The Bringer of Old Age

Spaceship to Saturn
Hugh Walters

In 1775, a Dutch American named Rip Van Winkle had slightly too much to drink. He woke up, twenty years later, to find that he had missed the War of Independence. Captain America fell into the Arctic Ocean at the height of World War II and wasn't defrosted until the swinging sixties. His namesake, Anthony "Buck" Rogers fared rather worse, falling into a gas induced coma in 1929 and emerging in the eponymous twenty fifth century.

The idea of suspended animation has been around since forever: but the idea of deliberately freezing people seems only to have come into vogue in the 1960s. In '64, Arthur C Clarke was confidently assuring TV audiences that in the near future Science! would be able to freeze sick people while they were still alive, and keep them on ice until the cure was found for whatever ailed them. In the same year, another science fiction writer, one Robert Ettinger, popularised the idea of cryonics -- freezing corpses in the sure and certain hope of a future resurrection. His book, the Prospect of Immortality, had been self-published in 1962, so Clarke may well have been aware of it. It was commercially published and circulated by the Book of the Month Club in 1964 -- the same year Stan Lee defrosted Captain America.

By the Summer of Love, the idea of cryogenic freezing was distinctly in the atmosphere. EC Tubb published the first of his infinitely prolonged Dumerest series in 1967: it envisages a galactic empire in which impoverished travellers can book "cold passage" in the holds of starships. (It was a major source for the Traveller role-playing game.) In that same year, Doctor Who discovered his enemies, the Cybermen, in frozen tombs on the planet Telos.  Spaceship crews are seen emerging from cold storage at the ends of long space voyages in 2001: A Space Odyssey and Planet of the Apes (both 1968); and Phillip K Dick uses cryogenics as a means of life-extension in his iconic Ubik in 1969.

It may not be a coincidence that heavy smoking Walter Elias Disney died of lung cancer in December 1966. A few months later (early 1967) a tabloid journalist created the urban myth that Uncle Walt's body had been placed in cold storage and that in 1975, the animator would be reanimated. (He was, in fact, prosaically cremated a few days after his passing.) 1967 was also the year the Pirates of the Caribbean theme-park ride opened: the myth states that Disney's time-capsule is buried beneath it. The spot is presumably marked by an X. 

And it was in that same year Hugh Walters published this tenth volume of his juvenile SF series. On this occasion, he was riding the zeitgeist. He might even have been slightly in advance of it.

*

The central Peril in Mission to Mercury was the cold. The side of the planet facing away from the sun is absolute zero, which is very nearly as cold as it is possible to be. (Does that work? Does a planet which is very close to the sun but permanently facing the other way?) As everyone starts to get quite chilly Tony speculates about whether extreme cold could ever have a practical use.

As he looked again at each of his companions, Tony wondered how long it would be before human beings were deliberately frozen for long voyages. When the break out of the solar system came and Man decided to cross the fantastic distances to the stars, it would be necessary to put the crew into cold storage. Even with the terrific speeds obtainable from the ion motor, the journey to the nearest star would take several years. Scientists believed that by freezing the crew they could save food, oxygen, and -- above all -- boredom. The crew would be automatically de-frosted as the voyage neared its end. To them it would seem that the journey had been a very short one, for they would be unaware of the lapse of time during their period of suspended animation.

The present volume begins with our heroes walking through London's Hyde Park in January (by my count 1973 -- six years in the future.)

"Gosh, it's cold" exclaimed Tony to his three companions.

Walters doesn't really do subtlety. Serge says that it's not as cold as it would be in Russia, and Chris says that it's not as cold as it was on Mercury. When they arrive at dear old Uncle George's offices, he tells them that their next jaunt will be Saturn-wards and that the journey will take some nine months each way. (It only took them twenty days to get to Jupiter, which is only a couple of hundred million miles closer, but who is keeping score?) 

This is obviously going to be quite a problem: how is our author expected to fill a year and a half's worth of pages with character-free astronauts killing time with each other. Very ironically, the solution will be....to freeze them.

I wonder if Walters was consciously foreshadowing Spaceship to Saturn when he allowed Tony to muse about deep-frozen astronauts in the previous volume? Better writers than him strip mine previous books when looking for inspiration for their new one.

Rather endearingly, our heroes have stopped using Junior School level science books to learn about their destinations: nowadays they go to the London Planetarium and have it explained by one of the kindly curators there. The Planetarium is right next to Madam Tussauds: Walters misses a trick by not allowing the boys to drop in and see if Chris's wax effigy is standing in the space occupied by Yuri Gagarin in the real world.

But, as ever, Walters is almost totally uninterested in the planet from an astronomical or scientific point of view. It exists purely as a source of Peril. Space is magical: planets are uninteresting. The journey is everything: the arrival practically nothing. 

Our heroes must be getting pretty frustrated at this point in the careers. While other crews are routinely travelling to Mars and Venus all Chris and his friends ever seem to do is get fired at far-away objects and entirely fail to land on them. 

We are told that there are now a thousand people living permanently on the moon (they live underground and grow algae in tanks) but we get no sense of what an extraterrestrial city looks like. We are told (sensibly) that rockets are now launched from the moon (as opposed to Cape Kennedy or Woomera) because of the lower gravity; but we don't find out what the Saturn probe looks like. You would think that Cool Hardware would be the kind of thing a little boy would want to hear about, but literally all we get is:

The Commander took the astronauts on a moving roadway along a tunnel leading to the launching hall. In the centre Saturn I stood proudly awaiting the finishing touches, its tall, silver shape towering towards the cavern roof.

The launch passes without comment (the crew are asleep) and space is signalled using Walters' standard cliches. ("The black velvet space was sprinkled with countless points of light.... ") Like many a bad poet, he thinks drifting into cod archaisms can be substituted for description: the rings of Saturn consist of "myriads of points of light" and the rings themselves are made up of "myriad points of light". And unlike other visitors to the planetarium, the astronauts have seen the stars "and myriads more" from space.

Once again, the main source of peril for the boys is the force of gravity. The one thing that everybody knows about Saturn is that it has Rings. The Boffins are pretty sure that the Rings are fragments of exploded moons -- myriads and myriads of them, I shouldn't wonder -- or else several myriads of particles of space dust that have been drawn into the planet's orbit. But what doesn't occur to the Boffins until it is too late is that all those myriads of space debris are going to exert a gravitational pull of their own. We are told they have a mass almost as great as the actual planet; so the ship is pulled off course towards Certain Death. 

This week it is young Tony the engineer's turn to say I'm-going-out-and-I-may-be-gone-some-time. At the point at which the ship's course has to be corrected, he's on a space walk, trying to fix a hole made by a stray meteor. If Chris fire's the retro rockets, Tony will die. If he doesn't, everyone will die. And Tony has self-sacrificingly and nobly and recklessly pretended that his radio has broken, so he can't be ordered back on board. ("Two can play at that game, Horatio" he thinks, which is such a good joke that Walters has to explain it to us readers.) Walters uses the usual morbid imagery to drive home how much Certain Death we are dealing with:

If Chris fired the rocket he would be condemning Tony to death instantly...

She shrunk from the task of conveying Tony's death warrant...

It seemed to be writing Tony's death warrant....

