Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!

I've put off starting this particular site entry any number of times now, these past few months.

Now, it certainly hasn't been due to any appreciable lack of things to say about this whole STAR WARS business, mind. (When have you lot ever known your crusty and relentlessly opinionated Unca Cheeks not to have an opinion or three on much of anything, really? Be honest, now.)

Nor has it been a case of my not wanting to rattle on at tedious length, re: Luke; Leia; Han; and all the rest of Lucas' pre-Industrial Light and Magic road show and marching society. (Some of the pointed commentary to follow, I've been squirreling away for simply years, now.)

No, and no: what's chiefly been acting as the anchor on this particular rhetorical dinghy, by and large, has been Unca Cheeks' peculiar (if understandable) reticence in provoking the sorts of outraged yammerings and yowlings he's dead certain said observations will occasion, once laid out for public scrutiny.

Unca Cheeks, you see, has seen how you all bloody get over this whole "Use the Force, Luke" hi-de-ho, on the online message boards and suchlike.

Let's get the putative cinematic heresies decently out of the way, then, before delving into the actual comics themselves...

... and remember: I'm old. I'm going to die, soon.

Kindness is commonly regarded as an act of genuine charity, in situations such as these.

1.) STAR WARS is not the greatest science fiction film ever made. It isn't even one of the top ten greatest science fiction films ever made.

It can't be, really.

It's brazenly and shamelessly derivative in its ideas and origins (whereas all the best science fiction, by way of comparison, is -- and always has been -- innovative and forward-looking).

It isn't even really "science fiction" to begin with, strictly speaking; it's High Fantasy (or "space opera," I suppose). "Science fiction" being -- by definition, mind -- fiction revolving around a specific technological concept or notion (or set of notions), without which said story could not be told to begin with.

That's why they call all that stuff Asimov and Clarke and Pohl and Clement wrote science fiction, you see; because the actual science was an integral storytelling component to the... whaddyacallit... fiction.

Hey: don't look at me. I don't make the rules for these things.

Now, if you wanted to say that Lucas' little interstellar horse opera was one of the most influential "science fiction" films ever made...

... and assuming (just for the sake of argument, mind) that we were willing to "relax" the aforementioned rules of definition long enough to make said inclusion a reasonably cogent or viable one...

... well, then: that much I wouldn't gainsay you, surely.

However -- and just so we're all reading from thhe same hymnal, hereabouts -- THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL (classic "first contact" story) is "science fiction."

A BOY AND HIS DOG (classic "after-the-Apocalypse" story) is "science fiction."

BLADE RUNNER (classic "if-this-then-that" story of technology misused by Man) is "science fiction."

The conversational coinage "science fiction" has been so ridiculously cheapened and devalued over the past ten, twenty years or so -- with half-witted Hollywood fare the likes of (say) MEN IN BLACK and THE 13th FLOOR and what-have-you being pawned off upon an increasingly complacent and undemanding audience as The Real Deal, conceptually -- that your adamantine and unyielding Unca Cheeks thinks it's high time we all just took a step or two back; shook our collective heads, if only to dislodge the cobwebs; and agreed, henceforth, that actual, for-real words have (and should have) actual, for-real meanings, from this day onward.

... and -- if any of you li'l whippersnappers out there try giving me any lip what. so. ever on this'un -- I'm gonna sic my lifelong buddy Allen ("I've Won Two Hugo Awards. Kneel, Thou, Before Me") Steele on the whole sorry, worthless lot of you.

2.) Marvel Comics' long-departed STAR WARS series -- in storytelling concepts; in their attendant characterizations; and their execution, overall -- made the films from which they drew their initial inspiration look just plain ol' sick, by way of comparison.

... chiefly for the following excellent (and undeniable) reasons:

a.) Both initial STAR WARS scribe Roy Thomas and long-time Jedi Boswell Archie Goodwin could actually write; George Lucas' gifts as a storyteller (and these are genuine, certainly) reside solely in the realm of the visual.

b.) The intelligent reader can always interpret a line of dialogue written for (say) Princess Leia, or C-3PO, with the correct emotion and/or emphasis; anyone viewing one of the actual films, sadly, is forevermore saddled with the interpretation(s) of a group of (chiefly) second-rate actors and actresses. (Obvious exceptions, of course, being Harrison [Han Solo] Ford; Alec [Obi-Wan] Guinness; and the fierce vocal talents and abilities of the incomparable James Earl [Darth Vader] Jones.)

(SIDE NOTE: Yes, yes... I'm well aware that the [then-] youthful Mark [Luke Skywalker] Hamill got quite a bit better, over the intervening years; becoming a "voice over" actor of no mean repute, on projects such as BATMAN: THE ANIMATED SERIES. However, the fact remains, nonetheless: he sure weren't nothin' to write home about during his white terrycloth bathrobe days.)

