What’s Wrong With The Avengers Comics - a review of Avengers 42

I was in Orbital Comics in central London a couple of weeks ago I prefer it to Forbidden Planet, I think. It’s nicely laid out, there’s no ridiculous post office rat-run at the tills, and the shop doesn’t coyly hide its comicky shame downstairs like a Soho bookshop.

I haven’t really been following Avengers for a few years, not since just after the Heroic Age relaunch. Mainly this was because I couldn’t commit to buying multiple Avengers series, but also because I could no longer tolerate writer Brian Michael Bendis’ overuse of ‘heroes sit round a kitchen table in their civvies and discuss who’s on child-minding duties for Jessica and Luke’s sprog’.

So I’m in the comic shop and can’t very well flick through a few titles and just leave. I have to buy something to show willing. What I end up buying are, just like when I was 12, things with catchy covers (way back when, that would have been the Thing punching out a T-Rex while Ka-Zar the savage straddles its neck delivering dialogue like ‘STRIKE GRIMM! BEFORE THE THUNDER LIZARD DOOMS US ALL!’).

I pick up an Alan Davis-covered something and an Alex Ross-covered something, and then I see this here Avengers cover.

It's all going on.

 It’s got all sorts of dudes - most of them I presume baddies, at least they’re baddies this week. There’s Gladiator giving it grrr, Annihilus (it took me years before I realised you didn’t pronounce his name ‘Annie-Hillers’), the chick from the Imperial Guard with the bunches (Astra, I think), a grumpy Skrull and a Brood or two flashing their choppers like Sram from Terrahawks. All flying straight out the page at the reader. Awesome. I presume inside there is a mega-battle between the Avengers and all these spaceborn enemies, so I buys it and reads it on the train home.

Now do a Google image search for Moid. Genuinely disturbing.

I am less than satisfied by the contents. Here’s a page-by-page breakdown of what I plonked down £2.76 of my hard-earned for…

Page 1

Previously in Avengers (I am hearing this in Clark Gregg’s voice). Lots of people standing around talking. Very few of them appear to be the Avengers.

Page 2

Headshots of 45 characters from different teams. There seem to be two teams of Avengers, some Illuminati (heroes from other teams colluding for the Greater Good), the Cabal (I dunno - some space baddies and Namor), the Guardians of the Galaxy, and some other leftover dudes who must have been sent invites to this comic by mistake.

Page 3

Title page. There is a shot of the now aged Steve Rogers looking like Gary Cooper in High Noon, and Reed Richards sporting a vast hipster beard like he’s converted to Islam or trawler fishing.

Page 4

Yellowjacket, the Beast and some dude I figure is Amadeus Cho in a spaceship above the moon. They talk a bit.

How does it work without a visor?

Page 5

The Hulk and Captain Britain in spacesuits. They talk and go EVA over the body of the Living Tribunal on the moon’s surface, which is where all self-respecting cosmic entities go to die these days.

Page 6-7

Cyclops, Sunspot and Cannonball look at some sentinels and talk. Cyclops’ new incarnation post AvX as a complete tool shows no sign of abating.

Page 8-9

Black Panther and Reed Richards With Beard stand in front of a screen and talk about something that looks like the Odyssey from Ulysses 31. Variable-age Valeria Richards eats ice-cream but still comes across as a horrific Stepford child that should have been shot into the sun years ago.

Page 10

Sunspot and Cannonball have left from Cyclops’ Brotherhood of Douchebag Mutants and in homage to Brian Michael Bendis, are in their civvies talking about a toddler. This page is the issue’s highlight for levity, characterisation and superheroics (the baby is wallcrawling on the ceiling).

Keep thinking of a brick wall, Reed.

Page 11-12

Smasher puts on her goggles, goes down on one knee and gets her marching orders from Gladiator. There is talking.

Page 13-14

Namor and some albino woman who has a daft name like White Void sit on a rock and talk.

Page 15-17

Gladiator (him again - maybe they should call this comic Gladiator and his Amazing Friends) sits on his space throne and talks to the Imperial Guard.

Page 18-19

SPLASH PAGE OF SPACE SHIPS FLYING.

Includes gummy-mouthed Acanti with a distressingly textured spacewhale tongue. This is the closest the comic gets to any action, apart from the superbaby on the ceiling.