The solution is actually pretty dramatic. Chris allows the spaceship to fall towards the planet, giving Tony time, just barely, to get back inside; and then he fires the retro thrusters and does some precision manoeuvring to navigate the ship through Cassini's Devision (the narrow space between the rings) and onward home to earth. 

Which ought to feel somewhere between James Kirk and James Bigglesworth: proper seat of your pants adventure stuff. It needs to be an ILM special effects sequence, or at least a Chris Achilleos cover. But in fact we are pretty much just told what the plan is, that it's hugely risky; but that in the end, it works okay.

In this respect, Walters is probably quite in step with the Serious Grown Up Writers of his day. Your Asimovs and your Blishes are full of mind-boggling concepts like galaxy wide empires and wandering hobo cities...but they never quite get around to telling you what one of their great big ideas would look or feel or smell like.

*

Spaceship to Saturn is almost entirely procedural, and all the better for it. The original Blast Off At Woomera is essentially a novel about a school boy being trained for a space mission; and as the characters become more and more experienced and the missions more and more routine, it's been harder and harder to make pre-launch preparations seem particularly interesting. This time around, Walters spends a full hundred and thirty pages -- two third of the book -- introducing readers to the idea of cryogenic suspended animation, or, as he charmingly calls it hypothermia, a word which makes me think of old ladies who can't afford to pay their central heating bills. 

I'd seen the Planet of the Apes TV show and read comic book adaptations of the movie: possibly I'd even seen Ark in Space. So the idea wasn't exactly new to me. But Walters takes it very slowly -- giving some thought to how "hypothermia" would work; and playing around speculatively with what could be done with it. The cryonic immortalists tend to think that merely freezing a dead person is sufficient -- if you can stop a body decaying, it will be revivable at some point further down the timeline. Walters spots the problems with this and comes up with some solutions. The subject has what is described as "anti-freeze" injected into his body -- otherwise his bodily fluids would freeze solid. He has a small stent fixed into his arm, so that they can pump in just enough oxygen to stop his brain cells dying. A tiny little pacemaker is introduced into his artery, so that the blood carries on circulating even though the heart has been switched off. 

Are you convinced? I certainly was.

Walters is fascinated by the whole idea of suspended animation. What would it feel like? He pushes the idea that being frozen is a kind of non-time -- weeks or months simply edited out of your life. The first time Chris is woken up, he thinks the experiment has been cancelled: he has no sense of having been asleep at all. Tony is intrigued by the idea that repeated periods of deep freeze could result in a child being "older" than its father. "And a man of twenty one, if he were put to sleep for forty-four years, would have his old age pension when he awoke." It would be terrible to wake up and find that your relatives were all old or dead but fascinating to witness all the scientific advances that would have been made in the intervening period. The idea of interstellar travel keeps being raised. Would a spaceship be forgotten during a journey of centuries? No: because there would probably be statues and monuments to the departed astronauts; and because take-off and landing would be automated in the far-future. But the returning astronauts might be themselves museum specimens by the time they return. These are all ideas that whole science fiction stories could, and have, been based on. (The idea of monuments is specifically raised in the opening minutes of Planet of the Apes.) But it was heady stuff if you are ten years old and coming across it for nearly the first time.

Rather neatly, the plot device from the last book is combined with the plot device from this one. The Boffins detect an unexpected meteor shower between earth and Saturn, and very nearly call the whole thing off. The crew can't make course corrections while they are in deep freeze, and the time lag means the boffins can't do it by remote control.

GOOD NEWS: We established last year that telepathy is instantaneous, and Gail and Gill are happy to lend their service to UNEXA again.

BAD NEWS: The twin on the space ship will still have to be frozen, and frozen telepaths just transmit a kind of mental static.

GOOD NEWS: This mental static is affected by external stimuli, even when the telepath is asleep.

SOLUTION: Freeze both girls. Hook them up to EEG monitors. Apply a slight physical stimulus -- a tiny pin prick, not a slap round the face to Girl A, and see the needle on Girl B's EEG reader jump. Given an afternoon's work, the Boffins can sort out a system where the ships remote sensor reading; and Mission Controls course collections can be translated into systems of pin pricks, and voila! instant faster-than-light communication.

We sometimes complained that Star Trek's only female officer was not-much-more than a radio operator: here the only female characters have been reduced to the status of the actual radio set. But it's a weirdly logical solution to a genuine narrative problem, and the idea of an astronaut in cold storage with a big set of electrodes attached to their helmet has a certain Golden Age charm to it. For the electrodes to work, the telepaths have to have a special chemical goo rubbed into their scalps -- which leads to endless, tedious  running jokes about girls, shampoo and hairdressers.

But despite the set up, hypothermia is only a narrative facilitator: nothing actually comes of it in the story. The ship does indeed encounter meteors and the Boffins are indeed able to change its direction via telepathic remote control. The only Peril kicks in when Chris, er, nearly wipes out his entire crew by forgetting to inject them with anti-freeze at the beginning of the return voyage. He wants to admit the cock-up when he gets home and resign, but his friends characteristically say that they are all to blame and should face the music together. Chris reciprocally refrains from tittle-tattling about Tony's lying and disobeying orders when he switched his helmet off.

*

Hopefully, by now everyone has forgotten Planet Narnia. You will recall that Michael Ward theorised at vast length that the seven volumes of C.S Lewis's Narnia series are each themed around one of the seven planets of medieval astrology, and that Lewis hid this fact, and indeed laid a false trail, because he wanted to make a theological point about secrecy. Lewis didn't believe in astrology but he did see the value of the planetary archetypes; so the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe is meant to evoke, through its "atmosphere" the concept of Joviality;  the Silver Chair is supposed to invoke a Lunar, and indeed Lunatic ambience. Opinion is divided on the validity of the book. I think it is complete bollocks, but everyone else (including a lot of eminent Lewisians) thinks it's a work of seminal genius.

Now: I find it hard to believe that Hugh Walters knew anything about medieval astrology. He doesn't show that much interest in the romantic or imaginative associations of the planets. He does a whole book about Mars without alluding to the God of War once. (He doesn't even mention the man in the moon, lovers under a blue moon in June, or the possibility of finding green cheese on earth's sattelite.) But he probably studied a smattering of Classics; and would certainly have been familiar with Holst's Planets. You can bet that Chris Godfrey sang I Vow To Thee My Country at his posh school. Your CD of the Planets Suite almost certainly has a NASA photo of Saturn or Jupiter on the cover; but the music is specifically evoking the planet's astrological meanings. Mars is the bringer of War, with all those drums; the ethereal choral music is meant to evoke Neptune, not as a sea-god, but a mystic.

We noticed last time around that Walters' Mission to Mercury was very much concerned with the problem of sending messages home when you are several light-minutes away from earth; and that mythologically Mercury is the messenger of the gods. I was happy to write this off as coincidence. The whole point of astrology is that any symbol can be convincingly applied to a wide variety of different circumstances. But turning to the latest volume, I am not so sure. 

The very minor character on whom the hypothermia process is first tested, is amused because he is now technically younger than his twin brother. Gail and Gil are concerned that if they go on the mission, they will miss their twenty first birthdays; and are adamant that they are both frozen for the exact same length of time as each other; otherwise they won't be twins any more. There is speculation about using cryogenics as a system of time-travel. And when the idea of hypothermia goes public, a millionaire offers a fortune to use it to infinitely prolong his own life. His scheme is to be frozen, and then woken up for one day a century.

