Psychedelicomics

I never used to be much of a fan of Jonathan Ross. I could admire the polish and professionalism in the way he transmuted American style late-night chat for UK television, but I was never especially keen on those shows anyway - except for Larry Sanders, obviously. The coolest thing about watching them was being in bed in California instead of London.

Anyway, it all changed for me when I saw Ross's documentary on Steve Ditko. Not only did he communicate exactly the same pitch of enthusiasm, devotion and obsession as I felt myself growing up with Mighty Marvel in the 1960s, he had the irresistible honesty to throw wide his arms and admit to the world: "Yes! I am a comics nerd. The shade of green of Doc Ock's lab clothes matters more to me than all your Beckhams and Madonnas."

This, in Britain, where nerds are not heroes, is the sign of a very brave man indeed. So now Ross is a-okay in my book, and I'm willing to go toe to toe with anybody who has a dismissive quip or withering put-down for his Turf mini-series. So he's not Alan Moore. But he's a better comics writer than many full-time professionals and it's not even his day job. (Or maybe it is now. I don't really keep up with the news.)

Ross is doing a great job of pretty much single-handedly proselytizing the rich and diverse medium of comics to a British public who are indifferent to the entire art form unless it involves either (a) teachers in mortar boards being hit in the face with plates of bangers and mash, (b) funny animals, or (c) profound right-on political comment which is like, ironic, okay, 'cause of being in this medium that's only for kids, see.

Today Ross has managed to talk The Guardian, an ever-so-worthy intellectual UK broadsheet, into giving him several pages to talk about (and to) Jim Steranko. That really is ironic. The Grauniad editors won't have an effing clue what Steranko's work is all about, and given the choice they wouldn't even wrap their designer fish and chips in it. Steranko is, of course, the master of dazzling visual storytelling, a major and somewhat unsung star in the late-'60s Marvel firmament. Which is why he is often featured in Peter Richardson's informative posts on the Cloud 109 blog (for example here and here) - usually at great risk to my credit card, which is immediately whisked off to Amazon to buy the books Peter has been writing about. Red Tide will of course be next. And by the way don't miss Jonathan Ross's reports from Comic-Con. Not too shoddy for a bloke who started his career as a mere primetime TV star.

Something fantastig (sic)

My friend Michael Levy was at a cocktail party this weekend. His host: none other than Stan Lee. (There they are below.)

I’ve never been given to hero-worship as such, but Stan Lee was a big figure for me growing up. He’s J K Rowling, Anthony Horowitz and Stephenie Meyer rolled into one. I doubt if any other writer in history has created so many characters who inspire such levels of absolute devotion.

In the rush to make movies based on comic books, many Hollywood execs have missed the point that the really big hits have all come from the mind of Stan Lee. The Spider-man movies, for example; even if we forget the third one (and believe me, I’ve tried) that’s nearly $2 billion in box office takings alone.

Not that the money means a thing, but look at the love. Aunt May, Pepper Potts, Foggy Nelson, Mary Jane Watson - Stan created families of characters we can connect to and care about. Now, tell me: does anybody even remember the name of the lead character in Wanted?

Stan matters to me because his work taught me that stories in print form could be as compelling as movies. And, month on month, he showed me how to do it. The power of suspense to draw you in. The effectiveness of surprises and reversals to keep you guessing. The impact of cliffhangers to bring you back. And, most important of all, the through-line of characters that makes us want to invest in them emotionally.

There’s only one other cocktail party in the world that I’d want to crash as much, and that would be one hosted by Stan Lee’s one-time creative partner, Steve Ditko. (This is completely hypothetical, as I’m pretty sure Ditko isn't the type to throw cocktail parties.) The Spider-man stories were created by them both, following the “Marvel Method” whereby artist and writer would agree on a plot, the artist would go off and pencil the comic, and the writer (almost always Stan in the early days) would only then add the dialogue.
Famously (though not necessarily accurately, as Jonathan Ross has pointed out )the two are said to have fallen out over the identity of the Green Goblin. This had been set up over many issues and had all the readers guessing, including an earnest little wonk in short pants called David Morris. After forty years, I don’t think I’m throwing out a spoiler if I say that the Goblin turned out to be Norman Osborn, father of Peter Parker’s best pal Harry. Ditko had supposedly wanted him to turn out to be someone we had never seen before, on the grounds that was more realistic.

So it was. But stories aren’t realistic, and Stan was right. For whatever reason, Ditko left the comic before the Goblin was unmasked. He was replaced by John Romita (that’s J.R. senior, kiddies) - a towering talent in his own right, so it wasn’t exactly a George Lazenby moment. But I hope that there’s an Amazing Fantasy-style parallel universe out there somewhere in which Lee and Ditko never parted company and went on spinning intricate webs of narrative to ensnare us for decades more. Maybe they’re poolside in LA right now clinking piña coladas. In the hearts of True Believers ‘tis so.