Hunting the Spider

Much of DeMatteis' best Marvel work can be viewed as a kind of excavation:  what lies beneath the surface of these sketchily-rendered characters? What secrets from their past can be dug up in order to reveal their greater depth?  With Fearful Symmetry: Kraven's Last Hunt, DeMatteis and Mike Zeck render this metaphor literal, by burying and exhuming its heroes multiple times, journeying to and from the underworld of the New York City sewer system, all in a plot motivated by a symbolic framework that may or may not only be entirely in the villain's head.

Kraven's Last Hunt has its own history, buried under layers of rejected pitches and rewrites.  Two separate story ideas eventually coalesced into this six-part Spider-Man sequence, one centered on the image of a character digging his way out of his own grave, and the other exploring the psychodynamics of a hero/villain relationship.  First DeMatteis wanted to do a miniseries about the Avengers character Wonder Man, whose own history with death and rebirth is one of the most notable features of an otherwise underdeveloped character. [1]. Then he had an idea involving the psychodynamics of the Batman/Joker relationship, but the pitch was rejected because of its similarity to another story DC had in the works. He retooled it to involve a different Batman villain, only to have it rejected again. Eventually, he reworked it for Spider-Man, with plans for creating an entirely new antagonist.  But then DeMatteis stumbled on the entry for Kraven the Hunter in the Marvel Universe Handbook, and he was hooked:

...they mentioned that Kraven was Russian.  For me, a total Dostoyevsky fanatic, the idea that Kraven was Russian and had the same tortured, Russian soul that the great Dostoyevsky characters had, unlocked this door in my head and suddenly I had a new understanding of this character.

DeMatteis' explanation encapsulates both the strengths and the weaknesses of the storyline that would eventually become Kraven's Last Hunt. His familiarity and engagement with  the Russian literary canon inspired him to give Kraven a particular type of emotional depth, even as that inspiration was rooted in a rather facile notion of both Dostoyevsky and the "Russian soul."  It works, but with an asterisk.

Other factors also played a role in the success of Kraven's Last Hunt:  when he was developing the idea, DeMatteis was in the throes of both divorce and depression, a bit of extratextual information that makes his depiction of newlyweds Peter and Mary Jane all the more poignant.  And, though he denies any suggestion that Kraven's Last Hunt is a response to the "darkness" of mainstream comics in the wake of Watchmen, in an interview years later DeMatteis does make the connection between his artistic collaboration with Mike Zeck and the Moore and Gibbon's powerful sense of silence and pacing in their visual storytelling.  As we've already seen, DeMatteis had already been using silent panels for dramatic and emotional effect in The Defenders, but Don Perlin's pencils were arguably not the best fit for this particular visual device.  In Zeck, DeMatteis found an artistic partner capable of both a broader range of facial expressions and a more dynamic approach to action and panel transitions. Finally, his silent panels and voice-over narration had a visual vehicle that served them well.

Previously, on What Not to Wear…

Kraven's Last Hunt did more than simply elevate a D-list villain (Zeck said that as soon as he saw the plot, he knew this would be the definitive Kraven story), but the antagonist's previously marginal status gave the story a particular resonance that a Batman/Joker comic could not have had.  DeMatteis and Zeck crafted a comic that was built on relationships, connections, and intersubjectivity. 

First, a quick recap for those who may not know or remember the story that well:  Fresh from his honeymoon, Peter Parker receives bad news about the death of an acquaintance (after worse news about the death of a friend), and is plagued by visions he shares with his old enemy, Kraven the Hunter. Kraven stalks Spider-Man, drugs him, shoots him in the face, and buries him in a grave at a cemetery. Meanwhile, the monstrous cannibal Vermin is loose in New York, stalking victims whenever he leaves is lair in the sewers.  Kraven and Vermin seem to be sharing hallucinatory nightmares. Distraught that she can't find her husband, Mary Jane searches for him on the streets of New York. When she is attacked, she is saved by a man in a Spider-Man costume who is uncharacteristically brutal and uncommunicative: either Peter has gone insane, or he has been replaced. An increasingly unhinged Kraven captures Vermin.  Peter turns out not to be dead, but is having visions of spiders and dead people as he claws his way out of the grave, horrified to learn that he has been underground for two weeks. After reuniting with Mary Jane, he confronts Kraven (both are dressed in the black Spider-Man costume). Kraven sets Vermin against Spider-Man, but then lets  both of them go.  Alone in his mansion, Kraven puts a rifle in his mouth and kill himself.  In the final issue, Spider-Man confronts Vermin in a vicious battle, eventually turning him over the police.  Peter and Mary Jane are reunited yet again, and Kraven is buried by his henchmen.

This six-parter, serialized over two months in three different Spider-Man titles, was the first to explore Mary Jane's and Peter's emotional connection now that they were married, with Spider-Man's costume (and particularly his mask) continually threatening to disrupt their relationship. Not only is the black costume threatening, and not only does it literally prevent Mary Jane and Peter from seeing eye to eye, but it also, inadvertently, causes a terrifying betrayal:  Mary Jane cannot assume that the man behind the mask is her husband. [2]

The second, and central, relationship the story explores is the one between Spider-Man and Kraven.  In a comic originally entitled "Fearful Symmetry," their connection is profoundly asymmetrical, at least in the beginning.  Kraven is cultivating an almost mystical bond with Spider-Man, but it is based on an understanding of their mutual roles that exists entirely in his own head.  For Kraven, Peter is not Spider-Man, but "the Spider," his natural enemy who represents every obstacle and setback in his unnaturally long life. 

The third set of relationships involves Vermin, a young man turned into a human rat hybird by the Nazi villain Baron Zemo in DeMatteis and Zeck's Captain America run.  A cannibalistic denizen of the sewers, Vermin would prove an excellent fit to a story of burials, deaths, and resurrections.  Even more important, as an unwitting pawn in Kraven's hunt of the "Spider," he repeatedly attacks Spider-Man and evinces a visceral repulsion that, along with his experience at Kraven's hands, pushes the hero into dangerously violent territory.  Vermin's involvement raises the stakes, threatening Peter's sense of his own humanity.

And it is his humanity that is at issue throughout all six parts of Kraven's Last Hunt.  From his early days, Spider-Man's cast of characters was something of a bestiary: his villains included a Vulture, a (Doctor) Octopus, a Rhino, a Lizard, a Chameleon, and a Scorpion, with the eventual addition of the Black Cat.  It is in this context that a hunter like Kraven starts to make sense, with DeMatteis taking things a step further:  in Kraven's mind, when he hunts Spider-Man, he is engaging with a primal creature (the "Spider").  Anticipating J. Michael Straczynski's controversial 2001 retcon, Kraven sees Spider-Man as a totem.

Notes

[1] After dying at the end of his very first appearance  ("The Coming of...the Wonder Man!" The Avengers 9, by Stan Lee, Don Heck, and Dick Ayres, October 1964), his brain patterns provided the basis for the personality of the Synthezoid vision. He would appear as either a ghost, a comatose body, or a zombie several times in the 1970s, before finally being revived in 1976. The experience leaves him haunted by a fear of death for  years.

[2] The black unitard looks like the original costume that became Venom, but it has the advantage of not actually being a homicidal alien symbiont.

Next: Death and the Spider

Transcending the Negative Zone

"Yesterday Never Dies!" confronts Eric Simon Payne (the Devil-Slayer) with the consequences of his own actions while doubling down on the familiar tropes of the superhero genre (monologuing villains, demons from hell, the damsel in distress). The final chapter of the triptych ("....Hunger..."), by contrast, starts as the equivalent of a theatrical production on a bare stage: Eric cradles Sunshine's dead body while sitting on a floating rock in the Negative Zone.

Don’t you hate it when this happens?

Since its introduction in Fantastic Four 51 ("The Man...This Monster!" by Stan Lee, Jack KIrby and Joe Sinnott), the Negative Zone has frequently served as a moral crucible for the individual characters who find themselves trapped in it.  A realm of anti-matter, it inevitably leaves its visitors plummeting towards an event-horizon that will destroy them.  In "This Man...This Monster!" a mad scientist who has disguised himself as The Thing has a change of heart, rescues his hated rival Reed Richards, and resigns himself to his impending destruction in the immediate aftermath of his moral redemption. Years later, an alternate version of Reed (from Counter-Earth, on the other side of the sun) initially consigns the "real" Reed to the Negative Zone, only to, like the false Ben Grimm, sacrifice himself and take his place in the anti-matter realm. The Zone is instrumental in the emotional growth of Rick Jones when he and Mar-Vell (the company's first Captain Marvel) alternate time there.  Rick Moody would later mine the Negative Zone for its symbolic resonance in his 1994 novel Ice Storm, but it is the film adaptation that captures the Zone's significance best:

To find yourself in the negative zone, as the Fantastic Four often do, means all every day assumptions are inverted. Even the Invisible Girl herself becomes visible and so she loses the last semblance of her power. It seems to me that everyone exists partially on a negative zone level, some people more than others. In your life, it's kind of like you dip in and out of it, a place where things don't quite work out the way they should. But for some people, the negative zone tempts them. And they end up going in, going in all the way.

Having finally accepted some measure of responsibility for the deaths he has caused, Eric suddenly realizes why his cloak as transported him to the Negative Zone: "I am here-- to die." For everyone else who has been trapped in the explosive belt of the Zone, death appears to be inevitable--there is no escape route available (aside from the one the writers open up to their heroes at the last second). But the Devil Slayer's experience of the Zone is different:  his Shadow Cloak can transport him out of the Zone at any moment. And, indeed, it does, several times, right before the asteroid he stand upon explodes. 

Once again, deMatteis uses the Marvel toolbox for allegorical purposes:  Eric's lifelong problem is his propensity for avoiding consequences (the Negative Zone) at the last second (using the Shadow Cloak). "Hunger" frames Eric's supernatural powers and human weakness in terms of an endless capacity for choice and evasion:  "There are so many worlds to walk, so many wonder to behold, and --in all the limitless cosmos--only I have access to these myriad realms." This freedom is its own kind of trap, because it saves him from every unbearable confrontation at the last second:  his morality (he leaves the Negative Zone right before an explosion four times), his dependency on alcohol (the ghost of Sunshine spurs him to leave a bar), his self-loathing (smashing a mirror in a filthy alley), his deflection of blame (retreating from the house of the mobster for whom he worked as a hitman, after being reminded that his sins are his own), his envy (the vain fury he feels when he visits a wounded veteran friend who managed to create a real life for himself), and his ex-wife Cory's terrifying call to prayer and faith).  It makes sense that this last installment is told by Eric in the first person, because his dilemma is that he can never escape himself.

Or rather, he cannot escape himself if he refuses to look outside himself.  This is where Cory comes in, both as a disappointing, familiar plot device (the "good woman" whose love is her only value in the narrative) and as a restatement of deMatteis's Dostoyevskian theme.  Yes, Cory was mistaken to put her faith in the false messiah David, but this turned out to be an important step on her path to true salvation: faith in Christ. Despite the fact that he strikes her, despite all the misery she has put up with during and after their marriage, she jumps into his Shadow Cloak as he once again teleports to the Negative Zone, ready to die along with him.  Unwilling to let her, he leaves the Zone for the final time, and beg Cory to help him believe.

"...Hunger..." has turned into a remix of Crime and Punishment," borrowing from the point in the book that so many readers find the least satisfying: Raskolnikov's acceptance of Christianity. Echoing the novel's epilogues, the last page even jumps ahead four months to an epilogue of its own, with Doctor Strange reading a letter from Cory describing their life now that he has turned himself in to the authorities and gone to prison.  As in Crime and Punishment, we do not see Eric's conversion first-hand, a distance that helps make it palatable.  And after being confronted by Eric's tortured consciousness for the entire issue, this distance is a bit of relief.  The issue ends with Stephen Strange shedding a single tear, emblematic of deMatteis's strengths and weaknesses as a chronicler of spiritual growth:  he hits all the right notes, but cannot resist the cliches of melodrama.

Next: Hunting the Spider

Let the Sunshine in

What follows is DeMatteis' Devil-Slayer Triptych:  the aforementioned "Renewal!", "Yesterday Never Dies!" (Defenders 104, by DeMatteis, Perlin, and Sinnot), and "...Hunger..." (Defenders 110, by DeMatteis, Perlin, and Esposito).  While his teammates are finding their bliss in Africa in the first story, Eric encounters a drug-addled ex-hippie who calls himself "Sunshine."[1]   Because Sunshine is able to pierce the veil of illusion that hides his costume from ordinary humans, Eric mistakes Sunshine for a demon, before realizing that Sunshine's perceptions have been permanently altered by years of drug abuse.

Eric's first encounter with Sunshine consists of repeated threats of violence on his part, followed by recognition of kinship and a resolution to help himself before he can help the addict whose squalid life so disgusts him.  Given his circumstances, Sunshine's name looks like a cruel joke, and yet he and Eric do manage to shed light on each other.  They are both doubles and opposites:  each of their lives was changed irrevocably by Vietnam (Eric's participation in the war and Sunshine's rejection of it as a blossoming flower child), and each has the capacity (limited and flawed though it may be) to see beneath the surface of the everyday. 

yeah, that sounds totally sane

Eric and Sunshine share another distinguishing feature:  each of them has outlived his context, resulting not just in their misunderstandings about each other, but in an ongoing generic awkwardness.  Sunshine (like the would-be-messiah David before him) is a hippy in a world that has moved on, and Eric is constantly on the lookout for supernatural demons, even when none are to be found.  To be fair, Eric does live in a Marvel superhero comic where demons are real, but his experiences have permanently damaged his capacity to recognize the mundane.  When he stumbles into Sunshine's life, he does not see the far from fantastic misery that characterizes a conventional addiction plot.  For his part, Sunshine has long since abandoned the ordinary perception of a default realist environment in favor of the hallucinatory charms of powerful narcotics.

In the middle installment, Eric follows through on his promise to help Sunshine, albeit with tragic results. "Yesterday Never Dies!" brings back Cory, this time as a hostage held by Ian Fate, a reporter-turned-sorceror whose wife and child Eric killed during his mob hitman days. Cory, Sunshine and Eric now form a triad linked by attempts at salvation, victimization, and self-sacrifice.  Eric plans to bring Sunshine in for treatment before being derailed by the threat to Cory; Cory is stabbed to death while protecting Eric from a demon; the Cory who dies turns out to be Sunshine masked by one of Fate's spells, and Eric himself is dissuaded from taking revenge on Fate by a teammate's reminder that this entire situation is Eric's own fault.

