Comic Book Attic

Suicide Slum Comix: Simon and Kirby's Subversive Comics About Comics

2011-11-20T18:07:00.000-08:00

Comics are inherently playful. They can stretch time out thousands of years -- or compress 100 years into a small box. Comics' potential for playfulness is still largely untested. Looking over the extant history of the comic book, in particular, one is struck by how rarely its creators cut loose with their own medium.

Comics are hard work. From writing to penciling to inking, it's a long haul, and often a solitary slog. No matter how savvy an artist or writer may be, the inescapable task remains. A blank page must be filled with words and images. The words take much thought to write; the images take much longer to design, sketch and render. If those images are to be printed in color, the artist (or another talented person) has to choose and apply the colors. That, too, requires much time and thought.

Comics-making can be joyless work--although the endgoal is to please and captivate the reader.

The consumption of comics can be joyous, if the work itself satisfies--or confounds--reader expectations. Without a lot of hard, high-focus work, the stories themselves, good, bad or so-so, wouldn't exist for us to snarf down. As Dan Nadel sagely notes in his introductory text to the book Art In Time:

"A worthy story... is always the difficulty of comics."

Thus, mainstream Golden and Silver Age comics about the act of making comics were seldom too playful. It's as if all the hard work of creating comics--the unavoidable writing and drawing, the late-nighters and tense deadline hauls--has made them a sacred cow.

Modern comics have embraced autobiography--from the pioneering efforts of Justin Green, Robert Crumb and Harvey Pekar to modern practitioners such as Joe Matt, Seth, and even Yoshiro Tatsumi. The comic book that has received the most critical praise and attention, Art Spiegelman's Maus, is, in part, an autobiography--which includes scenes of the act of making comics. (Spiegelman's recent MetaMaus takes this duality even further.)

A medium as reflective, and as malleable, as comics begs for a playful attitude--in both creators and consumers. Comics about comics (CaCs) have the potential to unleash an antic side of its creators' psyches. Why, then, were so many earlier comics-on-comics so self-deprecating--and so unrevealing of the true nature of making comics? Is this a reflection of the low status of the comic-book artist?

Take, for example "Cartoonist's Calamity," the nightmarish Bill Everett saga of a cartoonist's world that appeared in Timely-Atlas' Venus #17 (Dec. 1951).

Jimmy Rogers, the harried protagonist of this story, is one stressed-out soul, at once alienated and alienating to others. The pressures of his job as cartoon editor of Beauty magazine (the home base of the Venus universe) have turned him into a hostile, sunken-eyed abuser. (To read this Everett gem, see our earlier posting here.

Speaking of Kalamities, there's the klassic E.C. fillip, "Kamen's Kalamity" (Tales From The Crypt #31- Aug/Sept 1952). E. C. published many CaC stories. They are all about the creators, and not their creations. In "Kalamity," William Gaines, Al Feldstein and Kamen, portrayed as a gentle, affable bad joke-loving goofus, appear in an in-jokey story that parodies the tropes of the E. C. horror stories while also catering to them.

Jack Kamen, as pictured in his E. C. comics profile feature

Two excerpts from "Kamen's Kalamity," showing Gaines, Feldstein and artist Kamen

Whimsical though these E. C. CaC stories are, they reveal nothing about the actual process of creating comics. The character sketches of Gaines and Feldstein, as hyperbolic worry-warts in search of a story gimmick, are amusing, but they don't offer a real picture of their work process. As can be seen by Kamen's publicity picture above, the E. C. staff were working stiffs, sleeves rolled up, cigarettes smoldering in a nearby ashtray, and butts numb from hours in front of the drawing board. The E. C. creators lavished remarkable visual--and verbal--detail on their stories. These were not laugh-happy playboys, dashing off comics stories in a festive mode.

One of the forgotten, longest-running CaC series was Quality Comics' Pen Miller, an Ellery Queen flavored riposte about a crime-solving cartoonist, The feature ran for almost all of the 1940s in National Comics and then Crack Comics. Again, the profession of a cartoonist/comic book creator takes a back seat to something much more glamorous. The talented Klaus Nordling penned Pen.

Curiously Miller's cartoon style looks exactly like Nordling's. To our knowledge, Nordling never actually portrayed himself in his own CaCs. You can read several examples of "Pen Miller" here.

A considerably more autobiographical, and winning treatment of the profession of cartooning occurs in Sheldon Mayer's baby, Scribbly. This feature was even longer-running, starting in the proto-comics of the mid-1930s and lasting into the early 1950s. Like almost all of the early CaC stories, Scribbly is short on the details of the art of creating comics, but it does go a long way towards sharing the sheer love of making comics.

Here's a sequence from the series' early years that shows Mayer's CaC feature was solidly about the adventure of being a cartoonist more than the reality.

Another comics master who put a version of himself into his stories was Jack Cole. Starting in his earliest stories, he also captured the sheer joy of comics -- as if imagining a super-hero into existence was the sames as making him real.

Sadly, Cole -- like nearly everyone in the early years -- tended to portray himself as a goofus. In an early Plastic Man story, he's a stuttering, small-minded hick:

Cole also created two little-known stories featuring a character called Inkie; a sort of "Out of the Inkwell" cartoon come to life. This was part of a long-running series at Quality, but Cole's stories are standouts. Here's one:

Learn more about Jack Cole's self-referential comics at Paul Tumey's blog.

So far, we've exclusively discussed CaCs about cartoonists and their lives in front of--and away from--the drawing board. There is a variant CaC story, seen less often, that is far more creative, self-aware and revealing. In these story, the characters--not the creators--create the content of the stories themselves, as we observe them at work.

In these stories, the work is not polished professional stuff--it's deliberately crude, raucous and rebellious of the craft of comics. Ironically, these stories give us more of the heart and soul of their creators--which makes their relative scarcity truly regrettable.

John Stanley created one of the best-known examples of this CaC variant for his best-selling comic book Marge's Little Lulu. When Lulu became a regular Dell Comics series, in 1948, Stanley created a two-page text feature called "Lulus Diry." Laden with typos, X-ed out words, run-on sentences and malapropisms, Stanley's early "Diry"s featured "picturs by Lulu too"--ramshackle, sublimely childish scrawls that reveal aspects of the Lulu Moppet character that her own stories, by their objective viewpoint, could not show us. This allows us to see the character from the inside-out, in a way that most comic book stories never can.

Here is the second "Lulus Diry," from 1948:

The use of speech balloons, and occasional sound effects, marks "Lulus Diry" as a type of comics. The feature quickly lost its ramshackle look and feel, but continued through Stanley's tenure on the Little Lulu title. You can read more about "Lulus Diry" here at Frank's blog, Stanley Stories.

Before "Lulus Diry," one of the dream teams of Golden Age comics had pioneered this approach. Joe Simon and Jack Kirby, while at DC Comics in the early 1940s, brought tremendous energy and charm to a comics imprint more known for its bland, polished product. In and of themselves, the Simon-Kirby work for DC expresses the love of creating comics. Their panels burst with energy and attitude, and their pages defy the orderly grids of Superman and Batman.

In one of their last stories for DC, Simon and Kirby directly reference the making of comics, from the flawed hands of their own characters, in a single story that shows a path comic books might have taken, but seldom did until the age of autobiographical comics.

"Cabbages and Comics," from Star-Spangled Comics #29 (Feb. 1944), combines the rowdy, Warner Brothers-like atmosphere of the Simon-Kirby comics world with a berserk attack on the law and order of the comic book field, circa 1944. Joe Simon's inking seems a bit berserk, itself, on the first few pages of the story, but as it continues, we see a prime example of the Simon-Kirby team at the top of their game.

In this story, the kids of the Newsboy Legion decide to create their own, hand-drawn comic book for their neighborhood of Suicide Slum. Talk about a labor of love! Each edition Suicide Slum Comics is individually hand-crafted by the Legion--in a remarkable anticipation of the DYI mini-comix movement that began in the 1970s.

