HOSTS, HEAVENLY AND OTHERWISE PT. 3

 

I started thinking once more about the topic of "story-hosts" after re-reading Batman's visit to "The House of Mystery" in BRAVE AND BOLD #93, courtesy of Denny O'Neil and Neal Adams. In a previous installment of this essay-series, I had talked about how certain issues of that rotating team-up title, because those stories paired Batman, a superordinate icon, with such subordinate icons as The Joker, the Riddler and Ra's Al Ghul, none of whom have ever progressed beyond the subordinate level (in contrast, say, to a rare character like The Catwoman, who made her superordinate mark in the 1990s and who has kept that stature thereafter). 

But at least all of the villains so featured were actual icons. In the story "Red Water, Crimson Death," the two "headliners" are Batman and Cain from DC's "House of Mystery" title-- but not only do they not interact with one another, the latter character has, as far as this story is concerned, no power to interact with Batman or anyone else. He might best be termed a "null-icon" here, as he is in most if not all of the horror-stories he hosted. Thus, in contrast to what I wrote in COSMIC ALIGNMENT PT. 6, in all such narratives Cain would be neither Prime nor Sub. I'm aware that he becomes a Sub in the SANDMAN comic, which parallels what I also wrote in the above essay about the EC story "Horror Beneath the Streets." In that tale the three EC horror-hosts come into "reality" to berate the comic-book makers-- but only to make the humans assign the hosts to their already established venues. Technically they are Primes and the comic-book authors are Subs-- though the categorization is made more difficult in that story-hosts are essentially identical with their authors. They serve the same purpose as omniscient narrators, but as "null-icons," they convey a sense of personality absent in such narrators.

So in my book, "Crimson" is essentially a Batman story, concerning his adventure when he tries to take a vacation from being Batman. He meets a young Irish boy, Sean, during an ocean voyage , and though Bruce Wayne has no idea that Sean is involved in a criminal case, he ends up accompanying the boy back to his small fishing-isle, and thus, getting some necessary exposition-- and an introduction to a supernatural manifestation.          

I won't recount the whole story here, but suffice to say that there's a human agency behind the so-called "red tides" and the never-specified deaths of Sean's parents. However, there's also a superhuman agency that manipulates the Gotham Guardian into intervening to capture the criminals and save Sean's life. And yet, though as scripted this is a Batman story, with no crossover elements, O'Neil and Adams structured the tale as the sort of thing that could have run in HOUSE OF MYSTERY. And suppose that it had been reworked to be just such a story, with Batman ejected and replaced by just some basic one-shot viewpoint character? Then the centricity would have shifted from that POV type to either King Hugh, the ghost that renders aid to the boy's protector-- or even to Sean, since O'Neil's backstory slightly suggests that the boy, still grieving for his lost parents, may have subconsciously summoned the spirit of his dead relative to enact vengeance.

QUANTUMS OF SOLIPSISM PT. 2

The “longer formulation” of quantum literary theory that I mentioned in Part 1 represents an attempt to apply the insights regarding the master tropes of the combative mode, expressed in 2019’s GIVE-AND-TAKE VS. THE KILLING STROKE  to the discourses of the four potentialities. In 2017’s GOOD WILLQUANTUMS PT. 2  I wrote that “the primary criterion of ficti onal excellence in any potentiality” was that of “density/complexity,” which criterion was merely a conflation of two covalent terms I’d used separately over the years. Not until late 2018, with the essay CONVERGING ON CONCRESCENCE,  did I decide that the authorial process of creating complexity merited its own term, and that this process, called concrescence, pertained to any work, no matter which of the potentialities proved dominant in the author’s intentions. I devoted one 2019 essay, CLANSGRESSION COUNTDOWN, to listing fifty separate works, all of which dealt with similar subject matter, and then showing how each work emphasized one of the four potentialities more than it did any of the other three.