Self-sacrifice and the recovery from crippling guilt are classic Dostoevskian themes, but DeMatteis adds a context that departs from Dostoevsky's Christian traditions.  Christianity assumes an equal capacity for sacrifice among all believers, while also according all sincere sacrifice an equal value.  "Yesterday Never Dies!" points to the pagan antecedents of sacrifice that are the centerpiece of Giorgio Agamben's theories of biopolitics: not all lives are valuable enough to be worth of sacrifice. In his seminal study of the same name, Agamben analyzes the Roman concept of the "Homo sacer,"  a social outcast who can be killed by anyone without impunity, but cannot be the subject of a religious sacrifice.  Payne's own backstory is the drama of a man who has lost sight of the value of human life, first in Vietnam, then in his work as a hitman.  Sunshine can no longer see the value of his own life, and it is to Payne's credit that he has endeavored to see this filthy addict as human.  Here Payne must use the opposite of his "demon sight": he must look beyond superficial appearance to the humanity that lies beneath.

Corey is sacrificed twice over the course of "Yesterday Never Dies!" yet, on each occasion, her death is an illusion. The first time Fate has her suspended in mid-air over a pentagram, with six magical knives pointing at her body.  A cross between a stereotypical Satanic offering and a Tarot card, this scenario, aimed as it as at Payne, is not about Corey at all ("just a projection made convincing by the images of Ikonn"). Fate does not need her death; he only needs its effect on Payne. Corey's second "death" is different: now she has chosen to put herself in harm's way, shielding Eric with her body and dying from a knife wound. Now the subject of the sacrifice has agency and purpose. The only hitch is that "Corey" is actually Sunshine, disguised by yet another illusion.

Fate, in his quest for vengeance, proves himself to be an imperfect victim. Yes, his wife and child did not deserve to die at Payne's hands,  but Fate abducts and disguises Sunshine because he cannot accord the addict's life the same value as Cory's:

I couldn't take an innocent woman's life! I sent Cory back home..../ But I still had to hurt you--you see that, don't you? That's why I transported that pathetic junkie here...surrounded him in illusion and silence! / He wasn't innocent! He was worthless!/ But I could see that you cared about him!

When Wonder Man reminds Payne that everything that has happened with Fate is all his fault, he is not simply reinforcing the themes of guilt and redemption that are evident in each installment of DeMatteis' Devil Slayer triptych.  He is also highlighting the problems of agency and misprision that manifest themselves throughout these stories.  Payne's guilt is undeniable, and his quest to exterminate demons is an obvious externalization of his own failed attempts at exorcising the devils that have been haunting him since Vietnam.  But even as his mental powers give him the capacity to see demons in disguise, these powers consistently fail him, because he lacks the capacity for clear moral judgment.  Instead, he projects his guilt and shame onto others, reducing them to players in his own psychodrama.

Note

[1] In his few, brief appearances as a minor character in The Defenders, he is always referred to as "Sunshine" (in quotation marks).  I have left the quotation marks out, because I find them distracting, not to mention unnecessary ("Devil-Slayer" is fine without quotation mark, but "Sunshine" isn't?).

Next: Transcending the Negative Zone

Driving Out the Demons

The defeat of Satan and the Six-Fingered-Hand (in the 100th anniversary issue, no less) was thus a victory that the Defenders could not reasonably celebrate.  In a move that was uncharacteristic for Marvel at the time, DeMatteis chose to let his characters sit with their feelings of loss and despair for the better part of an entire issue ("Renewal," Defenders 101, by DeMatteis, Perlin, and Joe Sinnot).  Or perhaps "better" is not the word here; with the exception of one powerful plotline, DeMatteis displays his worst, most mawkish instincts. Not only is Patsy comforted by a bald-headed little girl in a cancer ward who is wise beyond her years, but Dr. Strange and Clea regain their appreciation of life when the Silver Surfer takes them to "Africa"("It's no longer the heart of darkness Jospeh Conrad wrote about some sixty-five years ago, but it still [sic] a continent that evokes a deep, primal awe"").  Among the "simple people" in the village that welcomes them, the two mystics are renewed.

The saving grace of an issue that tries so hard while falling so flat is yet another character whom DeMatteis had recently adopted as his own: Eric Simon Payne, the Devil-Slayer. Created by David Anthony Kraft and Rich Buckler  in 1975 as Demon Hunter for Atlas Comics, the chracter initially had better luck killing off comic books than denizens of hell.  He appeared only once before the company shut its doors.  With a few minor changes, they revived him as Devil-Slayer in Marvel Spotlight 33 (April 1977),  the last issue of a series that had run for six years.  Undaunted, Kraft brought him into The Defenders for a compelling three-issue sequence called "Xenogenesis: Day of the Demons."  From the beginning, Kraft set Payne up as a flawed, tragic figure: a traumatized Vietnam veteran and soldier of fortune who gained a mystically-empowered cloak and psychic abilities when he joined a demonic cult.

In other words, Devil-Slayer was the sort of character that DeMatteis found irresistible:  flawed, tortured, with a tragic backstory steeped in magic and horror.  Like Daimon Hellstrom, he was a sensible choice for a storyline involving demons and devils. His very name is as much a clever bit of irony as it is a mission statement, as the only devils Eric Simon Payne cannot slay are his own.

Thus what looks like just another supernaturally-themed guest appearance (after Dracula and Ghost Rider, but before Man-Thing) is actually Devil-Slayer's introduction as a semi-regular Defender. As with Nighthawk just a few months earlier, DeMatteis introduces Devil-Slayer in Defenders 98 ("Slouching toward Bethlehem," by DeMatteis, Perlin, and Sinnott) by focusing on a meaningful relationship from his troubled past:  his (estranged) wife, Cory, who writes to Eric that she has discovered true happiness on an Israeli kibbutz run by David Kessler, a self-proclaimed messiah.

Devil-Slayer's introduction to the team takes place in an issue that displays DeMatteis' growing mastery of his craft:  "Slouching toward Bethlehem" simultaneously advances the overall plot (confronting the fifth of the hand's six demons), develops the themes that would prove central to DeMatteis' run on the book, and deploys most of the comic's recent character transformations to move the plot along.  In order to investigate this mysterious messiah, Dr. Strange yet again cast an "unstable" teleportation spell, this time to bring the team to Israel (later we learn that forcing Strange to repeatedly use this spell is part of the Hand's plot to weaken the barriers between Earth and Hell).  No one thinks about the time difference, however, and Kyle Richmond, whose ability to move his body now only functions at nighttime, quickly relapses into paralysis once he suddenly finds himself in daylight.  Rather than complain (much), Kyle volunteers to be a guinea pig for David Kessler's alleged healing powers.

In one of the most tightly-controlled sequences in all DeMatteis' Defenders run, the next six pages show Kyle's successful healing by David (involving a full-body baptism-style immersion followed by thunder and lightning) while a reunited Eric and Cory continue their ongoing argument about faith as Cory tells her estranged husband about the angelic visitation that granted David his powers. At the sight of Kyle standing on his own two feet, all the Defenders feel the need to reassess their opinion of David's claims, all except the Son of Satan.  DeMatteis' is creating a brief tale of faith, disillusionment, and persistence that now unfolds in a series of visually striking revelations:  first David strips the illusions masking the true appearance of Daimon Hellstrom and Gargoyle, then David summons the "angels" who have empowered him, only to have Dr. Strange reveal them to be demons. David himself is completely taken over by "Hyppokri--demon of the hand!" before refusing to let himself be used any longer and ending his own life by throwing himself onto Eric's outstretched sword.

As Devil-Slayer, Eric's power is to see the demons who disguise themselves as humans, but his first appearance in the Six Fingered Hand Saga continually calls into question the extent to which appearances can be trusted. Those who appear to be angels are actually demons, while those who look demonic (such as Isaac and Daimon) are on the side of the (metaphorical) angels. Cory's faith allows her to persist in believing in the good that has been corrupted by evil ("Hyppokri"), while Eric is still, for the moment stuck in his black-and-white outlook.

Though DeMatteis did not create Devil-Slayer, he zeroed in on elements of the character's back story to use him as a vehicle for stories of disillusionment, enlightenment and redemption, both of which are featured in  "Slouching towards Bethlehem:"  post-Vietnam America (David was a hippy before finding "God') and his relationship with Cory.  Cory was a cipher in Kraft's and Buckler's hands (to be fair, they had little opportunity to do anything with her), while DeMatteis folds her into the redemption narrative so effortlessly that one might think that had always been her role.  Cory's function as the vehicle of Eric's eventual salvation is, of course, a familiar stereotype, but she does not accomplish this miracle on her own.  Rather, as someone who believes in God and Eric, she is poised to pick up the pieces when he is finally ready to rebuild his life.

Next: Let the Sunshine in

Dostoevsky's Defenders

Over the next three years, DeMatteis would follow the example of Gerber and Englehart in their team books: introducing character development by focusing on heroes who did not have books of their own. Though Dr. Strange and the Hulk would continue to play a role throughout most of his run on the book, DeMatteis took the opportunity to develop two Defenders stalwarts (Hellcat and Nighthawk), two characters from Marvel's fringes (the Son of Satan and Devil-Slayer), and one whom he created in his third issue:  Isaac Christians, the Gargoyle.  All of them wrestle with sin and guilt, and all of them manage to find redemption. 

"Sin" is a strong word for a superhero comic, but entirely appropriate for all of these characters, with the possible exception of Nighthawk.  Not that Kyle Richmond lived a life free of error or remorse; we have already seen what he did to Mindy.  But even when he is wallowing in self-pity, Nighthawk never avails himself of Christian theological language as a framework for his guilt. [1] The other characters, however, establish a pattern that DeMatteis will develop for decades, melding a Christian narrative of sin and salvation with a New Age framing of grace and revelation as a variation on satori, the sudden, fleeting experience of a truth that cannot be put into words.

Given DeMatteis's Sixties countercultural orientation, one might look to the novels of Hermann Hesse as a possible source of the writer's preoccupation with sin and salvation, were it not for two important factors: first, DeMatteis' characters do not need to maximalize their sinfulness before seeking redemption, and second, DeMatteis's own words point to Dostoevsky's novels as ur-texts. Most of the direct evidence for his love of Dostoevsky is found in DeMatteis' other comics from the 1980s, from the Russian author's inclusion in Moonshadow's formative reading, the revelation that Spider-Man's foe the Chameleon is actually named "Dmitiry Smerdyakov" (a last name that only exists in The Brothers Karamazov). A self-described "Dostoevsky fanatic," DeMatteis used the title "Crime and Punishment" for a Two-Face story at DC and cited the novel as part of the inspiration for "Fearful Symmetry." DeMatteis' makes no bones about Dostoevsky's centrality to his development as both a reader and writer: 

When I read Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov in high school, they seeped in through my brain, wormed their way down into my nervous system...and ripped me to shreds.  No other novelist has ever explored the staggering duality of existence, illuminated the mystical heights and the despicable depths of the human heart, with the brilliance of Dostoyevsky.

Both of the novels DeMatteis name-checks foreground themes that, with a change of context and genre, are legible to the superhero comics reader:  a young man's belief that he might be the superman (Crime and Punishment) and an exploration of the nature of crime, sin, and justice (The Brothers Karamazov).  For DeMatteis' first arc, however, the Dostoevsky title that comes closest to home is Demons. From Issues 94-100, followed by a thematic coda in 101, the Defenders face off against a hellish threat called the Six-Fingered Hand.  Each finger on the hand is a different demon, nearly all of them bearing a name suggestive of a particular sin or power ("Avarrish"; "Hyppokri").  They are a threat that seems tailor-made for the professional exorcists sometime-Defender Daimon Hellstrom, who, as his nom de guerre indicates, is literally the spawn of the devil. 

No, this is not the cover to The Brothers Karamazov

Over the course of each of six issues, the Defenders face off against a  series of demons that have either possessed or seduced a host, leading to conflicts that are as much about salvation as they are about superheroic violence.  Indeed, their very first opponent quickly becomes their ally:  Isaac Christians, an old man who made a pact with the Hand to save his dying town (and, along the way, trapping him in a monstrous, mystically empowered Gargoyle body).  Isaac's repentance is immediate, and his redemption complete by the time the Six Fingered Hand saga is over.  The old woman he injured in his assault on Patsy Walker's home has no memory of the attack, eventually even falling in love with him, and his fellow Defenders quickly learn to rely on his homespun wisdom and almost reflexive inclination towards grace and forgiveness.

By rights, a fight against demons from hell (who turn out to be working for Satan himself) should have been a recipe for simplistic heroism.  Where is there room for subtlety when your enemy is the embodiment of absolute evil? For The Defenders, a comic whose previous three years had suffered from an almost oppressive lightness, struggling with the forces of darkness imbued the heroes with a sorely-needed darker overtones.  The immediate beneficiary was Patsy Walker, a character whom Englehart had plucked out of Marvel's older teen soap opera comics, first to depict a failing marriage (in Amazing Adventures, starring the Beast), and then to transform her into a determined, self-actualized "I'm-not-a-feminist-but" survivor as the Hellcat (in The Avengers). After she joined the Defenders, she quickly became a one-note, perky adventurer who could not stop making terrible puns about cats.

The death of Patsy's mother opened the door to more emotionally serious storytelling in the last issues of Hannigan's run, but DeMatteis immediately upped the ante:  Patsy is possessed by a demon in the very first chapter of his first extended storyline, a trauma exacerbated by her discovery that her soul had been promised to the Six-Fingered Hand by her dying mother. Though rescued by her fellow Defenders, Patsy struggles with the aftermath of her experience and the revelation about her mother.  Over the next few issues, she displays a hitherto-unseen dark side at inopportune moments:  flirting with Daimon before scratching his face with her claws, or laughing maniacally at the dramatic irony that the manager of the demonically-empowered death metal rock star turned out not only to be the one who is taken off to hell after  making a deal with the devil, but is also the rock star's brother.

