack another hero.

 Now, unlike many writers who resorted to the "Puppet Master plot," Slott set up a special connotation to the villain's actions. The Puppet Master, currently in prison, has become aware that his stepdaughter Alicia intends to marry Ben Grimm, one of the evildoer's worst enemies. So the irate puppet-maker takes control of the Hulk and sics the behemoth on the Thing when the hero is beginning his honeymoon with his new bride. Thus, the villain's motives are much more personal than usual. In addition, in contrast to every other such story I've read, this time the Hulk is aware of being controlled, but he has such a long-standing grudge against the Thing that he somewhat cooperates with Puppet Master. Slott does this, I believe, because when he comes up with a unique way for Ben Grimm to win his battle, the writer wants readers to feel like the hero finally beat his green-skinned nemesis "fair and square"-- that is, with the Hulk largely in control of his faculties, even while being controlled.

And how does Ben win? Well, even though I don't have a large readership, I won't say, on the chance it might compel even one person to check out THE THING VS THE IMMORTAL HULK. And "not revealing the ending" is a courtesy I almost never extend to any other thing I've ever reviewed.

TTVTIH doesn't top THVTT. But it's now a close second.                   

COSMIC FLIGHT, SPIDER BITE

 I'm currently working on an extensive FANTASTIC FOUR critical evaluation that will encompass the two mythcomics posts I have planned for this month, respectively posts #399 and #400. (Since the first time my posts reached 100, I have endeavored to make each hundredth-post something special, as do many comics-serials.) Since I'm planning to eschew my critical jargon where possible, I decided to get at least some of that out of my system by expanding on the following remarks from last year's DUELING DUALITIES PT. 3:

I should qualify this, though, by stating that the L/K FANTASTIC FOUR still had a very strong ontocosm with respect to developing the kinetic and dramatic potentialities, in comparison with even the best of the other contemporary Marvel offerings from the Silver Age... In fact, the kinetic qualities of the Lee-Kirby FF are at least equal to those of the Lee-Ditko SPIDER-MAN. However, with respect to the dramatic potentialities, the L/D SPIDER-MAN is more fully devoted to the soap opera model, generating a superior level of melodramatic intensity with what must have been comics' largest-ever ensemble of regular support-characters. By comparison. the L/K FANTASTIC FOUR concentrated most of its energies on the four principals, and the most-used group of support-characters in the series-- The Inhumans -- didn't so much mesh with the four principals as randomly bounce off them.

Here, then, are some demonstrations of my perceptions re: the four potentialities in each Silver Age serial.

 The kinetic potentiality in fiction concerns anything that's an analogue to physical sensation. Often I've referenced this potentiality with respect to those immortal selling-points, "sex and violence," but it also includes all sympathetic and antipathetic affects linked to sensation. Within the sphere of the L/K FANTASTIC FOUR, Jack Kirby designed an almost unparalleled rogues' gallery of unattractive villains to engage in combat with the generally attractive heroes (and yes, over time the Thing becomes cute than horrifying). This cover to FF #100-- which I for one wish could have been Kirby's last contribution to the series-- shows a good cross-section of the heroes and their opponents.

Ditko's run on SPIDER-MAN was not as long as Kirby's on FF, and he never showed a literal assemblage of all his best villains. (To be sure, both artists produced a handful of loser-foes, whom no one would particularly want to see again.) The closest thing to a Ditko "greatest hits" would be the "Sinister Six" tale in AMAZING SPIDER-MAN ANNUAL #1.

Despite how long each artist worked on each series, they're both in the same domain as far as how well they exploited the kinetic potentialities for repulsion and attraction. However, as I said above, the ways in which each writer/artist combo approached the dramatic potentiality took very different forms.