There's nothing remotely like this elsewhere in the history of early comic books. Before we show you the story, please take a moment to savor this highly subversive burst of raw energy...

Each panel is drawn (and signed) by a member of the Newsboy Legion. Like "Lulus Diry," these intentionally primitive drawings reveal something about the consciousness of the characters. For example, the garrulous Gabby can only draw stick figures:

Big Words' frames betray his significant, erudite vocabulary, and a rudimentary understanding of foreshortening--which, in turn, reveals the hand of Jack Kirby, with a sly wink:

Scrapper's take on comics anticipates Gary Panter by four decades:

And now, here is "Cabbages and Comics," including its cover image, for yez readin' enjerment...

"Cabbages and Comics" emerges from a void which immediately sealed itself for several decades. American comic-book creators, prior to the autobiographical pioneers, seemed to assume that their profession was too lowly to portray realistically. Nor were they comfortable enough to approach their trade with such lunacy as Simon and Kirby--who themselves, in the mid-1940s, reached a level of self-confidence (and star status) that few of their peers attained.

This is by no means an exhaustive survey of Comics about Comics. We feel there is much more to be said on this topic. We hope that, by opening up a dialogue on this seldom-discussed byroad of comics, we can encourage others to contribute to a deeper understanding and appreciation of this flexible, playful and reflective art form.

--Paul Tumey and Frank M. Young, 2011

P.S.: Alter Ego #105 features an abridged, full-color version of our premiere Comic Book Attic article. Look, Ma, we're in print! You can buy the paper or digital version of this new issue here.

More of Robotman and Robbie--Jimmy Thompson's Cult Classic

2011-11-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

Want to read some more of JIMMY THOMPSON's charming cult classic, ROBOTMAN? Here are a dozen consecutive stories, digitally remastered for your reading and viewing pleasure. Added bonus: a survey of Thompson's striking work for the hit parade-slanted '40s title, JUKE BOX COMICS! Ever wondered how Thompson would draw Lawrence Welk--or Count Basie? Wonder no more, friend!

101 pp. of comics and commentary, available in CBR format. (If you don't use CBR files, you can re-name it as an RAR file, and unzip it on your computer.)

Only $2.99 for a handsome digital file! Why the heck not?

NOTE: File delivery may take up to 24 hours, as we are filling orders manually to keep costs low. This file is for reading and studying purposes only. It is intended to provide comics students with immediate and affordable access to rare out-of-print material.

JIMMY THOMPSON - The Greatest Comic Book Artist You Never Heard Of: The Timely Stories 1943-47

2011-05-28T18:18:00.001-07:00

ONLY 2.99
Jimmy Thompson's ROBOTMAN Volume 1
A 159-page ebook of terrific reading, curated by Frank Young. Jimmy Thompson's first 20 Robotman stories, lovingly restored and annotated, with FREE bonus section of INDIAN LORE, Thompson's long-lost mind-blowing American Indian epic.
Please note: Orders filled within 24 hours. Because this file is large, it is necessary for me to email you the file myself in order to avoid costly storage and data transfer charges. This keeps the price very low for you, but please be patient as I will need to check email and fill orders manually. Thanks a million for supporting this blog!

Jimmy Thompson was perhaps the greatest stylist in 1940s comic books, although almost nobody realizes it today.

Although he was a prolific and consistently high-quality creator, he never invented a hit superstar character, such as Will Eisner did with THE SPIRIT, or Jack Cole accomplished with PLASTIC MAN.

In 1938, when he embarked on his comic book career sometime in his 30s or 40s, Thompson was already a far more accomplished draftsman and commercial artist than most of his contemporaries in the business. Many early comic book artists were teens learning how to draw and still living at home. Thompson already had a wealth of experience ghosting newspaper comics, such as Roy Powers, Eagle Scout and Hairsbreadth Harry, and creating impressive commercial illustrations. He was a rare case of an artist coming into comic books from newspapers and syndicated strips. The dreams of most struggling comic book artists of the time were to go in the opposite direction!

As seen in this rare sports cartoon (above), circa 1933, Thompson had great drawing chops when Will Eisner was still popping pimples.

This raises the comic book mystery: why did Jimmy Thompson – an established, successful artist – pursue a career in comic books? It could only have been for the money!

Thompson’s first comic book stories appear in David McKay’s King Comics and Magic Comics– the only original material in titles which otherwise reprinted King Features syndicated material such as MANDRAKE THE MAGICIAN and HENRY. These stories are tales of American Indians that Ron Goulart called “ the best Indian stories in comic book history.” Unlike the majority of the stampede of western comics that appeared ten years later, Thompson’s stories are all sensitive, informed stories told from the point of view of the Indians.

In 1938, at virtually the birth of comics, Thompson wrote and drew ‘Red Eagle,” a 76-page epic Indian story that comprised the entirety of Feature Book #16 (David McKay, 1938). This could be considered the first graphic novel. Obviously, David McKay was a huge Jimmy Thompson fan!

Thompson’s INDIAN LORE and RED MEN features (see this post at Easily Mused for a sample) ran until early 1943, when he abruptly changed horses in mid-stream to jump on the super-hero bandwagon.
From 1943 to 1947, he created stunning hero comic book stories for Street and Smith, National (DC), and Timely (Marvel).

It was also highly unusual, at the time, for any comic book creator to work for BOTH Marvel and DC, which Thompson did from mid-1943 to late 1947 (he continued to work for DC until approximately 1949). Thompson also worked for Fawcett, the third emergent leader in comics at this time, although we have yet to identify any of his work for this company.

In an effort to position themselves in the market – and probably as a natural artistic development – both DC and Marvel developed vastly different house styles in the early 1940s. DC’s output offered polished artwork and storytelling. Marvel’s books in contrast were crude and chaotic. Yet, in some ways, Marvel’s books were more powerful. Jimmy Thompson’s style did not fit into either company’s “house” aesthetic, and yet he produced hundreds of pages for both companies!

Thompson’s work, like Basil Wolverton’s, is stylistically unique and recognizable from a mile away.
Jim Steranko raved about Jimmy Thompson in his 1970 book, The Steranko History of Comics Volume 1. Steranko – an accomplished stylist himself – wrote that Jimmy Thompson’s style looked like:

“a combination of Jack Cole and Will Eisner.”

As if that were not high praise enough, Steranko goes on to say,

“In fact, some of Thompson’s work topped theirs.”

Like Jack Cole, his counterpart at Quality, Jimmy Thompson was his own one-man comic book packager, doing the penciling, inking, and lettering on the majority of his stories. Just as Jack Cole’s work has a highly distinctive look and feel, so does Thompson.

Steranko writes that “his technique was backed by good solid drawing, rendered cleanly and precisely.” Beyond his expert draftsmanship, Thompson was, in our opinion, second only to Cole and Eisner in his ability to design stunning page layouts and seamless panel sequences.

Sadly, unlike Cole and Eisner, who enjoyed success and recognition, Thompson’s work, after he left David McKay, never transcended the back-up stories level for DC and Timely. At DC he was often forced to create cramped 4-6 page stories that rushed by breathlessly. Timely's back-up stories were often longer than DC’s–one of the many ways the companies differentiated themselves. Thompson’s Timely work sometimes spread out to 12 pages. As well, Thompson was given the chance to draw stories featuring major characters, such as in this beautifully designed and rendered HUMAN TORCH story from Timely’s All Select #9 (Fall 1945):

As is true for a lot of Thompson’s work for Timely, the artwork is probably better than the stories themselves (written by unidentified staffers) deserve. Thompson gives these stories his all. From sweeping, perfectly laid-out cityscapes to graphically compelling close-ups of real people with real personalities, Thompson’s stories demand the reader’s attention and respect.

