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I've been reading through this old superhero comic from the seventies called Ms. Marvel (1976–1978) , which I recently managed to acquire in the entirety of its 25-issue print run. Can I just say I'm loving it? Seventies Marvel Comics are the fuckin' bomb. What social trend didn't they jump on the bandwagon of? First you had the whole kung-fu Bruce Lee thing going on back then, and so Marvel crank out a bunch of kung-fu superheroes because kung-fu is what the kids like, right? So they come up with Shang-Chi the Master of Kung-Fu, who's, like, Fu Manchu's son fighting against his father, and then there's The White Tiger with his mystical jade pendant and pure white costume who's the embodiment of Kung-Fu itself, and then there's the Sons of the Tiger, a trio of kick-arse kung-fu experts. Then you get the blaxploitation thing happening and all of a sudden Marvel's got Luke Cage, an ex-con working class superpowerful brother who fights for the rights of people in the ghet-TOH and says things like "Sweet Christmas!", and there's the jive-talkin' does-things-his-own-way Blade the Vampire Hunter (yeah, that Blade the Vampire Hunter). Then horror movies get big and they come up with all of their werewolf and zombie and Frankenstein and Vampire comics and a whole bunch of vampire-themed badguys to fight Spiderman and Captain America and shit. But what's this? Another trend gaining prominence in the seventies? Well, sort of. This time it's feminism that Marvel are going to co-opt in their god-blessem half-arsed way, and look out everyone here comes Ms. Marvel! Get it? She ain't Marvel Girl, or Marvel Lady or Miss Marvel or god-help-us Mrs. Marvel or any of those other non-empowering ephithets. She's MS. Marvel! And her secret identity is Carol Danvers, ex-security chief with NASA who now works as the hard-hitting no-nonsense editor of Woman magazine, a women's magazine that tackles the real issues and doesn't truck with fashion spreads or homemaking tips, no sir! It's all equality here at the house of Marvel circa 1976, yes sir. We'll just overlook the fact that Captain Marvel, the male superhero from whom Ms. Marvel got her powers in the first place, gets to wear a costume that reaches to his wrists and ankles, whereas our heroine is kitted out in the familiar hookeresque style we've come to expect from superhero ladies: bare legs, hotpants and mid-calf boots (though, to be fair, this time they're not stiletto-heeled mid-calf boots). Ms. M's costume also sports some sort of scarf (no, seriously, that's what she calls it herself) that does the cape thing hanging down her back and flapping out action-style when she's flying, and a bizarre long-sleeved midriff top that exposes both her belly and her back (hah?) from the waistband of her hotpants to just under her boobs. To be fair, they redesigned the costume and lost the midriff/back vent in her top around issue 8, but it could have been just because the colourists kept forgetting it was there and half-painting her midriff red before realising what they'd done.
When I was little I thought that seventies Marvel comics were so sophisticated, so grown-up with all of the big words the writers used and the complex personal relationships the heroes were involved in. Looking at them now they're pretty terrible, in that unique pulp fiction way. These comics are dense with ham-fisted overbearing writing full of awkwardly verbose grammar and hopelessly inane soap-opera stylings. It doesn't surprise me one bit that I was in awe of such things. Faux-classical thesaurus writing and by-the-numbers characterisation is the kind of thing that that, to most immature minds, comes across as to the epitome of sophistication. That's kind of the point. The prevailing audience of comics back in the seventies was still kids: seven-year-olds, ten-year-olds and twelve-year-olds who were captivated by stuff that looked mature and adult in its content. But because they were only seven, ten and twelve years old, you didn't have to be sophisticated - you only needed to look sophisticated. There's no need to bust a gut cranking out nobel-worthy stuff when all you need to do is find the lowest acceptable standard and work to that level. I'm being a touch harsh. Let me just say that despite all of the above, I freakin' love Seventies Marvel. So brash! So bombastic!! So many exclamation marks!!! No greater indicator of this intoxicating combination of feverish intensity and irreconcilable stupidity can be found than the titles of the first ten issues of Ms. Marvel: "This Woman, This Warrior!"; "Enigma of Fear!"; "The Lady's Not For Killing!"; "Death is the Doomsday Man!"; "Bridge of No Return!"; "...And Grotesk Shall Slay Thee!"; "Nightmare!"; "The Last Sunset..."; "Call Me Death-Bird!"; "Cry Murder -- Cry MODOK!" This was the era of superhero comics where, no matter how shite the badguy they'd invented to fight the star for that one issue was, the cover always depicted our hero in some dire predicament with the lame-o villain gloating as they watched our hero's futile attempts to escape, saying something along the lines of "That's right, Ms. Marvel! The Spiky Man is your DOOM!!!" If I had a dollar for each time they said Spider-Man was going to die this issue, I'd have earned back all the money I spent on comics over my entire life. Somewhere along the line I realised that the impending doom of my favourite heroes was a much less serious threat than they made it out to be, but back in the late seventies and early eighties, every single word that filled a jagged-edged speech bubble was gospel. Even so, I still can't get enough of that "...or the Earth is DOOMED!" stuff. It's so universally applicable. "Must... return... phone-call, or the Earth is DOOMED!" "Must... pay... failure-to-vote fine... or the Earth is DOOMED!!" "Must... post... inane... ramblings... to blog... or the Earth is DOOMED!!!" Now you try.
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