Size matters not -- but pants do

Probably the biggest mixed blessing in my life right now is my new addiction to DC Comics' Archive Editions series. The upside: you get hardbound collections of very old (and rare, and valuable) comics titles, beautifully reprinted on glossy paper, that you can read without worrying about creases and tears and cookie crumbs and paper-eating finger acids. The downside: at $35-50 a pop, they don't come cheap — and once you start in on them, it's hard to stop.

Before discovering these collections, my exposure to old comics (by old I mean 1940s-60s) was pretty much limited to Superman and Batman. (The very first comic book I owned was a 1974 reprint of Action Comics #1 — which I must have read a hundred times. How's that for starting off on the right foot?)

Now I'm enjoying all manner of old titles, like WWII-era Wonder Woman and Blackhawk, and early space-age stuff like Adam Strange and Challengers of the Unknown. And discovering writers and artists previously known to me only by reputation — like John Broome, who seeded his Flash stories with enough science tidbits to rival Mr. Wizard, and Gil Kane, whose artwork in the old Green Lantern stories blows away anything else I've seen from the late 50s (yes, even Kirby).

The latest Archive Editions to grab my attention (and empty my wallet) are the Golden Age titles All-Star Comics and The Seven Soldiers of Victory. All-Star deals exclusively with the Justice Society (including the original Flash, Green Lantern, and Hawkman); Seven Soldiers is a team-up of strictly non-superpowered heroes, including the earliest incarnations of Green Arrow and Vigilante.

The writing in these 1940s books is, as one might expect, pretty awful — laced with all the racism and sexism and jingoism of the era. And there's virtually no variation between the characters. They all act and talk exactly the same. For instance: the Spectre, now known to DC fans as the ghostly and all-powerful embodiment of God's vengeance, keeps saying “Ta-ta.” I really wish he'd stop doing that.

The best part, though, are these Golden Age costumes — long before eyemasks and elaborate gadgetry came into vogue, capes and helmets were de rigeur. The color schemes were bright and inventive, and ornaments were encouraged: huge belt buckles, high collars, magical medallions, and the like. The original Flash's Mercury-inspired garb remains one of my favorite ensembles (how did he keep that helmet from flying off?), as does the Sandman's green suit, purple cape, fedora, and gas mask.

And then there's the Atom. Not the blue-and-red shrinking physicist Ray Palmer, familiar to Justice League fans, but Al Pratt, the original Atom — whose “super power“ was that he was a short, 90-pound weakling who learned to stand up for himself. After getting beat up and losing his girl once too often, he learned to box and became quite the little scrapper, and I guess his role in the DC universe was to be a role model for short men everywhere. Even little guys can kill Nazis!

Unfortunately, he donned what has the be the worst costume ever conceived. It amounted to a brown-and yellow leotard (yuck) with no leggings and a v-neck that plunged to his navel, plus these buckle-things that I assume he used to cinch up the leotard extra high in the crotch (maybe his name should have been Uprider). He also wore red galoshes and a smothering blue hood that covered his entire head, minus two tiny eyeholes. Attached to this hood at the neck — not at the shoulders — was a blue cape that absolutely screamed decapitation. Every time I see him, I hear Edna's tirade against capes, and I see her point.

All I can say is it's a good thing little Al was good with his fists. The rest of the JSA held their tongues, presumably because they knew the kid already had enough to deal with, what with sand-kicking bullies and cruel football players, and girls developing earlier than boys and all. But speaking as a short man, I'll take my inspiration from David Eckstein. And Shane.

Thanks though, Al. Now go put your pants back on.