Thompson realized, as did Jack Cole and Will Eisner, that the text in comics has an artful dimension. He employs a brilliant mix of elegant typography (usually rendered with the same tool architects of the time used, a Leroy Lettering set) and hand-drawn colophons, sound effects and emphasized words. The effect is delightful eye-candy that propels the story forward. Check it out in this Sub-Mariner story from Marvel Mystery #54 (April, 1944)!

As grim as this non-PC wartime story is, Thompson’s art delivers the typical Timely 12-page opus of Armageddon with unexpected humor and elegance. For instance, consider the page 10 bitch-slap, or the stunningly drawn shipworks interior on page 8, top right. It’s worth looking at this story a second time to savor its juicy visual tidbits (something many have wanted to do with Prince Namor, no doubt!). Even though Thompson did not write these – or most of his post-David-McKay work – his robust style makes him almost a co-writer, in many cases.

During the time that Thompson drew these top-tier, testosterone-driven Timely stories, he also drew the lighter, and more humorous ROBOTMAN for DC. (See Frank’s great series of articles and reprints on ROBOTMAN at Sherm Cohen’s blog, here.)

At Timely, Thompson’s ANGEL stories are perhaps the closest in feel to his ROBOTMAN work, with more emphasis on character and humor, and less on blowin’ up enemy subs! Thompson brings a kind of Errol Flynn panache mixed with screwball comedy to these stories.

In “The Devil’s Imposter,” from Sub-Mariner #13 (Spring, 1944) Thompson starts out with a splash panel that gets funnier each time we look at it. The ANGEL barely notices the thug clinging to him, and doors seem to have no actual ability to restrain his heroic fun. Thompson’s manner of drawing this story takes a by-the-numbers Nazi crime story and turns in on its head, into a sly parody of super-heroes. (If you want to see Thompson draw a truly heroic figure, look at any of his Indian stories).

Next, here’s “The Tell-Tale Cigarette,” another ANGEL story, from the next issue of Sub-Mariner (#14, Summer 1944). This story is perhaps a better illustration of the fun Thompson had with this character.

Page five of the above story is a strong example of the superior design Thompson brought into the infant form of comic book storytelling.
Notice that he creates a sort of mirror on the page, where a short vertical stack of panels on the top left is reflected on the bottom right. On the other axis, he creates two open spaces void of background detail. This effect expertly highlights the action climax of the story. The poses of the characters dynamically mirror each other in opposite tension. In the top-right scenario action moves up, and in the bottom-left, figures push the energy downward.

Jimmy Thompson left Timely, it appears, around mid-to-late 1947, and mysteriously disappeared from comics after 1952.
The Comics Database lists Human Torch #28 (Fall 1947) as his last published work for Timely. We can only speculate on this career move. Perhaps a change in editors, location, personal situation… who knows? Thompson continued to work for National through 1950. He worked in comics a bit longer, creating non-genre pieces for Eastern Color’s titles New Heroic and Juke Box Comics and some westerns for Avon. Did Thompson pass away? Or did he, like so many other comic book masters of the time, such as Jack Cole, find a new career in another field?

The mystery remains, but so does his work. We’ll close with a stunning (and nicely scanned – thank you, scanners!) HUMAN TORCH story from DARING COMICS #12 (Summer 1945). There is a stunning array of stylistic technique in this story. We’ll call out one, in particular, which we fondly label the “proscenium effect.”

On page five, the center panel calls attention to its central figures. Thompson places them front and center, as if they are on a stage and the reader has front row seats. This creates a delightful theatricality to the “performance” of the characters at a time when most comic book stories were influenced by the movies. In fact, this is, in some ways, the perfect Jimmy Thompson page, with the jaw-dropping art deco cityscape in panel one, the antic exaggeration of the running figure in panel three, and Thompson’s masterful placement of speech balloons and typographical elements.

We hope to post more about Jimmy Thompson, whose work deserves to be much better known and appreciated. For now, enjoy “The Devil’s Murder-Web!”
- Frank M. Young, Paul C. Tumey, and Mortimer

All text copyright 2011 Frank M. Young and Paul C. Tumey

Artful Alienation at 1950s Atlas: Bill Everett’s Forgotten Gems

2011-04-15T20:19:00.001-07:00

____

Among the true lost gems of comics are the forgotten horror stories Bill Everett drew (and in some cases wrote) for Atlas/Time/Marvel in the 1950s. We are pleased to present three of these long unseen minor masterpieces in this first of several posts we’ll make in appreciation and analysis of Bill Everett’s work of this period. In this post, we examine the connecting theme of alienation that runs through a great deal of Everett’s best work.

OVERVIEW

To set the stage and help show that what Everett accomplished in his own quiet way was truly extraordinary, a brief overview is in order. Most would agree that Atlas/Timely/Marvel comics of the 1950s were far from innovative. Their output was the sheer opposite of publishers such as E.C., Hillman, and a few others. If a trend seemed popular, ATM (as we’ll call them, for brevity’s sake) hopped on the bandwagon with a desperate energy.

A survey of ATM’s 1950s comics reveals one copy-cat effort after another—in genres from war to horror to romance to funny-animal. This cynical trend-surfing served ATM well—even during the comics recession of the later ‘50s, when the company threatened to expire.

ATM had no house style. Although editor Stan Lee was quite fond of the impressionist pen-scribbles of Joe Maneely—and encouraged other ATM artists to attempt the artist’s style—he allowed his stable of cartoonists to pursue their own look and feel.

Below: An example of the Atlas "Maneely style," as rendered by veteran artist Carl Burgos (thanks to Doc V. for the ID)

The freedom allowed artists at ATM in the '50s was comparable to E.C.’s pursuance of highly recognizable artist styles. However, where E.C. had a limited number of titles, and strove to fulfill a vision of the highest possible quality, ATM had an ever-shifting army of exploitative books to be filled. Thus, their artists could pretty much do as they pleased, because there was likely little time to art direct. In fact, most of the E.C. artists wound up working at ATM in the latter 1950s, after E.C. collapsed. It’s a sure bet that ATM artists worked with open copies of E.C. comics at their elbows (as is likely today in many cases).

This laissez-faire attitude attracted notable stylists to ATM throughout the 1950s. Gene Colan was able to develop an eccentric, chiaroscuro style through sheer trial and error, spread over dozens of stories. Bernard Krigstein was probably less constrained at Atlas under Stan Lee’s loose editorship than he was at E.C., and turned in numerous impressive stylistic experiments (which we plan to look at at in a future post). Bizarro cartoonists such as Matt Fox and Robert Q. Sale were similarly free from constraint.

Below: Matt Fox Splash Panel
Weird Worlds 27 (March,1953)

Below: Robert Q. Sale Splash Page
Menace 10 (March, 1954)

ENTER BILL EVERETT

The few genuinely great artists in the ATM stable had the opportunity to hone their accomplished styles—and to experiment with visual storytelling. Among the best of these artists was Bill Everett. Just take a look at this masterful tier from “Ghost Story,” which first appeared in Amazing Detective Cases #13 (July, 1952). This cinematic sequence shows Everett’s sophisticated graphic draftsmanship and his uncanny ability – similar to a film director -- to select the perfect image:

Everett was a major player in the Timely-Atlas story. He was in on the ground floor of the imprint’s history. His character of Prince Namor, the Sub-Mariner, gave comic books one of its first and most influential outsider characters. Namor was immediately popular. Via a series of epic book-length battles with Timely’s other early superstar, the Human Torch, Sub-Mariner soon garnered his own title, and also appeared in various Timely anthologies.