Page 20-21

The Guardians of the Galaxy sit in their spaceship and talk. They may or may not be flying alongside all the spaceships from pages 18-19. It’s not clear. The different characters of the Guardians are clearly conveyed. Presumably because the writer has just seen the film so didn’t have to think too hard.

Page 22

Rocket talks at lots of superheroes, who may or may not constitute the Avengers. It’s hard to tell.

Page 23

Closing shot of spaceships closing in on Earth. I suppose it’s a kind of dramatic ending.

Analysis

I am genuinely at a loss to explain how this constitutes an Avengers comic. It ought to be called Stuff Happening Everywhere Involving Everyone!, including the increasingly tedious Illuminati, two flavours of Avengers, leftover baddies the Cabal and the Guardians of the Galaxy (who are rapidly approaching Wolverine levels of comic ubiquity). Oh, and Cyclops in his silly X-mask and Valeria Richards (who varies in age between 7 and 16 depending on who draws her).

I get why there are several Avengers comics out at the same time; they’re hot property, what with the films and all. But man, they should really try to feature the Avengers, rather than d100 random characters from the Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe.

I think there are about 4 Avengers series out right now, but it’s bloody hard to tell. There’s Avengers, New Avengers, Avengers World, and Secret Avengers. And maybe Uncanny Avengers, Real Avengers, Original Avengers, Avengers Lite and My Big Fat Avenger Plastic Surgery Nightmares.

But they all look the same. They all have an A logo in the top left corner of the cover and a tiny ickle word bit for Secret, World etc. It’s incredibly hard to tell them apart in the shop. Rubbish. In the old days you had a big fat readable title splashed all the way across, and a groovy picture of the hero or heroes in a box top left. Ah, halcyon days.

If the upcoming Netflix shows don't have Stiletto and Discus, I shall be most put out.

But the main problem with this comic lies with its writer, Jonathan Hickman, who perpetrated the exact same approach to story-telling on Fantastic Four a few years ago. He takes a team title, expands the cast by a factor of ten and starts spinning about 5 simultaneous global/interstellar plot-plates. He totally loses any focus on the original central characters, because there are no central characters. You can tell this by page 2 of the Avengers comic - there are 45 - forty bloody five - characters listed.

Not that Hickman can actually write characters. He is plot-oriented to the nth degree - nobody has any discernible character to differentiate them from each other. Apart from a little charmless Rocket Raccoon snarking, everyone in this issue talks the same and behaves the same, to wit they like to stand around and deliver dialogue. They also don’t like to do boring old superhero things like run around and hit things.

Closing Thoughts

I am mystified as to exactly who this sort of title is aimed at. Not the casual reader - even with a Previously On page and a preposterous 45-character cast list, it’s near impossible to pick up what’s happening. And it’s not aimed at the younger reader - there’s nothing here to satisfy someone after fun, action or fights. Or indeed any sort of drama.

But if it’s endless pontificating by a bunch of characterless stuffed shirts you want, some sporting Beards Of Sombreness, then step right this way.

Secret Wars, the company-wide Marvel event is coming soon - which will apparently reboot everything and start again. I can only hope they reboot the writers as well.

The Chocolate Ocelot's 2014 Fringe - Day Six

Shambolic audio diary of the day's events here

CJ Hooper's LJ of the day here

Last full day!

Just had an idea for an Edinburgh version of Hellblazer called Costorphine. Probably played by John Hannah in a dirty mac slugging Irn Bru and chowin' down on tablet. There's plenty of infernal nightlife down on Cowgate for him to sort out.

Other news: Herself's phone went kaput yesterday when an especially uncharismatic director asked us to turn our phones off before a performance. Herself duly, foolishly, complied. I mean, who actually turns their phones off when they're asked? I certainly don't, but like the time-honoured feeble patting down of one's pockets when pantomiming sorry mate I haven't got any change, I usually just wave a greasy finger randomly over the screen. Also, the selfsame director insisted on delivering a long and dull fire exit awareness announcement before the start of his show, effectively killing all the energy in the room (that's a phrase I picked up from a performy friend earlier this week). Anyway, she turned it off, and then couldn't turn it back on again afterward. Needless to say, sadness ensued.

