Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
...
OR: "...
Out of the Kitchen, and Into the Spandex": The
(Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics
[ PART SIX ]
It has -- in the years following its initial publication -- achieved nigh-
legendary status, this particular issue of Marvel Comics' AVENGERS.
Much in the same manner that (say) thalidomide achieved "legendary" status
within the pharmaceutical industry, upon its ill-advised commercial release.
This one -- this particular bit o' four-ccolor foulness; this blot; this excresence -- requires rather more than is normallly the standard, hereabouts, by way of backstory. Unca humbly begs the reader's forebearance, then, in this particular.
The otherwise unremarkable AVENGERS #197 ["Prelude of the War-Devil!"; July, 1980; David Michelinie, author; Carmine Infantino, artist] contains a painstaking and lugubrious sequence in which both long-time Avenger the Scarlet Witch and comparative newbie Ms. Marvel are shown ambling along a deserted stretch of beachfront, chatting amiably about precisely what you'd just naturally assume two (near-)
perfect strangers in Danskins and masks would natter about, given their meta-fictive druthers:
Babies.
Just like all of those airy "can-I-ever-truly-be-whaddyacallit-fulfilled-
without-first-obliging-my-biological-destiny?"-type heart-to-hearts
you're always seeing Hawkeye and Thor having with one another,
in other words.
Succumbing to a sudden and inexplicable case of The Woozies, the normally stolid and serene Carol (Ms. Marvel) Danvers folds up like an altogether fetching little lawnchair; leaving it to a startled Wanda (Scarlet Witch) Maximoff to turn on one pretty pink heel and sprint for the paramedics, in turn.
It isn't until the final page of this particularly pallid li'l bit o' prosey, however, that we -- the horrified readers -- are afforded that first fearful, fateful glimpse into the bowels of Storytelling Hell; with a still-incognito'd Wanda cornering one of the ER doctors and inquiring anxiously as to the health of her fellow daredevil damsel.
"She could use the moral support," said shaman sernely observes. "For some reason, she seems to be taking the news of her condition rather badly."
" 'Condition'...?" the super-seeress parrots, eyebrows arching in delicate dismay.
"Yes," the physician replies. "Although I don't see why she should be so upset. After all, nausea and fainting are quite common symptoms for someone who [Pick One] -- ":
A.) "... is three months pregnant!"
B.) "... has ever bitten into one of Edwin Jarvis' notorious butterscotch-and-tuna souffles. I mean... hell: she oughtta be dead."
C.) "... has ever wandered into the wrong room at the wrong time, and seen the Vision NEKKID."
D.) "... has ever seen where I like to keep my trusty stethescope,
in- between patients."
If you're beginning to feel those first faint, telltale tinglings of harbinged dread, gentle reader; a prescient awareness that Something Fetid and Altogether Appalling This Way Comes --
... ooooooooooh. Good call.
In a follow-up sequence within the pages of AVENGERS #198 ["Better Red Than Ronin!"; August, 1980; David Michelinie, author; George Perez, pencils], we espy a still-domino masked Ms. Marvel -- now rather more appreciably, ummmmmm, swollen than before; waddling and enraged and looking seventeen different stripes of Just Plain Ol' Goofy in that hospital gown, there -- storming about her room, squawking and spluttering thunderous denials.
"But I can't be pregnant, I tell you!" the Wide Screen Woman-Warrior stoutly (you should only pardon the expression) avers. "I just can't be!"
"But, Ms. Marvel," a visiting Wanda points out, not altogether unreasonably; "... the tests show -- "
"I know what the tests show!" the Puffed-Up Paladinette shoots back. "They showed me to be three months pregnant, last night... and six months pregnant this morning! When I shouldn't even be pregnant at all!"
"I never even..." a reeling Ms. Marvel flails, in stunned summation: "... I... I mean, there couldn't be... blast it, Wanda, there isn't a father!"
(... or, at any rate: not one she could reliably pick out of a police line-up, most likely. I mean: teammate Wonder Man; ALPHA FLIGHT's Northstar; mail carrier Willie Lumpkin; Rom, Space Knight; the Kingpin; Fin Fang Foom; Lockjaw; Katie Power, of POWER PACK infamy --
(... "had" 'em, during one drunken night's drooling and debauched descent into total, screaming degeneracy or another.