Below: Comics' First Great Anti-Hero – The Sub-Mariner
Marvel Comics #1 (1939)

Everett, like his most lauded creation, was something of an outsider as well—even though he had a considerable hand in shaping the destiny of the American comic book. His feverish, fairy-tale flavored storytelling, coupled with an art style that effortlessly slid from caricature and comedy to sleek, stylized realism, was neither fish nor fowl. As the super-hero genre conformed to an increasingly prosaic look and feel, in the 1940s, Everett’s work refused to march in step. If anything, it became more florid in its dance between cartoon and representational drawing.

ATM became Everett’s home base. Though he would work for other companies, he kept coming back. There, he could draw—and write—in his own chosen manner, with little or no editorial harness.
Everett clearly relished this freedom. Even when illustrating dirt-dumb scripts of Lee and other ATM writers, Everett put his passion and personality on every page, in every panel.

Everett's investiture in his 1950s work is striking. Textures, atmospheres, senses and moods vibrate from his brushline. This line could be gossamer as a spider’s web, or bold as a woodcut. Relatively realistic figures shared panel space with goggle-eyed, distorted caricatures. Visual detail could become baroque—or be pared to its essentials.

When Everett was able to write his own material, the stories themselves become as forceful and impressive as the artwork.

The theme of the alienated outsider that started with the Sub-Mariner in 1939 appears constantly in Everett’s ‘50s ATM work. Like Jack Cole, Everett was sometimes in the thrall of a few pet themes. These give his stories a compelling impact that, like Cole’s work for Quality Comics in the 1940s, stands out like a beacon in the comics where they appeared.

THE MEN FROM MARS (1954)

In “The Men From Mars” from Adventures Into Weird Worlds #25 (January, 1954), the theme of alienation couldn’t be stronger. This mini-masterpiece pre-sages Jack Finney’s seminal 1955 novel, Invasion of the Body Snatchers (which was serialized in the Saturday Evening Post after Everett's story appeared in 1954).

The story – more than likely written by Bill Everett himself – also is simpatico with the early works of Philip K. Dick, such as Time Out of Joint (1959). These landmark novels filtered the post-war angst and consumerism of the 1950’s through the burgeoning genre of science fiction. Everett’s story here, does the same.

While the story is unsigned, it's clearly all from Everett’s hand—including the splash panel. Atlas sometimes had other artists touch up—or draw new material—for the all-important splashes. Although the opening blurb (and the story’s title) aren’t by Everett, the splash otherwise vibrates with the nervous, dense texture of his pen and brush. The monster-masked female face, at the bottom of the panel, contains some trademark sensuous Everett brush-lines. The fine pen lines of the frightened male character’s hair (and the stripes on his shirt) are also typical of his finely detailed ‘50s work.

Henry Parker, the story’s protagonist, awakes one morning to find the world he knows—or thought he knew—torn asunder. His wife, neighbors and family physician aren’t human anymore. Everywhere he looks, what he once considered humanity has become repulsive. Yet, this has suddenly become the status quo. Henry is truly alone in the world.

Even trusted figures—Henry’s doctor, and a troop of soldiers that appear on the last few pages—are rendered truly monstrous. Note the military figures on p.5. Everett stresses the faceless institution of the armed services. In an era of gung-ho war comics that celebrated the fightin’ men of Korea and World War II as strong individuals, these non-human soldiers are truly chilling. Everett conveys, via his graphics, a powerful sense that the institutions of society have been vanquished by monsters who don’t share his protagonist’s values—and his humanity.

The matter-of-fact attitude of the Martians (who, as in Finney’s novel, have appropriated the bodies and identities of human beings) contrasts with Henry’s ever-heightened freak-out. The horrifying revelation that Henry is really a Martian—but has forgotten, through his own complacency—occurs simultaneously with his shocking suicide at story’s end.

Produced in the last days of comics, prior to the installation of the Comics Code, “The Men From Mars” is passionate, intense and outrageous—in a way comics would soon cease to be. The very complacency that Everett’s story warns against became the status quo which strangled mainstream comics’ growth for the next decade.

THE TOTEM (1956)

In “The Totem,” first published in Strange Stories of Suspense #6 (December, 1956), Everett turns in a tour de force folk-horror story of cultural alienation. Unlike the high-focus imagery of “The Men From Mars,” the drawings in this story are lush, with soft brushstrokes depicting the textures of water, ice, the landscape and fur coats the characters wear. Everett's best work has a great deal more presence than the typical comic book story of this era… and that may well be because of the textural quality of Everett’s art.
This story – lettered by Everett -- also employs a distinctive brushed panel border technique. In an era of ruled panel borders and Leroy lettering sets, Everett fearlessly freehanded his borders and lettering with a loose, living line. The brushed panel border – used in every single panel in this story – often appears in Everett’s work. The story begins with a (literal) splash page that shows off Everett’s skill at drawing water.

“The Totem” has the structure and feel of a fairy-tale, albeit with darker, heavier themes. It can be seen as a parable on colonialism, racism, and the sense of entitlement by the Caucasian antagonist. Everett also works in some of the fanciful mythology seen in his Sub-Mariner universe—the sense of a highly special culture that is hidden from the eyes of the “normal” world.

Al Clark, in his lust for the gold totem pole, and his lack of regard for the life, culture and well being of the native Alaskan, is caught in a nightmarish loop of ruthless self-aggrandizement. Each time he returns, he re-destroys the lone Alaskan’s igloo, steals the pole—and then finds himself (and his crew) smaller in stature, and back at square one.

Eventually, Al Clark shrinks to the same size as the sentient totem-pole people. In the story’s poetic-justice finale, Clark has become part of the object he once tried to possess.

This is more than a simple twist-of-fate E. C. type story. It’s not about revenge, as most comic book horror stories of the genre and era. “The Totem” takes into consideration the impact of different cultures on the “official” world of Caucasians. Clark, who sought to rob the native Alaskan of his cultural icon, becomes instead assimilated into the icon itself.

“The Totem” impresses on several levels—with its unusually thoughtful themes, with its confident, adroit visual staging, and with its inexorable narrative path. There is much more at play here than you might expect from a post-Comics Code story—or from a later ‘50s Atlas comic, period.

There isn’t another comics story quite like “The Totem.” Whether Everett was conscious of its heady themes or not, they give this story a haunting, convincing quality. The Comics Code did not blunt Everett’s gifts as a storyteller, commentator or graphic artist.

THE CARTOONIST’S CALAMITY (1951)

Our final story today comes from a curious comic book that spanned the transition from 1940s Timely Comics to 1950s Atlas. Venus reflects the identity-crisis of the post-war American comic book. Is it a super-hero title? Romance comic? Horror and science-fiction? Or is it a light-hearted, humorous approach to mythology? Venus is all these things. In its 19-issue run, it bounced off the walls of many comic book genres. I’m surprised it didn’t become a Western comic for a few issues.

Bill Everett inherited the Venus title towards the end of the series’ run. He was clearly inspired by its admixture of pin-up art and anything-can-happen narratives. His fairy-tale sensibility resounds through these comics, which we can safely assume he wrote and drew.

One of three stories by Bill Everett in Venus #17 (December, 1951), “The Cartoonist’s Calamity” stands out as both an astonishing exercise in style and also Everett’s own statement about alienation as it applied to the life of a comic book artist in the 1950s.

This playful story – written by Everett – also has a hallucinogenic aspect, with Everett using every stylistic trick in the book, and then some. Whew! This is truly a dazzling visual smorgasbord! Bill Everett’s highest level of investiture in this five-page filler story suggest that the story resonated deeply with him and was an inspiration and an invitation to let his own Id run free.

Jimmy Rogers, the harried protagonist of this story, is one stressed-out soul, at once alienated and alienating to others. The pressures of his job as cartoon editor of Beauty magazine (the home base of the Venus universe) have turned him into a hostile, sunken-eyed abuser. The beautiful, compassionate, goddess-come-to-earth Venus sees through his frazzled facade, and helps him overcome his inner demons.