In the L/K FANTASTIC FOUR, melodramatic tragedy arose every once in a while, as in the story "This Man, This Monster." Yet I believe editor Lee chose most of the time to soft-pedal such emotional tumult, if only because he was always writing about four characters in an ensemble that had to remain together for the series' sake, no matter how often they talked about breaking up. Thus I'd argue that comedy rather than tragedy tended to rule the FF-realm, as seen in these pages from FF #54:         

In contrast to this series, though, SPIDER-MAN was a loner. Thought the series displayed an ample amount of comedy-- often in the form of playing jokes on J. Jonah Jameson-- there was a marked emphasis upon Peter Parker being caught in a tangled web, woven by some dispassionate god and in which Parker was tormented as for sport. From AMAZING SPIDER-MAN #17:

I'm not in any way devaluing comedy over drama; that's the sort of thinking that makes the Oscar Awards such a drag. But I am saying that because Lee and Ditko focused so much on teen melodrama, with some parallel crime-melodrama content, they often didn't veer into the vertical level of meaning very often.

 All of the famous Spidey villains seen above are just crooks in costumes; they want to steal things, Spider-Man gets in their way, and they want to kill him so that they can go back to stealing with impunity. That's why I've found so few mythopoeic or dramatic complexities in the L/D SPIDER-MAN, or, for that matter, in later iterations of the franchise. A couple of Spider-foes have world-conquering ambitions, like Doc Ock and the Lizard, but arguably Lee and Ditko devoted less space to their abstract motivations. 

The Red Ghost, in his first (and only good) story, wants to dominate Earth's moon for the glory of Communism. The Puppet Master has more interest in controlling other people's lives than in interacting with his stepdaughter. Doctor Doom is obsessed with being the best at everything and thus wants more than anything to prove that he can beat his detested rival. All of these motivations BEGIN in the dramatic potentiality, but as I've argued in the various mythcomics essays I devoted to each FF-villain, the creators found ways to organically develop the mythopoeic and the didactic OUT of the dramatic motivations.       

And with all that in mind, my next essay will deal with a quick and dirty history of the Fantastic Four after Lee and Kirby.
              

THE LOVER, THE DILETTANTE, AND THE CLINICIAN

 For once the new terms I'm tossing out are not full-fledged aspects of my personal literary theory. They're just approximations of the different orientations I find in different creators. 

THE LOVER is the type of creator who finds something deeply important to him/her in whatever fictional narratives he/she encounters, and who seeks to reproduce those moving elements or tropes in his/her own works. That doesn't preclude working on projects that do not excite the Lover personally, but if the Lover has a sustained career, the Critic can usually see one or more favored tropes, often a "master trope," repeated again and again. As a kid Jack Kirby (born 1917) belonged to the first generation of American juveniles to be exposed to periodicals centered upon the still gestating genre of science fiction (beginning with AMAZING STORIES in 1926). The totality of SF-tropes, far more than the related tropes of horror and fantasy, became an endless resource for Kirby, and I would venture that his creative "master trope" was the ceaseless exploration of all the most famous sci-fi scenarios-- lost cities, prehistoric domains, alien worlds. I for one see this trope in everything from TUK, CAVEBOY to FANTASTIC FOUR to CAPTAIN VICTORY.

 THE DILETTANTE might sound like a putdown in comparison to the Lover, but it merely signifies that the creator in question didn't become strongly cathected to a particular theme or trope. From what I've read, Stan Lee probably enjoyed the SF/adventure pulps of his time as much as did Kirby, but I don't see any particular trope from any particular genre looming large in Lee's oeuvre. That doesn't mean that he didn't have particular tropes that he used again and again, only that he used them more for professional convenience, rather than for personal expression. I might argue, hypothetically, that over time Lee became invested in using the trope of "the suffering savior" that one can find in his fifties SF-stories (like this one) on through SPIDER-MAN and SILVER SURFER. But I can't really claim that trope dominates his work anymore than that of the "quarreling best buddies" trope I see in pairings from "Millie and Chili" to "Ben and Johnny."

For THE CLINICIAN I cheated on my categories a little, for my initial example is Timely/Atlas publisher Martin Goodman, who was not to my knowledge a creator of any kind. However, the ALTER EGO article referenced establishes that at times he did show a rough, if not always correct, instinct about what sort of stories would prove popular with his target audience. Of course, Goodman is most famous for indiscriminately flooding newsstands with quickly produced titles, purely to grab shelf-space, so it's fair to say that he didn't make many, if any, decisions based on what moved him personally. I call him a Clinician because I see in him a clinical attitude toward creative efforts. 