It's not all darkness, however; even as Patsy seems to be heading back down the road to hell, she and Daimon develop romantic feelings for each other that could point the way towards the light.  There is only one small problem: in the last chapter of the Six-Fingered Hand Saga, Satan (falsely) claims to be Patsy's father (which would make Daimon her half-brother).  This is not the only roadblock in their relationship:  in order to win the battle against Satan, the Defenders were forced to encourage the dominance of Daimon's Darksoul (his demonic heritage), leading him to decide that his place was in Hell rather than on Earth.  All of this would eventually be resolved:  Daimon would return to Earth and lose his Darksoul, Patsy would discover that she is not the Daughter of Satan, and the two would marry and live, if not happily ever after, happily for a time. [2]

Notes

[1] Curiously, after Nighthawk's death in Defenders 106, theology came after Kyle Richmond with a vengeance.  Resurrected by Mephisto, Nighthawk was cursed with a mystic sight that allowed him to see crimes before they happened. Kyle's visions are explored in the alternate reality series Universe X, only to be taken away during a subsequent volume of The Defenders.

[2] In the 1990s, Hellstrom gets back both his Darksoul and his own solo book, leading Patsy to lose her sanity and commit suicide.  Eventually, Patsy is resurrected and restarts her life and career as Hellcat, with Daimon only an intermittent obstacle.

Next: Driving Out the Demons

How to Play with Your Toys

The Defenders was DeMatteis' first significant run on a Marvel comic; he debuted with issue 92 ("Eternity..Humanity...Oblivion!", with art by Don Perlin and Pablo Marcos, February 1981), seven months before he began writing Captain America.  The series proved to be the ideal vehicle for DeMatteis' burgeoning skills as a comics writer. First appearing in 1971, The Defenders were initially a triumvirate composed of Dr. Strange, the Incredible Hulk, and Namor the Sub-Mariner.  None of them were team players (that was the point), but the stories were popular enough to land them their own title in 1972. After a few appearances by the Silver Surfer, they were joined by The Valkyrie (an amnesiac Norse goddess inhabiting the body of a human madwoman) and Nighthawk (former bored rich boy Kyle Richmond and villainous Batman-clone-turned hero). Well into its ninth year, The Defenders was a comic that had seen better days.

As a "non-team," with no fixed roster, leader, or regular meetings, the Defenders hit their mark early on under the pen of Steve Englehart. Englehart was also writing The Avengers at the same time, a circumstance he exploited to great effect in his multi-part Avengers/Defenders clash, an entertaining crossover that was among the first of its kind at Marvel.  After a brief interim by Len Wein, The Defenders fell into the hands of Steve Gerber, whose time on the book included some of his best work for the company.

Gerber saw the team as a collection of freaks and outcasts. At their best, The Defenders was not just metaphorically cerebral; it came close to being literally cerebral as well. Issue 21 (“Enter…the Headmen!”) was both a self-contained, if puzzling, story and the lead-in to the nearly yearlong storyline that capped Gerber’s tenure on the book. [1] The three Headmen of the title are obscure villains who each appeared in the publisher's pre-Marvel age science fiction horror comics: Arthur Nagan, whose experiments with interspecies organ transplants culminated in an ape rebellion and the grafting of his head on a gorilla body; Jerry Morgan, whose research into shrinking technology resulted in the miniaturization of his skull, but not the soft tissues that contained it; and Chondu the Mystic, a forgettable, minor-league guru.  The conflict that ensued was entertaining, but it also highlighted Gerber's approach to the book as a series of talking heads engaged in an ongoing talking cure.  For Gerber, the Defenders were less of a (non-) team than an encounter group.

With Gerber's departure after issue 41, the book floundered.  David Anthony Kraft retained some of the whimsy and introspection in his first year as writer, before giving the book over to random wackiness (a televised call to every hero to join the team) and continuity obsession (revisiting the Valkyrie's Asgardian backstory). When Kraft was succeeded  by Ed Hannigan, the writing for the book was on the wall:  for the two years preceding DeMatteis' arrival, The Defenders was the Platonic ideal of mediocrity.

One of the most remarkable things about DeMatteis' freshman outing on The Defenders was that it had a follow-up.  DeMatteis had done so many fill-in issues that his name on the cover after the end of the Hannigan era was a likely sign that the issue was more palate cleanser than appetizer. There were, however, a few hints, because the story contained something that had been absent from The Defenders for years: attention to interpersonal dynamics and character development.

"Eternity..Humanity...Oblivion!" sets the tone with a splash page that is refreshing for its unequivocal rejection of comic book action: Dr. Strange and his lover/disciple Clea watch as the most physically powerful Defender, the Incredible Hulk, sits on the floor and plays with Strange's statuettes of his archenemy Dormammu and his departed mentor the Ancient One as if they were action figures dragooned into a little girl's tea party:  "Then big wizard say to fire-head, 'Hello--want to come to my house and sing songs?'" Playtime is interrupted not by a sudden menace, but by the arrival of another Defender: Nighthawk.

Nighthawk is in the throes of a deep depression as a result of events in a DeMatteis' comic  from the previous month that really was a fill-in: "To Judge a Nighthawk!" (Marvel Team-Up 101, January 1981, with art by Jerry Bingham and Mike Esposito). In that story, DeMatteis used two of what would become his favorite tricks to bring instant depth to a shallow character:  linking back to an obscure Steve Gerber moment, and expanding on a previously undisclosed or underdeveloped tragic back story.   As one of the Defenders who did not star in his own book, Nighthawk (Kyle Richmond) got a great deal of Gerber's attention.  In the very complicated Headmen arc, Kyle briefly exists only as a disembodied brain, reliving his life's greatest failures. One of these was a drunk driving accident in college that killed his girlfriend, Mindy. In Marvel Team-Up, DeMatteis reveals that Mindy survived, but as a vengeful, psychically-gifted paraplegic who is obsessed with making Kyle pay for what he has done to her. Gerber designed Mindy to be nothing more than the collateral damage of Kyle's irresponsibility; she was not just "fridged" (sacrificed for the sake of the male hero's character development), but may as well have been born shrink-wrapped in the refrigerated goods section.  Her revival at DeMatteis's hands does not do Mindy any favors:  even when she eventually becomes a recurring character in The Defenders, her entire existence revolves around Kyle.

But when Kyle appears on Dr. Strange's doorstep, Mindy is simply the absent cause of Kyle's despair. Strange listens to Kyle's story, and his reaction may as well be that of a longtime reader of The Defenders who had had enough of Kyle's whining (showing that such is the case of DeMatteis himself): "Not only is your self-pity distasteful, Kyle--but it has distorted your perceptions beyond belief"

What follows is a clever pastiche of the Silver Age comics of DeMatteis' youth: Strange's involuntary astral journey to meet with Eternity (the humanoid embodiment of all existence) is an obvious Ditko homage, while the story itself is structured like a classic Gardner Fox Justice League of America comic. [2]   Since the Defenders must find the three errant pieces of Eternity living out human lives across the globe before their extended separation destroys all of existence, Strange divides the team into three pairs on separate missions:  the Hellcat and Son of Satan Daimon Hellstrom are dispatched to an Indian temple, the Valkyrie and the Sub-Mariner journey to a small Greek island, and Nighthawk and the Hulk find themselves in a remote Russian village. Fox divided up the JLA in the interest of plot dynamics, but here, the three different sets of Defenders allow for instant interpersonal drama.  Patsy Walker, the Hellcat, is still emotionally wounded by the death of her domineering mother. If nothing else, Daimon's response ("If it helps--know that I, too, have been torn by conflicting feelings towards a parent") shows that among the Son of Satan's many powers is understatement. The Hulk's limited intelligence means that Nighthawk will have to grapple alone with the ethical quandary of not informing a boy's adopted parents that they will never see him again (since the boy is one of the missing pieces of Eternity), while Namor the Sub-Mariner horrifies Valkyrie with his casual lie to a woman missing her husband (another wayward piece of Eternity) that she is now a widow.

The different approaches taken by all three pairs, as well as the disagreements each pair of Defenders has about the best course of action, constitute an implicit mission statement for DeMatteis's run on the book.  The emphasis on interpersonal conflict is, of course, one of the key features that distinguished Marvel from DC in the Silver Age; this is what made Steve Englehart's brief run on Justice League of America in the late 1970s such a shock after years of the team's bland bonhomie.  It also highlights one of the inherent appeals of a team book, which is watching the characters interact with each other.  In the case at hand, the attention to character work also has thematic resonance:  these very diverse heroes are tasked with convincing three newly-individuated parts of the monolith Eternity to relinquish their identity for the sake of those they have learned to love.  Their sacrifice is consistent with the altruistic morality of most Marvel superheroes at the same time that it represents the exact opposite of what DeMatteis has already started to do with the Defenders: explore the characters as individuals rather than as underdeveloped cogs in a failing team book.

In the decades that follow, DeMatteis will consistently double down on transcendence and the overcoming of the individual ego, but in "Eternity..Humanity...Oblivion!" this same process is one of great sacrifice.  Granted, by the end, the three Eternity shards feel the comfort of returning "home," but their decision to do so (after being persuaded by an emotionally vulnerable Nighthawk) requires the abandonment of their own desires for the sake of the greater good.  These three characters only existed because of a rejection of the transcendence to which they would eventually reluctantly acquiesce.

All of which shows the issue's opening pages to be particularly clever: watching the enormous Hulk use tiny figurines of Dr. Strange's supporting characters as dolls is an innocent counterpoint to the nearly apocalyptic experiment undertaken by Eternity: playing with actual human lives raises the stakes too high.

Notes

[1] This is despite the fact that, even here, DeMatteis managed to mine some earlier Gerber material.  Gerber's wrote only a handful of largely forgotten issues of the series, yet DeMatteis brings back Gerber's version of the Ameridroid, a character whose return was unlikely to have been a response to popular demand.

In Comics Interview 40, DeMatteis remarked that it was a relief to write Moonshadow and "funnel" his perspective "through my brain and translate it into this fantasy universe. ...Before it was like, 'Well how do I funnel my point of view or my life or whatever through Captain America?'...Which is hard to do through Captain America...Or the Defenders. Or whatever.'"

[2] "It was basically the Defenders as the Justice League. Comics Interview 39, 9

Next: Dostoevsky's Defenders

A Night at the Opera

DeMatteis' early years on Marvel's superhero properties yielded a result that is difficult to assess aesthetically: what, exactly, was he aiming for, and what would constitute success?  While the 80s were when his career as a professional comics writer took off, his first Marvel superhero stories read like an extended apprenticeship. Their very awkwardness is yet another feature that connects him with the best Marvel work of the previous decade.  In Marvel Comics in the 1970s, I argued that most of the best comics I discussed required a kind of curation:  as good as they were, they were not, like Watchmen or Maus, books that you could simply hand to a non-comics reader and expect them to appreciate.  This was not only because of the obstacles posed by continuing, non-stop monthly storytelling (i.e., the stories were not designed to stand on their own), but also a result of adherence to certain conventions of mainstream comic book storytelling that would be jarring to the uninitiated.  This includes a tendency towards histrionics and melodrama that can be effective with the right audience, but might seem like camp to less friendly or forgiving readers.

The earnestness I alluded to in the previous entry combines with an intense emotionality, a recurring focus on self-discovery and trauma, and an unabashed propensity for melodrama that reward the reader's empathy while requiring a high tolerance for a lack of subtlety.  Subtlety, though, was never a hallmark of Marvel's superhero output (Gerber was capable of it, but not consistently), nor would it be fair to expect it.  To appreciate the best of Marvel in general, and DeMatteis in particular, is to recognize that subtlety is not a Marvel value.  Instead, just as Stan Lee argued for the "illusion of change" rather than change itself, much of Marvel's most sophisticated superhero output cultivated an illusion of subtlety (through sophisticated references and storytelling techniques) that was nonetheless wielded like a blunt instrument.  And this is what DeMatteis excelled at, particularly in his runs on The Defenders and the Spider-Man line. 

In The Defenders and Spectacular Spider-Man (as well as a number of his later comics, such as DC's Doctor Fate), this translates into a tendency not just to telegraph moments or revelation or character breakthrough, but to set them off visually, verbally, and even typographically. DeMatteis favored the use of panel layouts that would, at key points, slow down time and close in on faces, while entire sentences would be broken up into words and phrases, spread out over the panels, often with oversized, bold fonts.  It is a verbal/visual approach to subjectivity and theme that might be characterized as operatic.  As in an opera soliloquy, time comes to a near stop, with all the emphasis on the body, sound, and character of the soloist.  Like the Stan Lee approach to interiority I discussed in Marvel Comics in the 1970s, it represents the interior by turning it into the exterior: verbalizing and demonstrating in a revelatory manner that, like a soliloquy or a song-and-dance number in a musical, requires the audience to suspend their adherence to naturalistic storytelling for the duration of the interruption.

Next: How to Play with Your toys

That Seventies Writer

Chapter Four:

Grace Notes:

The Early Comics of J.M. DeMatteis

That Seventies Writer

Of all the writers who were part of the next generation of Marvel creators,J.M. DeMatteis was the one with the deepest roots in the Marvel comics of the 1970s.  Granted, Claremont actually was a writer at Marvel in the 1970s, but his work helped set the company on the path that would define the 1980s. DeMatteis, who started his career doing fill-ins and obscure titles at DC before moving on to fill-ins and obscure titles at Marvel, combined Gerber's sense of the absurd, Englehart's preoccupation with transcendence, and the general Seventies Marvel emphasis on interiority to breathe life into neglected Marvel characters while never skimping on the melodrama that was the company's stock in trade. But where his predecessors had grown up on both Stan Lee and French Existentialism, DeMatteis's sensibilities were formed by Seventies Marvel, the Russian classics, and an attachment to the hippie ethos that yielded a deep commitment to New Age spirituality.  The resulting comics, even while often overwrought, displayed a sincerity that was a refreshing counterpoint to the "grim and gritty" spirit that would eventually dominate mainstream comics in the late 80s and early 90s.

Despite his relatively large output at Marvel between 1980 and 1987, DeMatteis is not necessarily thought of as a "Marvel writer." While two of his Marvel projects from that decades are widely considered classics, only one of them, a six-part Spider-Man story initially called "Fearful Symmetry" and better known as "Kraven's Last Hunt," is set in the Marvel Universe. The other, the twelve-issue limited series Moonshadow, was the pride of the company's creator-owned Epic imprint before being reprinted twice by other publishers, first by DC's Vertigo line (1994-1998), then by Dark Horse (2019). Subtitled "A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups," Moonshadow would establish DeMatteis as one of the then-rare comics writers who could work successfully in the liminal space between children's literature and adult entertainment.  Years later, his whimsical and moving fantasy series Abadazad (with art by Mike Ploog) was so compelling that, when its publisher, Crossgen, went bust after releasing only three issues, Disney bought the entire company in order to get the rights and allow DeMatties and Ploog to continue the story in another format. [1].