Rogers moonlights as a horror comics cartoonist, and the line between reality and his overheated imagination has been shattered. Imps of the perverse crowd around his drawing board and taunt him. They’re unlike the ghouls and brutes of typical horror comics. These leering, taunting Id-monsters interrupt Rogers' sleep, and cause his confidence and good nature to dissolve. He stands between the world of “reality” and the world of comic book horror the way Everett’s half-breed Sub-Mariner stands between two worlds. So, even in a fun trifle, Everett’s obsession with alienation drives his work to rarely achieved heights and depths.

It’s fascinating to see a cartoonist depict his own world within the confines of a comic book story. Jack Cole famously caricatured himself into his 1940s stories a few times (sometimes as a hare-lipped, stuttering oaf), but his creations never threatened his well-being.

It’s tempting to see Rogers as a stand-in for Everett. Whether that’s true or not is lost to time. “Cartoonist’s Calamity” has a pell-mell energy, full of lurid humor and grotesquerie. The first panel of p.3 depicts the rift between the real world and the realm of imagination and creation.

It takes an outsider to the world of cartooning—Venus herself—to provide the solution to Rogers’ ink-stained dilemma. She roughs in the figure of “The Hero,” and encourages Rogers to ink her sketch. “The Hero” bears a strong resemblance to Everett’s Sub-Mariner. He cheerfully dispatches the goblins, de-calamitizes Rogers’ life, and dutifully returns to the inkwell.

Rogers’ melodramatic statement that he’ll never draw horror comics again is met with Venus’ pragmatism. “Let’s get back to work,” she suggests with a smile. Rogers is no longer the prisoner of his imagination, and Venus has proved a heroic outsider. As “The Hero” cries out, on his exit, “Your ladyfriend is positively ingenious!”

April, 1970: Bill Everett at a Comic Book Convention three years before his death

Bill Everett’s theme of alienation runs through a great deal of his work, from the angry, anti-hero figure of Prince Namor (The Sub-Mariner) to his many excellent short stories in the 1950s. Surely, Everett’s fixation on this theme suggests that he saw himself as a kind of outsider, as well.

As we hope we’ve shown you here, Bill Everett’s work certainly deserves more study and appreciation than it’s been accorded. Blake Bell’s recent biography of Bill Everett, Fire and Water, is a great place to start. In Bell’s book, we learn that Everett struggled with alcoholism and had many self-defeating patterns in his life. Just considering his career in comic books alone, it is easy to see why Everett felt alienated. Here was a major pioneer in the form, a guy whose creative genius was a pillar of the company that became very successful, and he was treated as just another contract laborer for 30 years.

However, towards the end of his life, Everett rose above his own problems, and became a very giving and compassionate person that felt connected to the world. He was a very strong participant in Alcoholics Anonymous, sponsoring and supporting the recovery of many others. As Bell recounts, at his funeral in 1973, the many people from the comic book industry that attended were astonished to discover they were hugely outnumbered by people from the AA community. Everett may have felt a profound sense of alienation in his life and career, but thankfully, at the end of his days, he found his place in the world.

Now, what the world needs are some good-quality, annotated Everett anthologies. There exist literally dozens of such stories in Everett’s little-explored 1950’s comic book work. We will, as time permits, look at more of these. But, for now, we hope you had fun rooting around in the old Comic Book Attic (sound of echoing, ominous laughter and the smell of decaying paper….)

Note: Be sure to check out Doc V.'s amazing article on Bill Everett's ATM romance comic book stories at his blog, Timely-Atlas-Comics: http://timely-atlas-comics.blogspot.com/2011/03/bill-everett-timely-romance-stories.html

All text copyright 2011 Frank M. Young and Paul C. Tumey; thanks to Doc V. for his feedback and clarification

The Art of Dick Briefer, Pt. 1: Air-Tight Comics Noir by Cult "Frankenstein" Artist

2011-03-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe that one month has passed since our last posting. It's our intention to post here more often than that. Suffice to say we've both been busier than normal with work. That's a good thing...

As you may have intuited from our prior post, not every outing here will focus on outrageous/disturbing material. There is plenty of that, in the history of comic books, and we will explore those darker byways when the mood strikes us. (That said, thanks to Art Spiegelman and John Benson, another pre-code Holocaust-themed horror story has surfaced. We will publish this one very soon.)

Today's post is the first in what I hope to be a series on one of the most starkly individual comic book artists: Dick Briefer. His reputation largely rests on the series of slapdash, spirited Frankenstein stories he wrote and drew in the latter half of the 1940s.

Briefer was among the pioneers of the American comic book. As imprints such as Fiction House, Fox Comics and Lev Gleason-Comic House debuted in a soon-to-be-saturated marketplace, Briefer's story and art was a strong presence. His artwork, circa 1939-1941, compares to Basil Wolverton's and, to a lesser degree, Fletcher Hanks'.

Like Hanks and Wolverton, Briefer seems to have written his own stories, and, in doing so, pursued narrative and visual paths of a distinct peculiarity. Briefer was the finest storyteller of the three. The quiddity of his comics work assimilated better into the mainstream, despite its obvious eccentricity.

Briefer's early work shows curiosity about what a comic-book story might be, and how it might unfold. There is plenty of pulp-genre blood-and-thunder in his pre-Frankenstein work, all delivered at a breathless clip, and all seemingly done quickly and enthusiastically. This was standard operating procedure for a 1939 comic book artist. While much of this early comic book work seems stiff and staid, Briefer's first efforts, while undeniably crude, leap off the page with a singular energy.

Here are some sample pages from Briefer's early stories:

This page is from the third installment of his space-opera creation, "Rex Dexter of Mars," as published in Fox Comics' Mystery Men #3, 1939.

While its draftsmanship teeters between elegance and crudity, bold shapes fill his panels. The energetic sweep of his ink lines has intense eye appeal. As well, he begins to break up the standard 9 and 12-panel grid layouts of early comic books.

The "Dexter" series was notable for its main character's anti-hero status, even as the stories themselves, though full of vigor, fail to breach the pulp-flavored formulae of their genre.

More impressive is this page from the sole "Flint Baker" story Briefer contributed to the first issue of Fiction House's space-opera title, Planet Comics, in early 1940.

In the midst of a genre story, Briefer takes a moment to give three minor characters a moment of back story. This is a device that Jack Cole would use, to greater effect, later in the 1940s.

Few other comic-book creators attempted such cinematic devices this early in the medium's history. Though Briefer later decried his early work as primitive, it engages the reader and still remains worth studying, 70+ years after its first publication.

Briefer's work becomes more cartoony in 1941. Indeed, it seems to have been against Briefer's nature to play it too straight, visually. Such series as "Biff Bannon" for Speed Comics (signed as "Rem Brant") and "The Pirate Prince" for various Lev Gleason titles offer dynamic, loopy cartooning. It often seems slap-dash, with bad and great drawings in the same panels. The pressure of deadlines may account for this inconsistency, but the work remains compelling.

Here are some samples of Briefer's bolder, more cartoony style. The first is from Speed Comics #1, 1939; the next two are from Daredevil Comics #17's "Dickie Dean, Boy Inventor" and "The Pirate Prince" stories. In the latter, the villain bears a remarkable resemblance to Briefer's most popular and long-lived comic book character...

Briefer had begun his re-think of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, in Prize Comics #7, 1940, in a serious-yet-quirky serial feature. Slowly but surely, the focus became softer, and more humorous.

Three opening pages, from Prizes 11, 45, and 68, show the remarkable about-face that this feature took throughout the 1940s:

Briefer's drolly macabre "funny Frankenstein" is his most beloved and highly-regarded comic book work. It was his most successful series, too. In the first few post-war years, Briefer was on a roll.

His artwork became increasingly more stylized, less painstaking, and sometimes downright sloppy. From page to page, the quality of Briefer's work is in constant flux. Overall, his thick, bold lines generate an energy and verve that was otherwise sorely absent from the post-war American comic book.