Our heroes are getting older: Chris can hardly be less than 33, and we've been told that 40 is the compulsory retirement age for astronauts. It would be a stretch to suggest that in this book, what is dragging our heroes to certain death is not myriads and myriads of tiny moonlets, but Time itself -- their own mortality, represented by the planet Cronos. But it is hard not to notice that a book so much preoccupied with the passage of time, with birthdays, and in particular with the cessation of the aging process is named after Holst's Bringer of Old Age.

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The Winged Messenger

Mission to Mercury

by Hugh Walters

Mission to Mercury is essentially the same book as Journey to Jupiter. The heroes travel to an alien planet; they meet with a terrible disaster and certain death; and they return to earth again. But this time, they encounter a strange new life-form -- more terrifying than Venusian goo or psychic Martian ghosts. More uncanny even than East End teddy boys.

They are going have to share their adventure with....a girl.

Actually, there was a "girl" in the last book. She was a PhD student at Jodrell Bank, who happened to be on duty when one of the boys' distress messages came through. Quite a canny little interlude on Mr Walters part, actually: take us away from the space-ship mid-crisis, and introduce a completely new character who we'll never hear from again, simply so we can see what urgent distress messages are like from the boffin's point of view. Neatly gets the point across that picking ups transmissions from a gadzillion miles away is harder than just clicking Receive on a walkie talkie, and also generates a bit of suspense. And Janet is not a stereotype or anything. She keeps some knitting in her hold-all to pass the time when on a routine watch. (As opposed to, say, for example, some text-books.) Her boss, Sir William Evans is definitely a bloke. I bet he doesn't refer to the male interns as "Boy" and "Young Man". Or maybe he does. But at least there is a female speaking part when there didn't have to be. Contemporary reviewers had criticised Walters for not having any female characters, so this might have been a kind of apology.

So, anyway: Mercury. Closest planet to the Sun. Very hot on one side. Very cold on the other. And a really, really, really long way away.

A few years down the line, Douglas Adams would tell us that space is "really big" and we would all think he was terribly funny and terribly wise. But I do wonder, re-reading these books, whether the extreme bigness of space is one of the things which made the idea of astronauts so compelling. Why, after all, are stories about people spending days and days in cramped spaces en route to the Moon so much more exciting that stories about people stuck in similar tin cans several hundred leagues under the sea?

Not that stories about submarines aren't also cool. There is an intrinsic thrill in big cardboard boxes, dens and bunk-beds. The bottom of the ocean is as good a place as any to hide from homework and PE and tidying your bedroom. But there is a unique tingling-in-the-tummy sub-sexual thrill in the idea of being all alone in the vast immensity of dark blackness. A bit like that sensation when you come back to school in the evening for chess club and it is dark and empty and silent and all the lights are out and there is no-one there except maybe the caretaker.

Joseph Campbell said that the Immensity of Space was signifier for the Unconscious or the Final Incomprehensible Mystery or The Force. And Hugh Walters occasionally seems to have something like this in mind.

"For her own part she was still excited by the vision of the heavens that had been revealed to her. Now she was beginning to feel some of that mysterious attraction which starts and planets have for adventurers in space. Often she'd heard tell that once a person had journeyed across the threshold of space there was no turning back. The magic of the vast, empty silence acted as magic, drawing back all who ventured into those strange regions. No astronaut ever retired willingly. They were all hopeless addicted to the fascination, the excitement, the wonder of this new environment."

Space as a symbol of God would fit in well with his Church of England pieties and the idea of space travel as a form of human sacrifice.

Being in space is the exciting thing. Alien planets are pretty much all just cold lumps of rock.

But what with one thing and another and space being the size it is, communication with the home-world is a bit of a problem. In Journey to Jupiter we were told that it took thirteen minutes for a radio transmission to base, and thirteen minutes for base to reply. Moderate kudos to the author for making that difficulty the main plot engine of this eighth volume. I imagine it is coincidence that a story so concerned with the problems of sending and receiving messages is named after, er, the messenger of the gods. There was nothing very jovial in the last one, and the next one won't be any more deathly that usual. I suppose it is possible that the lack of any clear astrological symbolism is evidence that Walters disguised it in order to make a point about secrecy.

Sending messages to earth from space is difficult. The further away you are the longer it takes. Mercury is very far away indeed. And the solution proposed in these very-scientific and not-at-all pulpy stories is (drum-roll)...

Telepathy.

The Boffins introduce Chris and his pals to Gail and Gill, a pair of twins who can infallibly communicate by thought-transference. He has quite a lot of fun demonstrating how the power works, and everyone is just skeptical enough to convince us that it really does. I do think that Walters attention to trivial detail is what made the stories so engrossing. Gail goes to the bottom of the garden with Serge and Morrey and Chris asks Gill to ask Gail to ask them what was in the green box they took to Jupiter (something she couldn't possibly know) and Gail telepaths the answer back to Gill. (It was a dentistry kit; a cute detail that stuck in my mind when I first read it.) There was less sci-fi around in 1965, so maybe he thought school kids would need the idea of telepathy spelled out to them.

I, of course, took one look and said "Oh, just like in the Tomorrow People." I may even have created a mash-up in my little head.

Walters does not attempt any scientific rationale. Radio waves take time to travel through space because they are limited to the speed of light; but telepathy is instantaneous. Which suggests that thought waves are not subject to special relativity. Or that they work by magic which would be prima facie evidence of an immortal soul.

Walter's isn't interested in any of that. But as a plot device, it's relatively neat.

What the crew find it hard to get their head rounds is not so much thought-transference, but the existence of females. This is so over-done it's comical. Everyone pointedly spends a chapter wondering what the "two miracle men" will be like and hoping that the "new chap isn't a weirdy". The gender-reveal is an end-of-chapter cliffhanger:

"There was a new recruit all right...but it was a girl!"

"A girl! The gasp came from all four astronauts as they stared at their companion to be. A girl she certainly was, and quite a nice one at that..."

Now: there are lots of way this plot-line might have developed. You've introduced a fifth member into a tight-knit group who would happily lay down their lives for each other (if only the others would let them). And, worse the fifth member is one of a pair of twins, with a huge emotional bond to someone outside the group. Does the new member spoil the alls-boys-together space den? Are there new friendships and new jealousies? What about, you know, love? The obvious thing would be for Tony (who is around twenty four years old according to internal chronology) to develop a crush on one of the ladies. But in fact, his attitude is roughly that of Calvin to Suzie. When Gail exhibits some nervousness he thinks "maybe girls are always a bit scared". The twins are nice "even though they are girls". If only Walters could have remembered that Serge was a Russian long enough for there to be an argument about the greater degree of Women's Liberation in the Soviet Union!

And of course, any practical issue arising from a lady-person spending weeks in a tin can with four persons of the masculine persuasion can't be mentioned at all. There is the barest, tiniest, demurest, almost homeopathic suggestion that the situation has the potential for awkwardness:

"We've, er, rigged up a special compartment for Gail" Mr Gilanders said, a little awkwardly, nodding towards one side of the cabin.

But the head of the space programme immediately shuts the conversation down.