       

But of course I can find many more examples of all three types in all media. Michael Carreras, who wrote and directed several movies for Hammer Films (founded by his father James), strikes me as another Clinician. I've never read a biography of MC, but from looking over the movies he did before and after the birth of Hammer horror, I get the sense that he like Goodman just went with the flow most if not all the time. In my review of THE CURSE OF THE MUMMY'S TOMB, I took note of how he used a complex Egyptian myth-tale for no better purpose than to make one more mummy-movie. A Clinician type of creator can produce exemplary work, though in Carreras's case, CURSE and the risible PREHISTORIC WOMEN are probably at the top of his creative roster.

In line with some of my recent ruminations on LOST, I tend to think that some of its blown potential stemmed from the different creative types involved. In the early seasons, I might have believed that head honcho J.J. Abrams to be a Lover ensorcelled by a multitude of tantalizing tropes. But exposure to his work on the STAR TREK and STAR WARS franchises showed me that he was at best a Dilettante. Had he remained active in guiding the six seasons of LOST, the show still might have emerged as a media landmark. But the producers to whom he relegated LOST were in my estimation just Clinicians with not much skill at keeping the tone and content consistent-- which is why, in this month's LOST essay, I said that the only way I could analyze the program would be to go armed with both a "good shit" detector and a "bad shit" detector-- or words to that effect.        

IDIOMS PULPY AND TALKY

 I saw FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS yesterday, and prior to crafting a review for the movie-blog I decided to mediate on why I found myself less than captivated with the movie, even though it's a general improvement on the standard MCU product.

One problem is that of all the previous adaptations of the Lee-Kirby FANTASTIC FOUR have been unable to put across the unique blend of action, pathos and imagination found in the comic book, with the possible exception of the 1967 FANTASTIC FOUR cartoon, which was largely a straightforward recycling of the original stories. Though the FF was the conceptual flagship title of Marvel Comics, the property was owned for several years by 20th-Century Fox, and thus was outside the grasp of the Disney-owned MCU during its formative years. Disney's acquisition of the FF franchise in 2019 finally made it feasible to integrate the FF into the current universe. Because for the last five years most MCU movies and television shows have become creatively constipated and generally unprofitable, some fans held out hope for STEPS to be a game-changer. At present STEPS' box office won't even come close to the billion-dollar mark of last year's DEADPOOL AND WOLVERINE, so it's not going to alter the MCU's downward spiral in terms of popularity. It's possible that STEPS will enjoy aesthetic prominence, though, given rumors that the company plans to go forward with an Avengers-FF crossover and possibly a STEPS sequel after that.

                

  While I've not followed any of the publicity statements by director Matt Shakman or the movie's four credited writers, it seems obvious that they all sought to choose a particular SF-idiom not found in previous adaptations. In my 2023 essay THE EXCELLENT SEEDS OF HIS OWN DESTRUCTION, I expatiated on two idioms that had influenced the science fiction genre since its formulation in the late 1800s, calling them, informally, "gosh-wow" SF and "philosophical SF." The new names in my title. "pulpy" and "talky," are not meant to be any less informal, but they're a little more direct in encapsulating distinct forms of narrative appeal. "The pulpy" appeals to sensation and emotional melodrama, while "the talky" appeals to ideational concepts. Some critics automatically prefer the latter idiom, as per the nostrum that "science fiction is a literature of ideas." Yet not all ideas are good just because they share a didactic approach, any more than all sensations are good because they share a sense of immediacy.

In the SEEDS essay, I argued that Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, as well as other Marvel raconteurs to a lesser extent, tapped into the two rough idioms of science fiction because they all had been exposed to those idioms in the 1950s through the proliferation of SF cinema in that decade, and they sought (as their chief competitor DC Comics did not) to convey both idioms to their young readers. The Marvel creators were not the first in comics to do this. But when they crossbred the SF idioms with the superhero genre in the 1960s, they created a self-sustaining mythology-- one that the MCU managed to adapt for cinema, to some extent bringing things full circle. 

The Lee-Kirby FANTASTIC FOUR was the most fully developed blend of the two idioms, allowing the quartet of heroes to vary their adventures from high-tension battles with supervillains to meditative reflections on man's place in the universe. But because Shakman and company chose to launch STEPS with their take on the highly praised "Galactus Trilogy," they clearly chose one idiom over the other-- and thus failed to capture the rich dichotomy of the original comic book. I know that during my viewing I found myself pulling back from all the homages to 1995's APOLLO 13, which was fine for a mundane film about space-exploration but became draggy within the context of a superhero franchise film.      

