Stan Lee

by Bob Batchelor

  Most comic book publishers and editors set internal rules about dealing with the Code of the Comics Magazine Association. Despite regulations about dealing with sex and the depiction of government officials in a bad light, the Code did not include information about drug abuse. No publisher could release a story featuring a werewolf or vampire, those tales were clearly outlawed by the Code. Drugs, though, were a hazy subject for regulators. The Amazing Spider-Man #96 did not bear the Comic Code seal of approval, which represented a bold step for Marvel and Lee. He continued the drug plot for the next two issues, revealing that Harry Osborn had a pill addiction. Parker chalks Harry’s habit up to him being “so weak.” Later, Osborn obtains pills from a dealer (resembling a blond version of Stan Lee in comic book form), who promises the pills are “just what the doctor ordered.” Back at the apartment he shares with Parker, Osborn passes out after taking a handful of pills. When Peter finds him, they are interrupted by Harry’s father, the Green Goblin, who wants to kill Spider-Man. After battling the villain above the high-rises and apartment buildings of New York, Spidey eventually convinces the Goblin to see his hospitalized son. The trauma causes the Goblin to black out, which seems to put an end to his villainous ways.

  While government officials were happy to have Spider-Man and Lee on their side in the fight against drug use, not everyone agreed. John Goldwater, the publisher of Archie Comics and founding president of the Comics Magazine Association in 1954, publicly announced his disapproval, including declaring topical use of drugs or drug abuse in comic books “still taboo.”14 Yet, the far-reaching positive publicity Marvel received handcuffed Goldwater and the CMA. The organization issued no sanctions against Marvel or Lee.

  In addition to bringing the Comics Code Authority into modern times, Lee’s decision to publish the special Spider-Man issues put Marvel out ahead of DC, which had been rumored to be working on its own issues based on the same topic. Carmine Infantino, the editorial director at DC, also railed against Marvel, implying that the move should be considered potentially harmful, particularly to children who might read it.15

  Rejecting the code enabled Lee and Marvel to push harder on other social issues, and allowed them to take a stab at appealing to more college-aged readers. One method for proving the relevancy of comics focused on introducing nonwhite and ethnically diverse superheroes into the lineups. Marvel launched Hero for Hire in June 1972, featuring a black superhero, Luke, who fights crime in Harlem. Two years later, the Cage became Power Man and had a successful run teaming up with white martial arts legend Iron Fist.

  Following these pioneering efforts and after the company introduced Black Panther, using the character in a series of titles, Marvel published Red Wolf (1972–1973), a Native American superhero. Shortly after, when the television show Kung Fu, starring David Carradine, hit the air in 1972, Marvel picked up on the martial arts wave (which included the work of Bruce Lee and others using karate as the driving force on film). The company developed Master of Kung Fu, featuring Asian superhero Shang-Chi, who first appeared in Special Marvel Edition #15 (December 1973). By April 1974, the title changed to The Hands of Shang-Chi: Master of Kung Fu and began a long, popular run, eventually appearing in crossovers with Marvel’s top superheroes.

  Lee always harbored ambitions to be more than “just” a comic book writer and editor. When he was a boy, his mother showered him with praise and joked almost daily that Hollywood talent scouts would soon take him from her. He acted out scripts for artists and other writers and enjoyed the constant bustle of hustling from campus to campus as a one-man Marvel marketing machine. Most of these efforts paid dividends in terms of growing fan loyalty or spreading the comic book gospel. Sometimes, however, Lee’s willingness to take chances backfired.

  In early December 1971, a distinctive ad ran in the hip NYC paper the Village Voice announcing “Stan Lee at Carnegie Hall!” in January. For $3.50 in advance or $4.50 at the door, fans could attend the show, which promised “All Live! Music! Magic! and Myth!” The advertisement didn’t feature many details, but Thor, Spider-Man, and Hulk were crammed into the image, with Spidey (in characteristic Lee style) promising: “An erudite evening of cataclysmic culture with your friendly neighborhood bullpen gang.”16 Later, the official name of the event changed to “A Marvelous Evening with Stan Lee.”