I wrote GIVE-AND-TAKE in late 2019, but that essay was the culmination of many years of meditating on the different forms that the combative mode took in fictional narratives, with special reference to forms which did not end with a “give-and-take” of energies between combatants. Apparently, I was reasonably satisfied with these makework terms for the two tropes throughout most of 2020. However, during 2020 I finally read PROCESS AND REALITY, and this caused me to re-interpret some of my critical parameters in terms of the “vector metaphor” Whitehead used in PROCESS. Thanks to this process of re-interpretation, I gave further thought to the two tropes of GIVE-AND-TAKE in terms of vectors.

With the trope originally designated as “the killing stroke,” recently renamed “the deathblow,” I noted that the combative energies could flow in one of two directions:

From inferior force to superior force, as with the humans who blind the mighty Cyclops as well as the humans who vanquish mighty Godzilla with an “oxygen destroyer”—

Or from superior force to inferior force, as with Dionysus’s destruction of Pentheus and with the Spectre’s destruction of pestilential criminals.

However, with the trope originally designated as “give-and-take” and renamed “deathmatch,” the flow of energies must be on roughly the same plane. Often the deathmatch-trope takes place between just two entities of roughly equal power, such as Aeneas and Turnus, or Orion and Kalibak. A second variation would be that of two formidable warriors taking a larger number of opponents with some disadvantages (Odysseus and Telemachus vs. the suitors, who lack full armor and weapons, Batman and Robin vs. gangs of armed hoods who lack any special combative skills). A third popular variation is that of a huge assemblage of combatants vs. another huge assemblage of equally skilled opponents (the Greek gods vs. the Titans, the Justice Society vs. the Injustice Society), and a fourth can pit a large assemblage of heroes against one superior opponent, as with the Greek gods fighting Typhon and the Teen Titans battling Trigon. But all of these variations are subsumed by a vector showing energies flowing in both directions.

Because the “strength-quanta” energies of the deathblow-trope focus upon a vector going only in one direction, I choose to label this trope as *univectoral. *

However, because the “strength-quanta” energies of the deathmatch-trope flow in at least two directions at minimum, I choose to label this trope as *multivectoral. *

In GIVE-AND-TAKE, I erred on the side of caution by stating that I wasn’t yet certain that the two combative tropes were the only significant ones. However, having rethought the tropes in terms of vectoral analysis, I’ll now state that these two are the only principal tropes for “strength-quanta,” and that everything in between the two is simply a variation of one or the other.

Now, how does this affect potentialities whose tropes deal with different quanta? I will submit that excellence in all of the other three potentialities arises from a concrescence of energies that also follows either a *univectoral * or a *multivectoral * process.

Some loose examples:

In a work dominated by the dramatic potentiality, the work might be *univectoral * if it focuses only upon how one character’s “affect-quanta” influences other persons, as with Ibsen’s HEDDA GABLER. Another work might be *multivectoral * if it focused on how a group of characters influenced one another with their quanta, as would be the case in the same author’s ROSMERSHOLM. Similarly, one might have two works dominated by the didactic potentiality, one in which the author wishes to expatiate only one ideology, while in another the author wishes to oppose at least two ideologies in order to show one as superior to the other. Both Upton Sinclair’s THE JUNGLE and Jack London’s THE IRON HEEL concern the ideology of socialism. But London provides an argument for the counter-ideology of capitalism, while Sinclair does not.

As for the mythopoeic potentiality, the one that arguably receives the greatest attention on this blog, I may as well use as illustrations the last two mythcomics I analyzed here. “Ixar, Sinister Statue of the Cyclades” is *univectoral,* in that all of the symbol-quanta are invested in the giant statue’s recapitulation of the myth of Orion and Cedalion, while all other characters, settings and plot-actions in the story are symbolically nugatory.