In the decades since his initial tenure at Marvel, DeMatteis has brought out a number of creator-owned projects with numerous publishers, but he is probably best known for his work at DC.  There, he formed an ongoing partnership with artist turned writer Keith Giffen. The team built a reputation on their revival of the Justice League (with outstanding art by Kevin Maguire) before eventually teaming up on several other projects.  Their collaboration brought out a side of DeMatteis that was much less prominent in this early Marvel work: Giffen and DeMatties were known for their hilarious dialogue and facility with farcical plots.  Starting in the 1990s, DeMatteis would deploy his strengths with both emotionally-laden and humorous material as one of the most successful writers to combine a career in comics and animation, penning numerous episodes for both DC's and Marvel's cartoon adaptations, as well as writing six direct-to-video DC superhero features (mostly, but not entirely, adaptations of well-known comics storylines).

Not a Marvel comic

There is no shortage of humor in DeMatteis's work at Marvel in the 1980s; Moonshadow found an appealing balance between laughter and pathos, while his two "Greenberg the Vampire" stories were at least intended to be funny. Still, DeMatteis' early superhero comics were, like much of his solo writing to follow, intensely earnest.  It is an earnestness that is, in itself, rather ironic, since so much of DeMatteis' output in these years involved playing in the sandbox of one of his idols, Steve Gerber.  Not that Gerber himself was unaware of the importance of being earnest; his best work was evidence of heartfelt conviction.  But Gerber's approach was always sharpened by world-weariness and an acerbic wit. Unlike Englehart's heroes, Gerber's characters were all but incapable of transcendence.  DeMatteis was always intrigued by the possibility of redemption, for both the heroes and their antagonists.

While at Marvel, DeMatteis was simultaneously joining his more adventurous colleagues in pushing the boundaries of genre and form (with uses of silent panels and complex voiceovers reminiscent of Alan Moore) and demonstrating an ethos that was out of step with what would prove to be a harsh and cynical decade.  DeMatteis was thoughtful, clever, creative, and funny, but he was also thoroughly and unapologetically uncool. To be cool requires at least an illusion of distance and indifference, qualities in which DeMatteis would occasionally show interest, but only for the purposes of doubling down on the important of sincerity and heartfelt spirituality.

DeMatteis's time at Marvel included a four-year run on Marvel's most earnest hero, Captain America.  It was not a match made in heaven; while DeMatteis added a number of enduring characters to the Captain's mythos (particularly by extending the backstory and family relationships of his archenemy, the Red Skull), a cursory Google search for the best Captain America storylines or collections rarely includes the DeMatteis era. The character needs some sort of edge or foil to rescue him from flag-waving self-seriousness, and DeMatteis never quite found it. [2]

This chapter will instead focus on the Marvel comics that were a better fit for DeMatteis's sensibilities. Within the Marvel universe, that means primarily his run on The Defenders, along with ancillary titles that shared some of the series characters (The Gargoyle, Marvel Team-Up), as well as the aforementioned Kraven's Lost Hunt. We will also examine his work for Marvel's Epic imprint, consisting of the miniseries Blood and, most important, Moonshadow. His superhero output during these years constitutes DeMatteis' first published attempts at broaching the themes and character arcs that he would develop throughout his comics career (or at least in the comics that were not primarily intended as humor):  guilt, redemption, and the search for enlightenment.  While these themes are also present in Moonshadow, they take second place to DeMatteis' version of the Bildungsroman.  These "Songs of Innocence and Experience" (DeMatteis specifically invokes Blake's poems at key points in the series) are also a key feature in DeMatteis' later comics, and are the perfect complement to his tales of guilt and redemption.  Put a bit crudely, they represent two halves of the human/heroic lifecycle that the writer never tires of exploring: the move from childhood to maturity (innocence/experience) and enduring the weight of sin and regret (guilt and redemption).  Ideally, the endpoint of each of these phases is the same: enlightenment, however ineffable, foolish, or temporary, whose value only increases as the hero recognizes how ephemeral true enlightenment actually is.

Next: A Night at the Opera

Inside Out

What, then, were the main contributions of the Claremont and his collaborators' work on the X-Men during the 1980s?  Certainly, the series is focused on pain, both physical and psychological.  The frequent costume changes involving leather teddies, spikes, and dog collars introduce an element of bondage and discipline erotica that is hard to deny, but the connections between "bad girl" accessories and the emotional torment of the women who wear them point in a different direction. There is a voyeuristic element that functions on multiple levels, with Claremont exploiting both the inherent features of the comics form and the undeniable predilection for kink that is evident throughout his work. There is an appealing unity between form and content, external presentation and subjective experience, costume and selfhood.  These women's inner states are literally inscribed on the increasingly over-the-top outfits that their artists clothe them in.  Yes, their spandex outfits and accessories evoke both S&M and B&D, but perhaps Claremont's X-Men is not so much bondage porn as it is trauma porn.

Great moments in kink: two minor white characters, who had already been magically transformed into Native Americans, now with fetish gear

I use the term "porn" advisedly, because it is as provocative as it is appropriate.  "Trauma porn" is a derogatory term for entertainments that invite a voyeuristic enjoyment of the characters' suffering and humiliation, and the use of the phrase argues that the storytelling is less about a profound exploration of human hardship than it is about an exploitation of the audience's choice or compulsion to not look away.  In the best traditions of melodrama, Claremont keeps his readers hooked through an unrelenting exploration of his characters' pain.  Superheroes (especially Marvel superheroes) had suffered before; look no further than Spider-Man, who spend most of the sixties and seventies as an anxious, neurotic mess.  On the whole, however, superheroes' emotional states tended to be reset to their default after a few issues.

This was not the case with Claremont's X-Men.  His virtually uninterrupted seventeen-year tenure on the book meant that new writers weren't pressing the reset button whenever they were brought on board.  Claremont's readers often focus on his tendency to let subplots simmer for years on end, sometimes with little or no resolution, but his real innovation was less about plot than it was about character.  Claremont's approach was all about continuity, both his own (the opportunity to play the long game) and the comic's, but for him, continuity was an opportunity to explore emotional and psychological consequences.  Trauma was not a substitute for character development, but a springboard for the extended examination of his heroes' emotional travails.  His rescue of Carol Danvers from her misogynist send-off in The Avengers was emblematic of the difference between Claremont and so many of his colleagues.  Where Shooter, et al, barely acknowledged the damage Carol suffered at Marcus' hands, Claremont demanded a reckoning.  Claremont's "strong women" were more than simply a fantasy of (literal) female empowerment; they faced science-fictional, superheroic analogs to the abuse women confront every day, and they persevered.  There is no doubt a voyeuristic element to the extended depictions of these women's suffering, but Claremont established his own "heroine's journey," extending through victimhood to an eventual triumph. Even accounting for the occasional death and resurrection, the women of X-Men always survived the experience.

Next:

Chapter Four: Grace Notes: The Early Comics of J.M. DeMatteis

The Power of the Powerless

When Storm loses her powers in Uncanny X-Men 185 ("Public Enemy"), everyone involved recognizes it as a tragedy. Forge, the newly-introduced mutant genius who invented the power neutralizer, puts it plainly: "You stripped her of her powers! You've destroyed her!!" But the next issue, "Lifedeath" (Claremont, Barry Windsor-Smith, and Terry Austin) forces both Storm and reader to reassess the damage. "Lifedeath" is widely recognized as an X-Men classic, with no small credit to the gorgeous art of Windsor-Smith (who, by that point, was a rare contributor to superhero comics).  "Lifedeath" is an example of one of Claremont's greatest strengths as a writer: his ability to use his collaborator's particular visual strengths to the story's advantage. Claremont is far less wordy in this issue, with fewer captions and word balloons. Instead, he trusts the artist to convey his characters' emotions, resulting in a comic that, while filled with clever conversation, is much quieter than the average issue of Uncanny X-Men.

The comic begins with a depressed Ororo unwilling to get out of bed, despite Forge's best efforts. The events of the previous issue are recapped through one of Forge's holograms, which recontruct the scene of Forge wading into the water to bring Storm's powerless, unconscious body to shore.  Awake, Storm walks through the hologram, as if walking on water, and engages in a brief dialogue with Forge that, against this backdrop, is beautiful in its simplicity:

Storm: That was not a kindness.

Forge: Ororo!?!

[The hologram fades; Ororo is standing on the plain tiled floor]

Storm: You should have let me drown.

Much of the rest of the issue consists of their conversation. As they look out onto the city, Storm casually demonstrates her proficiency as a pickpocket ("a human skill---something earned---the neutralizer did not affect it." She quietly laments that she can no longer feel the clouds, or fly.  Forge's response:  "And now you've got to walk, like everybody else. The goddess has become just plain folks."  The self-pity passes, and Storm does not spend the issue raging against her fate; instead, she indulges the feelings she starts to have for Forge, opening up to him.

Even before I lost my powers---

--I have been living on the raw edge of my emotions--feeling...reacting...to everything as intensely as can bee...

The first lesson I learned--and a very harsh one it was, too--

--was that my elemental abilities were bound up with my emotions. The greater my feelings, the more extreme the atmospheric response.

To protect myself and those around me, I cultivate an absolute serenity of mind and body, so much that I lost virtually all awareness of myself as a woman.

A few months ago, I cast away these restraints. I could no longer endure my self-enforced spiritual celibacy....

---so I rebelled.

I cut my hear, changed my cloths--like you, I denied as completely as I could my old world self and belifes.

Now--what irony--the problem not longer exists. I need not fear my feelings, for the only person affected--the only one at risk--

--will be me.

Ororo's monologue not only sums up the last two years of her character growth; it also implicitly explains the dilemma previously faced by her writer.  How can an unemotional goddess truly be interesting?  The depowering works in this case for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it was not entirely necessary: Storm was already well on the road to self-knowledge without her encounter with Forge's neutralizer.  Second, it turns the Dark Phoenix paradigm on its head:  Ororo will ultimately be defined neither by her power nor by its lack. For the next forty issues, she will both lead the X-Men and function as one of the book's lead characters despite the absence of her superhuman abilities.

As she moves from Goddess to punk to human, and eventually back to weather-controlling superhero (Forge helps her regain her powers in Uncanny X-Men 226, "Go Tell the Spartans," by Claremont, Marc Silvestri, and Green), Ororo does something that none of the other X-Women discussed in this chapter managed to do: she experience trauma and recovers from it in a relatively short period of time. It is also telling that, by the time this plotline develops, Ororo has gotten her claustrophobia under control--it is still present, but she is no longer helpless against the effects of a formative, childhood trauma. She demonstrates the same strength with the trauma she faces as an adult.   Where both Rogue, Carol Danvers, and all the various iterations of Jean Grey/Phoenix must constantly struggle to achieve and maintain a coherent sense of self, Storm confronts the emotional dilemma posed by her powers, works through it, and comes out the other side a fully functional, adult super hero who has access to both her powers and her emotions. Ororo, it seems, can survive any experience.

Next: Inside Out

Storm Loses Her Soul, But Gains a Mohawk

For a team book, cosmic powered heroes can spur intense storylines, but in the longterm, they can also be a dead end. In Claremont's X-Men, the cosmic characters were almost always female; ironically, giving these women unbeatable powers would also necessitate their removal (that is, the removal of either the women, the powers, or both), thereby undermining the original feminist intent. Claremont was famous for his "strong" women, a term that covered both strength and complexity.  Throughout his entire seventeen-year run, he managed to develop one particular X-Woman in a manner that evaded the traps awaiting the various Jeans.  But rather than avoid the tropes that hampered his cosmic powered women, in this case, he embraced one of them completely, in order to move beyond it:  in his portrayal of Storm, he developed a character whose strength proved independent of her mutant power set.

Storm was a charter member of Wein and Cockrum's X-Men, and certainly one of the most visually striking.   But for the first five years or so, Claremont did relatively little to develop her character.  True, he gave her a backstory filled with the requisite childhood trauma (being buried under rubble as a girl caused her claustrophobia), a less-than-saintly past for a so-called "goddess" (after her parents died, she was a pickpocket and thief on the streets of Cairo), but her emotional range was limited.  With the death of Phoenix, Claremont finally moved Ororo to center stage.  True, this began in the ill-advised "Rogue Storm" sequence, when Ororo appeared to be repeating the Dark Phoenix plotline less than a year after its tragic resolution, but behind this attention-grabbing stunt was a clever reevaluation of Ororo's character.  Her restrained affect was now not a flaw of her writers, but a byproduct of her powers:  she had to keep her emotions under control lest she inadvertently change the weather.  Storm was, in fact, full of emotions just beneath the surface, but they were never just an internal matter:  Ororo was a walking, talking Pathetic Fallacy.

Over the next two years of real time, Ororo slowly but surely begins to lose control.  Where being team leader drew Cyclops further into his shell,  when Storm takes over the role, she finds herself pushed in the opposite direction.  Her connection to the natural world has weakened; in "Chutes and Ladders" (Uncanny X-Men 160, by Claremont, Brent Anderson and Bob Wiaceck), she needs to focus just to summon a small rain shower.  Presumably, being bitten and seduced by Dracula in the previous issue ("Night Screams," Uncanny X-Men 159, by Claremont and Sienkiewicz) did not help matters. Her dilemma is further exacerbated by the X-Men's fight with the Brood (Uncanny X-Men 162-167), when, unbeknownst to them,  everyone on the team has been infected with Brood eggs that, when they hatch, will transform them into the alien creatures, body and soul.  Other than Wolverine, whose healing factor burns out the embryo, Ororo is among the first to notice something amiss within her own body ("I am lost---bereft of my self--and--at war with myself, without knowing why." ("Rescue Mission, Uncanny X-Men 163, by Claremont, Cockrum, and Wiaceck).  In the next issue ("Binary Star!", Uncanny X-Men 164, by Claremont, Cockrum, and Wiaceck) she loses control of her powers and accidentally kills several vessels full of the Brood.  Unaware of the Brood embryo, Ororo chalks up her failure to a combination of her general malaise and the alienation caused by being wrenched away from the Earth (something that never seemed to bother her in her previous outer space adventures):

But my soul is stricken. My spirit is wasting away, and the longer I am separated from my home, the more I will lose.

How will I ever regain those missing pieces of myself, Scott? And when there's nothing left of me?! Can a body live with its soul?

