A Game of Give and Take

It's the eyes that tell us. Wally's are green. Barry's, apparently, are baby blue.

Not often nowadays do we get an issue's big reveal on its cover. But by showing us the Flash who disintegrated during the first Crisis, DC does something important with Final Crisis issue two.

They extend an olive branch.

Now, my praise may be early, but this gives me faith that they understand the concept of trilogy. Having been who knows where, Barry's someone who could in fact shed light on what secretly connects the bloated Crisis events that continuously alter characters' perceptions of themselves.

Grant Morrison plays exceptionally well in this field. Whether there is sense to be made from the previous two epics or not (yeah, and blood comes from turnips), he at least has the potential to convince us otherwise. From Animal Man on up, he's delved into the relationship between character and writer, fiction and reality. He acknowledges that superheroes are modern deities whose various embodiments tie directly into our societal yearnings (see the new Thor series for this ethos in action).

Philosophizing aside, Morrison endears us to his spectacle with equal parts sugar and solid character work. The first quarter of the issue is devoted to a deliciously self-indulgent window upon the Japanese hero scene. And though tossed open merely to introduce Sonny Sumo, what we get is, from J. G. Jones's peerless pencil, a fetish-cornucopia: a clear ancestor of the Legion's Karate Kid, a winged, sparrow-sized school girl, a Battle of the Planets dweeb, a bathroom icon wearing a cape, a cyborg whose heart is ripped out and left draining into a glass. Also, for the first time outside of Seven Soldiers, we see the new Mr. Miracle. More on his recruitment of Sonny Sumo as it develops, I'm sure.

The second half, featuring Batman's daring against an Alpha Lantern, is marred only by Superman's line at Martian Manhunter's funeral: "We'll all miss him. And pray for a resurrection."

For serious? Was Superman supplicating Geoff Johns, the All-Father? Last issue, Supes called for a Justice League amber alert, making me wonder if the the 52 Earths will be saved by simultaneously drilling for oil on 52 Alaskan reserves. Regardless, issue three promises to be glorious, what with Clayface bombing the Daily Planet, Lois corpsed-up in the rubble and- wait for it- not a single shot yet accounting for the building's GIGANTIC ROTATING ORB as it hits midday traffic.

Oh, and there are three Flashes again, making the DC Universe richer in bunly goodness than Marvel could ever hope to be. 5/5 zagnuts.

Next up we have the Immonen-sculpted wonderland that is Ultimate Spider-Man, Within this genuinely surprising issue sits a dejected Eddie Brock, recounting to random strollers how a punk named Parker dropped his ass in the loser column. Instead of being a self-righteous maniac, like the Brock of Marvel's 616 Universe, this one is presented more as a Hollywood monster. The symbiont needs to eat, and while it does, Eddie recedes, only to awaken unaware of the damage done.

I read his pathetic narrative, noting that with each check of the frame someone new was on the park bench with him, and thought, "Bendis sure is dumbing this down to Hades." The bulk of the issue, actually, is an extended fight with Silver Sable's Wildpack (and Bendis never gives us exposition during a fight, a genre convention he should yield to for the bloody sake of a little thing called flow). But the final page of Venom casually engulfing Brock's incredulous listener like toothy yeast redeemed the entire thing. 4/5 zagnuts.

And for a title that is pure mana to sniveling Claremontite like me, there's Mike Carey's X-Men Legacy. Where to begin documenting the sheer virtuosity displayed herein? The fact that the retcon in action is so massive yet so perfect? The way the story must, by the end, truly pave the way for a new kind of X-tale?

Wait- what in the name of Bishop's mullet am I talking about?

As we all lament daily, hourly, the X-Men have a challenging history. Most writers quail before its breadth, and can only hope they do justice to the preceding thirty years of cutting edge adventures. Sure, there have been lapses, most notably by a fucker named Chuck Austen, but there are simply so many characters and set pieces that the permutations possible always have fans hoping someone worthy will take up the reins and return the series to greatness.

It can be said that the best X-Men stories are those that explore and embellish the rich history. Scott Lobdell was a master, capable of tapping an encounter for the maximum depths of emotion. Grant Morrison was a maestro, never failing to call up his favorite era, the late seventies, while blazing forward with outre concepts. Others like Alan Davis and Steve Seagle had smaller parts, but nonetheless worked within the editorial system.

Said system, stating that the X-Men are a family, a school and most importantly a soap opera, starting breaking down when stories were cranked out in the tediously decompressed "trade paperback" style. There were no subplots, no references beyond the current story- in short, they were devoid of anything that would confuse the sweaty swarms of new readers exiting the movie theater, desperate for more Wolverine.

The pendulum, thank fuck, has swung back to where it should be. Marvel is no longer micro-focused on marketing certain kinds of stories- they just tell good stories.

Enter Mr. Carey. He's not only cherry-picked the X-Men's recent past (the 90s) for elements that have yet to be dry-humped by everyone else, but he's also made fascinating some really underrated villains. Nathaniel Essex, or as your mom knows him, Mr. Sinister, was only ever a background manipulator. He blackmailed a naive Gambit into gathering the Marauders. He toyed with genes and may have tampered with a young Scott Summers. He would have liked to cure the Legacy Virus. Beyond that, nothing concrete.