Indeed, the only places in the film that I saw any of the "pulpy" idiom of the original comic was in sequences showing how the "real" Fantastic Four had been adapted into kids' cartoons, like that of the 1960s Hanna-Barbera toon mentioned above. Shakman et al advocated a "talky" approach to their Galactus story, and yet didn't succeed as well as they might have with respect to some of the ideas they raised. I'll engage with more specifics in the blog-review of STEPS, but I wanted to get these idiomatic divagations out of the way first.   

CURIOSITIES: KIRBY'S 2001

 In my recent review of the 1968 film 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, I wondered about the alleged Nietzschean inspirations of the Kubrick-Clarke script, particularly with respect to the ending, wherein astronaut Bowman is transformed into a sort of superman-- or maybe "super-fetus." Because Kubrick's film utilized so little exposition, though, it's tough to figure out what's going on with Bowman when he transforms. Does he incarnate the Nietzschean idea of "self-overcoming?" I wasn't able to find an online copy of the final 2001 script, which I believe Kubrick changed a lot during the movie's production. The novelization by Kubrick's co-writer Arthur C. Clarke does include a lot of mental exposition by Bowman when he transforms. However, Clarke's description of the process is pretty vague. Novel-Bowman doesn't behold a monolith in his fantasy-bedroom. He goes to sleep and feels like "something invaded his mind," though one can only assume that his alien controllers have triggered this process. He experiences a vision of time flowing backward, and as he re-experiences old memories, he regresses to the super-fetus. Then, as Bowman-Fetus transitions into outer space, he then sees the Jupiter monolith. But Clarke never directly says that the aliens have transformed Bowman, though he may have assumed that all readers would make that assumption.                                                             

  I then gave a quick look to Jack Kirby's 1976 adaptation of 2001. Obviously Kirby had seen the film by then, as he duplicates the scenario of the bedroom-monolith, among many other scenes. Maverick that he was, Kirby diverges from the film in many ways too, sometimes just out of personal preference. According to one online source, Kirby also borrows elements from the Clarke novelization as well, one example being that Kirby has the primeval ape-men hunt Clarke's warthogs, rather than Kubrick's tapirs. But though I doubt Kirby ever read much if any Nietzsche-- it's in the conclusion of the 2001 adaptation that I found the most Nietschean statement about Bowman's transformation. To be sure, the first part of the "explanation" is jumbled, as a Kirby Kaption says, "What is the end or beginning to something that has known neither-- mortally is a condition of man." I can only assume Kirby meant to write "mortality," because the following sentence is, "And he must be taught to surmount it..." That's all the internal monologuing Kirby gives us before the monolith begins its transforming process, but the whole ideal of "surmounting death" bears comparison to Nietzsche's idea of "self-overcoming." Then, in the last few pages, Kirby totally dispenses with the endings of both Kubrick and Clarke, claiming that the Star Child is "the first of many new ones," implying that the monolith is programmed to transform other humans into a race of super-psychics. It's kind of a wacky take on both movie and novelization, but I must admit-- it's Kwintessential Kirby!                                           

ADDENDUM TO SAVING TIME IN A BRAIN

 

In the preceding essay, I forgot that AMAZING ADVENTURES wasn't just dropped, but that it was converted into Stan Lee's experimental all-Ditko book AMAZING ADULT FANTASY, which in its final-issue form (with the "adult" ironically knocked from the title) had at least as much consequence for Marvel as FANTASTIC FOUR #1. I'm sure I read of the title changeover many times but it just got filed in the "not significant" pile of memory engrams.