Only when she finally sense the Brood embryo does she truly understand her plight. Fleeing the ship, she nearly dies destroying the embryo, rescued by one of the space-faring Acanti (the enslaved race that the Brood use as their ships). For the brief period when she and the Acanti are bonded as one, she is at peace.

When she returns to Earth, the planet itself seems to reject her: she cannot control the weather and, for the first time in her adult life, actually feels cold ("Professor Xavier Is a Jerk!" Uncanny X-Men 168, by Claremont, Smith, and Wiacek).  From this point on, her transformation is rapid and dramatic, although, thanks to Claremont's narrative feint in setting up Madelyne Pryor as a possibly reborn Phoenix, Ororo's embrace of her violent side seems to be part of a larger overall storyline of manipulation and corruption (including Rogue's personal crisis and Karma's encounter with malevolent voices in New Mutants).  But the seeds had been planted months before.

Now, when the only way to save Kitty's life is a duel to the death with Callisto, the leader of the subterranean mutant outcasts who call themselves the Morlocks, Ororo does not hesitate to stab her opponent through the heart (Kurt" "I never expected that of you." Ororo: "Neither did Callisto. That was her mistake.") ("dancin' in the dark," Uncanny X-Men 170, by Claremont, Smith and Wiaceck). In the next issue ("Rogue"), Ororo dons Callisto's leather jacket, proclaims her leadership of the Morlocks, and taunts her wounded opponent ("We have crossed paths once, little mutant. / Don't push your luck.") Again, Kurt is the one to register the reader's likely shock at Ororo's behavior. When Storm declares that "nothing can change" the fact that she and Callisto are destined to be enemies, Nightcrawler thinks, "Perhaps. But the Ororo I remember would have at least tried."

Back at the mansion, after Xavier's announcement that he is giving sanctuary to Rogue, Storm contemplates her life as she waters the plants in her attic. Her gentle rain shower turns into a thunderstorm:

Weather around me always relelcts my emotional state.

My anxiety, my confusion--my--fear--manifested themselves as violence.

And my poor plants suffered for it.

When Xaver's psychic projection summons her, she throws a knife at it: "It is because of you that I became an X-Man, old man---/--and that decision is destroying me!"

The turning point in Storm's evolution takes place in Japan, where the X-Men have come for Wolverine's (abortive) wedding.  Storm falls in with Yukiko, a young woman who considers herself a ronin and has a history with Wolverine.  Yukiko's love of danger proves intoxicating to Ororo.  She finds herself looking forward to a street brawl, and when she wins, Ororo tells Yukiko: "Whatever it means--this madness of yours that has infected me---/I welcome it!" ("To Have and Have Not," Uncanny X-Men 173, by Claremonth, Smith and Wiacek). When next we see Ororo, she has ditched her costume for formfitting black leather (complete with a studded choker), and cut off her luxuriant hair in favor of a mohawk.  Her new, punk-inflected look is tougher and implies violence, yet careful readers will not that Storm has actually regained a measure of her serenity now that she has accepted her wilder nature.  She is now more comfortable summoning violent weather, and untroubled by the implications of this development ("Phoenix!" Uncanny X-Men 175, by Claremont, Smith,  Romita Jr. and Wiacek).

A few decades later, Kitty is going to be really embarrassed by her reaction

This does not mean she has completely made her peace with her new outlook.  Kitty Pryde's rejection hurts, and leaves her wondering if the girl's doubts about Ororo's mental health might be justified ("Sanction," Uncanny X-Men 177, by Claremont, Romita Jr and Romita Sr.") She confesses as much to Xavier in "Whose Life Is It, Anyway?" (Uncanny X-Men by Claremont, Romita Jr, Dan Green, and Wiacek): "Sometimes I think, I fear--I--hope/--I must be insane."  Xavier's psi-probe reveals "no mental illness," though is own reaction to her (that he never noticed what an attractive woman she was) feels a bit creepy, even if it's supposed to reinforce how different Storm has become. Only when she finally confronts Kitty does she manage to find a context for her transformation from "goddess" to human: "Perhaps I am infected with a kind of madness--but for the first time in my adult life, I can laugh. And cry.  / I can feel--to the fullest extent of my being--/without having to deny that emotion."

Storm's growth, while paralleling Jean's descent into Dark Phoenix, is actually the opposite of Claremont's familiar story of seduction by power and passion.  Ororo joined the X-Men as a powerful, but restrained "goddess" who was never given much emotional range, and now she is discovering her humanity.  The key element in Ororo's growth as a character looks like a variation on a dreary trope:  a superheroine loses her powers.  This was, after all, what Claremont and Byrne initially intended for Phoenix, and also what Claremont did to Carol Danvers as part of his project to reclaim her from the damage done in The Avengers.  Is the point really going to be that Ororo has to choose between having a full emotional life or having mutant powers?

Next: The Power of the Powerless

Limbo Needs Women

As a crossover spread across five different X-books (Uncanny X-Men, X-Factor, Excalibur, New Mutants, and the X-Terminators miniseries) penned by two writers (Claremont and Louise Simonson), not to mention the many tangential tie-ins to other comics, Inferno has to resolve several barely-connected plotlines in order to wrap up the event. In New Mutants, Illyana is redeemed from her evil "Darkchylde" form and replaced by the child-version of herself who was kidnapped in Limbo in Uncanny X-Men 160, the X-Terminators rescue some kidnapped babies, and, in Uncanny X-Men and X-Factor , the two teams are finally reunited, all misunderstandings sorted out.  Naturally, the climax is a battle between the original Jean Grey and her angry clone, Madelyne.  Madelyne dies, but not before her psyche is absorbed by Jean.  Jean inherits all of Madelyne's memories and some of the Phoenix's, making her the one true Jean who can combine a continuity of consciousness from all her incarnations in a form that has neither the power nor the culpability of either the Phoenix or the Goblin Queen.   For a time, Jean's body is the host to all three personalities, before a Celestial deus ex machina takes care of the problem for her.

The Jean Grey who remains now has only one problem.  Without the Phoenix, without the trauma of her repeated duplications and iterations, she is on the verge of becoming what she was when Lee and Kirby introduced her: boring. As developed by Claremont, Cockrum, and Byrne, Jean was compelling because of a particular combination of power, appetite, and trauma. What was she in their absence?  After pushing aside so many extraneous variations, particularly Madelyne and the Phoenix (Force), the one true Jean is in danger of becoming superfluous.  Not only is she  no longer the only telepath or telekinetic, but, over the years, the two other female X-Men with her power set become rivals for Scott's affection: first Psylocke (briefly, and because of her own complicated doppleganger storyline), then, Emma Frost, who, years after Claremont leaves the book, engages in a psychic affair with Psylocke and becomes his romantic partner after Jean's next death.

All of which brings us back to the metaphor of the Phoenix and its connection to trauma and recovery.  As Claremont explored the nature of the Phoenix throughout his run, he added a third element to the death and rebirth that one expects from the legend of the Phoenix: a suspended, liminal stage between the two, located in what came to be called the White Hot Room.  The White Hot Room is where a dying Jean goes when she first meets the Phoenix Force (in the Classic X-Men 8 back-up feature that brings Jean's story in line with the Phoenix Force retcon), and where her spirit goes after the Phoenix's suicide in X-Men 137 (as detailed in the backup feature to Classic X-Men 43).  The White Hot Room is a kind of cosmic waiting room; in other words, it is a variation on the idea of Limbo.

The White Hot Room. Has there every been a better metaphor for Limbo than the inability to get a contractor’s attention?

Limbo and limbo-like states recur with an astonishing frequency in the stories of Claremont's traumatized women.  Carol Danvers and Rogue are the outliers: Rogue was never removed from the playing field for any significant period of time, while Carol's consignment to Limbo by a committee of obtuse male writers was what caused Claremont to bring her into the X-Men fold.  Illyanna Rasputin's entire life story is impossible to disentangle from a Limbo dimension that is distinct from the one in which Carol had been trapped.  This timeless, demonic realm robbed Illyanna of her innocence and her childhood, setting her on a path of corruption that would only be resolved by her eventual death and rebirth as her former child self. [22] Madelyne Pryor's hold on an independent existence was always tenuous before Mr. Sinister stripped it away from her, leading her to consort with demons from the same Limbo that had trapped Illyanna.  Years later, when a resurrected Illyana voluntarily cedes control over Limbo to a resurrected Madelyne, it is in tacit recognition of the clone's affinity for this timeless, liminal realm:  the only place where Madelyne belongs is a repository for entities who have no other place.  Rachel is briefly spirited away to Mojo's world by Spyral, removed from the ongoing story, stripped of her identity, and obliging her to claw her way back to the real world.  And then we have Jean Grey, occasional visitor to the White Hot Room, years-long occupant of a cocoon keeping her in stasis, and frequent corpse awaiting a resurrection.

Of course, Claremont's women are not the only comics characters subject to consignment to some form of Limbo or another; if they are exceptional for Marvel, their fate would be par for the course for DC.  After DC's Crisis on Infinite Earths, the Earth-2 Superman and Lois Lane, the Earth-Prime Superboy, and the Earth-3 Alexander Luthor were stranded in an extradimensional realm for decades (leading, eventually, to the events of Infinte Crisis), while Grant Morrison has repeatedly visited unpopular characters trapped in "Comics Limbo" throughout their DC career (Animal Man, Final Crisis). But ever since Crisis on Infinite Earths, cosmic threats, reboots, and revisions have been DC's prime storytelling engine: DC comics exist to imprison and free their characters from backwater dimensions. Limbo for DC is primarily about DC, a symptom of the continuity revisions that recur like a bad weather phenomenon.  The propensity of Marvel's women to fall into Limbo can be a continuity fix (as it has been for Jean Grey, repeatedly), but it is also about the characters themselves.

Claremont's X-Women face a double dilemma: surviving the experience of being an X-Man and navigating the complexities of their role in a team book rather than a solo title. This goes back to the early disagreements between Claremont and Byrne about Phoenix's power levels:  how does a near-omnipotent character function on a team? Claremont successfully carried out his agenda of female empowerment for individual characters, but at the risk of rendering all their team mates (male and female) superfluous.  The various iterations of Jean Grey (including Rachel), as well as Binary, are almost literally stellar, their powers either related to stars (star gates, Binary's "white hole" powers, Phoenix's consumption of a sun) or compared to them (Jean/Phoenix is constantly likened to a star).  On a more prosaic level, many of them also become the "stars" of the X-Men books. Rather than flying too close to the sun, they are the suns around which the other X-Men orbit, and their storylines burnt hot and fast. Their lives, their powers, and their stories are overclocked, pushing the X-Men to cosmic-level stories that suit the comic well, but are only one type of plot that the X-Men do well.  So, again and again, they are taken out of play.

Next: Storm Loses Her Soul, But Gains a Mohawk

Burning Down the House

In Madelyne's case, getting revenge on everyone who has wronged her (Scott, for abandoning her, Mister Sinister, for cloning her and then trying to have her killed, and Jean Grey, just for getting there first) means thoroughly embracing her own derivative status to the point of weaponizing it. She seems determined to become the demonic inversion of all the various manifestations of Jean Grey.  In her dreams, she is depicted surrounded by flames, forming a shape that comes just slightly short of the Phoenix raptor, but Madelyne will channel the flames outward: again and again, she lampshades the crossover event by declaring she will start an "inferno."  Her "Goblin Queen" outfit is so revealing that it makes Jean's Black Queen fetish garb look like a nun's habit (only powerful telekinesis could possibly explain how she doesn't fall out of it). When she can't have Scott, she settles for his cast-off younger brother. If, cloned and fast-grown in a creche,  she was denied a real childhood, she kidnaps babies to use as a sacrifice. If she can't raise her own baby, she'll sacrifice him as well.  And, like Rachel right before assuming the mantle of the Phoenix, Madelyne is compelled to visit Jean's (empty) grave.  Surrounded by memories of Scott bidding Jean's grave a farewell, and of their wedding , she destroys the headstone: "Why did you have to ruin everything? /Why couldn't you have stayed dead?!?  ("Strike the Match," Uncanny X-Men 240, by Claremont, Silvestri, and Green).

Her tantrum is witnessed by Jean's parents, who paradoxically know their daughter so well that they can't be sure Madelyne isn't actually their eldest come back from the grave;

Elaine:  John--that woman--could it be Jean?

John: I don't know, Elaine. She had so many incarnations.

John has a point, even if he his phrasing sounds unlike anything that would actually be spoken aloud.  The X-Men universe abounds with telekinetic redheads, and throwing energy bolts while looking maniacal is definitely on-brand.  Madelyne transforms the Greys into a pair of demons who will serve her throughout the course of the crossover, a completely superfluous plot point that is nonetheless thematically resonant.  Madelyne is determined to both have and ruin everything that Jean had. At the end of her confrontation with Mister Sinister, the villain who cloned her, inadvertently caused her to be awakened by a shard of the Phoenix force, gave her false memories, and put her in Scott's path in the hopes that they would breed, she gives a speech that establishes her as the anti-Phoenix:

Phoenix:  Hear me, X-Men! No longer am I the woman you knew! I am Fire and Life incarnate! Now and forever - I am PHOENIX!”  (X-Men 101)

Goblin Queen (to Mister Sinister):  Your ambition is a world to rule. 

In one strike I make it ashes.

I abjure life, "Father"--

--and give myself over whole and unreservedly to the fire!

An inferno...

....that will consumer you all! ("Fan the Flames," Uncanny X-Men 241, by Claremont, Silvestri, and Green).

I think it’s safe to say that Maddie is in her “Villain Era”

Where Phoenix is fire, the Goblin Queen starts a fire. Where Phoenix is "life incarnate," the Goblin Queen "abjures life."  The Phoenix is a force of destruction and renewal, while Madelyne, in her new identity as the Goblin Queen, is interested only in destruction.  The Phoenix also embodies the endless iterability of plot (how many times she has died and come back), while the Goblin Queen's role is to finally put years of convoluted plotlines to rest.  Madelyne is the ashes out of which the Phoenix can rise again, or, to put it in a less flowery manner, she is collateral damage.  And she is angry.