(ALL of 'em.)
Okay.
So:
NOW we're finally good'n'ready to crank the Ick Factor allllllllll the way up, on this'un; and dive, headlong, into the storytelling sinkhole that is AVENGERS #200.
Everybody make certain those protective wetsuits and goggles are snug and
secure, now.
"The Child Is Father To...?" [AVENGERS #200; October, 1980; and damned near everybody was -- inexplicably -- lining up to sop up some portion of the blame, this time out: Jim Shooter, George Perez, Bob Layton and David Michelinie, plotters; David Michelinie, dialogue; and George Perez, pencils] opens up with the assembled Avengers line-up of the day (Captain America; Iron Man; Hawkeye; Wonder Man; the Vision; the Scarlet Witch; and the Beast), all pacing and fretting and suchlike; while the rapidly expanding Carol Danvers, in the meantime, is busy squeezing out one of Nature's Little Miracles, next room over.
"I know Jocasta's the right one to assist Dr. Blake," a plainly worried Captain America murmurs, frowning in the general direction of the delivery room. "Her actions have the precision of a computer. But isn't there something we can do?"
"Easy, Cap," the team's resident bowman counters, blandly. "You're starting to sound like it's you who's the proud pappy-to-be!"
"... and just what was that meant to imply, bow-slinger?" a thin-lipped Cap seethes, striding towards the startled Hawkeye and grabbing him by the bicep; a soiled and shredded pair of Carol Danvers' panties slipping free from their hiding place within Cap's glove and fluttering to the floor, unobserved.
"Ease up, you two," a gruff Iron Man counsels; stepping between the two near-combatants and serving as big, metallic Maginot Line. "This is neither the time nor the place." An errant brushing against one secreted switch on Iron Man's armor, by Cap's shield, activates the former's chest beam; causing said mechanism to commence projecting an astonishingly clear and detailed pornographic film recording on the far wall involving Ms. Marvel (nekkid); Greater Teaneck Girl Scout Troop #7133 (nekkid); Iron Man (nekkid, except for the helmet); and several mangy and overlarge Dobermann Pinschers (in lederhosen).
"Hey, you guys!" the Beast calls out, peering intently through the observation window into the next room. "Check out what that whacky knucklehead Thor is doing to Carol in there, with that crazy hammer of his!"
Peeking in over his friend's furry shoulder, an ashen Wonder Man gulps audibly and manages to husk: "... ummmmm... I... I don't think that's his hammer, actually, Hank..."
"All right, then, dammit," Captain America declares, chin jutting forward in firm resolve as he decisively drops his trousers. "I'm going in there. Cover me, people."
Oh. I'm sorry. Did Unca have another one of his little... episodes, just then...?
I blame society.
"That's it, Carol," a conscientious Dr. Donald (Thor) Blake soothes, in the meantime. "Your contractions are perfect. Just keep pushing like that."
"But... I'm not pushing, doctor," an eerily serene Carol counters, by way of response. "I'm not pushing at all."
"You're not -- ?" an openly flabbergasted (and -- apparently -- not terribly observant, medically speaking) Blake stammers. "But how could... I - I mean, that's impossible! It... it -- !"
(Boyoboyoboy. What Unca wouldn't have bloody given for a big,
painted jack-in-the-box head to have popped out
from between the prone Carol's legs, right at that precise moment.)
"... it's a boy!" the doctor anti-climatically concludes.
"Awriiiiiight!" a jubilant Beast celebrates.
"How wonderful!" a smiling Scarlet Witch cheerfully concurs.
"Can we come in, now?" the Wasp all but whines; frisking up and down in pathetic, spaniel-like eagerness to See the Little Itsy-Widdles.
[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... and let it be noted once more, please: their (putative) friend and teammate has already INFORMED them that this pink li'l bundle of joy was conceived of by mysterious and unexplained means. Against her will, mind. By a sire whose methods are every last bit as shrouded in secret as is his biology...
[... and what's her team's response, in spandexed turn...?
[Quoth the Beast: "Kootchie, kootchie!"
[So: still wanna be an Avenger, do ya...?]
