AXIS #4

I was disappointed with the first two issues of Marvel's AXIS. My sense of disappointment was compounded because the writer of AXIS is one of my favorite comic scribes, the subversive Rick Remender.  I held out the possibility that the series would improve. And that is exactly what happened when Adam Kubert handed off the art work after the second issue to the spectacular Leinil Francis Yu.

I read an interview with the great Paul Gulacy once who said that the problem with today's comic books is that they are too writercentric.

Well, the difference between the work of Kubert and Yu on AXIS is proof that the role of the artist is still "make or break." The writer might be the king of the hill in today's industry, which I think is correct, but without the right artist the comic book will flop.

To this I would add the colorist as well. I have been meaning to devote one of these Saturday morning comic-book posts to the importance of color in the comic-book reading experience. I have been intending to bone up on the philosophical and historical ramifications of color (for instance, by perusing Wittgenstein's Remarks on Colour, which I have somewhere in the studio here).

Suffice it to say, all one need do is read any of the black-&-white, telephone-book-like Marvel Esssential back-issue compendiums of classic titles to immediately understand that without color one is only getting a fraction of the comic-book experience. For me, there is no finer The Doors of Perception moment than when, back from a run and endorphins flowing, I can dig into a comic book. It is the color that makes it all happen.

So the comic book, in order to be successful, is dependent principally upon the tripartite division of creative labor of writer, artist and colorist. I'm sure editors and other production staff play a vital role -- such as the person(s) who interfaces with the printer, or the person(s) who does the color separations, etc. -- but for the purposes of the marquee, it makes sense that writer, artist (both penciler and inker) and colorist are given top placement.

What is on display in Leinil Francis Yu's powerhouse work in AXIS #4 is his Filipino roots. Look at Havok's face in the bottom right-hand corner of the second scan below:

Pure Alfredo Alcala. One of the few big advantages that DC had over Marvel in the Bronze Age was its large bullpen of Filipino artists -- brilliant draftsmen such as Alcala, Ernie Chan and Tony DeZuniga who gave DC several contemporary horror titles like Ghosts and Unexpected with which Marvel couldn't compete.

In AXIS #4, "Inversion: Chapter 1 - Altered Beast," the X-Men and the Avengers are back on a war footing against each other. The issue at dispute is the habeas corpus of the Red Skull. The Avengers have him, or at least they think they do, and want to kill him once and for all. That is the decision of a deranged All-New Captain America, a.k.a., Sam Wilson, formerly The Falcon. The X-Men want the Red Skull because they believe that their beloved leader Charles Xavier is still inside.

When the Avengers go to the Red Skull's holding cell high atop Avenger's Tower, Hulk "Hulks Out" in the form of a Super Hulk named Kluh, as you can see in the eight scans below.

Deadly Hands of Kung Fu #2

November is already upon us. Halloween has come and gone. Walking home from work last night I passed several young couples in costume: the women in full regalia with face paint and wigs; the men, half-assed, a cape here, a rodeo-rider belt buckle there.

After finishing up Aronofsky's Noah -- which I recommend, despite its short comings (no people of color cast), for its compelling and innovative advocacy of vegetarianism -- I went to bed and was hardly disturbed by the drunken revelry emanating from the homeward-bound debauched on the street below.

Up at the usual rat-race time of four o'clock to do two loads of laundry, everything was going smoothly until 5 AM when I upturned a large glass of Odwalla juice that was next to my mattress on the floor. The accident soaked the rug and several stacks of books by the bedside, necessitating stripping my mattress, pulling it up off the floor, and giving a bucket-of-hot-water wipe down to the books, hardwood and portions of the rug hit by the juice.

That done, I traveled down to the basement laundry room to fetch my clothes out of the dryer. On the way back up the stairs I ran into the building super, Dave. Dave is my age. Middle-aged. We were both dressed in cargo shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. Both of us prefer to move about in the early morning before the rest of the building is awake. Dave was changing a light bulb. He asked how my Halloween was. I said quiet. He agreed. I asked what he thought about Oakland coming to town. He said, "They're zero-and-seven. It shouldn't be a problem."

I replied, "Yes, but they're playing better. And Derek Carr lit us up. Hopefully, that Panthers win got us back on track."

"That was a big win. It was messy but impressive."

"Good seeing you, Dave."

With that we said goodbye and I returned to my apartment to fold my clothes.

Last Saturday after I got home from a going door to door for a Democrat in a race against an incumbent Republican that is noteworthy because the outcome will factor in who controls the state senate (the campaign has also received attention because it is one that the PAC of billionaire environmentalist Tom Steyer has donated to), I was so wiped out from a lingering flu that I went to bed. When I woke up I read the first two issues of Deadly Hands of Kung Fu, a four-issue series put out this year by Marvel.

Deadly Hands of Kung Fu was originally a black-and-white comic book magazine published from 1974 to 1977 by non-Comics Code Authority Marvel-imprint Curtis Magazines.