"Just in case you get tired of this lot" Sir George smiled. "At least you can get some privacy whenever you want it."

The actual reason is obviously completely unspeakable.

I recall a scene in one of Willard Price's unreconstructed Adventure books in which the the young hero, Roger, takes a shower naked on the deck of an all-male sailing ship and is tricked into thinking that a female woman of the opposite sex has come on board, to his acute comic embarrassment. Characters in children's fiction don't necessarily have to be entirely bodiless.

For a brief while, it looks as if there is going to be some characterisation: Tony is cross with Gail for being a girl and Morey is cross with Tony for being cross with Gail and Tony is cross with Morey for taking Gail's side and Chris is cross with them for being cross with each other. And then it turns out that cosmic rays from the sun are affecting their minds and it isn't really their fault at all.

The not entirely un-clever solution is to park the ship on the dark side of Mercury, where they are protected from the Sun's radiation, and sit it out until the sun-spot activity dies down. It is absolutely essential that they launch the ship at precisely the right moment, which would be impossible using time-lagged radio communication with earth: Gail's telepathic presence on the ship saves the day: but her flakiness is a major source of jeopardy. The dark side of Mercury faces away from the sun, so temperatures go right down to absolute zero, which is about as cold as it is possible to get. Everyone shivers and struggles and Gail falls into a coma. No-one actually threatens to kill themselves, but it is touch and go right up to the last moment...

But the main question the story has to answer is -- are boys better than girls? Better at being astronauts, at any rate? And, in fairness, Walters comes down heavy handedly on the correct side of the argument. In Moonbase One, Chris had a last-minute epiphany that Secondary Modern boys from the North who are good with their hands are just as worthwhile as Public School boys from the South with science degrees. Mission to Mercury ends with the sudden insight that he's been unfair to the fair sex. It is even possible that all the "you're doing quite well -- for a girl!" stuff is deliberately overdone. Maybe Walters is trying to provoke his readers into yelling "Of course girls can be spacemen, you silly old duffer!" in Chris and Tony's patronising faces.

But dear oh dear oh dear in order to get to the punch line we have to be subjected to the most agonisingly transparent plot device ever. It infuriated me when I was a kid and it infuriates me now. Gail and Gill are identical twins; Gail is the more identical of the two. When they go on a double date with the boys they even switch ID broaches, just to make the point about how identical they are. (One of my most bestest friends has a twin brother. Whatever Shakespeare might have told you, adult twins aren't that difficult to tell apart.)

The plan is that Gill will stay on earth and act as a receiver, while Gail travels with the boys and acts as a transmitter. So Gail, but only Gail, goes through the training regime, gets spun around in centrifuges and locked in isolation simulators and briefed about how to suck space food out of a space food tube. She copes pretty well with the training, for a girl. Just before take off, there is a near disaster -- Gill is involved in a car accident, breaking her leg. Fortunately, she's deemed well enough to fulfil her part of the mission from her hospital bed, with her leg in plaster, and the mission goes ahead. But Gail find it very difficult to withstand the high g-force blast off, despite all her training. She doesn't understand that she is meant to drink liquids through plastic tubes in zero-G, despite all her training. This surprises Chris a great deal. "Had something happened to her memory?....Why had Gail forgotten this when she'd already drunk from plastic tubes during training?" She falls asleep when an essential telepathic message is on it's way from earth, and Chris is as chivalrous as you'd expect:

"Gosh! What shall we do?" asked Tony.

Chris didn't reply. He was too busy slapping the girl's face.

Gail does haul herself back into consciousness long enough to send the crucial messages to set up the trip home. And the telepathic system of communication is deemed a roaring success. But Chris has to conclude that sending girls into space was a terrible mistake: "Although she seemed to have been well prepared....she has, in fact, lost the physical tone that had been built up. Indeed at I times I have wondered if her pre-flight training hasn't been completely wasted" he writes in the Captain's Log. "It just means you can't prepare and train girls as you can men." he tells Tony.

And then, when they get back to earth, there is a completely unexpected twist. In an entirely surprising and not at all telegraphed development, it turns out that....

Go on. See if you can guess. 

As ever: I am trying to make part of my living writing niche stuff which interests me, and if you think it is worth reading, it would be incredibly cool if you either subscribed to my Patreon (pledging $1 per short article) or bought me a metaphorical cup of coffee on Ko-Fi.

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I am doing three more essays on the children's sci fi books, and then start thinking about the Key To Time. Unless something else catches my eye...

The Bringer of Jollity

Journey to Jupiter

by Hugh Walters

When we left Chris Godfrey and his chums, a psychotic scientist was threatening the earth with an orbital death ray. The series started out in 1957 as a "realistic" yarn about a boy astronaut; but it seemed to have morphed into a collection of standard-issue space-opera tropes.

This eighth volume (only twelve more to go!) takes the series back to its roots. It's about a group of space-men going into space on a space rocket. Volume nine is going to involve a mission to Mercury. Volume ten will concern a spaceship to Saturn; but this time we are on a journey to Jupiter. Alliterative determinism will require that the Neptune expedition be a marginal failure.

Up to now, the lads have been shot into space for specific reasons -- to investigate possible extraterrestrial artefacts on the Moon; or to counter a terrible grey ooze from Venus -- but this time, they are off on a jaunt to Jupiter because that's the kind of thing chaps like them do.

Where previous volumes have taken us meticulously through the training process, this one cuts right to the chase. Everyone is on their launch couches; the countdown is underway, and the very first line of the book is "Jupiter, here we come!"

Modern screen-writers might call it a "bottle episode": a group of characters stuck in very close proximity, so their personalities can come into sharp focus. But Walters' heroes don't really have personalities. They are just astronauts. Chris is the leader-astronaut. The point of him used to be that he was a young schoolboy, but now he's the boring grown up one. Morrey is the American-astronaut, but Walters no longer remembers to make him say "Gee whiz!" and "Sure!". Serge is the Russian astronaut but he has no discernible Soviet characteristics. Tony is the working-class-good-with-his-hands-chirpy-astronaut. Despite internal chronology placing him in his early twenties, he knows less science than the average eleven year old. But he can whistle really well, which comes in handy when they need to send a message by Morse code.

The four of them are "the closest possible friends". Not only that, but there is also an "an inseparable bond between them". And they are very brave. "Each had given up counting the number of times his life had been saved by one or other of his companions", Walters tells us. And furthermore "Each of them had saved the lives of the others on many occasions". And in case you haven't got the point yet. "Each knew that he would gladly give his own life to save that of a friend."

The book isn't as pious as the previous volumes. But Walters has a very specific moral compass. Heroism always comes down to conscious self-sacrifice. Greater love hath no man, as the fellow said.

Walters is still fairly interested in keeping his internal chronology straight. Morrey mentions that it is eleven or twelve years since he first met Chris. Well: the books have been published annually since 1957, and Morrey first appeared in Operation: Columbus which came out in 1959. There's a six-year story-internal gap between Moonbase One and Expedition Venus (to give Tony a chance to grow up) which places Journey to Jupiter in or about 1971 -- which is indeed eleven or twelve years after 1959.

