Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
. . . or: "Why Carl Barks Was the Greatest Comics Writer of All Time. . . Bar None. (No Foolin')"
(This page goes out to "fishnet" queen DEE ANDERSON: who works for the only organization Scrooge McDuck fears more than even the dreaded "Beagle Boys" themselves.)
All of the "Superheroes-Or-Bust" fanboys out there are sniggering to themselves, even as they read this.
S'okay. S'cool. They just can't help it. Being lower
life forms and all, I mean.
You see: I used to suffer such fools -- if not "gladly" -- at least with the requisite minimal amounts of grace and human charity. You almost have to, really, while attempting to converse with the vast bulk of today's younger "comics fans."
They prattle silly, cloth-headed things such as: "I'd rather read a
really lousy modern age comic book than a great Silver Age one."
(How fortunate, then: there is no shortage of these on the racks,
nowadays. And so reasonably priced, too.)
... or they say: "the comic books of the Silver Age had no depth; no
substance. THESE, surely, are the hallmarks of the Modern Comic."
By which -- one presumes -- they must mean such heady intellectual fare as SPAWN;
THE X-MEN; GEN 13; and LOBO. To paraphrase from Douglas Adams' HITCHHIKER'S
GUIDE TO THE GALAXY: "Ah. This, then, must be some usage of the
words 'depth' and 'substance' with which I was previously unfamiliar."
I'm only sayin', here, is all.
Most ludicrously, however: a great many of them not only stoutly aver "I don't read that 'funny animal' crapola"... they positively gloat while making the assertion. As if such dedicated ignorance of whence the origins of the term "c-o-m-i-c book" are derived is something on the order of a nerd-ish "Red Badge of Courage" amongst the fanboy hoi poloi.
As I said: one may not reasonably or rationally scold any life form
for not having attained any higher rung along the evolutionary ladder
than is its given portion, in this life. The Darwinian process operates
as does a blind man in a coal shaft; on dedication and perspiration alone.
However: no matter how tightly they may clasp their perfect-bound WOLVERINE trade paperbacks to their sunken, hairless chests... History and her child (Storytelling Virtue), inevitably, have the final "say," in matters such as these.
And -- on the subject of the inestimable Carl Barks, and his jaw-dropping thirty years-plus body of work on such titles as DONALD DUCK; UNCLE SCROOGE; and WALT DISNEY ADVENTURES -- dame History has already rendeered her summary judgement: these were -- quite simply -- the very finest American adventure comic books ever made.
That's right: I said adventure comic books.
As any loyal Silver Age Disney enthusiast worth his (or her) stripes knows full well, the Barks-drawn-and-scripted "duck" tales, in general -- and the UNCLE SCROOGE works, in particular -- were full-fledged, full-bore adventure stories. Humorous, and front-loaded with wisecracks and slapstick...? Mais oui; to be certain. But: also chock-full of nerve-shredding suspense and dire deeds done by desperate individuals, all set within faraway locales as exotic and evocative as Gotham City; Apokolips; or Asgard.
"Examples," you say...? Nothing easier. Let's start with one of the undisputed classics of the Barks canon: the UNCLE SCROOGE adventure entitled "Lost In the Andes."
As the tale begins, the calamitously-inclined Donald Duck -- while working yet another in his seemingly inexhaustible string of "new jobs"; this time, as a museum janitor ("Third Assistant Grade," to be precise) -- accidentally drops a dusty, squarish stone Incan artifact, while in the act of cleaning it up for public display.
"Hard luck," you say? Well... that depends on how you choose to look at it, I suppose.
You see: the cube-shaped dingus cracks open... and spills out egg yolk, in so doing.
Needless to say, this sets the wheels to spinning within the cranium of the perpetually money-shy mallard (Donald Duck was a devout disciple of the "get-rich-quick" school of personal finance). "Square eggs," he posits -- not at all unreasonably, I might add -- "means square chickens. And if there are square, egg-laying hens, hiding somewhere in Peru -- and if I'm the one to find 'em -- then I could end up richer than that old skinflint Uncle Scrooge!"
With visions of palatial mansions a-dance in his head, Donald quickly packs up his toothbrush; a few comic books; and his trio of long-suffering nephews -- the redoubtable Huey, Dewey and Louie -- and spends every last cent he has in the world to have the entire kit and kaboodle jetted out to the wilds of the Peruvian jungle.