The switch from AA to AAF is also more significant than I'd thought, now that I've read all the AA issues online. Though there's some Ditko mixed in to AA, the six issues are heavily Kirby-dominated. Kirby's SF/monster books had evidently been selling OK for Atlas/Marvel even during DC's big superhero push around 1958. But AA must not have sold well, possibly indicating a sea-change in reader preferences. (It would take a little longer for all of DC's SF-anthology titles to become saturated with continuing-character features.) So the transition to AAF shows Stan Lee trying to aim a little higher than the usual Atlas/Marvel fare, building up Steve Ditko's aesthetic. I've never seen any commentary on AAF by either Lee or Ditko, so I have to accept the reigning fan-theory, that Lee hoped to emulate the model of TV's successful TWILIGHT ZONE anthology. I doubt he was counting on that as a long-term strategy for success, given the fate of EC Comics about six years previous; he probably just hoped for decent sales while enjoying seeing his stories brought to life by Ditko's burgeoning talent.

Most of the Kirby stuff in AA is pretty ordinary fare, by the way. I need to do a writeup of the "Doctor Droom" stories some time, because they definitely don't feel like "New Marvel."

SAVING TIME IN A BRAIN

 First, a pair of juxtaposed quotes:

Time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every facet.

Why couldn't the past, present and future all be occurring at the same time-- but in different dimensions?

The first quote comes from one of the most famous graphic novels of all time, the 1986-87 Moore/Gibbons WATCHMEN, and the sentiment expressed, about the relativity of time, is "intricately structured" as one of the narrative's main themes.

The second comes from a very obscure Lee-Kirby story in AMAZING ADVENTURES #3 (1961), "We Were Trapped in the Twilight World." It wasn't reprinted until the twenty-first century and I doubt that even its creators remembered it after they tossed it out within the pages of a title that was finished in three more issues.

Not only was"Twilight" probably tossed off to fill space, the idea of the simultaneity of past, present and future isn't even important to the story's plot. Shortly after the handsome young theorist expresses his time-theory, he drives away with his girlfriend. A mysterious, never-explained mist transports them both back into Earth's prehistoric past. While the two of them flee various menaces, the scientist theorizes that entities from the past sometimes entered the mist and showed up in modern times, so that ape-like cavemen generated the story of the Abominable Snowmen. Grand Comics Database believes that "Twilight" is one of many SF-stories plotted by Stan Lee but dialogued by his brother Larry Leiber, so, failing the discovery of original Kirby art, there's no ascertaining which of the three creators involved generated the line.

In both stories, the simultaneity of all times has one common function: to cast a light on the limits of human perception. But is there any truth in it?

In the sense of the bodies we occupy, not really. Our common experience as human beings is that our bodies are totally enslaved by the unstoppable progress of the future, remorselessly eating away the present the way age eats away at our bodily integrity. And yet, one organ in the body defies future's tyranny and that's the brain.

Only in the brain are past, present and future truly unified-- though one may question if Moore's correct about how "intricate" the structure is, even assuming that the paradigm applies only to fully functioning human brains. And time is only unified in terms of a given subject's own memories. I don't necessarily dismiss such things as "memories of a past life" that are usually cited in support of reincarnation. But those type of memories are not universal enough to draw any conclusions.

My ability to "time-travel" in my memories is similarly limited. I can summon a quasi-memory of being on a family vacation and finding MARVEL TALES #11 at an out-of-town pharmacy. That comic book would have been on sale in 1967, probably a few months prior to its November cover-date. I *think* this was probably the first SPIDER-MAN comic I bought, but my memories of reading the comic for the first time aren't that specific. I hadn't been buying superhero comics for even a year before late 1967, having only started doing so after the debut of the BATMAN teleseries in early 1966. That show would have finished its second season in March 1967, at which time I might have felt venturesome enough to sample a superhero I'd never heard of. Now, for me to be correct on that score, I would have to have bought MARVEL TALES before the 1967 SPIDER-MAN cartoon debuted that September, since it's also my memory that I watched that TV show when it first aired. But can I be *absolutely* sure that I didn't see the cartoon before buying the comic book? Not in the least. I *seem* to remember that I'd bought enough back issues of SPIDER-MAN or MARVEL TALES that when the cartoon debuted, I recognized how some of the cartoon-stories had been adapted from the originals. But that memory is not reliable.

In the WATCHMEN chapter referenced, Doctor Manhattan can foresee future events as accurately as he can memories of the past-- or at least, whatever past experiences are important to Moore's narrative. And in "Twilight," the protagonists live through the past so as to clarify events in their present. But total narrative clarity is denied real people. However, what our functioning memories do preserve are not just every single experience we have, but the IMPORTANT experiences. 

