HULK LOVE YOU THIIIIIIS MUCH

As a writer, I have the good fortune (and position) to be able to reflect on the day’s literary doings. Reflection is more than just a delightful privilege—it’s something of a responsibility for us literati. We are, after all, guardians of the public intellect, regardless of what we write about. So, with a light-footed mix of joy and integrity, I, a humble writer, set about reflecting on the comics of 2007. Namely, the House of Ideas. That’s right kids—Mighty Marvel Comics.

2007 was certainly a banner year, if a white flag can be called a banner. Marvel sold out like a yard sale. Every character who could have the chair pulled out from underneath them went skidding to the floor like an unpopular third-grader subjected to a lunch room prank. The Fantastic Four were pulled apart like pork barbecue, the Hulk declared war on everybody, Iron Man was one handlebar moustache short of being a silent film villain, Spider-Man got put through the ringer, and, worst of all, Captain America was shot and killed by long-time flame Sharon Carter. A lot of other stuff happened, and Marvel published so many side stories, one-shots and if-it-had-happened-this-ways that I actually considered taping a picture of Johann Gutenberg to the bottom of my toilet.

What surprises me most about Marvel’s disastrous 2007 run was the way they kept piling on the wrong type of gravitas. This year, Marvel claimed the pretentiousness title, throwing as many soap-operatic concerns (marital strife, underhanded murder, friend vs. friend beatdowns) onto the heap as they could. By the end of the year, the list of Marvel’s published stories looked oddly like the round file in the writer’s room at All My Children.

An entire storyline where the New Avengers fought super-assassin Elektra was “Dallas-ed” when it was discovered Elektra was actually an alien Skrull. The real Elektra was probably in the shower with Patrick Duffy (I guess Stan Lee called in a BIG favor at some point in the past…). Using a shape-shifter to end a story line is the comic book equivalent of ending a sonata with a six-note beer jingle.

OW! OW! OW! HONEY IT WILL HELP MORE IF YOU GET OFF!!

Peter Parker, Spider-Man, gave up his secret identity, had a falling out with Tony Stark, watched his beloved Aunt May slip into a coma as the result of an assassin’s bullet, and was ultimately got mind-wiped, his entire relationship with Mary Jane purged from his memory. Part of Spider-Man’s character—perhaps the most important part-- was his sense of humor, buttressed by the presence of an Aunt and wife who loved him. This year’s stories deprived him of that, and made him seem as out of place in his own comic as Superman might look smoking clove cigarettes and reading William Burroughs.   I won’t address the surrealistic funhouse that was Spider-Man 3, a movie that proved what the Puritans and Shakers have said all along: dancing should be outlawed.

The World War Hulk storyline pitted Hulk against the world. He beat numerous people up and wreaked havoc on New York City. He dealt with his rage through violence. Stop me if you’ve heard it before. In fact, stop me if you catch me with a can of gas and an empty zippo, clicking it futilely upon realizing that 1) my lighter’s empty and 2) originality has apparently abandoned American comics.  

Yeah, right.

What really takes the cake in Marvel’s Annum Miserabilis was the death of its oldest continuous character, Captain America. Writer Ed Brubaker, in fact, won a dandy award for killing off Cap: The Athealread the Unready Lack of Foresight Prize. When asked about the financial success of Captain America #25 (where three bullets somehow killed Cap after the Nazis, the Red Skull, the Venomous Hordes of Hydra, A.I.M., Modok, Galactus, the Tarantula, Iron Man, the Kingpin, selected central American mercenaries, countless explosions, warehouses of ammunition, and a humiliating promotion deal with Hostess Fruit Pies couldn’t) Brubaker commented that he “had no clue it was going to be such a big deal.” His nose immediately rocketed forward, doing massive corneal damage to a nearby reporter (the sales from Captain America #25 helped cover the medical bill).  

I grew up a Marvel kid. I worshipped the X-Men, revered Spider-Man, and have a few very fond memories connected with the old Marvel Holiday Specials. I even stifled the occasional laugh at Captain America’s costume, because, hey, he was a solid company man. But now, as 2007 heads for the showers, my reflection makes me somewhat sad. Alas. I look with hope to Marvel’s future. It’s been a rough year, and I hope they have more uplifting things in store. I’ll check right after I climb out of the shower—Patrick Duffy called in a favor.