Date: Tue, 8 Feb 94 16:55:25 EST
From: [s--i--t] at [express.ctron.com]
Subject: Superhero weddings

W.I.T.* -- What I Think

Honey? Was Dr. Doom on our guest list?

By Gary St. Lawrence

We all know that with great power comes
great responsibility. But it goes further and holds
equally true that with superhuman power comes
superhuman problems. And where would this be
better demonstrated than in a marriage between
superheroes? Writing wedding vows for
superheroes must be to comic book writers what
the gold medal was to the Jamaican bobsled team.

How do you convey the importance of "Do
you take this man in sickness and health, cosmic
armageddon and global destruction, mind transfer
and knock-down drag-out slugfests more often
than most people talk on the telephone" into the
exchange of eternal love and devotion?

Consider the marriages between major comic
book characters. Do Lois & Clark have a chance?
Are Chuck and Luornu Taine's relationship going
to bounce? What about Scott Summers and Jean
Grey? Is there really any hope for Reed and Sue
Richards (assuming the former returns to the
mortal coil)? We've all seen what marriage did for
Clint "Hawkeye" Barton and Bobbi
"Mockingbird" Morse. And we won't even
approach the twisted romance of the Vision/
Scarlet Witch/Simon "Wonder Man" Williams
menage a trois.

For the most part, comic book marriages
which outlast the Diamond Previews listings have
considerable staying power. Garth and Imra, Jay
and Joan, Bruce and Betty, Peter and MaryJane --
they've been enjoying nuptial bliss for some time
now. The only divorce I can recall is Hank & Janet
(Van Dyne) Pym, but even they've retained their
mutual respect and friendship. A "tribute" to the
multitude of the "I married a demon/clone/
monster" that dominated comics and pulps in the
1950s has taken the successful form a particular
marriage in the 30th century, The marriage of
Colossal Boy & Yera the Durlan (who
impersonated his teenage love Phantom Girl) - - is
still going strong.

The common thread in superhero marriages is
that they have to find or stumble upon an entire
day when there isn't some maniacal would-be
world dominator hatching his latest devious plot.
And you try telling Doctor Doom that he has to
reschedule his conquest so two people who have
thwarted his mad efforts time and again can
experience the ultimate moment of joy. As Al
would say, "I don't think so, Tim."

And even when heroes do walk down the
aisle, they're attacked by everyone from The
Purple Kumquat to a demented, genetically-
altered worm with an old table radio tied around
his neck. (See? I told you it was stupid. Nobody
would buy that!)

Superheroes destined for matrimony will be in
love and devoted to each other for years before
ever standing at the altar. And where the hell do
they always find priests who will endanger
themselves by being present at the inevitable
villain-wrought carnage? And what church ordains
weddings between people who are the incarnation
of violence itself? It seems that whenever a pair of
super-types are hit by Cupid, they're forever being
stalled on their plans to make it legal.

Now I know that planning and executing a
wedding is an enormously stressful and arduous
task in and of itself. Can you imagine how much
harder it would be, while you're ordering the lilies
and making down payments on a reception hall, if
you also had to contend with Galactus dropping by
to eat your planet? I think this would easily qualify
as an extra-strength Excedrin day.

And just imagine how stressful everyday life
would be for Mr. and Mrs. Superhero. We've seen
couples argue over grocery bills, Friday poker
nights, that hair treatment smell, and leaving the
cap off the toothpaste. It's not hard to imagine that
a wife knowing her husband was off being stalked
by several dozen different superhuman murderers,
or a husband knowing his wife is off going one-
on- one in combat in a back alley in the skimpiest
of skimpy costumes with a drug dealer, might
generate more than the silent treatment. I seriously
doubt that Ward and June Cleaver would have had
the patience to deal with the Beaver's hijinx if
they'd been inter-dimensionally teleported to a
nexus world to battle a slothlike television addict
and his blade-wielding mercenary-assassins. And
Eddie Haskell? The only "squirt" you'd hear out
of him would have been the blood gushing from
his severed throat.

But think of the positive side: Just how much
more ... relaxing ... would a honeymoon be if
you'd just saved the galaxy from a malicious
invading horde? Such are the things of which
romantic legends are made. Of course, that's
assuming that bride and groom have the slightest
amount of stamina left to moon each other's
honey.

And why can't superheroes have realistic
divorces? It seems that no two formerly married
super-types can simply loathe each other to their
core the way real ex-spouses do. As I mentioned
the aforementioned Pym/Van Dyne pairing. They
found that they no longer loved one another and
couldn't stand to me together. Yet they share a
bond of friendship stronger than most newlyweds
have. Divorced people go their separate ways.
Divorced superheroes spend their days protecting
each other's lives and "genuinely wishing each
other well." Gimme a break. Just once I'd like to
see Mr. Superhero tell his former Missus what a
lying, cheating @#%(*@# she is; and Mrs.
Superhero tell her prior playmate what a slovenly,
disgusting @*&%$! he is. I mean, let's have a
little realism for a change.

And what about kids? Is there some ancient
written law that says that a superhero's kid can't
be a screaming, spoiled brat? Even with a
scorecard, you can't keep track of all the heroic,
mature, public-minded, logical and practical 12-
year-olds there are in the comic book universes.
Franklin Richards, who chronologically is only
about 10, is now a strapping, muscle- bound 18
year old. That isn't in itself unusual, except for the
"aging" having happened in the span of two
issues. Sheesh. How'd you like to take that kid
shopping for Garanimals?

Teenagers are "cool" -- or "kewel" as the "in"
crowd says -- and "cool" sells a lot of books.
Young kids want to be teenagers, which is why
their comic counterparts spontaneously turn into
teenagers before they even see puberty (which is
probably rather difficult to portray in comics ...
unless the kid's a mutant ... and then he becomes
"kewel" by default).

Take the Grendel: War Child mini-series, for
instance. Eight-year-old Jupiter Assante, who
should be fascinated with an Etch-A-Sketch,
becomes the undisputed leader of his rebel band at
the end of issue nine. On page one of #10, TA-
DAAAH! Jupiter's nearly 18 and easily able to
conquer the world. Matt Wagner joined the ranks
of the sell-outs who don't bother with character
development. They just whip an omnipotent boy-
king on us and expect us to respond with ...
"Kewel!" Sorry Matt. I just think you're a poor
storyteller who capitalizes on shortcuts.

So who says comic books don't deal with
reality? They do. But in some cases, they just
don't deal with it very realistically.

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