Now we find that, before Xavier, Sebastian Shaw or Cain Marko even had pubes, he'd performed a procedure that wrote his being into their genes. Should he die, a machine called Cronus would cycle among the candidates, searching for one who was most vulnerable to being outright possessed by Sinister.

One of my loyal readers once mentioned that comics used to veer into strange territory, defying categorization. There'd be runs that strove for resonance of a subtler kind, rather than bowing to trends and nostalgia. Sadly, I've already heard that this format of Xavier exploring his own demons will only last until year's end.

But then what? Actually, I'm extremely optimistic. Carey has the creative stamina to dance between crossovers, much like Claremont did in the 80s, when the dreadful trend began. And, with Matt Fraction coming to Uncanny, I just get the willies... Good stuff is coming. 4/5 zagnuts.

Don't Wake Me

And on your left...

The phenomenal era of Thor being taken just seriously enough (sorry Mr. Oeming) rockets onward. J. M. Straczynski, a writer ever up to the task of keeping a character indefinitely readable, answers that call and so many more in yet another dazzling issue.

That his title burns so hotly with readability is due to nothing less than the writer's flawless grasp of tone. And this is an Asgard so far bereft of conflict! Sure, our lovable tranny God of Mischief is present (sometimes lacking eyebrows and matching pupils- cue Marilyn Manson flashbacks, shuddering and moving on) but she's thus far spoken sweetness that her brother might ignore her.

Which he surely does. Thor is only on two pages in this issue, emphasizing Straczynski's appreciation for the supporting cast that had been abandoned over the years to varying degrees of disaster (Thor with a machine gun wasn't even that BAD, just fakin' retahded). Here we get Loki at her most superbly subtle, doing little more than challenging Balder and the Warriors Three to avoid wasting their new lives. They're built for bloodletting after all, despite the reprieves granted by being dashing, grim and 653 pounds.

It then follows naturally that Straczynski, and we of Alpha Dweebsilon, want Olivier Coipel to draw frost giants getting carved into dumplings. Loki provides this sport, summoning the giants and telling them that Balder will go squish, like, totally. Baldur, of course, is a nut uncrackable second only to Thor, and proves it quite splashily.

In this little diversion are sown the seeds of future mayhem. Thor must come down to the station and ask that Balder otherwise occupy his sword (who will end up boating the bass that Loki's become?) in ways that won't horrify the locals. Thor isn't angry, but fatherly- and therein squats the porcupine.

A new dynamic is flung into motion as Loki tells Balder that HE is Thor's half-brother, and rightly deserving of Asgard's throne. All this AND the comedic stylings of a smitten local named William. Hit me with another ten years worth.

Brian Bendis and Stuart Immonen, the second of three dream teams herein splogged, deliver another done-in-one issue of Ultimate Spider-Man. While not as fun as the previous encounter with Omega Red, we get more balanced, genuinely enjoyable situations that let the title breathe between larger stories.

Not much happens except for the Shocker pummeling Peter with a rant on creativity and commerce. It's shrill and whiney and kind of right, but I can only imagine reading the same script drawn by Mark Bagley. I may not have survived it.

Same thing with Kitty convincing a cop that Peter needs help. There are nineteen boxes spread across two pages, and not only are some of them not faces, none of them repeat. As much as I admire Bagley for being quick, on this title specifically, the years were vicious. He'd lost an astounding degree of consistency that, were it Spidey's costume being drawn more than half of the time, might have remained. The sheer number of talking panels likely bored the snot out of him.

Now, either Bendis has adjusted his scripts, Immonen himself is like human wine, or both, I love the new alchemy. This comic struts. I'm deeply, pornographically under this spell Stewey's carried through Ultimate FF, Ultimate X-Men and Nextwave. I want to somehow scan shit comics into a program that will change the artist to Stuart Immonen and then- actually, I'll shut up with that.

Last but never least is All-Star Superman, by the two-headed Loch Ness Monster of Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely. I just tonight read a thing on my thing that this run has only one more issue left. That's probably good, because, though still wondrous and wacky as all heck, the stress cracks are a-showin'.

Grant's promised us the DEATH of Superman and has only one nugget of Scottish ka-zoom in which to present it. That means more forward movement through a coherent narrative, with less future-science explanations for neato things he's sprinkled everywhere. And sadly, some things in this issue, not even neato things, NEED explanations lest they decay into them pesky plot holes that can strip a summer movie to the bone.

Make no mistake, all of you Pepys-perusing dandelions out there: this run would be the ultimate Superman film (unlike the reading of Michael Scott's mind, for this we have the technology). We'd only have to explain why Luthor, about to be fried in an electric chair, is allowed to do anything let alone mix a final secret potion. It's a 24 hour superpower serum (way to wait until now to create such a thing with the vast array of ingredients available in prison)! All hail convenience! Another element cluttering up this comic like a pair of oh-so useful high-heeled Chuck Taylors is the tyrant sun Solaris.

Though this creature looks awesome (and like a dweller in the pre-Cambrian soup) it isn't actually the size of a sun. Neither is the Sun-Eater that happens to escape its holding cell at the beginning of the issue. After the two have their cosmic showdown, Solaris crashes to Earth and, shown to be the diameter of Batman's penny, does less damage than anything falling from space should.

Then Luthor shows up with powers as Clark drops dead over his laptop. All great set pieces- but not of the same quality this title began with. In good consciousness, I can only give this comic 3.5 out of 5 zagnuts.