Fantastic Four review

A rant about comic books. Please trawl our archives if this doesn't interest you. It shouldn't.

When I was a kid I read comic books. I was a fan of the Legion of Super-Heroes in the 1970s, what is usually called the Bronze Age of comic books. I recently purchased three volumes of collected Legion stories from comics' Silver Age, roughly the 1960s. I enjoyed them so I thought maybe some more modern light reading would be an asset in the house. Since the Legion is no longer published, I paid a subscription for Marvel Comics' Fantastic Four. I think it was $21 and change for a year's worth. I should have handed that 21 bucks to a panhandler downtown.

I'm into my third month of my subscription and I won't renew when it expires. The magazines are printed on good paper, the art is professional, the colors are vibrant, but I have little idea what is going on. There's a lot of action, but little of it makes any sense. The stories seem to be about characters in motion, without explanation or purpose beyond filling the space between covers with robust eye candy in lieu of storytelling. When the last issue arrived, I unwrapped it and put it next to my side of the bed and forgot it for three days. I read it last night in five minutes. There's that many words in the 28 pages that aren't ads. I tossed it aside, forgetting it except for my rue that I've been ripped off.

The Legion stories contained lots of third-party, omniscient narration while the pictures complemented the words. The dialogue served as further exposition. An example: In Adventure Comics # 367, Karate Kid is in a future version of Japan. He is walking under trees shaped like bonsai and there are kanji on the Oriental-style skyscrapers. He thinks to himself, "JAPAN! ONE OF THE FEW PLACES ON EARTH IN THE 30TH CENTURY TO MAINTAIN SOME OF ITS DISTINCTIVE CULTURAL FLAVOR! JAPAN! IT'S BEEN TOO LONG!" In the next panel, as an Asian woman in geisha dress looks his way, he thinks, "I GREW UP ON THESE STREETS! 'VISIT MY PARENTS,' BRANIAC 5 SAID!...WISH I COULD! OF COURSE, I DIDN'T TELL THE LEGION THAT I NEVER KNEW MY REAL PARENTS...THAT THE 'FOLKS' I TALKED ABOUT WERE THE PEOPLE OF TOKYO, WHO RAISED ME AS A FOUNDLING! YET IN A WAY, I'M VISITING MY PARENTS...OR THE NEAREST THING TO THEM!" [ed. note: transcribed directly from comic book conventions of all caps, bold face for emphasis and exclamation points instead of periods.]

Needless to say the current issues of the Fantastic Four (once billed as "The World's Greatest Comic Magazine") doesn't have any narrative boxes or any thought balloons. It doesn't have many panels either. In the old days you got one, maybe two, 'splash pages', a full page illustration. The old comics had a story to tell and didn't like to waste space. Marvel comics don't seem to care a whit about paper costs. In FF #568, that I currently have in front of me, one full page illustration is an aerial view of Manhattan around the Chrysler Building, probably courtesy of Google Maps. Two small, silhouetted 'figures' seem to be riding trails of smoke. The dialogue: Figure One, "THE ORANGE ROCK CREATURE HAS ARRIVED." Figure Two, "I FEEL THEIR HOPE. THEIR NOBILITY. SUCH MEAT." I subscribed for this? I pity the schmuck who pays the $3.99 cover price. [ed. observation: no exclamations points used, with good reason.]

So what happens in FF#568? You've got me. I thought the last issue, a prolonged, obvious dream sequence that didn't do anything but employ people to produce it, was a waste of my time and (my) money (not theirs...I'm the one who was fleeced). Ditto this month. The issue ends with a 'double splash' that is a mess of pencil and ink diarrhea. The following page (mercifully, the last), proclaims "Next Issue!" and shows two of the title characters faces. Great! I'll see two members of the Fantastic Four in the comic I bought that has the same name. I foresee future issues heading straight to the recycling bin.

Comics didn't used to stink. They may not have been fine literature but they didn't leave me feeling used. Maybe most still don't stink. In my humble opinion, Fantastic Four is a COSMIC STINKEROO!! Comics don't have to be bad. I think I'll be swearing off the Marvel titles and trying something else when this subscription runs out. I may try something by DC (Marvel's main rival) but none of their subjects really appeal to me [Sorry Batman and Superman fans].

Until then, the mailman has a reason to visit my house once a month even if I don't appreciate it.

The Flying Dotman

The Peppermint Squad, that intrepid gang of motor scooterists pledged to patrol Dorchester's tangled streets to promote Justice, Tolerance, and the Dorchester Way, have a legend that they share on rainy nights in their headquarters in Codman Square. It's been a rainy week in Dorchester and the squad was kept in home base most evenings, performing minor repairs to thier mounts and emptying bottles of Hoffenreffer Private Stock. The close quarters and malt liquor and repetative tap-tap-tapping of raindrops on the rooftop lent themselves the sharing of scooter folklore.