Okay. So: just so it's plain and obvious where Unca Cheeks is coming from, re: this and the following pages.

"New Planets, New Perils" [STAR WARS #7; January, 1978; Roy Thomas, writer; Howard Chaykin, artist] was the first "new" entry in the Marvel STAR WARS canon, following the six-issue adaptation of its eponymous cinematic namesake.

Picking up mere moments after the point where the first film leaves off, we watch as Han Solo and his hirsute helpmate, Chewbacca, boogie-oogie-oogie off of the moon of Yavin and back towards the planet Dantooine, in order to make fiscal amends with their former employer (now nemesis), the interstellar "smuggling czar," Jabba the Hut.

[WEIRD JEDI SIDE-NOTE NUMERO UNO: in the first STAR WARS film -- when asked by a solicitous C-3PO if there's anything the latter can do to help bring him out of his pronounced sulk -- a grumpy Luke Skywalker responds, somewhat churlishly, with: "Not unless you can alter time; speed up the harvest; or teleport me off this rock."

["I don't think so, sir," the amiable android responds, somewhat self- depreciatingly. "I'm only a 'droid, and not very knowledgeable about such things." And then, a beat later: "... not on this planet, anyway."

[You mean there are planets where this nattering metallic twit is "knowledgeable about such things?" Cripes... somebody get me the Legion of Super-Heroes on the phone; I've got a line on their next new recruit...!]

Fate takes an unkind turn, however, as the mercenary duo find themselves fending off a sudden and unexpected attack upon their ship -- The notorious Millennium Falcon -- by a scurvy, star-roving band of (waaaaaaiiit for it) "space pirates."

Their craft swallowed whole by the aforementioned pirates' tractor beam, Han and Chewbacca are confronted by their captor: a bearded, swaggering lout operating under the rather improbable nom de guerre of Crimson Jack.

"Well then there now," Han Solo sneers; "... if it isn't Crimson Jack! Long time, no see... but not long enough."

"Still a joker, eh, Solo?" the smirking freebooter replies.

"I get by," his captive shoots back. ( ... with lame gags like that? No wonder the poor devil turned to smuggling, then.) [*rimshot*]

"We've wasted enough time, Cap'n," a fetchingly beret'd young miss snarls. "Let me blast a hole in 'em." (See? See? Those gosh-darned space pirates are a notoriously "tough room," stand-up comedy-wise. You should only see what they did to Carrot Top, that one time.)

Crimson Jack, however, takes the proverbial Long View, on matters such as these ("Jolli, Jolli," he chides his blood-thirsty first mate; "... easy to tell you're still new at this piracy game. One day soon, we may again encounter Mr. Solo and his furry friend, when they have another interesting cargo. That will hardly be true if we eliminate them, will it?"); and so -- a page or two later -- the (now-)impoverished pair are forceed to limp their indignant way towards a dire, dried-out flyspeck of a planet by the name of Aduba-3, in order to drown their sorrows and bemoan their mutual ill fortune at the local spaceport cantina.

Whilst cooling their heels and drinking in the local non-scenery,Han and Chewbacca stumble across a stomping-in- progress involving an alien insectile priest; the luckless cadaver he's attempting to inter on Aduban soil; and the angry, drunken spaceport mob attempting to whomp on the both of 'em. [See page reproduction, alongside]

The good- hearted smugglers -- loathe, as is their wont, to countenance such blatantly uneven odds in a dust-up -- wade into the surly, surging crowd, extricating both the shaken priest and his unsettling cargo.

"Now, pera," Han asks (using, we are informed via helpful caption, "High Galactic for 'male parent'; "... what's the dispute?"

"He is a 'borg who died last night," the placid padre explains. "Half human, half mechanical 'droid. Yet the man half of him had a soul... or so my faith believes."

"The Spacers, as you know," he continues, "have an age-old prejudice against any kind of robot, and refuse to let him be buried on Spacers' Hill, as is his right as a one-time pilot. Will you bury him there, outside the city...?"

(If any/all of this seems more than passingly... familiar to the more cinematically-inclined amongst you, reading these words: just wait another moment or two, by golly, by jingo.)

Han and Chewbacca -- spurred on, in roughly equal measure, by both their finer instincts as civilized intergalactic beings and a small sackful of coins provided by the padre -- brave the amassed displeasure of the disgruntled natives, and plant the 'borg's body in the black loam of the local Boot Hill.