There is also some suggestion that the author is doing some minimal world-building. Three volumes ago, our heroes discovered the remains of a lost civilisation on Mars. In this volume, a consignment of scientists and archaeologists are on their way to investigate the ruins in more detail. And this is said to be the third expedition: Walters is imagining multiple interplanetary missions each year. The Captain of the Mars mission speaks of a "brotherhood" of astronauts: we are no longer talking about a minuscule number of test-pilots, but a fairly large professional body. The fraternity has an "unwritten law" that "one astronaut should sacrifice all -- even life itself -- to succour another." 

I summarised the plot of volume one (Blast Off At Woomera!) as "Boy goes up in rocket; boy comes down in rocket". Journey to Jupiter establishes a definite formula for the next few books. "Chaps go to to alien planet. Chaps meet with catastrophic disaster. Chaps face certain death. Chaps come back from alien planet."

I don't mean to knock it. Well, I do mean to knock it, but not too hard. Walters is not very good at writing. He can never resist reaching for a cliche. Rockets "raise themselves on deafening tails of fire." Stars look like "countless points of light shining brilliantly against a black velvet backcloth." When our heroes receive a hopeful message from earth it "brings forth peals of laughter" until "tears were coursing down their cheeks." And, of course, people "announce", "muse", "grumble", "laugh" and "point out" things that they could perfectly well have just "said".

He doesn't have much of an imagination. You might think that the point of sending your heroes on a journey to Jupiter is to imagine what Jupiter would look like close up; or else to engage in scientific conjecture about what one might discover if one dived into that stripy atmosphere. But Walters' knowledge of and interest in the planet doesn't extend far beyond the Ladybird Book of the Solar System which the heroes dutifully recite to each other in the opening pages. ("Jupiter takes nearly twelve years to travel round the Sun but it spins round on its axis faster than any other planet.") He seems reluctant to send his heroes into the atmosphere of Jupiter because no-one knows what they would really find there and he doesn't want to be caught making stuff up. No giant floating jelly fish; no sword-wielding skeleton men. The pals end up merely landing on Io. Which turns out to be just like the Moon, only spikier. 

So, the plot amounts to a series of set-backs. And it has to be admitted that what Walters is really genuinely good at putting our heroes in danger and just barely getting them out of it again.

They are now using an Ion Engine, which can exert continuous low level acceleration on the ship and build it it up to very high speeds. The crew haven't been told in advance that this is what is happening, because UNEXA wants to find out what effect near light-speed has on astronauts "without any preconceptions". Chris started out one rung up from being an experimental chimp, and it seems that the boffins still think of the astronauts in those terms. Serge helpfully explains the doppler effect to Tony; but relativity is regarded primarily as an engineering problem. "Someday someone will break through the light barrier, just as many years ago they crashed through the sound barrier." On this trip, they are only going to get up to three million miles per hour, which is still quite fast. As a result, they find that everything on the ship goes blurry because "human eyes were never designed to look at anything travelling at that speed."

"At a rough guess, looking at something across the cabin, it will have moved almost half an inch by the time light from it has reached our eyes."

I only have O level science, but this sounds to me a lot like bollocks: on a level with the idea that if you throw a ball on the plane, it will fly over your head through the back window. The crew have to blindfold themselves to operate the ship, and Chris very nearly makes a joke.

"Think you can call the Cape without looking."

"Do it with my eyes shut!"

But then they run into more serious problems.

Unfortunately the ship does not decelerate as it is supposed to. This means that it will overshoot Jupiter, or else crash into it, quite definitely killing everyone on board. It does not, I am happy to say, turn out that the Boffins on earth forgot to take the gravitational pull of Jupiter into account when they made their calculations. Indeed, it is never made particularly clear what does cause the disaster. 

Fortunately Chris comes up with a brilliant scheme whereby the ship matches orbital velocity with the Jovian Moon Io, and then, when the moon reaches a suitable point in its own orbit, launches themselves back to earth.

Unfortunately Chris spots that even if this scheme works there wouldn't be enough oxygen for the crew to survive the return trip. 

Fortunately, he realises that there would be enough oxygen for three people to survive. So naturally he decides to do his Col. Oates routine again, deliberately marooning himself on Io to give the other three a fighting chance. 

Unfortunately the other three guess what he is doing, and forcibly drag him back onto the rocket, meaning that everyone is quite definitely going to die (again). But at least they will all go together when they go.

Doesn't this go against the code of the brotherhood of astronauts? If space-men have to lay-down their lives for each other, oughtn't other space-men allow them too? And wouldn't there be protocols for this situation? Couldn't they at least have drawn lots, like marooned sailors deciding who is going to be lunch? 

 Initially, Chris is quite cross, but Morrey talks him round:

"Answer me this question. If I'd planned to make you leave me behind, what would you have done?"

Fortunately there is already another spaceship on it's way to Mars (as foreshadowed in the opening chapter) and "Uncle" George is able to persuade the earth-bound boffins to divert the Martian expedition to rescue the Jovian one. So everyone lives to face certain death in the next volume.

Walters does suspense really, really well. I spent the first fifty pages grinning patronisingly at the at the decent-chaps-got-do-what-a-decent-chaps-gotta-do heroics; and the remaining hundred turning the pages fairly quickly because I actually wanted to know what happens next. Sometimes the audience knows the crew are Doomed before the crew does; but sometimes characters know things that they don't vouchsafe to us readers. We are told early on that Chris has made a Terrible Decision; but there are fifty or sixty pages of gathering doom before we find out about the air-situation and his plan to nobly lay down his life. And the final rescue by the Mars ship goes right up to the wire. There's only sixty minutes of oxygen left, and they can't possibly dock the two ships in that time, but the Captain brilliantly realises that the rocket blaster they were going to use to drill holes in the Martian surface could be used as a shuttle to ferry the crew between the two ships. (In a nice bit of continuity, Chris had the idea of using rockets to dig holes a couple of volumes ago.) The astronauts have to sit astride the rocket while it zooms between ships, and  Walters immediately grabs the obvious comparison:

"Then he calmly jumped off it and tethered it to Jupiter 1 just as if it were a horse in a western film."

But fortunately he doesn't milk the metaphor.

"With a cylinder of tapes clasped tightly to him, he jointed Captain Yull on his fiery charger and together they rode across the plains of space..."

I think we could file that last metaphor under "so dreadful it's brilliant", actually.

When Chris first tells his crew that they are quite definitely going to die, everything turns very morbid:

"What would the end be like. If they crashed into the giant planet, it would be swift and merciful. If they shot past an wandered off into space it might be slow and agonizing. There would be a gradual exhaustion of both oxygen and food. One by one they would die. Who would be first and who would be last."

When it looks like the rescue mission is going to fail, the Martian crew think along the same cheerful lines.

"What would their last hours be like when, one after another, they expired through lack of oxygen... The scientist wondered whether, in the same circumstances, they would have had the courage to meet their own end?"

At first the crew are in denial -- obsessing about trivial jobs and engaging in light hearted chit-chat. "It was as if each of the quartet was determined to shut out of his mind for as long as possible the awful thoughts that had come crowding into it." Chris suggests that this isn't healthy, and that if they "accept their fate and discuss it dispassionately" and it indeed "get used to talking about it freely" it would "come to seem natural and lose its terrors." This seems to be relatively good psychology on the author's part, although we could have done with more showing and less telling. I think this how terminally ill patients are encouraged to deal with mortality. Weren't fighter pilots encouraged to assume that they were already dead and enjoy themselves as much as possible in the meantime? There might also be a good message for those of us who are not on doomed spaceships: come to terms with the fact that you are going to die some day and it will be easier to cope with the idea. Chris may be old-fashioned enough to say his prayers; but at no point does he mention Heaven or suggest that his companions ought to make their peace with the Creator.