Next: Limbo Needs Women

The Superfluous Woman

Claremont was obliged to spend over three years tearing down the admittedly minimal work he had put into building Madelyne as a character, and put her on a path towards villainy.  This could not have been easy, because the mandate to create X-Factor ironically made Madelyne  truly sympathetic rather than just a cypher. Her husband's absence for most of her pregnancy might have been a red flag, but as she herself readily admits when she confides in Ororo in Uncanny X-Men 201, this was out of his control (he was brought back into the X-Men involuntarily). But when the end of the team's Asgardian adventures landed them in France, "Kitty phoned, you phoned, almost everyone called to see how I was. Except my husband."  Soon after, Madelyne had to deliver her baby by herself, on the X-Men's kitchen floor.  Upon his return, Scott is so alienated from his family that he duels Ororo for leadership of the X-Men when Madelyne wants him to return home with her and their newborn son.  Madelyne still hopes he'll come back to them, but has few illusions about the scenario:  "Why can't it be because he wants to, instead of because he has no other choice?" The very next month, Jean is back, X-Factor debuts, and Scott abandons Madelyne and the baby without a word of explanation.  The next time the reader sees Madelyne, in Uncanny X-Men 206, she is lying on a stretcher in a San Francisco hospital, suffering from multiple gunshot wounds and unlikely to last the night.

Thus commences the next phase of Madelyne's haphazard life:  as fugitive from a group of mutants  called the Marauders, who inexplicably want her dead.  The Marauders were the perpetrators of the Mutant Massacre (which crippled several X-Men and decimated the subterranean Morlock population). Their mastermind is the newly-introduced Mister Sinister, who at the time was a generic villain with under-explained motives. [1] After Madelyne wakes up from her coma in Uncanny X-Men 215 (having healed at a rate that surprises her doctors), she is once again targeted for murderer. One of the Marauders, Scalphunter, explains his mission to Madelyne in a manner that is surely metafictional: "You're a loose end."

And, indeed, for the next several issues, even as the X-Men become embroiled in a potentially reality-destroying conflict, Madelyne struggles to be something other than superfluous to requirement.  Interestingly, she forms a bond with Havok, Scott's younger son Alex, who, now that his lover Polaris has been possessed by the evil spirit Malice, is also at a loss to find a place for himself.  Though his current emotional turmoil is a result of recent events, there is a stronger reason that he and Madelyne become kindred spirits: Alex had always been the superfluous Summer brother (before other writers threw in a third and even a fourth years later).  He and Madelyne have been secondary to Scott both in the X-Men franchise and in their own lives. For now, Madelyne's only solace is to turn her very superfluity into an asset, speaking to human reporters on the X-Men's behalf, and even volunteering to help Dazzler stay in the fight after the impalement of Destiny's mask onto head renders her blind ("I'll be her eyes!").

Once the X-Men are brought back to life and safely deposited in Australia by the goddess Roma, Madelyne makes herself useful to the team by managing all their technology, surveillance, and communications while the book bides its time for the next crossover event, Inferno.  Madelyne herself is the spark for this particular conflagration (although she has help from Illyana and a demon or two):  when she chances on television footage revealing that Jean Grey is alive, well, and very close to Cyclops, she undergoes a psychic and magical journey that finishes what the last three years of plots had started: as a character, she is completely dismantled, only to be built back up again.  Her entire life so far is briefly recapitulated in fantasy form: first, she is an angel flying free in the bucolic countryside, on her way home to her beloved husband and child.  Then her peace is shattered by the appearance of a naked, female figure utterly without features, who immediately steals her husband. Cyclops tears off Maddy's wings and gives them to this mannikin.  Then he hands her the baby, followed by Madelyne's hair, mouth, and eyes, turning this intruder into the "original;" Jean Grey.  Madelyne, Scott explains, is just a copy ("Dawn of Blood," Uncanny X-Men 233, by Claremont, Sylvestri and Green).  It is now Madelyne who is featureless: "A nothing being./ In a nowhere place. /Abandoned..../...and alone." 

This vision of Madelyne's dismantling handily sums up her experience within the X-Men Franchise itself:  she and Jean are in complementary distribution.  As the title of the  trade paperback collecting the stories in which Mastermind convinces the X-Men that Madelyne is actually Jean (From the Ashes), she is all that could be rescued from Phoenix's funeral pyre, until suddenly, she isn't.  What could be a better sign of her secondary status than the cannibalization of every one of her features as part of a project to rebuild Jean Grey?  She began as the embodied likeness of a character whose absence left a significant hole in the franchise, and now she has to give that likeness back.

In Madelyne's vision, the landscape resembles the comic's depiction of the Australian outback where the X-Men then resided, but as she moves through it, it first transforms her, and then is itself transformed. The heat bearing down on her "forges" her, "paring her down to her essence.../making her one with the land"  ("Glory Day," Uncanny X-Men 234, By Claremont, Silvestri, and Rubinstein). Her featureless surface melts away, leaving her once again looking like Madelyne. But why say that she is "one with the land"? And why is she greeted by S'ym, the demon who once served the monstrous Belasco, and until recently was bound to Illyana Rasputin? 

In her transformation into the "Goblin Queen" (effected by S'ym this issue), she is on her way to ruling the domain of Limbo and overrunning our world. It is an odd turn for Madelyne, who previously had no connection either to magic or to Illyana's realm, but it is more than just an unmotivated plot twist. Madelyne can rule Limbo because she has been stuck in limbo, both metaphorically (since the decision to return Jean Grey to life) and literally (when she wanders through an empty waste land).  No wonder she becomes "one with the land;" as a character who has become surplus to requirement, "limbo" defines her entire existence. This, in turn, justifies a crossover that hinges on both Madelyne and Illyana (whose entire backstory and recent plotlines are all based on her childhood exile to the Limbo that Claremont and Anderson introduced in Uncanny X-Men 160). Inferno is the story of two insanely powerful women whose fate is always about exile, suffering, loss, and superfluity.

Note

[1] Claremont's original plans for him was that he was a child's conception of a villain (hence the ridiculous name, and some of his dialogue).  Subsequent work by many other creators took Mister Sinister in a very different direction.

Next: Burning Down the House

Madelyne Pryor and the Three Faces of Jean

Madelyne Pryor started her comic book life as a bad idea; editorial dictates and the vagaries of continuity made her an even worse one.

Less than three years after Jean's death (in real time), Scott and his brother Alex, reunited with their father, Christopher, arrive in Alaska and are greeted by their pilot, a red-headed woman whom all three immediately realize looks exactly like Jean Grey.  Without their reactions, the readers might not know just how close the resemblance is:  depicted by so many different artists, Jean's only defining feature is red hair.  But she is identical to Scott's first love; naturally, she and Scott immediately fall for each other, leaving the readers (and some of the other characters) to wonder: is this Jean Grey, resurrected (again)?  Claremont has gone on record saying that he originally intended Madelyne to be a "red-headed red herring," alluding to Hitchcock's Vertigo as a precedent.

But the Vertigo parallel is, in itself,  if not a red herring, than a herring that is decidedly half-baked. In Vertigo, the uncanny apparent reappearance of a dead woman works because we don't generally believe such things are possible; in X-Men comics, not only are they possible, but they are the stuff of a a typical Wednesday.  Either Madelyne is Jean, or she is the product of a highly unlikely coincidence; frankly, in the world of the X-Men, her coincidental resemblance to Jean Grey is actually less likely that the discovery that she is the second (or third?) coming of Phoenix.  But soon we discover that Mastermind has been manipulating Scott into thinking she is a reincarnated Jean, allowing for a plot that, by superhero standards, makes sense. But there are still unexplained details. Mastermind didn't fool people into thinking Madelyne looked like Jean; this is what she actually looked like.  And Madelyne was the sole survivor of an airplane that crashed at the precise moment of Phoenix's death.

Oh, come on! As if Jean would ever wear her hair that way!

Yet despite these coincidences, Claremont insists that her only purpose was to allow Scott to exit the team and live a happy, quiet life. Perhaps that it is the case, but it is telling that Claremont's idea of a happy ending for Scott entails marrying an exact duplicate of Jean Grey.  Scott at this point becomes a stand-in for the frustrated, devoted fan, who does not want to imagine the X-Men without some version of Jean. Madelyne is an odd replacement for Jean; the readers' investment in the Phoenix storyline was facilitated by a near-constant access to Phoenix/Jean's inner life: Jean was not just a threat, but a person (well, a cosmic force imitating a person, depending on what year we're talking about) undergoing almost unimaginable strains right before our very eyes. Jean was the woman with whom the reader, like Scott himself, had a psychic rapport; Madelyne is an airline pilot who looks like Scott's dead girlfriend. Every comic books character is, of course, a two-dimensional visual representation, but this two-dimensionality is Madelyne's very essence: she exists to be a Jean-like surface.

There were many reasons to be unhappy about the editorially-mandated return of Jean Grey and the retcon of the Phoenix as a cosmic copy, from cheapening the original story to forcing a plot line that makes Cyclops a lying, deadbeat dad who abandons his wife without an explanation. But Madelyne herself was not a great loss, at least, not until depriving her of place, purpose, and, ultimately, her individual self became both a plot point and an ongoing theme. Four decades later, the bad editorial call to resurrect Jean turned out to be a net positive once the franchise moved into new hands (Grant Morrison's handling of the character alone makes it all worthwhile).  And even Madelyne had, after a few false starts, become a compelling character in the Krakoa era.  The reasons she works now are the same as the reasons she became interesting as soon as Scott (and the editors) shunted her aside.  Now her function as a copy of Jean Grey become literal, and her superfluity makes her not just a plot device, but the subject of an existential dilemma to rival Rachel's:  in the new status quo, what is Madelyne Pryor even for? 

Claremont's work on Madelyne over the next few years would end in her demise, which must have felt like something of a mercy killing. With Madelyne gone and Rachel off in Mojoworld, and then the UK, the main X books could finally return to the one, true Jean Grey.  But when Madelyne is brought back (repeatedly), it is not just because no IP is ever truly forgotten, but because her essential superfluity remains intriguing. Yet just as it took years for Jean's return to become thinkable, it would take even more for Madelyne to be seen as a character who could have value in a post-Inferno world. In the Krakoa era, that value comes from lampshading her redundancy: in the new mutant utopia order, where nearly all dead mutants can be resurrected, the Krakoan leadership had decreed that clones were ineligible for the process.  This consigned Madelyne, along with other, more lovable clones such as Honey Badger, to an oblivion that was no longer tolerable to those who were close to them. Madelyne's revival, the modification of the policy, and the storyline that returned her to villainy before beginning a redemption arc, was a strong statement about the nature of personhood, as well as an acknowledgment of Madelyne's ill-treatment by her supposed friends and family (not to mention the editorial regime that marginalized her).

Next: The Superfluous Woman

Momma was a Genocidal Cosmic Bird Goddess

The main result of Rachel's last year in Uncanny X-Men is also the most important: her new identity as the Phoenix. For Rachel, it is both a step back and step forward.  While still on the pages of Uncanny, she cannot escape her past, even if most of it is in the future.  In the mutant concentration camp, she is tortured and brainwashed in order to be turned into a weapon for finding runaway mutants.  As a "Hound," she is all instinct, and unwittingly commits multiple crimes against her own people.  This experience leaves its mark on both body and psyche. Back in the 1980s, when Rachel undergoes extreme stress, the tattoos that identify Hounds reappear on her face.  Even when Rachel does make a step towards self-definition,  it is not only derivative (taking on her mother's identity as the Phoenix), but it also only supplements rather than replaces what is already there: as the Phoenix, she has the customary red and yellow firebird imagery, but also the Hound tattoos.

Rachel's bonding with the Phoenix force allows Claremont to revisit beloved tropes, but with a twist.  If Jean, who was a healthy young adult with an understanding of life and love, could not control this power, how could a teenager as damaged as Rachel possibly hope to do so?  She neither consumes a star not destroys a spaceship full of people, but her baseline nonetheless seems much less stable than Jean's.  Unlike her mother, Rachel does not suffer from a divided self:  whatever she does (before encountering Sypral), she is always Rachel.  She does not alternate between the green (good) costume and the red (evil) one; rather, she is always a collage of red, orange and yellow tones, always somewhere beyond the more innocent version of Jean-as-Phoenix, but never quite as malevolent as Dark Phoenix.

A son or daughter embracing a parent's heroic legacy is, if not exactly Superhero 101, then intermediate-level superhero activity.  There is often a regressive element to taking up the mantle of the mother or father, but that regression does not always fully register:  so many of these first-generation heroes are  themselves shaped by childhood trauma, filling the whole left by a departed father or mother figure (Batman's parents, Uncle Ben, etc). Rachel's case is different, however.  Her psychological damage is far more extensive, and she suffers from the ambivalent loss of a world that she herself felt was too horrible to be allowed to come into being.  Many elder siblings feel displaced by a new baby, but in her case, that displacement is real:  the birth of little Nathan rules out the birth of Rachel herself.

Edged out by a baby, unable to communicate with a father who will never actually become her father, seeing her mother replaced by an uncanny lookalike, and reestablishing a friendship with someone who was her elder and mentor, but is now a teen (Kitty Pryde), Rachel becomes Phoenix as the result of a trip down (her mother's) memory lane. First, she visits her mother's grave in the Grey family plot (where either Romita or Green cheekily adds a gravestone for Jean's ancestor "Earl"), then her grandparents house after they drive away. Suddenly, she witnesses, in ghostly outline, Dark Phoenix's confrontation with Jean's parents from Uncanny X-Men 136 (which the caption describes as "fantasy visions derived from what Rachel read in the X-Men's  'Dark Phoenix' file), then a memory of herself as a newborn baby in her mother's arms. and then another from her time as a Hound.  Finally, she stumbles upon a MacGuffin that has been waiting for its day since Uncanny X-Men 138.  At Jean's funeral, Empress Lilandra gives Jean's parents a globe called a "holempathic crystal," which somehow contains the essence of Jean's personality.  At the time, this looked suspiciously like a backdoor for Jean's return, but in bringing it together with Rachel, Claremont finds a way to fulfill not only Rachel's, but the fan's regressive fantasy of Phoenix's return while still trying to look forward as well as backwards:  we will have a new Phoenix with a perfect Grey pedigree, and a chance for a different set of Phoenix stories.