Humans can travel in time from SIGNIFICANT THING #1 to SIGNIFICANT THING #4566 via chains of mental association. Some of these associations might be subconscious. I once noticed that Robert E. Howard's barbarian hero Kull first appeared in print in the August 1929 issue of WEIRD TALES, about three or four years before Siegel and Shuster collaborated on their landmark hero Superman. We know that Siegel named Superman's dad after himself, making "Jor-L" out of the first syllable of the author's first name and the last syllable of his last name. But whence comes "Kal-L?" Did it come from... "Kul-L?" Even assuming that Siegel read the Kull story, there's no way of knowing if he consciously remembered reading it. But IF he read it, maybe something about the hero's name appealed to Siegel, and he simply recycled that appeal when it came time to name his own hero.

We do not know if anything survives the demise of our physical forms. But while we are alive, it's entirely logical to build up our stores of significant memories, whether we can take them with us or not. To borrow from the title of an old English poem, those memories provide us with our only "triumph over time."

One last Significant Thing: the last issue of Marvel magazine AMAZING ADVENTURES was cover-dated November 1961, the same date assigned to FANTASTIC FOUR #1. So that arbitrary date becomes something of a threshold between the Old Marvel Way of doing things, and the New Approach, which would, as I've argued elsewhere, saved the medium of comic books from extinction.

THE EXCELLENT SEEDS OF HIS OWN DESTRUCTION

For once, I got permission from a forum-poster, one DoctorHermes428, to reprint here a post from CHFB that sparked my current essay. The conversation involved in part talking about the reasons why in the late 1960s Jack Kirby declined to accept any offer Stan Lee may have made re: taking over Lee's de facto Art Director duties for Marvel Comics, and why he Kirby decided instead to sever relations with Marvel in 1969 and go to work for DC Comics under head editor Carmine Infantino.

____________

I don't see how Jack Kirby would have enjoyed being Art Director, no matter if it paid better. He loved working on his own, sitting up all night over the drawing board. Being in an office with people coming in and out all day, the phone ringing, arguments over a cover layout... all this would have annoyed him beyond bearing (as I see it).
What happened at DC really broke Jack Kirby's heart. His grand plans for the Fourth World books where he had some of his favorite creators working for him, as well as his ideas for a line of black and white magazines, weren't supported by DC (mostly Carmine Infantino). 

I don't think Kirby was ever the same after this. He still turned out some fine comics but increasingly he was jus going through the motions. The spark had been damped. He wasn't out to change the world or create his life's work, he just settled down to make a living. I know most people will say, "It's just comic books, what's the big deal?" but to me it's one of the biggest missed opportunities in pop culture ever. -- DoctorHermes428.

Now in my essay STAN, JACK, AND JOE STUFF I mentioned in a general sense the way the Marvel Universe had in essence undermined Kirby's independent way of doing comics, though I didn't address any long-term creative consequences. I wrote:

From my outsider's standpoint, though, the synergy between Kirby and Lee was far different [from the Simon-Kirby collaboration], and I think Kirby got from Lee as good as he gave. But Kirby had spent a long, long time spinning his fantasies on the drawing-board, and he probably wasn't all that sensitive to the ways in which Lee MAY have turned him in new directions. Years later, when Kirby was seeking to reclaim his original art from the recalcitrant Marvel Comics, the artist said many dismissive things about Stan's talents, and some fans have taken those pronouncements as gospel. To me, the obvious fact that Kirby's later solo productions abjured the "soap opera" approach of Marvel proves to me that Kirby did not originate this approach to characterization, despite the fact that together Kirby and Lee could do soap-opera tropes better than anyone else in the business.

Kirby, unlike most professionals in his time, had an incredible capacity to remember and rework dozens of story-tropes from dozens of genres, so that much of his work, alone or in collaboration, seems like raw creativity unleashed. But he didn't always know the best way to channel his own creativity, precisely because he was so many-faceted. In addition, that creativity insured that he could never be entirely comfortable just cranking out stories for a client like DC Comics, and even if he didn't especially want to return to Marvel in the late 1950s, the ways in which his talent responded to Stan Lee's innovations re-defined the superhero genre at a time when the comic-book medium lay on the edge of extinction. Without the intense fandom that arose from Marvel Comics, it's possible that few readers would even care these days about sorting out who did what, and why.