The big thing, of course, is to not make a fuss. Chris warns them that bad news is on the way "to make sure that they pass their last few days of life in calmness and dignity". They decide to tell the boffins on earth that they have worked out what is going to happen because they know it will be a great relief "if we can let them know we're facing things calmly." So they send a message, reassuring them that "we've talked it over and we've decided to take things calmly." "Uncle" George complements them on the "courage and calmness" with which they've accepted the situation. Later, when Chris decides to sacrifice himself for his crew, his main concern is that they should be "sensible" and that they should "let him make his sacrifice without any painful scenes". Chris's decision, we are told several times was "cold and deliberate": his friends decision to save him was emotional. 

It's admirable that Chris would sacrifice himself to save his crew; but it's also admirable that his crew would save him; even though they are effectively choosing to end their own lives. Suicide seems to be the main way chaps show affection.

Heroes have to be in danger, of course, and they can't always be saving the world from brown streaks. Hugh Walters astronauts are rarely leaping across canyons or sprinting through shark infested waters. But the focus on noble suicide and calmness in the face of death; and questions about who is going to die first and whether it would be better to go out with a bang or suffocate slowly is a heavy trip to lay on a ten-year old.

At risk of dialling the morbidity up to eleven: this book was published in 1965. In August 1964, the British government had hanged two small-time burglars for a stabbing a man during a bungled robbery; the last executions committed in this country. Perhaps "What would be like to know you are going to die and would I be able to face it calmly, sensibly, and without making a scene?" was a question on lot of people's minds.

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1: Because it is wrong 

2: Because it does no good. 

3: Because all murderers are "definitely guilty". (The legal term for someone who is "probably guilty" or "almost certainly guilty" is "innocent".)

4: Because Paul Hill, Gerry Conlon, Paddy Armstrong, Carole Richardson and Andrew Malkinson were definitely guilty.

5: Because it would involve keeping the story, and the criminal's face, on the front page of the newspapers, possibly for decades to come. (This is also why the tabloids are in favour of it.)

6: Because the Daily Mail would claim that defence lawyers and appeal judges were enemies of the people.

7: Because the Sun would run morbid, comedic, punning headlines ("Hang To Rights" "Swing Voters" etc etc etc.)

8: Because it would not satisfy the mob, who would call for more tortuous killings and a greater degree of public spectacle. 

9: Because in 1950s crowds used to gather outside prisons to see legal documents being pinned to doors

10: Because in the 1950s the Home Secretary used to receive several letters a week from people who wanted the job of executioner.

11: Because in 1955 the children in the school near Holloway prison were well aware of what was being done to Ruth Ellis and were ghoulishly excited by it.

12: Because it was wrong for Tony Blair to exploit the murder of a small child for political gain in 1997; and it would be equally wrong for the Tories to exploit the murder of several infants for electoral advantage in 2024.

13: Because I literally don't know what you mean by "evil". 

14: Because almost every nurse who has ever lived has not been a serial killer.

15: Because of the smirk on some Tories faces when they talk about this stuff.

16: Because of that Dave Allen story about the time he lost his temper with one of his kids and thumped them while chanting "Never! Hit! Anyone! Smaller! Than! Yourself!"

17: I object to the damage it does to my spirit for my government to kill people, because my government is supposed to be me and I object to me killing people. It's really simple. - Steve Earle

18: A community is infinitely more brutalised by the habitual employment of punishment than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime. - Oscar Wilde

19: Making life means making trouble. There's only one way of escaping trouble; and that's killing things. Cowards, you notice, are always shrieking to have troublesome people killed. - Bernard Shaw.

20: I do not now believe that any one of the hundreds of executions I carried out has in any way acted as a deterrent against future murder. Capital punishment, in my view, achieved nothing except revenge. - Albert Pierrepoint. 

The Lord of the Rings: A Musical Tale

Watermill Theatre

Barbie

 Everyman, Bristol

And everywhere else in the entire universe.

Stan stans Stan

Stan Lee

Disney+

In the 60s, Marvel Comics was known as the House of Ideas.

It's a telling phrase. Not the house of writers or the house of artists or the house of editors. The House of Ideas.

That's what made the decade from 1961-1972 so seminal. Not the pictures; not the dialogue; not even the plots. The ideas. And the source of those ideas was the son of a pair of Jewish Romanian depression-era immigrants: Stanley Martin Leiber.

"I have always thought I was the creator of Spider-Man because I am the guy who said 'I have an idea for a strip called Spider-Man an so forth'...." explained Lee. "You dream it up and then you give it to anyone to draw it."

Walt Disney's Life of Stan is not as bad as I expected it to be. It ends with the voices of Kevin Feige (director of the Marvel Cinematic Universe) and Roy Thomas (Stan Lee's anointed successor at Marvel.) Both of them distance themselves from the doctrine of Stan Sola.

"I often think of the 1960s and the famous Marvel bullpen" says Fiege "and think about the characters that came out of the imaginations of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko and all of their co-creators, it's incredible. I often find myself thinking 'boy if we could just tap into just five per cent of that crucible of imagination' ".

"The seeds of all that stuff are all set back in what Stan did with Jack and Steve" says Thomas. "You know, you could always trace anything that they do now. It all kind of flows from that fountain that was unleashed when Stan and Jack and Ditko, you know, got together and suddenly became this wonderful triumvirate, creating a whole universe, and neither of them could have really you know done it without the other."

This represents one hell of a climbdown: Lee himself acknowledged Ditko as co-creator only with the utmost reluctance. ("I'm willing to say so".) I wonder if there is an element of arse-covering going on: a last-ditch attempt to shore up what remains of the myth? Stan Lee was not the sole auteur of Marvel Comics. No-one who has studied the evidence thinks that he was. Very many people would be prepared to argue that Ditko and Kirby could very well have created Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four without input from Lee. There are even some who think that they did. But talking about a triumvirate allows us to keep hold of Uncle Stan. He may not have done everything, but he still did something.

The choice of metaphor is interesting. Thomas talks about seeds. The Blessed Trinity didn't create the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but everything that came afterwards was implicit in their primal creative act. He talks about fountains. Whatever we mean by Marvel Comics already existed; the Founding Fathers merely channeled and released it. Fiege talks about a crucible. I prefer that as a metaphor: Lee, Kirby and Ditko as three radically different metals that were superheated into a single alloy.

Fiege and Thomas are careful to talk about creators in the plural. But their summing up is bookended by the singular Stan Lee, enjoying the glamour of the Marvel movies and looking back on his long career. 

"In the days I was writing those books..." 

"That's a camera-wrap on the creator of Iron Man, Mr. Stan Lee" 

"The fact that I'm working with characters I've created..." 

"You can only do your best work if you are doing what you want to do, if you are doing it the way you think it should be done" 

"If you can look at it and say 'I did that and I think it's pretty damn good, that's a great feeling."

I, me, my...