The funny Frankenstein suddenly shut down in 1949. Like many comics publishers, Prize Comics transitioned to romance, Western and crime titles at decade's end. Thus, Briefer was forced to change his approach.

It was a jarring shift for him, and it did not come easily. This page from Prize Comics Western #77 (1949) shows him illustrating serious genre Western scenes with a slapstick, highly stylized touch:

This cartoony fervor also spilled over into his supposedly serious work for Hillman Publications' smarter-than-average crime comics. "The Imperfect Crime!," from the November-December 1949 Crime Detective Comics, stands out like a hammer-smashed thumb amidst more soberly drawn pieces by Bob Powell, Sy Barry and others.

To be fair, the story has humorous trappings, but it frog-marches to a grim conclusion typical of the Hillman crime comics. It's a weird blend of bigfoot and noir, and appears to be one of a kind. (Sorry for the lousy scan of the last page.)

Hillman rapidly matured in the early 1950s. Its stories maintained a higher standard of intelligence than its contemporaries, with the exclusion of E.C.'s crime genre pieces. Artists such as Bernard Krigstein, Bob Powell, Bill Ely, Bill Draut and Ed Moore brought thoughtful, often elegant artwork to these matter-of-fact, allegedly fact-based accounts of crime and punishment.

Briefer apparently realized (or was told) that he had to meet the standard look and feel of the artwork produced by his peers at Hillman. The result was an unprecedented tightening of his style. In startling contrast to his slap-happy work of the late 1940s, Briefer's early '50s crime comics are among the slickest, sharpest work of his career.

There is still much cartooning and caricature in his work. His figures' moods and reactions are flavored with the shorthand of a sketch artist. His rendering becomes gorgeously controlled, and makes this marriage of broad and subtle work. Hillman editor Ed Cronin seems to have encouraged his artists to draw in a contour-line style, reminiscent of book illustrations. This allowed the colorist to contribute an equal share to the overall impact.

The result is stunning, as seen in Bernard Krigstein's work for Hillman. Though the color palettes are simple, they are intelligently chosen, much like Marie Severin's color work for the E.C. titles. They demonstrate what could be achieved, despite the crappy printing, poor paper quality and chaotic color registration that marred comic books in the 1950s.

From the August, 1951 issue of Real Clue Crime Stories, which opens with Krigstein's "Lester of the Bowery," comes one of Dick Briefer's masterworks, the brutal and brilliantly drawn "Boxcars Dennis."

While the writing (probably not Briefer's) succumbs to primitive symbolism too often, despite its fascinating underworld feel, "Boxcars Dennis" impresses with Briefer's sure hand.

The unexpected elegance of his figures' forms, mass and body language gives this grim story an impact beyond the limits of its script. Briefer's contour brush lines are controlled, assured but still full of life. His admixture of caricature and comic book ashcan realism is a remarkable achievement.

Some of Hillman's crime stories were close cousins of the coincidence-laden, O. Henry-inspired "suspenstories" published at E. C. Comics. "The Simple Whistle," from Real Clue Vol. 7, No. 12 (2/53) is a later example of Briefer's impressive, understated comics noir style for the Hillman books.

This story suggests that Briefer had been influenced by Bernard Krigstein's Hillman work. Both artists, in their time at Hillman, specialized in subtle, thoughtful panel compositions, and strove to give their human figures recognizably lifelike body language.

Briefer had matured as an artist by the mid-1950s. Despite the inherent cartoony edge of his drawing, he became more versatile, and more controlled and thoughtful in his choices.

Briefer's past soon came calling. Prize Comics revived Frankenstein, in 1952, for another two-year run. The series' slant attempted a tone of pure horror. Briefer tried to maintain the slick, tight look of his Hillman work. By 1954, his google-eyed bigfoot cartooning sensibility had returned. His artwork of 1954 looked remarkably like his work of 1940, as seen in this cover to issue #28 of Frankenstein:

The loss of subtlety in Briefer's post-1953 work suggests that the finesse of "Boxcars Dennis" was not his natural inclination as an artist. This makes his achievements in the Hillman stories that much more impressive.

Regardless, Briefer's work remains outstanding--that cover, split into dynamic thirds, is impossible to ignore!

The dozen or so realistic crime narratives Briefer illustrated for Hillman are little-known, but worthy of more study and rediscovery. There is much more to explore in Dick Briefer's long, varied comic book career. We'll return to his work again on Comic Book Attic.

Golden Age Grunt Work: A Quality Cover Story

2011-02-18T17:26:00.001-08:00

We’re back with a fun-filled second installment of our new blog! A special thanks go out to all the folks who emailed and commented on our first post, including Art Spiegelman (be sure to check out his insightful comments on the 1950’s horror genre and how it intersects with consumerism). We welcome your comments on this and future posts… it’s what keeps us motivated, folks!

Finding surviving golden age comic book production art is as almost rare as finding an honest politician. Quality Comics production art is rarer still, probably due to the fact that the publisher – in a career-long fit of paranoia – routinely destroyed nearly all original artwork, so that competitors could never reprint it (until scanners were invented).

Here’s three choice examples of Golden Age production art that reveal a behind-the-scenes glimpse into how comics were made in the early 1940s. These examples were smuggled out by Quality writer, artist, and editor Gill Fox, who drew and produced these covers. Fox did an enormous amount of the early Quality covers. Our thanks to the fabulous Heritage Auction Gallery for these scans.

Thanks to Fox's squirreling-away of original art and other production artifacts, 21st-century cartoonists and comics students have an unusual opportunity to see how a production artist worked, circa 1941.

Gill Fox is shown here on the left, with his wife Helen in the middle, and Quality’s publisher Everett “Busy” Arnold on the right. If you look closely, you can see poking out of a vest pocket the scissors Arnold used to cut up countless pages of priceless comic book art. (Photo courtesy of the Alter Ego website)

Fox's poster-like, usually humorous cover designs are often crude, compared to his other comics work. His renditions of Doll Man and Plastic Man fall woefully short of the interior versions by Reed Crandall, Jack Cole, Al Bryant, et al.

These covers are more like circus posters than most contemporary comic books. Their bold, blunt lines, flat, primary colors and strong use of white space are a far cry from the cluttered, copy-heavy covers of Fox Comics' titles, the frenzied crowd scenes of Timely's, or the more elegant, streamlined efforts of DC Comics.

Fox's renditions of the Quality characters could often look a little disturbed.

On this propaganda-enriched “Tokyo Toes” cover scene, the tiny hero bursts with glee as he gives a Japanese soldier an American hot-foot.

Although we only see the Japanese soldier's feet, legs and part of his rifle (note the rising sun logo on the rifle butt), the figure's pale yellow skin color tells us all we need to know.

These folks did things the hard way. So did all paste-up artists, art directors and other production personnel up to the Age of Photoshop, Quark, PageMaker and, now, InDesign. Tasks that once involved airbrushing, careful cutting of Rubylith screens, pastedowns of alignment markers and much notation can now be done by one person on one computer.

It's still hard work; it's much less tactile and time-consuming, thanks to these remarkable digital tools. It took a team of draftsmen and production workers to turn the bold inklines of a Gill Fox cover into the glossy, smeary, mass-produced pulp paper pamphlets that beckoned from the crowded news-stands of America.

Comic books rarely attempted the sophistication and subtlety accorded major newspapers like The Chicago Tribune which, well into the 1950s, utilized the skills of European production virtuosos. A look at an average Tribune Sunday comics section of the 1930s, '40s and early '50s reveals delicate shadings, gradations and airbrush-like effects which still look dazzling and elegant.

Gill Fox's method for coloring comics covers seems unusual, even for its era. The conception of Quality's covers differed from their competitors, as well. Their original art was drawn at a smaller-than-normal size: 8.75" by 12".