Cherrypicker asked Raisin, "Have you seen the Flying Dotman yet?" Raisin is a newcomer to this band of merry vesparadoes. Every rookie is called 'Raisin' until he or she has earned his or her 'peppermint-handle,' a monniker that cements their place in the squad's hierarchy. Raisin replied, "I've never even heard of the Flying Dotman."

Agent Widowmaker, who had been adjusting the brake cables on his "Princess Go-Go" Chinese scoot, looked up. "Beware the Flying Dotman, Raisin. You're lucky you've never seen him." Widowmaker looked dead serious and spoke in baritone though his voice is usally a bit higher pitched.

"Who's the Flying Dotman?" Raisin felt his comrades were pulling his leg. Tweedledum pulled up a milk crate next to Raisin and, after settling in and taking a pull of Private Stock, told this story:

"On foggy nights when the moon is full, a specter haunts the skies above Dorchester Bay," he began. "No one knows how or why, but a doomed scooterist rides the fog on nights like that. He's an old-timer by the look of his ride. He steers a Honda Super Cub looking to find his way to the Great Beyond. Locals call him the Flying Dotman because sight of him portends an impending crash."

Tweedledum continued. "I was on Morrisey Boulevard one night, after a few pops at Tom English's, when I saw the Flying Dotman. He must have been forty feet tall leaning around a fog bank on his Super Cub faster than I would ever take a curve like that. He was glowing with an eerie light, surrounded by a green nimbus. Apparently, when he was alive Massachusetts didn't have helmet laws becasue he was only wearing a painter's cap. He took the turn and sped off in the direction of Mattapan, disappearing into a passing cloud. When I got home, I mustn't have put my kickstand all the way down when I parked because my bike was flat on the ground the next morning."

Raisin shivered. "I'm not going down Morrissey any time soon on a foggy night," he said.

"I wouldn't advise it," Tweedledum replied. Widowmaker nodded in agreement. Cherrypicker said, "Who's going to make a run to ODB Liquors? We're running low on liquid refreshment."

A Gruesome Mission

Bella Donna packs a double whammy of desirable attributes. She is beautiful and young. To put icing on the cake and round out her attractiveness into a trifecta, she rides a motor scooter. She tools around Boston on a Piaggo Typhoon 150. That's a ride as sweet as an American girl with an Italian name. That kind of girl is easy to find in Boston but that kind of ride is pretty rare. A woman like Bella Donna is a rare find indeed.

Bella Donna, never to be mistaken for her arch nemesis, Bruto Uomo, grew up in idyllic Kane Sqaure in the shadow of St. Peter's Church. She was reminiscing with Trixie Herlihy last night about a wristwatch she lost when she was a child. She and Ms. Herlihy have been pulling duty at the Peppermint Squad's Meeting House Hill satellite depot, near where Bella Donna grew up. It is a fairly quiet outpost with ample downtime during which squad members can bond and share their memories and goals.

The ladies were sitting on the front steps sharing a nip of cinnamon schnapps and watching the world go by. Bella Donna told Trixie the story of how she lost her wristwatch after burying her pet guinea pig in Ronan Park. Trixie said, "That's so sad."

Trixie asked where the guinea pig, whose name was Piggy, was buried. Bella Donna gave a rough description of the whereabouts. She is young but people didn't regularly rely on GPS in those days so she isn't sure of the exact longitude or latitude. Moved to the brink of tears, either for the lost watch or the dead pet is uncertain, Trixie assembled a posse this morning. Luckily it had rained much of the night and stopped just after sunrise. The ground was wet and loose but the skies were sunny and dry.

Trixie led the posse which consisted of a gaggle of Peppermint Squad hangers-on wanting to score brownie points with a full-fledged member as well as Tweedledum who had nothing else to do and who happens to own a metal detector. Tweedledum pulled his motorscooter up to the others already assembled on Mount Ida Road. After dismounting, he flashed Trixie The Peppermint Signal with his left hand and said, "Where did you find these rubes?"

Trixie apologized, explaining that this was the best group she could assemble on short notice for a Thursday morning. The posse went to work. Tweedledum activiated his metal detector and, with Trixie's direction and a entourage of stumble-footed onlookers, made his way to the spot Bella Donna described.

The metal detector started to beep like a gieger counter on a forbidden planet and Tweedledum knew that he had hit paydirt. He announced, "If this isn't a watch, it's Fort Knox!" One of the posse answered, "I just hope its not a dead guinea pig!"

This remark put a damper on everyone's excitement. As the leader of this posse, Trixie selected a deputy, one of the wannabes whose hands shook the least and handed him a trowel to discover what was buried. The deputy stepped up to the task with aplomb and went to work in the muddy soil. Soon enough he hit paydirt: a rusted wristwatch circa 1994 with the hands stopped at precisely 3:14:55, whether AM or PM wasn't apparent. It was a Hello Kitty wristwatch and when the deputy held it in the air, the buckle end of the moulded wristband fell of into the grass.

Trixie said, "Bella Donna is going to be so happy to get her watch back."

Tweedledum said, "You did your good deed for today, Trixie."