"That's right, Captain," Dr. Blake observes, glancing at his high-tech wall
monitors for reassurance; "... the infant seems normal enough."
(Welllllllll... yeah. For a parasitical infection with knees and
elbows, anyways.)
"Nevertheless," the always practical Iron Man counters, bluntly; "... I want you to check him out thoroughly. There's something about that child that just isn't... natural." (Oh. Gee. Ya think, mebbe, Mr. One-
Of-The-Two-Or-Three-Brainiest-Fellahs-In-The-Whole-Marvel-Universe,
sir...?)
The monstrous and gape-inducing insensitivity of the assembled Avengers proceeds ploddingly apace; with an idiotically beaming Wasp blithely rubbing salt further into Carol's psychic wound, as follows:
"I just wanted to congratulate the proud parent," the staggeringly stupid umpty-heiress warbles at a dazed and depressed Carol, as the latter is being wheeled down the corridor. "It's really a beautiful baby, Carol. You're so lucky to -- "
" 'Lucky'?!" an incredulous Carol all but goggles. "Wasp, think about what you just said! I've been used! That isn't my baby! I [Pick One] --":
A.) "... don't even know who the father is!"
B.) "... don't even know who the father is! I -- Simon! Stop coughing like that, f'chrissakes! You're making the @#$%ing chair wobble, awright, Mr. If-I'm-So-Smart-Howcum-I-Died-Twice-Already...?"
C.) "... don't even know who the father is! Although -- working my way through this handy copy of THE HANDBOOK OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE, here -- I've pretty much ruled out It, the Living Colossus. AND Zabu. Maybe."
D.) "Okay. Wait. Okay. On second thought: mebbe not Zabu, come to think." ;
One hour after that, and we've motored ourselves all the way from Ick City to the outskirts of Ewwwwwwopolis; when Mommy's Little Miracle morphs, disturbingly, into Mommy's Not-So-Little Miracle.
"In the last hour," an unsmiling Captain America summarizes, helpfully; "... the infant has grown to the size and maturity of a child two years old!"
"Heartbeat's steady," an intense Don Blake observes. "And his other
organs all seem to be functioning normally." (No. No.
Absolutely not. Unca does not wanna know. Let's all
just walk away from it, all right...?)
"This whole situation is a new one on... just a second!" the super sawbones carols, suddenly. "It looks like he's trying to... speak!"
Diagnosis: Correct, as the li'l demon seed gurgles once or twice, experimentally; wets his lips; and utters his very first bit o' verbal communication, ever:
A.) "Ch... change."
B.) "Ch... change me. CHANGE me, f'the luvva Allah! I'm sittin' in somethin' that smells like the Hulk's crotch on a hot day, awright? It's eatin' its way through the examination table, already! HelLOOOOO -- ?"
C.) BABY [concentrating]: "Ch-chaaaaaaannnnnnge... partnerrrrs..."
[singing tunelessly, but with growing confidence]: "... so weeeeeee chaaaannnnnnnnge... partnerrrrrrrrrs -- !"
CAPTAIN AMERICA [goggling in naked horror; stepping backwards, involuntarily]: "God, Mother and Country! She's given birth to a live Steven Stills -- !"
IRON MAN [striding forwards,
with grim purpose; the Repulsor Ray units in both gauntlets hmmmming
warningly]: "Stand aside, Cap! This is gonna splatter,
some -- !"
"... but... but Unca," I can all but hear the lot of you inquiring, beseechingly. "In questionable taste, conceptually..? Doubtless. Ineptly dialogued...? Absolutely. All the subtlety of a child's knock-knock joke? Yoooouuuuu betcha --
"... but... BUT: where's alla that unadulterated ick you promised us, way back at the very beginning of this here thing? Huh? Huh? Where's the capital-pee-capital-YOU, f'cryin' out loud -- ?!?"
Patience, campers'n'camperettes.
This has all been set-up and prelude, you see.
Hie thy sweet and adorably silly selves over to Page Two of this entry, straightaway...
... and: brace yourselves.
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel
Comics (PAGE ONE)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE TWO)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE THREE)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE FOUR)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel
Comics (PAGE FIVE)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel
Comics (PAGE SEVEN)
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