Last Sunday morning while reading the comic strip, I was seized by one of those increasingly common – at least in my life – bouts of nostalgia. It occurred to me that today’s comics are just that: comical. There are no longer any “serious” characters or any continuous adventure scripts.
Back in the “good ol’ days,” there were weekly and daily strips like “The Phantom,” “Dick Tracy,” “Tarzan,” “The Spirit,” “Terry” (formerly called “Terry and the Pirates” which never made any sense) “Prince Valiant” and “Flash Gordon.” Surely you recall some of those morning, superhero escapades. On second though, perhaps not, unless you’re older than 40. (I vaguely recall even “Superman” briefly appeared in the colorful Sunday features, but not the daily black-and-white strips.)
At various times and to varying degrees, my free-floating, childhood imagination would become enthralled with any one of these characters, at least for a few weeks. However, I wasn’t particularly fond of “Flash Gordon.” Prior to my teenage years, science-fiction simply wasn’t my cup of tea. Nor could I identify with the mature themes and art work of “Terry.” It was too adult for my childhood tastes. “Prince Valiant” didn’t have dialogue balloons, but instead used literary blocks to describe the action and conversation. This was far too formal for my youthful mind, too much like a school book.
This was also true of “Tarzan,” but in this case that literary style was tolerable because the artwork was so incredibly beautiful. The hero’s sharply-contoured, muscular body was a dynamic study in anatomy and the gorgeous jungle background he swung through was a world of astounding wonders. The strip was drawn by Burne Hogarth and, had he ever turned his talent to oils and canvas, he certainly would have stolen some of the pop-art fame showered on Roy Lichtenstein.
I also liked the art work in “The Spirit,” but the plots and subtle humor were over my head. In later years, I still found the drawing quite fascinating, came to appreciate the sexy ladies and I sometimes bought the comic-book version.
How many of you remember “Dick Tracy”? For nearly two decades that square-jawed, square-nosed, clean-cut, all-American detective remained one of the most popular comics in the paper. (It’s rumored that President Franklin Roosevelt was so taken by the storylines that, during World War II, he called the strip’s artist, Chester Gould, from a battleship in the North Atlantic to find out what happened to the hero.) I wasn’t so much intrigued by Dick Tracy himself, as I was by the weird villains he chased; i.e., Flattop, Spots, Big Boy, the Mole and Pruneface, all of whom had the facial features implied by their names.
And finally, “The Phantom.” Gosh, what a quirky entity he was. He ruled over a jungle empire in equatorial Africa, lived in a cave that resembled a skull, wore a skin-tight purple costume and mask and could trace his lineage back 400 years.
“The Man Who Couldn’t Die!”
“The Ghost Who Walks!”
Talk about firing up the synapses of a 10-year-old! Tales like that could fry brain-cells.
And on any given Sunday morning, more than a few adults glanced across the strip with a whimsical, little smile.