The documentary is very well put together. Lee ceased to be an active comic book creator in 1972: for the last fifty years of his life, talking about himself was basically what he did for a living. There must be a thousand hours of recordings of his voice. Director David Gelb has, with some ingenuity, collated a tiny fraction of this material into a fairly cohesive first person narrative: Stan on Stan. Not such a monumental undertaking as Peter Jackson's Get Back, but a substantial editorial task. A computer may have been involved to make the sound consistent, but it's all based on actual recordings. We are not told the provenance of the voice-over, so a remark made in 1960 and a remark made in 2020 might well be placed side by side. We also get film clips of Lee on chat shows and conventions and personal appearances, where the context is much clearer.

Stan Lee was a professional raconteur. He created a persona on the pages of his comics and then adopted it in real life. Self-deprecating and egoistical in the same moment; never more arch than when he's being sincere, never more light-hearted than when giving a straight answer. We hear the voice of Joe Simon complaining that the Very Early Stan Lee used to incessantly play the piccolo in the office. We don't otherwise hear of an interest in music: he must have been inhabiting a persona even back then. I don't know if there is really a unique New York Jewish style of humour, but one can't help thinking of the later Groucho Marx when Stan speaks. Later on he dropped the flute and affected a cigar. If you fell in love with Marvel in the 60s, then Stan's voice is what you fell in love with. This is a strength and a weakness in any documentary. It is great fun to spend time in Stan's company: the ninety minutes shoots by. But we are drawn in. We want to believe the yarns he is spinning. It feels mean to interrupt and say "But wait a minute....?" and "Says who...?"

Jack Kirby and Joe Simon pointedly refer to him as Stanley. Stan Lee is a made-up character.

Lee's reminiscences are illustrated by static figurines in elaborate tableaux. (I don't know who made them, and if they are physical models or clever CGI, but they are terribly well done.) So as Lee talks about reading the pulps in his parent's tenement while his dad desperately looked for work; we see the scene enacted by the little plastic figures who normally populate model railway stations.

It's a clever stunt. Stan tells us. The pictures show us. But the artificiality of the pictures gently whisper "it ain't necessarily so".

We see a Steve Ditko figurine, hunched over a model writing desk, pencilling a comic book. To one side is a Stan Lee figurine, adopting a Spider-Man pose, demonstrating how he imagines a particular scene. The comic that toy-Ditko is working on is quite clearly Amazing Fantasy #15; the last page of the first section, when Peter invents his web-shooters. At his side are pencils, a protractor...and a typewritten script, several pages long. It's clearly based on the sample from Stan's 1948 Writers Digest Essay, There's Money in Comics, which envisaged a comic book script as a movie screenplay, with panel descriptions down one side and dialogue down the other. ("Panel 1: Louise in office, clearing her desk. Louise: (Thought.) He never notices me!") Elsewhere in the big open-plan Marvel office, there are four or five other artists, similarly hunched over drawing boards.

We would love it to be true. What Kevin Feige calls "the famous Marvel Bullpen" was such a big part of what made Marvel Comics so special -- a men's clubhouse that us little kids were allowed to peek into. But it never existed: during the Marvel decade the artists were freelancers working from home. Stan Lee didn't provide Ditko or Kirby with screenplays to work from: he provided them with short summaries or single line ideas. According to Flo Steinburg (Stan Lee's very own Betty Brant) Lee did sometimes stand on tables and mime scenes to artists. But there is something pernicious in the idea that Steve Ditko was drawing Spider-Man in poses that Stan Lee had first demonstrated to him. The one thing which characterised Steve Ditko's Spidey -- a flexible body perpetually twisted into unlikely shapes -- is implied to have originated in the Mind of Stan. Note that Lee has his third and forth fingers in the palms of his hands, in the classic "web-shooter" position: the idea that Lee suggested those kinds of details corresponds to nothing that we know about the pair's working practices. 

Ditko really did have the word THINK pinned to his drawing board, but that was in his home studio, not the Marvel office.

We hear a big chunk of the Merry Marvel Marching Society record, in which Stan Lee pokes heavy handed fun at the other creatives. This doesn't pretend to be anything other than a skit. At one point Steve Ditko, who characteristically refused to participate, is said to leap out of the window, to the sound of breaking glass. ("Maybe he is Spider-Man!") But the scene is lovingly recreated with the little Lego men. Perhaps that's a signal that the vignette of Lee and Ditko should be seen as part of the same, mythical, Bullpen play-world. 

But it's a vivid ideogram; visually conveying the idea that Ditko's job was to transmute Lee's thought into pictures. Which is. Just. Not. True.

"My mother said I would read the labels on ketchup bottles if there was nothing else around" says Stan. I am sure she did.

"I got a job as an office boy at the second largest trouser manufacturer in New York." I have no reason whatsoever to doubt this.

"When I graduated High School, I had an uncle, and he worked for a publisher, and he told me they were looking for an assistant, and I figured 'Gee, I'm going to apply', so I went up there, and I found out they also published comic books, they had an outfit called Timely comics, and they hired me to run errands, to proof read, fill the inkwell, whatever had to be done." By all accounts, this is perfectly correct. Stan's Uncle Robbie (Robert Solomon) worked for Martin Goodman, who published Timely Comics. 

What Lee fails to mention is that Goodman's sister (Sylvia Solomon) was Robert's wife. That makes Lee the boss's nephew-in-law. And rather confusingly, Goodman's own wife, Jean, was Stan Lee's cousin. Making him the boss's cousin-in-law as well. There is nothing sinister about this. It's how second generation immigrants found work during the depression. Once Lee is ensconced as a gopher, sharpening Jack Kirby's pencils and bringing him cups of coffee, he slips into the royal plural. "We had the Human Torch and the Sub-Mariner and the Patriot and the Angel and the Destroyer, but the main character we had was Captain America."

But hey. It's a good story. Office boy to world-wide icon. Isn't that exactly what we mean by the Great American Dream?

Stan Lee was definitely given the role of "Playwright" by the US Army during World War II: we are shown his discharge papers with the job title on them. He was writing instruction manuals and training-film scripts while Jack Kirby was actually getting shot at by Nazis. (Another "playwright" was one Theodor Geisel, who would later do quite well for himself writing children's books.) But is it really true that adding light-hearted cartoon characters into accountancy training books shortened the training period for army finance officers from six-months to six weeks? This is, of course, spun as a eureka moment; indeed, as an origin story:

"It was then I realised that comic books can have a tremendous impact; you can convey a story or information faster, more clearly and more enjoyably than any other way short of motion pictures."

With great power comes great responsibility. Thus were born the Fantastic Four and the world will never be the same again. 

Abraham Riesman mentions in her biography that Lee's most widely distributed army work was actually a poster with the punchy slogan "V.D? Not me!" No-one doubts Stan Lee had a way with words.

In Origins of Marvel Comics, written in 1974, Lee tells the story of how his wife, sometime in 1960, pointed out that he'd been writing comics for twenty years and still treated it as a temporary occupation. (Significantly, he was still pitching screenplays and novel ideas; equally significantly, none of them got picked up.) Why, asked Jean, didn't he fully commit to the industry he was actually in? The result was the Fantastic Four. 