In comparison, original art for the interior stories was typically done "twice up" from the typical published size of approximately 7.5" x 10.5". All the cover elements are hand-drawn--there is no mechanical typography.

Of particular interest is Fox's laborious coloring method.

He traced the elements of the original art, rather loosely, onto tissue paper, in simple, blunt pencil lines. These tracings are notated, very simply, with the desired colors. Yellow is just yellow—that radiant, flat process shade that still stands out, even on tired, time-worn copies of the surviving comic books.

As can be seen in this coloring guide for the cover of Feature Comics #56, Fox's simple instructions translated easily to the printing press. While there are no subtle shades, as were found on the contemporary covers of DC, Fox or Fawcett's comics, the colors achieve their desired goal. Bright, eye-catching and sharp, the Quality covers remain impressive eye-candy.

Sidebar co-stars Mickey Finn and Lala Palooza share in Doll Man's demonic glee. Poison Ivy seems to be saying here, “Ennybody gotta spare hemeroid pillow?”

In Fox’s art for Feature Comics #58, wooden, awkward human figures dominate, with its weak gag idea beautifully rendered in Fox's precise brush lines. The speckled black area of the cash register is elegantly achieved. The published cover uses a flat cyan and a bright orange to great effect.

Some paste-up of standing elements is evident--some of the headshots of the magazine's recurring characters are re-used from previous issues. But other vignettes--and, even, the comic book's title—were redrawn from issue to issue.

Fox was a slick inker. Although the figures on these covers are all awkward, their sinuous, lush lines are tight and assured.

Fox's forte was in humorous cartooning, but he was a professional technician--which was a true asset in designing and executing these clarion-call cover images.

It's fascinating to examine the paste-ups, white-outs and production-staff scrawlings on the artwork itself. Ditto for the tattered, wrinkled color guides, with their sometimes-grotesque tracings and various notations.

These preliminary pieces were never intended to be studied or seen. They were just a means to an end--to achieve a colorful, attention-grabbing cover that competed for millions of dimes on America's news stands, magazine racks and corner stores. Most readers probably had no idea--nor any curiosity--of how these comic books were created or produced.

This historic cover is the first of the Police covers featuring Plastic Man that begins to capture the anarchic, comic spirit of Jack Cole’s series. Gill Fox mentioned that this was his most-requested Golden Age cover image. It's a curious scene: a tiny Plastic Man (his size here suggests Fox was still in his Doll Man mode) sprays a mouthful of chemicals into the face of an apparent bad guy. It's not clear what he's doing, or why it's considered worthy of Plastic Man's aggression. The orderly array of test tubes, Bunsen burners and bottles suggests a well-tempered, organized scientist rather than a death-ray-wielding madman.

Fox's woodcut-like precision, and the stiffness of his characters, makes this scene still vivid. Again, he uses the foolproof cyan and orange color scheme, with Plastic Man's primary red and daubs of process yellow for simple, effective contrast.

Gill Fox would soon be knocked off the Quality covers by the more fluid, accomplished artwork of Jack Cole, Lou Fine and Al Bryant. Cole, in particular, was a master designer of the comic book cover. Fox's bright, primitive drawings have an appeal all their own, and his preservation of these unique artifacts from comic books’ musty history gives us a window into the work that brought this medium to its heights of popularity in the early 1940’s.

The Insanity of Censorship – Ruth Roche and The Comics Code in the 1950s

2011-02-11T19:13:00.001-08:00

Stories this post:
"Out of the Grave"- Haunted Thrills 11 (Ajax-Farrell, Sept. 1953) - Written by Ruth Roche, artist unknown

"Fair Exchange" - Strange 5 (Ajax-Farrell, Jan. 1958) - Rewriter and artist unknown

Much has been written--and debated--about the censorship and witch hunts that plagued the comic-book industry in the 1950s.

Here, we present to you a fascinating example of the same comic book story in two forms: pre-code, and then edited for a reprinting five years later in post-comics code America. In addition, both versions are quite unusual. The pre-code story is a bizarre, dreamlike concoction of horror at the inhumanity and cruelty of the Holocaust -- a rare, unflinching stare at the "true" horror of the concentration camps in comic books of the period (the famous EC story, "Master Race," by Al Feldstein and Bernie Krigstein is another, much more well-known and considerably more artful and accomplished example). The post-code version is also unique for its sheer nuttiness and dreamlike logic breaks.

As with video games today, '50s comics were criticized for their violence, and for their supposed bad influence on American youth. Comic books were publicly burned; newspapers and magazines ran think-pieces that excoriated the "funny books" while offering well-intended if wrong-minded social commentary.

With the enactment of the Comics Code, in 1955, a set of harsh strictures--much harsher than those famously placed on Hollywood in 1934--forced comic book publishers to toe the line, or go under. Distributors and news dealers, leery of public outcry, refused to sell or distribute non-Code approved comics.

This history has been the subject of numerous essays and books. What is often overlooked, in historical studies, is the actual impact the Code had on comic book stories.

Paul recently chanced upon a story--rather, a pair of stories--that exemplify the before and after impact of the Code's rules. It's a gruesome horror story from the infamous Ajax-Farrell imprint and its post-Code, much-altered reprint version. You can see the Comics Code Authority "seal" on the cover of the 1958 comic.

"Out of the Grave," first published in Haunted Thrills #11, cover-dated September, 1953, is the work of the Iger Studios. Greg Sadowski offers some compelling information on publisher Jerry Iger (left) and his partner Ruth Roche in his excellent book Four-Color Fear. Roche is listed as the editor of this comic book; I'll assume that she authored "Out of the Grave."

As with Roche's other stories, this is a blend of the loony and the compelling. Its theme is brutal, even for a 1953 horror comic. The aptly-named Col. Eric Von Grimm delights in torturing, killing and hounding "the poor unfortunates who were not of the master race." The Colonel, stationed in occupied Italy, sees to the slaughter of the "filthy partisans" who defy Nazi rule. He apparently lives in a cozy home with his wife, Helga, in occupied Italy.

The story's intro informs us they are "a loving couple," but the Colonel's is a life of inequity. He spends each day killing upstart Italians, supervising the torments of concentration camp prisoners, and intimidating cow-towing local merchants. Yet he can't afford a new pair of boots. His current pair are worn out; they hurt his feet.

Meanwhile, status-conscious Helga demands the nice things in life, including a lampshade made of human skin. As Helga crows, "they're all the rage now." Her social nemesis, "that horrible Gretchen Smutcher," has a better human-skin lampshade than hers. "Women," reflects von Grimm as he removes his battered boots. "I'll never understand them."

Using his grotesque jobsite percs, von Grimm acquires some "leather" for a new pair of boots, and coerces a local cobbler to make his new footgear.

From here, "Out of the Grave" wends an increasingly nutty path to an attempted school-of-E.C. Comics shock ending. It is a typical genre piece from the peak year of horror comics. Yet, embedded in its talk of human skin and women named Smutcher is a surprising touch of humanity. Some attempt is made to show the effects of von Grimm's cruel actions on those around him. We also witness enough of his interactions with his wife to know theirs is a horribly messed-up union.

Had this story been conceived by Al Feldstein and William Gaines, over at E.C. Comics' offices, it might have been rendered even more poignant, despite the literal mechanics of its contrived surprise ending. "Out of the Grave" is more disturbing for what it tries to be than for what it is not. It's exploitation horror with an attempted heart. Ambitious and inept in concept and execution, it is nonetheless memorable.

Cut to 1958. The Comics Code has been in power for three years. The comics biz has been neutered. Gone are ghouls, gangsters, gun molls. Carnage, murder and mayhem are suggested, if at all invoked. Careers have been destroyed in the process. Surviving publishers have conformed to the Comics Code and had each story ruthlessly scrutinized.

Interior, Ajax-Farrell editorial offices: the decision is made to reprint stories from five years prior. Among those chosen: "Out of the Grave."