Retiring, afterwards, to the (comparative) congeniality of the closest cantina, Han and Chewbacca are just settling in for a long night of drinking, carousing and what-have- you...

... when they are suddenly confronted by a ragtag trio of dirt poor subsistence farmers.

"You three look like you want to say something to me," a suspicious Solo offers. "Out with it!"

"We have a proposition to put forth to you, honored offworlder," the leader of the rural troika murmurs, silkily. "It is a most agreeable proposal, we assure you...

"... unless, of course, you have an unfortunate aversion to dying."

(Two hardcases amble their way into an isolated desert town... get involved in a dispute with the locals, re: the rightful interment of a cadaver... are approached, shortly thereafter, by a trio of farmers looking to hire a few fast guns, on the cheap...

(... oh, geez... what was the name of that movie, again...?)

The sense of meta- fictive deja vu grows stronger still, as we segue our way seamlessly into issue #8 of the series ["Eight For Aduba-3; February, 1978; Roy Thomas, writer; Howard Chaykin, artist] [See cover reproduction, accompanying]

(... and, no: your eyes aren't playing tricks on you, in this particular instance. That most assuredly is a giant green bunny rabbit standing spread-legged on the right-hand side of the cover in question, a ray gun clasped tight in each fuzzy forepaw.

(... and, no: it isn't the notorious "Bunny Foo-Foo," of nursery rhyme infamy. Lookit... don't start with me, awright...?)

So: Meanwhile, Back at the Cantina

... back at the cantina, Han and Chewbacca manage to jointly blunder their way into your standard, everyday, chairs-and- fists-a-flyin' barroom brawl for a page or three before settling down to brass tacks with the local sharecroppers.

(... and take note, by the by, of how much better the accompanying artwork is, this issue. This is due -- in chiefest measure -- to the never-less- than-incredible inking of Tom "I've Fixed More Than One Lousy Penciling Job In My Lifetime, By Cracky" Palmer; a wise selection on the part of editor Thomas, given that -- at this juncture in his artistic career -- penciler Howard Chaykin really and truly needed a decent inker. I'm just sayin', is all, here.)

"Now, friend," Han says, now that the story's plot is decently back on the ol' metaphorical rails once more. "As you were saying, before wewere so crudely interrupted...?"

"We are lowly farmers," the clod-hopper begins, haltingly; "... from a village in the poorer parts of this planet..."

"That's what I call starting out at the bottom!" the jovial smuggler wise- cracks, swinging a rubber chicken over his head with merry, lunatic abandon. (He's just so darned wacky and irreverent, you see. He's a wacky, wacky guy, he is.)

Nestled in between all of the accompanying knock-knock jokes and My-Wife-Is-Soooo-Fat knee-slappers is the actual and for-real plot, hereabouts: a scummy and thoroughly detestable sort by the name of Serji-X has been exercising a bit of the ol' entrepreneurial initiative, locally, by leading his ruthless outlaw band of "cloud- raiders" on regular sacking- and-pillaging runs of the neighboring farmlands. (Looting the crops; stampeding the livestock; pesterin' the womenfolk; belching out gaseous renditions of old Anne Murray tunes; lots of real anti-social- type stuff like that, there.)

"We have little money," the weary and aged farmer concludes; "... but we can offer you food... and shelter. You must help us, masters... or our village will soon cease to be!"

Okay: I'll cease with the coy asides, at this point in the narrative, and point out (for the two or three of you, sum total, who haven't already caught on) that this is -- the bit with the unburied corpse; the desperate peasant farmers; the icky ol' bandito-types, preying upon said farmers; ALL of it -- a clever and unapologetic homage to the classic 1960 western flick, THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN. (Which, in turn, was lifted bodily from the cinematic corpus of Japanese master Akira Kurosawa, and -- more specifically -- his deservedly iimmortal THE SEVEN SAMURAI, of 1954 vintage.)

To continue, for the uninitiated few: a pair of hardcase gunslingers (deadpan and eerily competent Yul Brynner; cheerily cynical Steve McQueen) -- having been recruited by the hapless and long-suffering farmers of a beleagured Mexican village -- round up another five disenfranchised drifters and fast-draw loners, and proceed to spraying hot lead in every conceivable direction. Gawd, but your Unca Cheeks just looooooves that movie.)

Hewing closely to the script, then: Han and Chewbacca hole up at the local EconoLodge, having put out the word that they're looking for A Few Good Men Who Really Enjoying Killing Things.

Or a few good women. Or wombats. Rutabagas. Whatever.

The first applicant to make the grade, hired killer-wise, is the coolly amiable Hedji; the last surviving member of the porcupine-like race known as "spiners."