In lieu of flowers

Her transformation into Phoenix is an odd process; the publishing schedule meant that she declared herself Phoenix in Uncanny Х-Men 199, put on a different Phoenix costume in Uncanny X-Men Annual 9, angering Scott in the process, took part in the fighting surrounding the Trial of Magneto in Uncanny Х-Men 200 without displaying any of the appropriate attributes, and then returned to her grandparents' house in Uncanny Х-Men 201 already as Phoenix, but somehow even more so by the issue's end. The overall purpose of this plotline is to establish the Phoenix identity as Rachel's birthright, and thereby also convince the readers to transfer their emotional investment from the currently-dead Jean to her legitimate heir. In Uncanny Х-Men 199, she touches the holempathic crystal, senses her mother, and immediately undergoes the transformation as a restorative act for both her and Jean:

I want everyone to remember the Jean Grey who assumed the mantle of Phoenix to save the man, and friends, she loved more than her life.

In my timeline--as well as this one--mom saved the universe!

Can I...

...do any...

..less

If nothing else, Rachel can sure monologue liker her mom

The epilogue to Uncanny Х-Men 201, which seems to have originally been intended to immediately follow Rachel's collapse to the ground in Uncanny Х-Men 199, makes her restorative function literal.  When she initially transformed, she accidentally broke the crystal. Now, back at the Grey family home, she uses her power to repair it, which has two intriguing results: first, she puts a piece of herself into the crystal, to keep her mother company, and to ensure that she is remembered in this world that is not her own. But second, her interaction with the crystal this time causes a bolt of energy to emerge from the site of Jean's death in the Blue Area of the Moon, presumably to merge with Rachel.

Though the sequencing of these issues is odd, the placement of the epilogue in Uncanny Х-Men 201 does prove significant.  This is the issue when Cyclops loses his challenge to Storm for leadership of the X-Men, and has to go back to Alaska with his wife (and Jean Grey lookalike) and newborn baby.  Their marriage is on the rocks, just in time for the real Jean Grey to be reborn the following month. Since Jean will now be retconned as never actually having been the Phoenix, the result is the complementary distribution of the constituent parts of the Jean Grey character to variations on the one Claremont, Cockrum, and Byrne had so effectively developed: a Jean who is innocent of the Phoenix's crimes, a Phoenix that also never committed those crimes directly, but is still haunted by her own past, and Madelyne Pryor, who is looking suspiciously superfluous.

Next: Madelyne Pryor and the Three Faces of Jean

Daughter from Another Mother

The drama of Rogue and Carol Danvers is both an integral part of 1980s X-Men and something of an outlier.  Carol entered the X-Men's orbit through the vagaries of editorial policy and creative outrage; Rogue seems to be a character who only really grew on Claremont once he was saw her in terms of her unique dilemma.  Otherwise, the center of gravity for trauma, angst, and identity crises had an unsurprising name.  All roads led to Jean Grey. [1]

Illyana Rasputin's journey from child hostage to demon queen of limbo was certainly compelling, but once the New Mutants were introduced, her story continued in their comic.  Storm's detour into punk anomie developed largely in Jean's absence, but the first signs that she was falling apart came not long after the death of the Phoenix, and her brief transformation into "Rogue Storm" in Uncanny X-Men 147 ("Rogue Storm!" Claremont and Cockrum) was such an obvious riff on Dark Phoenix that the cover copy declared, "We did it before...Dare we do it again?" In addition, her sartorial transformation took place while Mastermind was manipulating the X-Men into thinking Madelyne Pryor was Phoenix and the Shadow King was stalking the New Mutants; it was easy to mistake her new punk look for part of one or both of these ongoing plotlines. [2]

You bet they will! Again, and again, and again…

As the "Rogue Storm!" cover demonstrates, Jean Grey continued to haunt Claremont's X-Men after Phoenix's death.  Even when Claremont was still adamant that Jean should remain dead, he kept returning to fill the book's Phoenix-shaped hole.  The result was a set of multiple Jeans, Phoenixes, and substitutes for both that turned identity crisis and trauma into a kind of narrative repetition compulsion.  What resulted was a complicated web of timelines, clones,  and cosmic forces, a glorious excess of personality that carried the franchise through the decade.

It started with a young red-headed teenager named Rachel, who first appeared in Uncanny X-Men 141 ("Days of Future Past," by Claremont and Byrne).  In the dystopian far future of 2013, Rachel is the telepath who sends adult Kate Pryde's consciousness back to 1980 in order to avert the nightmare scenario in which the live. Days of Future Past is one of the most acclaimed X-Men stories, and also the basis for the movie of the same name, but Rachel is just a minor character who watches all her comrades die (including her lover, Franklin Richards).  She was intended to be the daughter of Scott and Jean, and conceived (by Claremont and Byrne, that is) before the decision was made to put Dark Phoenix to death. That would have been the end of it, but three years later, Claremont brought her back to what was then the present    

What little we know of Rachel's backstory at this point is more than enough to leave psychological wounds on the most healthy of minds:  in her world, all the mutants and other super-powered individuals were rounded up and put in death camps. For her, Marvel Earth in 1984 is populated by ghosts. [3].  She spends her Uncanny X-Men present-day debut (Issue 184 "The Past...of Future Days", by Claremont, Romita Jr. and Dan Green) in a state of near-perpetual flight. Rachel is immediately targeted by the immortal mutant energy vampire Selene, who jumps out of a dark alley like a robber or rapist. A kind man named Nick takes pity on her, not entirely mistakenly thinking her an undernourished runaway.  Selene kills him, and Rachel barely holds her own against Selene before she is rescued by the X-Men. And now she has to admit the obvious: this past is not her past.

Rachel is in the unprecedented position of the survivor of a trauma that hasn't happened yet--and might have been averted; she may be the only woman to whom the sexist admonition to unsmiling women, "Cheer up, it might never happen" could possibly be relevant. [4] Where the rest of the X-Men are outcasts in a bigoted world that refuses to accept them,  she is a refugee from a reality so horrible that the X-Men's might as well be paradise.  As her new (and, to her, not-so-new) teammates learn more about her, they do their best to understand, but it is difficult to empathize adequately with trauma that takes place in the conditional/subjunctive.  With Jean dead and Cyclops married to Madelyne Pryor, her past (the X-Men's future) looks impossible, especially when Madelyne gives birth to a boy (the future Cable) rather than a girl.  For the X-Men, this is good news: who would want her future to happen?  In the abstract, it is good news for Rachel as well: the whole point of sending the adult Kate Pryde's consciousness back to 1980 was to prevent the "Days of Future Past" scenario from ever coming into being.  It was a suicide mission in more ways than one, but Rachel's survival and trip back to the "past" makes their apparent success feel tragic.  It's one thing never to have existed, but Rachel is forced to be the one remaining witness to decades of now-notional genocidal horror.  Small wonder she occasionally lashes out; her very survival makes no sense.

Rachel is not just a survivor; she is a remainder, embodying both excess (who needs someone from an extinct timeline?) and shortfall (her entire past is missing).[5]  Since childhood, her life has been marked by a near-total absence of agency:  captured, imprisoned, turned into a mutant-seeking Hound (more on that below), and sent into the past by Kate Pryde through post-hypnotic suggestion, she has little experience making real choices.  What choices she does make tend to be terrible:  attacking the godlike Beyonder head-on after assuming the mantle of Phoenix, stealing the life essences of all her comrades to do so, infiltrating the Hellfire Club to try to kill Selene, attacking Wolverine after he attacks her, and following the villainous Spyral to another dimension where her identity will be all but erased.

Rachel leaves the Uncanny X-Men with issue 209, the first of many departures to clear clear the way for an eventual third spin-off ongoing title, Excalibur (which also includes Kitty and Nightcrawler, each injured and sidelined during the Mutant Massacre just a few months later).  But before she leaves, Rachel tries to replay some of the original Phoenix's greatest hits, for ostensible reasons that don't make sense.  Nearly every Marvel comic was crossing over with Secret Wars 2 for the occasional issue; as crossovers go, it was not too onerous in its demands. Secret Wars 2 did not hijack every monthly comic for its own purposes, but it did make the storytelling needless complex (with the Beyonder popping into a title to cause mischief, perhaps bring a little enlightenment, and leave).  The X-Men were important to Secret Wars 2, but if a reader was not following the 12-issue series, the intensity of their struggle with the Beyonder was puzzling.

Uncanny X-Men 202 takes its title from Rachel's declaration to her teammates: "X-Men......I've Gone to Kill the Beyonder!" She does not succeed, of course, but she gets a power boost from the Beyonder himself, which, in the next issue, inspires her to seek more power in order to....destroy the universe. That will also being about the death of the Beyonder, and leave a Beyonder-less universe for the people who will somehow come after.  This argument defies logic, but so does the entire issue: half the X-Men freely surrender their life energy to Rachel in order to give her a fighting chance.  Where the original Phoenix used her teammates life energies (sparingly!) to help her stop the universe's destruction resulting from a flaw in the M'Kraan Crystal, Rachel (accompanied by the spirits of her friends) makes her way inot the Crystal in order to release the very threat that her mother had tamed. Instead, she briefly becomes one with the universe, realizes she cannot bring herself to destroy all reality, and then shares the experience with the Beyonder so that he will value life as well.

Yeah, that’s gonna end well

Her departure from the book is a mess, involving Wolverine actually stabbing her with his claws to prevent her from killing Selene, even though a few issues ago he was perfectly fine with her trying to kill the Beyonder. Removing her from the flagship book was a step towards the establishment of the next spin-off, certainly, but it also was an opportunity to try to dig Rachel out of a set of plots that were always going to focus on her survivor's guilty, her sense of herself as an outsider, and her connection to a dystopian future.  It's a happy accident that the vehicle for her (temporary) escape from these endless loops is a villain named Spyral--though her name might suggest "spiraling out of control," at least a spiral can progress where a loop can only repeat. Spyral kidnaps Rachel and temporary erases her memories, allowing for a soft reset of the character in the lighter-toned Excalibur book.

Notes

[1] Some readers might object at the sidelining of Wolverine, an X-Men mainstay in virtually every iteration since Giant-Size X-Men 1.  But Claremont understood that Wolverine needed to be used sparingly, even if the powers that be at Marvel made this impossible.  During his run on Uncanny X-Men, Claremont centered attention on Logan only for particular, individual stories, and rarely for ongoing plotlines.  On a team, Wolverine works well as a character mostly seen from the outside, with occasional, revelatory stories where we share his consciousness.  In any case, whatever proprietary feeling Claremont may have had about the character in the early 1980s was impossible to sustain by the decade's end.  Wolverine was ubiquitous, and he was out of Claremont's control.

[2] In a storyline that has not aged well, the Shadow King was responsible for making the New Mutants' Karma evil and fat. 

[3] Of course, even though Days of Future Past is specifically anchored in 1980, and Rachel returns in 1984, the in-story gap between the two comics is a matter of a few months.

[4 Rogue even says as much to Rachel in Uncanny X-Men 196:  "Hey, kiddo--that's your past, but still our future. For us, those events haven't happened yet--and maybe now they won't!" ("What Was That?!!" by Claremont, Romita Jr. and Green).

[5] This makes Rachel one of the few Marvel characters to share the experience of some of the "excess" survivors of DC's Crisis on Infinite Earths.  In particular, Power Girl (the Supergirl of Earth 2) has her origin rewritten repeatedly in the aftermath of Crisis, before her confusion about her own superfluity becomes a plot point in the run up to Infinite Crisis.  Unlike Rachel, Power Girl is haunted by a vanished world that was actually livable, and also be the possibility that it (or a version of it) might still be out there, somewhere in the multiverse.  The differences between their dilemmas highlights the primary difference in Marvel and DC multiplicity during the late 20th century:  DC relies on multiple earths in multiple dimensions, while Marvel explore alternate timelines that could be possible for the main Marvel Earth.

Next: Momma was a Genocidal Cosmic Bird Goddess

Casting out the Ghost

But sustained human contact is far in Rogue's future (even this particular encounter with Storm ends in disaster, through no fault of her own).  Throughout Claremont's initial run on the X-Men, Rogue,  on top of every other horrible aspect of her predicament, is a teenage virgin doomed to isolation and celibacy, sharing headspace with a grown woman who has the memories and feelings associated with the presumably active and fulfilling sex life that Rogue  thinks she can never have. When Carol manifests again, this time entirely taking over Rogue's body with her assent, it is in a scenario that once again involves rescuing a man with whom Carol shares a past (Wolverine), but also echoes Carol's own experience with sexual assault.

In Uncanny X-Men 236 (Chris Claremont and Marc Silvestri), the X-Men have invaded the authoritarian island nation of Genosha, where mutants are enslaved and transformed in the interest of the country's prosperity. In the course of the battle, Rogue is de-powered and imprisoned.  She is also treated roughly by the guards, and Claremont's narration makes clear just how traumatic this is for her:

All they did was touch her.

Rude hands, ruder glances---taunting promises of worse to come.

She couldn't stop them,

For so long, she dreamed of being able to touch another person without her power absorbing his/her psyche.

To hold, to caress, to kiss, just like any other--normal--teenage girl.

In those dreams, it was the most beautiful of moments.

She never imagined being handled against her will.

Rogue withdraws from the world, trapped in her own psyche. [1] Her mind reacts to the assault by confronting her with all the psychic residues other people she has ever touched (and whose psyches she has absorbed); they all want a piece of her. The only thing standing in their way is...Ms. Marvel. She, of course, is more than a residue, and she offers her help out of enlightened self-interest (they share a body, after all). Rogue must agree to let her take over, and to trust that Carol will yield control later.  It makes sense that she is able to cope with what Rogue cannot: she is a mature adult with more life experience, including surviving trauma of her own (i.e., Marcus).  After the fight is over, she and Rogue seem to have reached an accommodation, with Carol taking over now and then when Rogue is in pain. Their detente is remarkable, but also consistent with one of Claremont's ongoing themes: the power of female solidarity.

It is also short-lived.  Even during the Genosha adventure, Uncanny X-Men was gearing up for a huge crossover, Inferno, which would be the culmination of years worth of plotlines,  none of which featured Rogue very strongly.  This was the third such crossover in just over three years, following The Mutant Massacre and Fall of the Mutants, the second of which had set up a new status quo for the X-Men. Now believed dead, they worked out of Australia, but had access to the entire world thanks to the aid of the silent Aborigine mutant Gateway, who could teleport them wherever they wanted to go. Inferno aside, Uncanny X-Men was somewhat rudderless, alternating between the main X-Men in Australia and a group of second-stringers possessed by the Shadow King on Moira MacTaggart's Muir Island.