Once there, the pinfeathered party of explorers stumbles across a long-recessed underground Incan city... where the still-very-much-alive residents all speak in reconstituted "suth'rin fried" dialect (!!).
(It seems that the last American explorer to stagger his way out of the surrounding mists [and into the lost city] was one "Professah Rhutt Betlah, frum th' Bummin'ham School of English." He not only schooled the natives in his own... ummmm... peculiar brand of English, but even [accidentally] gave the city its very name: "Plain Awful! Thet's whut the professah frum Bummin'ham called it! Just Plain Awful!")
Said residents subsist on a diet constituted of nothing save "aigs" (read: eggs), and are blissfully ignorant of the existence of the creatures producing same .
Well... there are several "mini-adventures" within
the framework of the greater story, as the ducks have to: a.) track
down and capture a pair of the elusive Square Chickens of Plain Awful (accomplished);
b.) finagle their collective way out of a native-induced "death sentence"
by figuring out a way to "blow square bubbles with a mouthful of bubble
gum" (verily; t'was a silly city); and scouring the ruins in desperate
search of "the Professah's" long-lost compass, in order to find their way back
to Duckberg, and the comforts of civilization. One thing you could say
for the good Mr. Barks: he gave you big, heaping mounds o'story
for your twelve cents American, month in and month out.
Ultimately, however: the feathered foursome wend their weary way back to the outside world, toting a pair of the Plain Awful chickens along with them. Back home, a consortium of scientists and entrepreneurs jabber excitedly, re: the breeding and marketing possibilities inherent in Donald's "find"...
... right up until both of the chickens begin to crow.
"Lost In the Andes" is at once both an exemplary tale, in and of itself... and a pluperfect demonstration of the manifold storytelling virtues Barks' brought to the reader's table, year after indefatigable year. Crystalline characterization (as explicated, chiefly, through his mastery of both dialogue and facial nuance); economical plotting and pacing; and the one-in-a-gazillion ability to make even the most outlandish settings and scenarios seem "real," for the duration of any given story. Try naming more than a handful of writers who possess all three of these talents, nowadays, and you'll end the day going a-begging.
(A quick word on Donald's troika of nephews: rather than filling the customary comics "niche" of Imperiled Juveniles, to be rescued and then duly lectured by their [putatively] "adult" co-conspirators... Huey, Dewey and Louie were, unfailingly, the only truly responsible and clear-headed parties in Barks' tales, frequently saving the pantsless hinders of Donald, Scrooge, etc. by means of various bits of arcane lore gleaned from the pages of their ever-present -- and, seemingly, all-but-omniscient -- "Junior Woodchuck's Guide"; a sort of cross between The Boy Scout's Handbook and H.P. Lovecraft's Necronomicon.) [See picture, below]
The notorious Scrooge McDuck, himself -- as miserly a penny-pincher as ever lived, either within or without the annals of fiction -- reserved what miniscule "soft spot" his withered heart afforded for the three plucky lads, allowing them (when you come right down to it) to run roughshod over him the way he, in turn, hectored and harassed the hapless Donald. This was evinced in many a fine and thoughtful tale, such as the perennially-reprinted "A Christmas For ShackTown," in which the soft-hearted youngsters -- aided and abetted by a (semi-)reluctant Donald -- attempt to inveigle the sorry skinflint into supplying some much-needed toys for the impoverished urchins of the nearby "economically depressed" side of town.
Such an unrelentingly stingy and mean-spirited character might well have elicited our contempt, as readers, had not the clever and resourceful Barks not provided even more despicable indivuals as regulars within the canon. Chiefest amongst these, I think, was the indolent and insouciant Gladstone Gander : an arrogant high-hat whose supernatural "good luck" was so uncanny and unfailing, he (literally) never needed to "work" -- Dame Fortune simply provided him with all the wealth he ever required, at any given moment, without his needing to exert himself in any wise whatsoever.
However, the characterization of Scrooge McDuck more
than merits its own page, surely. To that end, then: if you will
all kindly accompany me to Page Two of this installment... we may proceed
apace.
Carl Barks' DONALD DUCK and UNCLE SCROOGE: Page Two
Carl Barks' DONALD DUCK and UNCLE SCROOGE: Page Three
Carl Barks' DONALD DUCK and UNCLE SCROOGE: Page Four
HERBIE POPNECKER: The Most Omnipotent Being In All of Comics History
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