In contrast, the two-part story “PublicEnemy/Lifedeath” is *mutivectoral.* The first part begins by showing the interactions of two heroes, Storm and Rogue, as they overcome their initial conflicts and forge a bond of superheroic sisterhood, in part thanks to Rogue being able to “become” Storm by assimilating Storm’s command of natural forces. The sequence then concludes by showing a different set of symbolic interactions between Storm and potential lover Forge. Forge, an incarnation of the de-mythifying power of science, accidentally brings about the eradication of Storm’s godlike mutant abilities. Because Storm does not know that Forge is responsible for her loss, she comes close to being seduced both by his virility and his state of wounded-ness (missing leg replaced by a mechanical substitute). When she learns of his culpability, she rejects any bond with him, except in the sense that she swears to overcome the state of abjection he’s forced upon her, promising that she will find a way to “fly” again, if only in a metaphorical sense.

Time will tell whether or not I will explore other potentialities in terms of their vectoral nature. If so, I would have to devise trope-names appropriate to the other three potentialities, since “deathmatch” and “deathblow” apply only to the kinetic.

MYTHCOMICS: “IXAR, SINISTER STATUE OF THE CYCLADES” (HOUSE OF MYSTERY #135, 1963)

All American comics-anthologies, or at least those within my not-inconsiderable experience, sell to their public by offering stories with “twist endings.” Because writers concentrate on coming up with fresh “gotchas” to impress readers, often they don’t manage to exercise their myth-making faculties as well. Of the stand-alone stories I’ve reviewed as fully concrescent mythcomics, Bruce Jones’ “The Maiden and the Dragon” stands as an exception to this tendency. Like other tales scripted by Jones during this period, this narrative relies upon a surprise at the end. However, the twist evolves from a synthesis of two disparate myth-tropes: that of a monarch dividing a bequest between several offspring, and that of a maiden being menaced by a ravening dragon—a synthesis not unlike the one in the story reviewed here.

The Silver Age anthologies of DC Comics, given the company’s editorial insistence upon delivering simple gimmick-tales, don’t furnish an inviting terrain for myth. Nevertheless, an exception to this tendency appears in an uncredited story in HOUSE OF MYSTERY #135. GCDB attributes the artwork to George Roussos but has no record of the author. I speculate that it may have been Arnold Drake, and so when speaking of the writer will term him “Maybe-Drake.”

The writer of the “Ixar” story certainly did a little more research than one sees in the average DC tale, both in terms of an accurate setting and of significant myth-tropes. I’ll descant on the tropes after summarizing the story. As for the details of verisimilitude, these relate to the author’s choice of the Greek Cyclades Islands as his setting. The most pertinent aspects of the Islands here are that (a) two of the isles are or were volcanic in nature, and (b) the area has a strong repute for exotic statuary, given that the islands were originally inhabited by a pre-Minoan culture.

Certainly Maybe-Drake starts the story by focusing on the volcanic nature of his unnamed island-setting in the Cyclades, stating that the “remote island” is occupied by “a village and a volcano.” The villagers believe that the volcano is held in check by Ixar, a giant green-skinned deity who “though blind, possessed amazing strength, and could easily hold back the volcano’s terrible fury.” (At present I’ve found no mythic correlations for the name Ixar, though it bears some resemblance to “Ixion,” the name of a Greek transgressor against the gods.)

Page two expands upon Ixar’s mythology by revealing that he’s a biune deity, for on his head stands a human-sized entity. This “lesser god” is named Optar, which is unquestionably derived from the Greek “optikos,” meaning roughly “that which sees or is seen.” Optar, Maybe-Drake tells us, possessed sight that “could peer beyond the stars,” though he “yearned for strength such as Ixar’s.” Thus, the two deities joined with one another: “Ixar became Optar’s strength, Optar became Ixar’s sight, and they served each other well.” Two thousand years prior to present time, the villagers honored the biune deity with the tallest statue on the island, roughly along the lines of the famed Colossus of Rhodes. However, a “new and jealous king decreed that his statue should stand above all others.” This proved an act of hubris comparable to the (non-canonical) fall of the Tower of Babel, for Ixar-Optar releases the volcano and buries the king’s city in ash and lava. In contemporary times, a humble village has taken the place of the impious city, and though the village is sustained by mining gold from the earth, the island’s greatest wealth is its history.