Two years after Inferno, Claremont uses the convenient magical device called the Siege Perilous to reset the X-Men. The Siege had been given to them by the goddess Roma as the gateway to a second chance if things worked out poorly for them in Australia.  Through a complicated set of circumstances, the X-Men go through the Seige, most of them starting new lives, with only Rogue seeming to pick up more or less where she left off. Uncanny X-Men 269 ("Rogue Redux" by Claremont and Jim Lee) follows Rogue after the Siege has done its work on her. Back in Australia, she is suddenly confronted by Ms. Marvel, apparently back in an independently functioning body, while Rogue discovers she no longer has Carol's old powers.

It is thus implied that the Siege has done its work as a "get out of jail free" card for Rogue after all. Instead of removing her memory (as it does with Colossus), or putting her in a situation where she can be brainwashed and have her mind transplanted into the body of a Japanese ninja (Psylocke; don't ask), Rogue gets to be truly herself, with Ms. Marvel as a ghost rattling insider her consciousness.. Unfortunately, only one of their bodies can survive. Even less fortunately, Ms. Marvel finds herself a captive of the X-Men team enslaved by the Shadow King on Muir Island,  Now when Ms. Marvel finds Rogue again, not only is her body falling apart, but she is throughly evil and bloodthirsty.  This circumstance (which really does come out of left field) removes the moral ambiguity in the fight between these two women; for once, Rogue is not the aggressor, and Ms. Marvel is the villain. Even here, though, Rogue is spared further moral compromise: the killing blow comes not from her, but from Magneto (moral compromise's poster boy in the X-Men's world).

Is this a satisfactory resolution to Rogue's trauma and overall psychological troubles? Not in the least.  It is, however, entirely consistent with the Siege Perilous as a plot device.  The Siege allows Claremont to reset any scenario that has become too tedious (as the Australian years certainly had).  Part of that reset is to bring down the overall level of trauma to a more manageable scale.  The moment when Roma gives the Siege to the X-Men is its own moment of reset. It's not just that the X-Men have all died and come back to life in their fight against the Adversary--for the X-Men, dying and coming back to life is an ordinary Wednesday.  Nearly all of them had been stuck on a darker path since the Inferno event, and were wearing their trauma on their sleeve:  Ororo had only just regained her powers after more than three years real time; Madelyne Pryor had lost her husband to his first love, her baby to unknown kidnappers, and her life to the same enemies who faked her death; and Dazzler had had Destiny's golden mask fused to her face with a magical dagger that remained protruding from her forehead.  The reset was a gift to both the characters and the writers.

The abrupt disappearance of Carol Danvers from Rogue's does not turn out to be a guarantee of happiness and mental stability, but it does allow Rogue to develop as a character in ways that are no longer dependent on her dual selves.  Over the next decades, she will grow more confident, both professionally and romantically, even leading a joint team of X-Men and Avengers.  The fact that new writers inevitably re-traumatize Rogue (usually through the use of her powers) could be seen as a lack of imagination, but a more charitable reading is that Rogue, as a character, allows for the possibility of real psychological progress while never succumbing to the illusion of a permanent cure.

Note

[1] Claremont is curiously fond of this motif.  Professor Xavier, Gabrielle Haller, Emma Frost, and Magneto have all suffered a similar affliction.

Next: Daughter from Another Mother

The Three Faces of Rogue

In Rogue, Claremont finds the perfect vehicle for so many of his preoccupations: trauma, certainly, but also duality: when Jean Grey says that part of her wants one thing, while another part wants something different, she may be speaking metaphorically (though she may also be speaking about the Phoenix Force), but Rogue is actually trying to cope with having two different people inside her head.  While at times this can look like Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), there is a crucial difference.  A person with DID develops alters in response to trauma, but these alters stem from the core self.  Rogue's "alter" not only did not come from within herself; she is a completely different person with her own life experiences.  Moreover, the Carol persona is the source of trauma rather than a mechanism for defense.  Carol is the trauma, and, as a continued presence in Rogue's head, she is trauma as an ongoing process.  She is also a constant reminder of Rogue's own guilty: Carol's presence as a source of emotional pain is simultaneous the absence that torments the original Carol Danvers.  The former Ms. Marvel's terrible loss is Rogue's unbearable excess.

Throughout the first few years of Rogue's presence on the team, Claremont uses Carol's spectral presence sparingly.  When she first explains her problem in Uncanny X-Men 171, we only have her description of her personality problem, rather than a direct representation of her experience.  Most of the time, Rogue's psychological troubles manifest through her fear of physical contact and concomitant sense of isolation.  But on three significant occasions, Carol's persona takes center stage.

Nearly a year after she joins the X-Men, "Madness" (Uncanny X-Men 182, with art by John Romita Jr and Dan Green) starts out as a solo Rogue story before demonstrating the impossibility of the idea: Rogue is never really solo.  The issue begins on an unusually carefree note for Rogue, as she flies back to Westchester from Japan (where the X-Men were teleported at the end of the first Secret Wars event).  But she is also exhausted, and her guard is down.  When she hears a voicemail from Michael Rossi, Carol's former espionage partner and lover, she flies off to rescue a man whom she has never actually met.  As she breaks her way into the helicarrier where he is held captive, she still thinks and acts like Rogue, until she catches sight of the injured Rossi. Without realizing it, she immediately takes on Carol's voice and Boston accent, not to mention her life experience, telling him: "Me and the bad penny, lover, forever popping up where and when least expected."

The rest of the issue is a two-person psychodrama--three, if we count not just Rogue and Rossi, but Carol.   What makes it all so compelling is the lack of clear boundaries between Rogue and Carol. Rogue is dissociating,  and there are moments when she seems to be speaking entirely in one voice or the other, but they appear to be experiencing "co-consciousness;" rather than blacking out and being unaware of what happens, "Rogue" and "Carol" are this point different modes adopted by the body's core self.  She reacts to Rossi with Carol's love, memories, and attitudes, but her own body reminds her that she is Rogue (she lacks Carol's scars and is much younger).  Fleeing the house where she has brought Rossi to recover, Rogue briefly experiences Carol's childhood, which brings her fleeting moments of happiness, but soon her tour of Carol's life forces her to re-experience the core trauma  of her assault on Ms. Marvel, this time  from both sides.  This is the essence of her torture: she is always Rogue, guilty for her actions and suffering the consequences, and she is also always Carol, an entirely different woman whose emotional life is available only to Rogue.  She tells Rossi, "Ah'm Carol--in all the ways that counts!" but Rossi rejects her: "I wish there was some way to make you pay for what you've done. / I wish I had the power to kill you." Rogue's response is perfect: "So do I, my love. / So do I."  Her Southern accent is missing; she is speaking in Carol's voice, for both of them.

It makes sense that the contrast between the eighteen-year-old Rogue and the thirtysomething Carol comes to a head during an encounter with a man Carol loved.  Though Rogue is repeatedly depicted as sensual and playful (basking in male attention while wearing a bikini in Uncanny X-Men 185 ("Public Enemy!", with art by John Romita, Jr and Dan Green)), her powers render impossible the kind of intimacy that is so central to the memories and emotions of the more mature Carol.  Any skin-to-skin contact initiates the transfer of abilities, thoughts, and feelings, but again and again, Rogue activates her powers by kissing. A twenty-first century reader might find this disturbingly non-consensual, but that is in keeping with the nature of Rogue's mutation: consent is rarely involved.

Her first playful, romantic encounter with a boy was also the first time her powers activated, leaving him comatose; kissing as a weapon is a reenactment of the adolescent trauma her mutation caused her. It is also one of the few moments that she can experience the physical contact she has been denied since puberty.  Her bungled attack on Ms. Marvel, then, could easily be understood as a metaphor for sexual assault, were it not for the fact that the entire episode was part of Claremont's attempt to recover the character after the assault on her in Avengers 200.  When Carol regains consciousness and selfhood with the aid of Professor Xavier, it is the Avengers she needs to confront, not Rogue.  Their actions were a betrayal of trust and friendship; Rogue was an opponent she barely knew. 

During a heartfelt conversation between Rogue and Storm in "Public Enemy!"  (showing just how much progress the two have made with each other since Storm's initial declaration that she would leave the X-Men if Rogue were inducted), Storm realizes for the first time exactly how closed off Rogue has been: "Rogue--has every exercise of your power been an act of violence? Has no one ever given himself of his own free will?" Ororo lets Rogue take her hand and experience her world without resisting, and it is a revelation.  Though the contact is not explicitly sexual, it is certainly consistent with Claremont's long-running lesbian subtexts (Storm and Yukio, for instance), and it offers a small bit of hope that Rogue can find a way to make real human contact.

Next: Casting out the Ghost

Going Rogue

Exactly a year after Avengers 200 sent Carol off to Limbo, Avengers Annual 10 (written by Claremont, with Michael Golden on pencils) brought her back in a story aptly titled "By Friends---Betrayed!" Claremont's response to the original story, which left no room for Carol's subjectivity (or even her basic feelings), was to lean into that basic denial of selfhood. When Spider-Woman rescues a mysterious blonde woman thrown off the Golden Gate Bridge, it takes some time to identify her as Carol Danvers, and even longer as Ms. Marvel. Her mind has been completely erased; it is only with the help of Charles Xavier does she get most of her memories back. Xavier, as Claremont's surrogate, literally rebuilds her character. During a fight with Rogue, the two were in physical contact for too long. Normally, Rogue's absorption of powers and memories lasts a limited time, but now the transfer is permanent.

It would only be in Rogue's next appearance that we learn that the experience was traumatizing for her; Avengers Annual 10, quite understandably, focuses on Carol.  In a book full of fight scenes (primarily with the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants), it is in Carol's confrontation with the Avengers in the last six pages that the real drama unfolds.  Carol's weapon of choice is words (although she does actually slap Thor in the face at one point); the Avengers also speak, of course, but their words are, as in Avengers 200, cringeworthy misfires. Hawkeye the archer is particularly off the mark: "What happened to Marcus? After you left with him, we didn't expect to see you two lovebirds again."  Carol explains what should have been obvious: Marcus (now dead) brainwashed her:

There I was, pregnant by an unknown source, running through a nine-month term literally overnight--confused, terrified, shaken to the core of my being as a hero, a person, a woman.

I turned to you for help, and I got jokes The Wasp thought it was great, and the Beast offered to play teddy bear. Your concerns were for the baby, not for how it came to be--nor of the cost to me of that conception.

You took everything Marcus said at face value. You didn't question, you didn't doubt, you simply let me go with a smile and a wave and a bouncy bon voyage.

At this point, her personality only recently reconstructed and her powers gone, all that is left of Carol Danvers is her trauma. Claremont immediately starts the long process of reconstructing her, bringing Carol into the X-Men's supporting cast for a year's time.  She confronts the still-villainous Rogue again in The Uncanny X-Men 158 ("The Life that Late I Led...", by Claremont and Cockrum), and, on a mission to remove all record of the X-Men from government databases, erases her own double identity's personal files as well ("the women they represent...are strangers"), determined to "begin my life anew."  Which she does, but, once again, through unspeakable suffering: when the X-men are captured by the alien Brood, her strange genetic make-up encourages them to experiment on her ("Though she is experiencing supposedly unendurable pain, she remains aware of all that transpires" (Uncanny X-Men 163, "Rescue Mission," by Claremont and Cockrum).  After her rescue, she undergoes a transformation that gives her powers that are "the functional equivalent of a star" (Uncanny X-Men 164, "Binary Star," by Claremont and Cockrum). 

At this point, Carol's days with the X-Men are numbered.  Once back on Earth, with her ill-defined cosmic power set, the newly-Christened "Binary" could be just as difficult to fit into a team dynamic as Phoenix was, but with less reason for inclusion (Carol is not a mutant).  Claremont has one last chance to explore Carol's trauma and recovery before handing her off to others; in Issue 171, "Rogue," with guest pencils by Walt Simonson, Carol visits her parents, frustrated that, while she has most of her memories, "there are no emotions to go along with them."   She returns to the X-Mansion, only to find that the teams has inducted Rogue as their newest member.  Naturally, a fight ensues, ending in an eerie parallel with Avengers Annual 10:  Carol tells the team that she feels hurt and betrayed, and leaves.[1]

"Rogue" packs in more trauma per panel than any other X-Men story to date, featuring characters who are all trying and failing to recover. In the previous issue, Storm had just won leadership of the outcast mutants known as the Morlocks after stabbing the previous leader, Callisto, in a duel; now Callisto can barely stand. Scott Summer's new lover, Madelyne Prior, is having nightmares about the plane rash she survived, while Charles Xavier is unable to beat the phantom pain that prevents him from using his new, cloned body to its potential.  Storm is so out of sorts that she can't water her plants without killing them, and ends the issue contemplating leaving the X-Men.[2]. But the main victim of trauma this issue, as well as its primary source, is the character who gives the story its title: Rogue.

Still suffering the aftereffects of her extended exposure to Ms. Marvel, she now has even less control over her powers than before (a problem exacerbated by Mastermind's unseen manipulation).  Already obliged to cover her entire body lest she accidentally steal someone's memory or powers through casual contact, now she cannot distinguish between Carol's memories and her own. Most of the X-Men are unmoved by her plight, but Xavier insists that it is their responsibility to help any mutant who needs training.  By the issue's end, Storm is considering quitting the team rather than tolerate Rogue's presence.

Rogue is quite likely Claremont's most successful rehabilitation of an antagonist; unlike Magneto, once she takes the X-Men's side, she never leaves.  Claremont's real achievement, however, is making Rogue sympathetic, to the point of turning her into one of the most prominent X-Men characters throughout the entire transmedia franchise.  She is a compelling combination of strength (nearly all of Ms. Marvel's powers, plus her own) and vulnerability (the aftermath of her absorption of Carol's personality along with the loneliness of her existence).   She is a modern update of Cyclops, but one whose inner life amounts to more than just repression.

Notes

[1] Carol's ongoing recovery would become an important part of the next four decades (!) of storylines.  After she loses her Binary powers and is reduced to her former Ms Marvel levels, Kurt Busiek has her rejoin the Avengers and quickly develop an alcohol problem.  Once she gets her alcoholism under control, another unfortunate storyline  forces her to confront an alternate version of Marcus, whom she forgives.    Brian Reed's Ms. Marvel series sees her make her peace with Rogue, while most of the stories written about Carol as Captain Marvel emphasize her strength rather than her damage, even as she loses her memories (again), develops a brain tumor, and reevaluates everything she knows about her family.

[2] She is  also only a few months away from an adventure in Japan that inspires her to adopt a leather-heavy punk look and ditch her knee-length hair for a mohawk.

Next: The Three Faces of Rogue