Second on the list, immediately thereafter, is the sluttish Amaiza ("Den-mother of the Black Hole Gang," a leering Han informs us); one of those ridiculously accoutred fantasy tramp women who pop up with monotonous, cuckoo-clock regularity in everydamn comic book Howard Chaykin's ever drawn. (However: it's always nice to know that the estimable Mr. Thomas is willing to bend over double backwards, in order to make certain his pencilers are happy and content in their work, isn't it...?)

Hard on Amaiza's silly stiletto heels comes the aged (and muy whacko) Jedi known as -- The Good Lord kaZAP Unca Cheeks' dingus to look like Jar-Jar's head if I lie -- Don-Wan Kihotay.

All right; all right... I suppose one's tolerance for this sort of thing would depend (chiefly) upon how elevated the setting of one's personal threshold might be, Really Lousy Puns-wise.

However: Unca Cheeks likes Really Lousy Puns. So there.

Okay. So:

It's BUNNY FOO-FOO time, at last!

Jaxxon ("You can call me Jax for short... which I ain't.") is...

... well. Let's let him tell it:

"I'm more what ya call yer basic Lepus Carnivorus... a meat-eatin', rocket-ridin' rabbit ta you, junior!"

In other words: think WATERSHIP DOWN. On steroids.

The fifth and final member of our punk posse is "Jimm" (no last name given): a.k.a. the Starkiller Kid.

Oh, c'mon. Like even I could make up something like that, fer cry-yi-yi.

"My handle's Jimm," the gawky geekboy blusters before a (plainly) incredulous Solo; "... but I call myself the Starkiller Kid! And you can bet I'm gonna live up to that handle... if I can ever get off this crummy planet!" (Ahhhh... how you gonna keep 'em down on the farm, once they've seen the bright lights of Yavin City, huh...?)

"While I, sir," the tractor-droid trudling up the stairs behind Da Kid pipes, "am FE-9Q... familiarly known as Effie... and [Pick One]:

A.) "... and I don't belong to anyone... most especially not to anyone who calls himself the Starkiller Kid!"

B.) "... and I wonder if you're at all familiar with a wonderful little publication by the name of THE WATCHTOWER...?"

C.) "... and already I'm giving muy serious consideration to tracking down my so-called 'agent' and shoving a railroad spike through his frickin' skull! Damn the William Morris Agency, anyway!"

D.) "... and I'm an escaped political prisoner from NorthAm, seeking sanctuary! That 'Magnus' whackjob is a bloody maniac, I tell you -- !"

E.) "... and count your blessings, hotshot. A few years down the road from now, I might've been a @#$%ing Ewok, awright...?"

Okay: granted, they're not exactly the Justice Leaague of America.

Nonetheless, however: bright and early the following A.M., Han has his bargain basement BLACKHAWKS assembeled in the town square; bleary-eyed, but full of beans and belligerence.

Serji-X -- accompanied by a phalanx of his fellow banditos -- be-bop down from the neighboring mountains on their darling li'l jet motor scooters in order to check out their (putative) opponents.

Serji-X and his men spend the first ten or fifteen minutes laughing themselves bloody sick, quite frankly.

"Such unexpected bravado," the bold highwayman sneers at a tight-lipped Solo; "... from one who leads women, children and starship rejects! If I had known, I would have stayed in the mountains... laughing!" (Serji-X, apparently, is one of the few sentients presently on Aduba-3 who hasn't heard Han's "A"-list material, yet.)

"You've had your say, friend. Now: why don't you and your cloud- riders go home and play?" Han shoots back, displaying the rapier, Algonquin-style way with a snappy comeback that's made him a natural concert opening act for Gallagher for lo, these many years, now.

Serji-X snarls something suitably pithy (well... comparatively speaking, certainly), and skit-scats back to the fastness of his remote mountain hideaway, along with his men; leaving a sober Han and Chewbacca to wonder just how, in God's name, they ever managed to throw themselves headlong into this particular pile of situational doody...

... and leaving us, in turn, to wait right here for the second installment of FORCE MAJEURE: The Marvel STAR WARS Comics of the 1970s... next week.

Now: who amongst you, out there, loves your geriatirc and genial ol' Unca Cheeks enough to bring him the severed head of that annoying "Jar-Jar" fellow, hmmmmmm...?

STAR WARS Comics of the 1970s (PAGE TWO)

"MORE COMIC BOOKS," YOU SAY...?

The DC Comics Sub-Directory
The Marvel Comics Sub-Directory
The Miscellaneous Comics Sub-Directory
The "Gotta Find That DC Character" Menu
The "Gotta Find That Marvel/Miscellaneous Character" Menu

Home Page

LEGAL SHAMANISMS