But all's well that ends well. The excellent Mr CJ Hooper fixed it the next morning using his finely honed Google Fu, thus saving us a tiresome trek to the nearest Geek Squad outpost of Carphone Warehouse. Well done CJ, well done.

On the down side she appears to be developing a croaky throat type cold. A condition which does not mesh well with CJ's partial deafosity. She may have to expand her limited sign language repertoire today from the three rude phrases that CJ's taught us, the naughty boy.

Random fact: apparently a conservatoire is a posh name for a sort of musical theatre company type thing and not the French name for a greenhouse built onto your kitchen as I had thought. Who knew?

Our rather fine holiday flat in the Rear Window apartment block off West Port has a kitchenette, divided from the living room by a fairly pointless wooden divide. You can lean on it and rap with your housemates in the (rest of the) living room or pretend to be a TV chef or the chicken from Parappa the Rapper. It is supported at one end by a sturdy vertical beam that I have thus far resisted using for a crap pole dancer impression.

(brief pause)

OK, scratch the resisted bit. Herself and CJ are duly impressed. Pretty sure that's what their facial expressions meant. Hurt me knees a bit doing that.

Recommended music and bar type place: the Cowshed down on Cowgate opposite Underbelly. Strewn with straw (is that a tautology?) and a couple of plastic cows, you can get a drink, plonk yourself down on a hay bale and enjoy whichever guys are banging out some rocking tunes in the performing area. Nicely different. I like the open holes in the frontage, so passersby can stop and lean in the enjoy the music and look a bit like Waldorf and Statler.

Distressing sight seen at the Assembly Hall (the building at the top of Mound Place that looks like Hogwarts with a cool Lawgiver statue of John Knox inside): woman on phone holding lead of little dog with back arched in that unmistakeable I want to do a wee or poo but I know I'll get in trouble if I do it here manner. Woman does not notice dog's distress and continues to speak on phone. Can a passerby (i.e. me, increasingly distressed myself by the imminent dog wee/poo jeopardy) possibly break the social hymen betwixt strangers and alert the phone woman to her pet's situation? The answer turns out to be no, craven that I am. There should be an app for this where you can send a Wee Alert! message to a nearby phone by Bluetooth and save everyone's blushes. Assuming dogs can blush.

Speaking of handy apps, I'm told that there's one for keeping track of everyone in a particular group so you can find each other more easily if the party gets split up (Never Split The Party!). So a bit like the map in World of Warcraft when you've joined a group for a bit of kobold bashing (not a euphemism) I imagine it has a funny name with an 'e' missing like Trackr or Mindr. Very handy. Also quite stalky. 'You spent a long time in the loos just now'. 'I thought you were going straight back to the flat - looks like you took a detour to check out the late night Castrati Rap Battle at the Frooty Goose'. And so on.

Right then. I think I've got all the idle nonsense out of my head now. Thanks awfully for bearing with. And now the reviews (puts on spectacles, shuffles papers).

Readers of yesterday's post will recall that due to chronic mismanagement of my time, I ended up carrying my laptop around for the entire day for no good reason. This fact in no way affected my enjoyment (or lack thereof) of any of the performances, but I just wanted you to appreciate that I ended up lugging the bastand thing over a distance of several Edinburgh miles without complaint (that last bit isn't true). I'm like that old Greek dude Cissyface or something. I think he had to roll a big ball up a slope only for a giant robot ant to roll it down again I think. I must admit that this was an episode of Ulysses 31 so the original tale may have had moderately less mechanical insects, more's the pity.

The Addams Family

Musical

Royal Conservatoire of Scotland

Assembly Hall

Staged by the same company who put on Avenue Q in the same venue last year, this is a great musical comedy. Not just the movie with songs, the plot sees little Wednesday Addams as a young woman falling in love with Lucas Beineke, a nice guy from a normal family. Familial tension and farce ensues, like Meet The Parents crossed with Rocky Horror. Great simple set (they have to be simple at a festival, where the stage is shared by several acts every day) and an effective chorus of grey ancestor spooks making the scenery changes. Strong singing voices, great songs and a few sweet dancing (and fencing) moves. A very professional production.