Three archaeologists—Stanton, Frazure and Duncan, all speaking in American speech patterns—have the luck to unearth a statue from the island’s earth, a statue which attentive readers will recognize as Optar. On the day when the scientists plan to subject Optar to carbon-dating, Stanton goes missing—and suddenly, mighty Ixar, with Optar still perched on his head, rises from the concealing earth. The hulking statue stalks toward the village, and the residents fear that he seeks to destroy everyone in response to the archaeological meddling. However, the blind green giant then saves some citizens from falling masonry.

Duncan and Frazure cannot reconcile the reality of the “incredible stone duo” in terms of science, and when the duo departs, Stanton suddenly shows up and asserts that everyone must have been the victim of mass hypnosis. Out of nowhere the two stone deities show up again, as if summoned by Stanton’s skepticism, and attack a local train that carries gold from the mine. Optar even reveals a new talent, blasting the train with a ray from his eyes. The deities stalk off again, and the villagers blame Stanton. Frazure absents himself during these goings-on but comes back to reveal the results of his own private research. He reveals the secret of Ixar-Optar: it’s a robot created by an alien race in order to gather data on the Earthlings of archaic times, apparently built to take the place of the colossal statue. The aliens died long ago in the same volcanic cataclysm supposedly unleashed by a king’s impiety, but the explorers left behind a laboratory filled with explanatory notes, conveniently written in ancient Aegean hieroglyphics. Frazure also deduces that Stanton found the lab first and acquired a device with which he controlled the robot and made it attack the train, so that he Stanton could later collect the gold. Stanton is implicitly arrested, and the islanders get a “tourist attraction” in the form of the deactivated robot.

The paltry detective plot is garbage and the three scientists are nothing characters, but Ixar-Optar is an engaging conflation of two intertwined traditions of archaic Greece. One tradition stems from the myth-corpus of Hephaestus the Blacksmith-God, not infrequently pictured as living inside volcanoes due to his association with fire. As for the other two major aspects of the artificial deity’s nature—his tremendous strength and his blindness—Maybe-Drake certainly borrowed these from the legend of Orion, who is connected to Hephaestus in this following myth:

According to the oldest version, he was the son of the god Poseidon and Euryale, daughter of King Minos of Crete. Thanks to his father, Orion had the ability to walk on water, which is how he reached the island of Chios. There, after drinking too much, he made sexual advances to Merope, the daughter of the local king. King Oenopion had him blinded and removed from the island. Blind Orion reached the island of Lemnos, which was the place where god Hephaestus had his forge. Helped by Hephaestus and his servant Cedalion, Orion reached the East where the sun god Helios restored his eyesight.

It would seem obvious that the forge-god’s apprentice Cedalion—who has no other associations beyond the Orion corpus—is the inspiration for Optar, a smaller being who provides the “eyes” for a blind giant. The writer of the story imagines the robot Optar as functioning atop Ixar’s head as an “aerial,” which in 1963 would probably have elicited mental comparisons to the “rabbit ears” of early televisions. One thing Maybe-Drake doesn’t trouble to explain is why this “aerial” has a destruct-beam built into his gaze. Weren’t the alien robot-builders supposed to be peaceful investigators? But the eye-beam elaboration—unnecessary in a plot-sense, given that giant Ixar could have just kicked the gold-train into the sea—suggests that the writer was having fun with the story to some extent, by imagining a deity with a thunderbolt gaze. (It’s of some relevance that in archaic times Zeus himself was sometimes pictured as casting lightning from his eyes, though I would not assert that Maybe-Drake must have known of this obscure tradition.) Hampered as “Ixar” is by DC editors’ affection for bland gimmickry, the story does show that a few rare flowers can grow even in the most unpromising soil.