 First, I should enlarge on what I said about "new directions." 

I've the impression that both Lee and Kirby read widely in many pulp genres as young men, and that, unlike many of their contemporaries, they were able, whether with one another or with other collaborators, to convey that enthusiasm to their young reading-audience. And of all the genres they both absorbed, the most important one to their 1960s collaborations was the genre of science fiction.

Now, the prose pulps of the 1940s would have offered a rather schizophrenic view of the genre, for one could encounter on the stands both pure "gosh-wow" space operas like Edgar Rice Burroughs and Captain Future alongside and deeper, more thoughtful philosophical meditations by authors like Asimov and Heinlein. So far as I can tell, though, almost no comics raconteurs of the 1940s tapped into the philosophical side of SF. All, including Lee and Kirby, were totally invested in "gosh-wow." And I will extend that argument (for reasons that will soon become clear) to the employment of SF in American cinema. In the decade of the 1940s, nearly no "philosophy-SF" was attempted, and the few attempts hardly came close to touching the hem of Fritz Lang's trouser-leg.

But comic book SF took on its own schizophrenic division in the very early 1950s. Going by my partial reading of the early issues of DC's flagship  SF-anthology comic, STRANGE ADVENTURES (1950), I would say that DC remained steadfastly committed to the "gosh-wow" method. In the same year that ADVENTURES debuted, William Gaines' EC Comics published its two SF-titles, WEIRD FANTASY and WEIRD SCIENCE. EC experts would know more than I of Gaines' reading-proclivities. But for whatever reasons-- which probably include the proclivities of contributors like Wally Wood-- EC's two magazines proved to be more in the spirit of "philosophy-SF" that had been best propagated in the forties by ASTOUNDING MAGAZINE and in the fifties by THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION (said magazine having begun in 1949). To further support the sense of a changing ethos, American cinema suddenly began investing heavily in "thinking-man's SF," with DESTINATION MOON in 1950 and both THE THING and THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL in 1951. 

I can't say at present how much the changes to comics-SF and movie-SF affected either Lee or Kirby in the first half of the fifties. I don't think by that time either man was likely to be reading pulp magazines any more, whether the magazines were simple or sophisticated. But I have the distinct impression that both of them kept a weather-eye on the new breed of SF-movies, and that both men began emulating cinema's version of "philosophical SF" in their comic books, and MAYBE imitating EC's efforts in that department too. How much these emulations affected their work in the early 1950s is not important to my thesis. But it seems without question that when they started collaborating on SF-work in the late 1950s-- even on the works where Stan's brother Larry Leiber provided the dialogue-- they began giving the characters in their short-term anthology-tales more characterization than anything one could see in DC's gosh-wow stories of the decade.

The DC gosh-wow dynamic also informed the company's SF-heavy superheroes of the late fifties and early sixties: FLASH, GREEN LANTERN, JUSTICE LEAGUE. But when Lee enlisted Kirby to collaborate on their flagship superhero title in 1961, the first thing they did was to work in one of the tragic monsters they'd been using in their SF-anthology tales, but as an ongoing hero. 

Though Lee and Kirby were very different individuals and had very different attitudes toward their creative endeavors, I think the synergy between them came from a common understanding that you could tell far more engaging comics-stories if the characters were at least on the same level of a movie like 1953's CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON. From the years 1961-1964, that's as far as their aspirations went.

Then, during the years 1965 through 1967, Kirby goes through a period of incredible dynamism in terms of designing new characters. In FANTASTIC FOUR alone, he visualized the Inhumans, Galactus and the Silver Surfer, the Kree, and the Black Panther in that short period. It's possible, as Kirby apologists believe, that Lee simply let Kirby create everything during that period and just filled in the dialogue. But there's no literal proof that Kirby never picked up any ideas from his editor and collaborator. One can only say that Lee probably could not have designed a character to save his life. That said, before Kirby wasted time coming up with a design for comics' first Black superhero, I think it's axiomatic that Lee would have signed off on spotlighting such a character. Indulging some of Kirby's wilder flights of fancy didn't mean letting the artist do whatever he pleased. Lee was the editor, the guy who made decisions about what did or didn't benefit the image of the company he was building into a small empire. So if Lee had wanted to turn King T'Challa into just another White jungle-hero, that's what Kirby would have been obliged to draw.