As a grade-school kid, I didn't read Marvel's Curtis stuff. It seemed too adult and slightly seamy and pornographic to me. Now and then I would glance at Dracula Lives!, Tales of the Zombie and Crazy Magazine at the 7/11 in my neighborhood. I think I owned an issue of Tales of the Zombie that I purchased at a garage sale. But I much preferred the color of the standard comic book to the black-and-white magazine illustrations.

The Curtis Magazines period is an interesting one in Marvel history and U.S. culture in general coinciding as it does with the demise of the Hippies and the gathering storm of a business-dominated Rightist counterrevolution. Really the only Curtis Magazines title to make it past the early 1980s is Savage Sword of Conan, probably owing to the popularity of the Arnold Schwarzenegger movies.

An abiding interest of mine is how in the 1970s there was a "massification of bohemia" in America as the Hippie counterculture along with Black Power cracked the white privilege Cracker militaristic paradigm and then how this massification of bohemia was rolled back by the plutocratic elite. Signposts of this struggle are Hippies vs. Punks, which I have been sporadically exploring on this page, as well as the proliferation of monsters, mystics and masters of kung fu in comic books. By the beginning of the 1980s as Reaganism and Thatcherism -- neoliberlism -- lock in for the long haul, all these freakish comic-book characters have had their titles cancelled.

I loved Master of Kung Fu as a kid, particularly the issues by Doug Moench and Paul Gulacy. (Check out this blog devoted to Shang-Chi, the Master of Kung Fu.) Moench, who also worked on Werewolf By Night, Morbius and Ka-Zar, together with Steve Gerber and his Man-Thing comic, made Marvel a potent vehicle of counterculture ideology.

So it was a profound sense of disappointment I felt after finishing the first two issues of Deadly Hands of Kung Fu. Written by Mike Benson with art by Tan Eng Huat, the comic book is utterly lifeless. It is like reading a newspaper comic strip splashed up with some cereal-box-bright colors.

You can judge for yourself. Below is the cover plus seven pages of a Chopsocky street brawl pitting Shang-Chi and Daughters of the Dragon against Razor Fist and his minions.

Iron Fist: The Living Weapon #6

I took a vacation day on Thursday for a couple of reasons, the foremost of which was that I had to renew my driver's license; the other -- it was the National Football League season opener, played here in the Emerald City, home to the Super Bowl Champion Seahawks, and I wanted to be comfortably resting in front of my small color TV at 5:30 PM PST for the kickoff instead of braving the perils of a homeward bound post-work commute on a train packed to overflowing with football fans.

I flunked my vision exam at the Department of Licensing. I was unable to identify a single character. The DOL agent who was evaluating me thought I was doing something wrong with the machine. She reprimanded me for not placing my forehead firmly on the viewing pad. When I tried again and failed again she printed out an evaluation form for me to take to an ophthalmologist. That was it. Out the door I went without a driver's license renewal. Now it is into the maw of the health industrial complex to be fitted for eyeglasses.

But the rest of the vacation day afternoon was pleasant. I went for a long run around Lake Union at midday. There is something about running under the sun in the middle of the day that is truly unique.

The late summer weather was pristine. Passersby wore Seahawks jerseys. There were also a few Cheesehead tourists sporting Packers gear.

I returned home and, after a warm-down stretch, began to cramp up in my right leg, something which is a frequent occurrence since I injured my left foot in May. Foot pain on the left prompts overuse of the right leg. The foot is getting better but very slowly. Some days it feels better and then others I feel like I am right back to where I was when I first injured it.

I took a few aspirin, reclined on my mattress on the floor and relaxed by reading Iron Fist: The Living Weapon #6. This is one of the tremendous All-New Marvel NOW! titles. For anyone who worried that Disney ownership would lead to a dumbing down of Marvel, All-New Marvel NOW! should allay those fears.

Both writer and artist of Iron Fist: The Living Weapon is Kaare Kyle Andrews. I think Iron Fist: The Living Weapon is the best superhero title out right now. It reminds me of Jim Steranko and Paul Gulacy in their prime.

My vision shot, my feet and legs a wreck, unable to eat hardly any salt without experiencing unsettling arrhythmia, my teeth going, I understand how a wounded and convalescing Danny Rand, a.k.a., Iron Fist feels in the scans below. He is approached sexually by a beautiful but now blind childhood friend from the mystical city of K'un Lun, which has just been razed by a baleful cybernetic reincarnation of his dead father.

In his ruined state he is flabbergasted as to how to react to such carnal advances.  -- Hey, I can understand that. Here is his self-analysis from the second-to-last scan:

You're Powerless. 

Chi -- drained, cut off from the source. 

Your iron hands -- broken. 

The city that raised you -- fallen into ruins. 

The men who you called father -- corrupted and desecrated. 

All the things that define who you are -- destroyed. 

And yet you survive. 

Daniel Rand, you've been here before and you know exactly what to do.

Often times I find myself weeping when I read comic books. I don't know why. I think it has something to do with accessing a type of consciousness, a kernel of the mind that is prior to all the outer layers of socialization and learned behavior and all that. This beginner's mind is filled not so much with awe and wonder as it is a peaceful sadness.

And that is something to cry about.