With its constant sadism, slaughter, inhumanity and general affront to civil behavior, a less Code-worthy comic book story could not be found. Thus, massive alterations and re-writes befell "Out of the Grave," re-titled "Fair Exchange" for its publication in issue #5 of Strange, cover-dated January 1958.

"Fair Exchange" is a different story. It is fascinating to study each of the story's six pages, in both incarnations, as an example of pre-and post-Code comic books.

Page 1: the splash panel's text introduction is completely re-written--and is more concise than that of "Out of the Grave." It's generally well-written, save for one sentence fragment. On the right side of the splash page, note the replacement of tortured prisoners with a hastily daubed-in bush, colored pink. It appears that Antonio, the cobbler, has awakened from a massive cotton-candy spill.

Col. von Grimm retains his name, but his methods and manners have changed dramatically. Instead of an eagerness to kill the partisan rebels, von Grimm expresses passive frustration: the naughty Italians won't behave. It's really quite vexing!

The soldiers in panel 2 no longer fire their weapons. Though the Colonel still wields his rifle in panel 3, the dugout and its sitting-duck partisans are no longer there. The rifle in von Grimm's arm is now the tool of an empty gesture.

On page 2 (below): For starters, Helga's face has been extensively smoothed out, de-wrinkled and glamorized. This is in accord with one of the less-remembered edicts of the Comics Code. Faces that could be considered frightening or disturbing had to be toned down.

The von Grimm couple's dialogue, on this page, speaks volumes about the changes in the American comic book--and about the conformist attitudes of mainstream 1950s America. Note that the lampshade is now just... a lampshade--and not a fancy one at that. As new Helga complains, "I'm sick and tired of this neighborhood... the shops are bombed or out of stocks! ...I hate our furniture, and it's time you did something about it!"

More tellingly, Helga has an issue with Nazi pride. “Why must everything be stamped with the swastika? ... Lately, I wish I had other labels!” Her husband patiently explains that “it really is patriotic to stamp our personal articles.” Ironically, Code censors nixed the inclusion of the swastika on the lamp shade—wrecking the re-writer’s attempts to keep it there.

In the final two panels, Col. von Grimm muses about his wife’s desire for “imported goods,” rather than human-skin accessories. The final panel of p.2 is the first unaltered frame in this revised version. Apparently, the Code approved a man bemoaning the shoddy state of his footwear.

So, did the Nazis actually make lampshades from human skin? Where does this come from? Here's what The Straight Dope website has to say:

Shortly after U.S. troops liberated the Buchenwald Nazi concentration camp in 1945, director Billy Wilder made a documentary about the camp to publicize Nazi atrocities. A widely circulated still photo from the film showed a table covered with preserved human remains, including two shrunken heads; several pieces of what appears to be tattooed skin; and an ordinary-looking table lamp. The film's narration says that among the items found was "a lampshade, made of human skin, made at the request of an SS officer's wife."

It seems likely that Ruth Roche, or whoever wrote this story, had seen -- or at least knew about the Wilder film and the circulating photo and story. Here's the (in)famous photo of the horrific Nazi human souvenirs:

Page 3: The first panel is also unaltered from its 1953 incarnation. Panel 2 changes the emphasis from dead bodies to surplus boots. In both cases, the prisoners are “stupid peasants.” In ’53, they’re idiots because they refuse to die; ‘58’s citation of inanity is their lack of spare shoes.

Panel 3 is altered dramatically. Instead of von Grimm killing a prisoner, for the use of his skin, he spots a “stupid peasant” who happens to wear fine boots. Invoking the classic “seize them” line (a necessity of B-movies and other popcult detritus), von Grimm spares a life and confiscates footwear.

Angelo, the cobbler, is given a beauty makeover similar to Helga’s. Good guys have no facial blemishes in post-Code comics. von Grimm retains his shadowy furrows, as he’s the bad guy.

In the final panel, the “er, leather” is now just boots. They look suspiciously unlike boots in the soldier’s bundle, which was unaltered from the ’53 original.

Page 4 takes on a fairy-tale aspect in the ’58 rewrite. Angelo recognizes his own handiwork, instead of seeing tell-tale tattoos on the skin of his son. Now, his emotional connection is even further removed. It’s no longer his son, but his nephew.

As well, the rewrite’s admirably absurd new shock ending comes into play. Angelo raises his hammer in the air, still aquiver, as in ‘53’s version, but his thoughts are no longer of “a pair of boots that can strike and kill.” Now, the boots “can tick off the end of a career!”

In the final panel, Angelo’s vengeful thoughts are blotted out, as are the lines of care on his face. A hasty attempt at feathering sits above the poor cobbler’s head.

On page 5, feces meet fan blades. Angelo is no longer rewarded with death, as in the 1953 original, but with imprisonment and deportation. In the final two panels, Angelo no longer sweats or spits. Once again, his face is shorn of blemishes as he meets a much softer fate.

Page 6 sums up much of what was wrong with the Comics Code, and how it negatively impacted comic book storytelling. There is crude poetic justice in the ’53 original, with the explosives set in the Nazi emblems, which the Colonel will inevitably click together in salute to a superior. As with the other more complex ideas attempted in “Out of the Grave,” this is telegraphed, and loses much of its effectiveness.

The first three panels of this final page are unaltered—even Helga’s wrinkles remain in her panel 1 close-up.

Panel 5 is the one entirely new frame of this re-make. The artist apparently didn’t have access to earlier pages. Helga now looks like a prom queen, instead of the middle-aged harridan she has been.

What happens in the climax to “Fair Exchange” is laughable—and must have seemed so 54 years ago. One has to wonder if Michael Kuppermann travelled back in time to create the story’s conclusion. A ticking clock can be annoying, but it is just cause to end a military career?

This absurd twist is made sorta-poetic in the story’s closing panel, in which the same un-named “friend” kneels before Antonio’s grave and muses sagely to himself. His run-on sentence is worth savoring:

Who would think of the clever trick of putting a set clock in the heels of a Nazi colonel at a time it would ruin him!

“Out of the Grave” is no masterpiece; neither is it hackwork. The writer (Roche?) grappled with larger-than-usual themes for a 1953 horror comic. He or she didn’t have the space—or the chops—to do much with these controversial themes, but it appeared they tried.

It is inexplicable why this story was chosen for a Code-approved revision. Everything about it, in its 1953 version, is an affront to the tenets of the Code. Certainly the Iger concern had milder stories sitting in its inventory!

Ajax-Farrell was in its last days, and, like the endtimes of the Nazi regime, thrift and re-use were of necessity. It took, perhaps, a couple of hours to re-write the story and re-tool the changes needed to the artwork. No one knew the difference, and no one cared. It was just another story, to fill the pages of just another comic book, from a publisher that would soon be history.

Fifty-four years later, the comparison of original and bowdlerized remake is fascinating as a study in censorship from a social regime that was almost as oppressive as Col. von Grimm himself.

P.S.: Many Ajax-Farrell stories were reprinted—and gruesomely retooled—for Myron Fass’ super-crappy Eerie Publications. We didn’t have the energy or time to prowl through available scans of Eerie mags for a possible third version of this story. We can only hope that it was chosen for re-reprinting, due to its gruesome themes, and that Fass tarted the story up even further in his revision. If anyone is aware of a Fass-published third version of this story, please let us know, and we’ll add it to this post.

This is the first of a new series of posts on Comic Book Attic, which will now serve as a blog for Paul Tumey and Frank Young to explore facets of the American comic-book. You may be familiar with our blogs, Cole’s Comics and Stanley Stories. They’re focused on one creator and his work. Comic Book Attic affords us a chance to write about—and share—other comics material, both great and effed-up, from the tattered history of the four-color medium.

We look forward to the fun we’ll have here, and we hope you’ll enjoy our musings as well.