As DoctorHermes says, in the late sixties Kirby saw that for the first time his works were getting a little serious attention from the non-comics world. He didn't think, probably correctly, that he was getting due credit for his contributions-- though to be fair, outsiders would not have cared about the specifics of who created what. As I said in my earlier essay, only hardcore fans kept track of such minutiae. For the last two years of his second Marvel tenure, Kirby reined in his creative impulses, probably to keep from giving away any more profitable ideas to the company. One anecdote suggests that Kirby might have shown Stan Lee a few rough ideas he'd later take to DC Comics. When some interviewer related this anecdote to Stan Lee, the Marvel editor typically said that he didn't remember one way or the other.

Ironically, one of the models for Kirby's "Fourth World" was not a major SF-author, but the foremost fantasy-author of the sixties decade, J.R.R. Tolkien. To be sure, the only thing Kirby really took from Tolkien was a general metaphysical attitude toward the struggle between the Good of New Genesis and the Evil of Apokolips, a theme not present in most SF prose works. But almost all of the imagery of the Fourth World stemmed from science fiction, not fantasy. 

What Kirby presented in the Fourth World was usually "gosh-wow" SF garnished with occasional philosophical content. Nevertheless, the scripts he wrote were fully as ambitious as those he co-created with Lee. I think it's likely that, aside from just wanting to be independent of his collaboration with Lee, Kirby hoped to establish his Fourth World as an artistic rival to the Marvel Universe he'd helped build.

I like many fans wish that Carmine Infantino had allowed the Fourth World story to come to a decent conclusion. But even given such circumstances, I don't think Kirby-at-DC had a chance in hell of challenging the popularity of Marvel. I hypothesize that in the early years, both Lee and Kirby probably enjoyed, as much as any professional adults could, the fannish pleasure of having two heroes from different features clash. At least I can't look at the 1964 "The Hulk vs the Thing" and see anything but two creators having fun, rather than just hacking out a job for pay. But when Kirby went to DC, the only way he could prosper at that company-- where various characters were parceled out into separate feifdoms-- was to keep his creations isolated from everything in mainstream DC, apart from some minor usages of Superman, Jimmy Olsen, and new incarnations of the Guardian and the Newsboy Legion. 

By 1970, though, the DC approach of keeping their features largely isolated from one another was beginning to lose favor with the hardcore fan audience. Those fans were a minor subgroup of the general audience, of course. But the casual comics-readers weren't ready to commit to Kirby's big project. Could the hardcore fans have made the Fourth World profitable enough to keep it going a little longer? No one can possibly know. All we know is that comics fandom of the early 1970s was divided on the merits of the New Kirby Universe. I've seen a fair number of fans reminisce that they just couldn't get into Kirby's rather eccentric scripts, and that may be because they'd become accustomed to the greater quality control seen at Marvel under Lee's editorship. I'm fairly sure that Don Thompson expressed contempt for the Kirbyverse in his fanzine NEWFANGLES, just a year or two before he and wife Maggie began writing for the tradezine THE BUYER'S GUIDE.

I concur that after the premature cancellation of the Fourth World books, Kirby never again sought to equal the incredible creativity of either that creative era or of the 1965-67 period. Some particular ideas are very good; some are pretty bad. As for mainstream comics after Marvel's classic period, I don't see a lot of writers and artists seeking inspiration from either prose or cinematic SF with the intensity that I discern in the works of Lee and Kirby. More often, I saw the tendency to rework tropes from the Lee-Kirby days, or from standout SF-comics of the sixties, like the Fox-Infantino ADAM STRANGE. (Chris Claremont riffing on the ALIEN movies is not my idea of a meaningful SF-influence.) Kirby's creative decline mirrored the demise of both gosh-wow SF and philosophical-SF in the comics medium so far as I can see, as Lee's linking of superheroes and soap-opera melodrama (which merits separate discussion) took precedence. 

And that's as good a place as any to end these somewhat doleful meditations.