It is sweet that Stan wants to say that he owes it all to his wife; but it strikes me as the sort of conversation two people might actually have. Half a century later, in a BBC interview, the story had evolved. Now, Lee had actively decided to quit comics and his lovely wife suggested that if he was going to do that anyway, he should "do one book the way he wanted" before he finished. The result was Spider-Man. 

Corollary: Stan Lee always had Spider-Man "in" him; but he had spent many years doing comics in the way he thought his publisher wanted. (*)

In the present documentary, we get the story from Jean Lee's own mouth. (I hadn't realised that she had such a wonderful cut-glass English accent!) And the choice of words is very telling:

"Why don't you create characters who you like?"

In the beginning was the idea. The Fantastic Four differed from the characters who came before because Stan Lee liked them. Because they were his personal vision.

On this timeline, Stan goes to Jack and says "Jack, wouldn't it be nice if you had good guys who occasionally make mistakes, who occasionally trip at the last minute and let the bad guys get away?" This is presented as the key moment: when the seed was planted, the fountain unleashed and the crucible heated. It is illustrated with a panel from the 1947 Secrets of the Comics strip about how Martin Goodman created Captain America in a single eureka moment.

"That was really the start of everything" says Stan.

So: that was the Big Idea. Not the idea that there should be a team consisting of a stuffy scientist, a beautiful lady, a cool, hot-headed younger kid and strong, bad-tempered older kid, and that together they should fight monsters. Not even the idea -- that Lee is inordinately proud of -- that the Scientist and the Lady were already engaged when the story started. The light bulb moment was when Stan Lee went to the guy he used to run errands for and told him that the Fantastic Four would be realistic and fallible

In fairness, we do get to hear Lee talking extensively about the Marvel Method; and acknowledging Ditko's primary input into the majority of Spider-Man's adventures. This is spun in Lee's favour: because he didn't know what was going to be in the comic until Ditko handed him the art, Spider-Man took twice as long "to write" than any of the other books. Lee says that Marvel Method was introduced as an emergency measure -- introduced because Marvel were putting out more books than he could personally keep track of. The chronology of the documentary implies that this happened after the post-Fantastic Four superhero explosion: but Lee has said elsewhere that he was already feeding Kirby and Ditko single-line story ideas (for monster comics and twist-ending horror titles) from the middle-fifties at least. The provenance of Stan's outline for Fantastic Four #1 is contested: but it's definitely a synopsis, not a script.

We hear Lee's side of the Jonathan Ross interview; which acknowledges that Ditko believed himself to be the co-creator of Spider-Man. We hear the infamous moment when Stan and Jack nearly come to verbal blows about "who did what" on live radio. Lee accuses Kirby of never reading the finished comics, which Kirby does not deny. Kirby honestly believed he was the sole creator of the Fantastic Four because he genuinely didn't know what Lee was bringing to the table.

The trailer for the 1978 Christopher Reeve movie strongly implied that Superman's appearances in comic books, on radio, and on TV had been a preliminary, gestational period from which Superman-The Movie had finally emerged. Similarly, the 2018 Double Fantasy exhibition presented John Lennon as a peace campaigner, guru and avant garde artist who had served an apprenticeship in a British pop group. And clearly, it suits Walt Disney to present Stan Lee's story as a single creative decade, followed by forty years of obscurity, and universal adulation as an octogenarian. The documentary skips the years between 1972, when Lee ceased to be a regular writer, and 2008, when he started to cement his mainstream fame with a series of Hitchcockian cameos in the Marvel Universe Movies. We hear nothing of the decades of pitching ideas for characters and movies -- none of which get made -- and certainly nothing of the failed Stan Lee Media or POW Entertainment. 

Marvel Comics was the egg from which the Marvel Cinematic Universe hatched.

"In the days I was writing those books I was hoping they'd sell, so that I wouldn't lose my job, that I could keep paying the rent. All of a sudden, these characters have become world famous; they're the subject of blockbuster movies, and I'm lucky enough to get little cameos in them..."

"It's certainly nice to see the world catch up with what Stan Lee did" adds Roy "Even if it took movies and TV shows to do it. The world has to kind of admit now, maybe there is something to some of this stuff."

The final moments of the film juxtapose images from the movies with images of the same characters from 60s Marvel. But this only underlines how little the comic book characters have in common with the figures in the movies. The evil mutant with the silly red tiara unrecognisable as the tragically crazed witch from Wandavision. The lumbering cold-warrior in gun-metal armour has hardly anything to do with Robert Downey Jnr's sleek cyberpunk hero. The Hulk who Stan Lee dreamed up wasn't powered by anger and wasn't green. One of these things is not like the other one, but we are asked to suppose they have a unique essence which makes them kind of the same. Stan Lee's theory of Ideas which fall fully formed like mana from heaven is a necessary component of that essentialism. 

Jack Kirby created Captain America as a wartime hero; Stan Lee brought him forward to the 60s and killed off his annoying kid side kick; Ed Brubaker brought Bucky back from the dead as a psychotic brainwashed assassin. Gene Colon created the Falcon, and Steve Englehart made him Cap's partner and Rich Remender made him Cap's replacement. The very fine 1941 Captain America comic and the very fine 2021 Falcon and the Winter Soldier TV show are only instantiations of the same idea in the way that Trigger's broom (which has had fourteen new heads and seventeen new handles) is still the same broom he bought twenty years ago.

There's a political dimension to all this. The belief that there is a one true Spider-Man, who appeared in a snap-your fingers lightbulb moment feeds into the mentality which sets fire to action figures if a once-light-skinned character is played by a dark-sinned actor.

There is a really very touching epilogue in which Stan, now in a wheel chair, gets an ecstatic standing ovation from a college graduation cohort. His closing address turns the story-of-the-idea into a morality play, like one of those picture books about how Mother Theresa was a little girl who followed her dreams but doesn't mention that she was a Roman Catholic. 

"If you have an idea that you genuinely think is good, don't let some idiot talk you out of it. That doesn't mean that every wild notion you come up with is gonna be genius, but if there is something that you feel is good, something you want to do, something that means something to you, try to do it. Because you can only do your best work, if your doing what you want to do, and if you're doing it the way you think it should be done."

And that's the message. Where the whole trajectory of Stan's career is collaboration, pragmatism, following trends, selling a product, the final message is individualism. Spider-Man was great because Lee had a singular vision and he stuck to it. Bull. Shit

And the pity of it is this: if anyone reads to the end of this essay, they will call me a Ditko hater and a Stan Lee shill. Because I do believe that Stan Lee was a creative genius. I do believe that Kirby and Ditko did better work with Lee than they ever did solo or with different collaborators. I do believe that Marvel Comics from 1962ish to 1972ish reads as a single text, adverts and letters pages and all, and the soul of that text comes from Stan Lee. Stan Lee's voice formed the soundtrack to my childhood, if not my whole life. Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four are great because of Stan Lee's ironic meta-textual self-insertion. The endless peddling of the myth of the auteur who never actually auteured anything is insulting to Ditko and Kirby. And it does no favours to the very talented man whose name is on the tin.

Stan Lee was a copywriter. Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko were draftsmen. What they produced was not ideas, but texts.     

(*) It also follows that he was not "doing" the Fantastic Four, the Hulk, or Thor in "the way he wanted" and that he became disillusioned with comics when he had already "created" Doctor Doom and reintroduced the Submariner.

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