Haka

Physical Theatre

New Zealand Season / Te Matatini Kapa Haka

Assembly Hall (the distressed dog incident took place here)

A contingent of Maori people put on a lovely display of haka (war dances) and songs, complete with taiaha (them spears like skinny paddles with a blade at one end) and poi (soft balls on cords). Cue much stomping, brandishing and tongue waggling from the menfolk, and much hypnotic poi-swinging from the womenfolk. Some of the blokes look proper fierce with their tattooed faces and eye-popping expressions. By the end of the show I am full of tribal martialness, or possibly martial tribalness and am aching to get in another session of the pathfinder role-playing game with my Shoanti warrior woman Valka soon (certain readers take note).

Hamlet: Private Eye

Theatre

Glass Dagger Productions

The Space on North Bridge

Now I'm not saying for sure that this was the show with the fire-safety director. But it might have been. My advice, if this is that show, is to ease off on the buzzkill announcements and get straight on with the show. As the title suggests, this is Hamlet as a noir private dick story. Sort of spoofy but perhaps not spoofy enough, or perhaps not serious enough, the individual performances are perfectly decent, but the action drags and might benefit from a bit more oomph. Even a few gunshots sound effects would help. The guy who played Hamlet would make a good John Costorphine though (see above).

And The Goat Remained A Goat

Cabaret

Richard Wiseman and the Creative Martyrs

The Voodoo Rooms

Part lecture, part magic act, part musical piece, the dry Richard Wiseman relates the life story of actual paranormal investigator Harry Price, who famously probed the most haunted Rectory Priory in the 30s, as well as debunking various psychic hoaxers and other strange phenomenon. Despite getting off to a bad start with an irritating admonishment that we had not applauded him enough at the top of the show (that sort of behaviour always gets my back up - earn your applause man, it's not a right), Wiseman won me over with some excellent stage magic, including a floating table trick with the lovely Herself ably assisting. Afterward we agree that she would make an excellent magician's assistant, being both bendy and distracting. The Creative Martyrs, a violin/cello duo sat in the corner like the ghost of Laurel and Hardy, supply mood music throughout and eerie Harry Price themed songs, including one about my favourite talking mongoose Gef. It was like a musical version of the Monsters Ghosts and UFOs book from my childhood.

Hendrick's Carnival of Knowledge

Event

Hendrick's Carnival of Knowledge

Royal Circus

Though situated way north of the main Fringe action, Hendrick's is well worth a visit. We weren't able to shoehorn any of their actual talks into the schedule, but instead enjoyed a variety of unusual cocktails in their well-appointed bar. Though enjoyed may have been too strong a word for my Cucozade, a vibrant cucumber flavoured sherbet concoction. We are delighted to meet the director and artistic designer chaps, with whom we discuss the many fine artefacts dotted around the Georgian terraced house that they have taken over, including Peter, a ten foot tall rearing stuffed polar bear, and a variety of headless birds and framed crab pincers. We contribute to their Swan of Knowledge by imparting important facts. I bore them all with my fascinating discourse on the origin of the word vril, as in Bovril. They also have a mobile bar/library outside called MAAM which stands for something, and we discuss various mutual steampunky type friends with the chaps. A splendidly dressed site, and I only wish we'd had time to sit in on a lecture or two.

Das Vegas 3

Cabaret

Frank Sinazi

The Voodoo Rooms

As he says, worth checking your sensibilities at the door. Das Vegas revels in swinging offensiveness, hosted by the Fuhrer of the Board himself, Frank Sinazi. Expect intentionally lame Nazi puns, banging Sinatra tribute songs (my favourite is opening number Das Reich), and a mixed bag of guest artists. A decent turn from burka'd double act Baghdad's Got Talent, somewhat flat shock comedy from a stubbly vicar, a quick appearance from Saddami Davis Jnr and jiggly burlesque from Betty Grumble (I liked her Venetian mask style make-up). Rightly earning his place as the closing act was Jesus though - moving seamlessly from a beatific smiling procession through the audience (he touched Herself's head) and gradually stripping down to his messianic thong, he's a very fit Son of God and a lovely mover. More Jesus please.

As I slope back to base, the big laptop on my back inducing curvature of the spine, Herself and CJ stay on at the Voodoo Rooms for liquid enjoyment and the late night Ruby Darlings, two charming young ladies who I'm told do rude songs in not many clothes. Later on at the flat, I am treated to a rendition of their song about Bottom Sex.