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... or HALL OF SHAME?"
FATAL
MISCUES & MISFIRINGS IN JUSTICE
LEAGUE
HISTORY
(PART THREE)
Please, please don't get me wrong; it's not as if I, y'know, actively dislike the character, outright, or anything like that...
... but: I've just never really been able to understand the nigh- fanatical fascination (on the parts of some within the greater comics readership), re: the Black Canary.
At least: not on the "non-sexually repressed fanboy" level, I haven't.
(I mean: she's a statuesque and curvaceous blonde woman. In fishnets.
In a medium and/or genre given over to a disproportionately adolescent male
readership. On that level, at any rate: I, like, grok.)
Still: let's all take just a moment to consider the question rationally, as sexually practiced and mature individuals. (... and any of you folks out there still reading GEN 13 or FATHOM are welcome to Play Pretend, in turn.) Other than the traditional (and rather unsavory, really) function of four-color "eye candy": just what purpose is this character intended to serve within the august ranks of the Justice League of America, anyway?
Wonder Woman is incalculably stronger. The Batman is both smarter, and (in all likelihood) a better hand-to-hand combatant, to boot. (Somehow, I just don't "see" the Canary surviving a grueling fifteen round bloodmatch against the likes of, say, Lady Shiva.) The Flash is faster; Green Lantern, infinitely more versatile and powerful. Aquaman holds near-total dominion over three-fourths of the Earth's surface.
Black Canary -- by way of comparison -- kicks people.
Historically, successive writers have attempted to rationalize the Canary's presence within the League by linking her, romantically, to other characters.
The best-known example of this, of course, is the lady's long-term relationship with ace archer (and resident wiseass) Green Arrow...
... but: this is not the only pairing ever attempted, so far as Our Heroine is concerned.
For instance: JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA #88 ("The Last Survivors of Earth"; March, 1971; Mike Friedrich [oh, lord...], scripter; Dick Dillin, penciler.) [See cover reproduction, below]
(Incidentally: the alert reader will have noticed
that this is the fifth Neal Adams cover in a row, in our Hall of Shame.
This is no mere happenstance; DC Comics would routinely entice [read: sucker] readers of the day into picking up some of the most wretched
books imaginable by means of precisely such shameless gullings as these.
Sort of like plastering a photo of the Clash over a "Debbie Gibson's Greatest
Hits" CD.)
In any event: writer Robert Kanigher, in an issue some months earlier, had (for reasons which, I assure you, well and truly defieth all human understanding) inserted a sequence in which the Batman and the Canary had both stepped out of their respective characters just long enough to shamelessly indulge in a little hot'n'heavy lip-wrasslin'.
Writer Friedrich (unaccountably) felt this, apparently, to be fertile enough ground for the shameless sort of bathos in which he most regularly traded, in his days of his storytelling "prime."
"... she is quite attractive... quite skilled... " the Darknight
Detective muses at one point, taking inventory of his teammate's physical attributes
with the clinical sort of dispassion one might just as readily imagine him utilizing
while cataloguing the contents of his utility belt. "Quite possibly, the
rare mate for a Batman --!" (Geez... adore yourself
much, fellah...?)
The always irascible Green Arrow, of course, reacts to this patently ludicrous turn of events with the trademarked easy, low-key affability which stood him in such good storytelling stead throughout the '70's and the '80's, entire. "C'mon, Pretty Bird... we're joining Flash [on a separate JLA mission]! He's married... and doesn't mess around with other guys' girls!"
"The seed of bitterness is planted in the Batman, this day!" (The accompanying caption helpfully informs us.) "Who knows if it'll die a quick death... or blossom into a permanent division between friends?"
The next time any of you happen to run into Mike Friedrich: a small, quick favor, on my behalf...?
Slap his little face off for me.
No... no. On second thought: after re-reading JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA #89 (see cover reproduction, at top of page)... feel free to toss him into a burlap bag and pound on him for a few hours with a ball-peen hammer.
I''ll bless you... and: fantasist and essayist Harlan Ellison
will (I'm certain) bless you, as well
"The Most Dangerous Dreams of All" (JLA #89; May, 1971; Mike Friedrich, scripter; Dick Dillin, penciler) is easily -- hands down; balls out; nolle prosequi -- one of The Ten Worst Comic Books of the 1970's.
Hell... it may even be two or three of 'em.
Harlequin Ellis (... get it? Huh? Ya get it...?) -- "small-town Ohio boy in the big time. He writes for television, and he's paid well... very well!" bumps into the Black Canary while out nighclub-hopping one evening, and falls heart-over- heels into Heavy Like with her.
Green Arrow (who, apparently, forces the Canary to wear one of those little electronic "house arrest" thingies around her ankle; she can't even smile at a kindergarten kid without him knowing about it, f'chrissakes) shows up, and spends a few desultory panels, y'know, slapping said unarmed opponent around a little.
Thus humiliated and heartsick, "Harlequin Ellis" bellycrawls his way home in order to work out his frustrations by penning a few absurd (not to mention overblown) Revenge Fantasies, with himself essaying the roles of (respectively) Superman and the Batman...
... and -- with absolutely no bloody reason whatsoever offered, by way of dramatic rationale -- the writer actually becomes both heroes...
... and: manages (it's all done with mirrors, I expect) to suck both the hapless Canary and her hot-headed beau into the resulting Shenanigans Perilous, as well.
No; wait. You haven't heard the really silly
part, yet.
Black Canary manages to track down the seething, hermit-like scribe, and -- I swear in the name of all that's holy -- with the Who's Theme from TOMMY playing in the background (You know: "See me... feel me... touch me... heal me..."?), dissuades the elfin fantasist from further auctorial assault by staring soulfully into his eyes for a few moments and (essentially) murmuring: "... there, there."
"Our thing has to stay cool... you know that," the Blonde Beatnik remonstrates him, gently.
"I know," "Harlequin" responds. "I can dig it."
Now, just hold on, you lot. This burlap
bag isn't going anywhere... and I have plenty of hammers for everyone.
Friedrich seals this pitiful little package with as smug and shameless an
attempt to justify all the bombast and blather preceding as is imaginable sans
the dubious benefits of terminal psychosis. ("Many are the things a writer
is forced to do by the crash- pounding of his creative
soul," the self-confessed culprit informs us. "This story was one
of them." Ah... so: the insanity defense, then.)
[See panel reproduction, below]
Ladies and gentlemen: you've all had the opportunity to examine the evidence, with your very own eyes.
If this is -- by any stretch of the imagination -- a good comic: then, by God, I'm Harlan Ellison.
We'll be following the crash-pounding of our own creative souls right here, next week, as we continue to wend our wide-eyed ways through the Justice League's labyrinthine "HALL OF JUSTICE... OR HALL OF SHAME."
Just remember: our thing has to stay cool. You know
that.
The Justice League "Hall of Shame": PAGE ONE
The Justice League "Hall of Shame": PAGE TWO
The Justice League "Hall of Shame": PAGE FOUR
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