  Whether the evening was “marvelous” or not most likely depended on the viewer’s feelings about Marvel and its band of superheroes. Most adults, particularly those reviewing the shindig for metropolitan newspapers, found the evening anything but amazing, likening it to an “employer at his own Christmas party” and “a company revue.”17 Lee served as host and ringleader, which is an apt description, since the night devolved into a chaotic mess. There were second-rate music acts, some vague discussions of comic book art with Romita and Buscema, and an appearance by new journalism star Tom Wolfe, who completed his white suit ensemble with an Uncle Sam top hat. Other oddities included the world’s tallest man, nine-foot-eight Eddie Carmel, reading a poem about the Hulk, and Geoff Crozier, an Australian illusionist, performing a strange magic act.18 The highlight for Lee was reading parts of the poem “God Woke” from the stage with his wife Joanie and daughter J.C. Fans really didn’t know what to make of the show and made paper airplanes to lob at the stage in mockery and frustration.

  Continually trying to establish Marvel as different, Lee started calling the company the “House of Ideas,” which stuck with journalists and became part of the company’s cachet. If a downside existed in the surge of Marvel comics into the public consciousness it is that Lee and his bullpen teammates had to balance between entertainment, taking a stance on social issues, and maintaining profitability. He placed value in the joy people derived from reading comics, but he wanted them to be useful as well, explaining, “hopefully I can make them enjoyable and also beneficial. . . . This is a difficult trick, but I try within the limits of my own talent.”19 Lee wanted to have it both ways—for people to read the books as entertainment, but also to be taken seriously.

  At the same time, Marvel had to sell comics, which meant that little kids and young teenagers drove a sizeable chunk of the market. In 1970, Lee estimated that 60 percent of Marvel’s readers were under sixteen. The remaining adult readership was enormous, in historical numbers, but kept Lee focused on the larger demographic. “We’re still a business,” he told an interviewer. “It doesn’t do us any good to put out stuff we like if the books don’t sell. . . . I would gain nothing by not doing things to reach the kids, because I would lose my job and we’d go out of business.”20

  As Lee’s position as the voice and face of Marvel Comics solidified, it rankled Goodman and created a rift between the publisher and his star employee. On one hand, the industry moved so quickly that Lee and his creative teams constantly fought to get issues out on time. The number of titles Marvel put out meant that everyone had to be constantly producing. So, when Lee was in the office or working from home, he committed to getting content out. Roy Thomas recalls, “Stan and I were editing everything, and the writers were editing what they did, and we had a few assistant editors that didn’t really have any authority . . . that was about it.”21 However, that chaotic atmosphere made it easy for animosities to form or fester. Lee needed content out the door and Goodman tried to maintain control over cover artwork and other details that inevitably slowed down the process.

  “Stan and Goodman were increasingly on different wavelengths as the time came near the end of their relationship,” explained Thomas, who had a front row seat watching the acrimony build. “Goodman and his son, Chip, were still making those decisions at that time. Chip, in that last year or less before Stan took over, was the official publisher as Martin withdrew from the business more. I don’t know if Goodman was even in the office then, because I never saw him very much anyway. His office was way at the other end of the hall.”22

  In 1972, Goodman finally made good on his wish to retire, four long years after Cadence took ove
r the company. He expected Cadence executives to make his son Chip the new publisher. Instead, shortly after Goodman left, the new owners showed his son the door—so much for handshake agreements and family ties. Instead, Cadence CEO Sheldon Feinberg named Lee Marvel’s publisher and president.

  The new post meant that Lee would have to step down as editorial director. After some internal wrangling and indecision regarding who would replace him, Lee handed over the duties to Roy Thomas, his handpicked successor.

  “Now I’ll be able to do things the way I want them,” Lee thought, but he was wrong. Instead, he attended a dizzying succession of meetings and strategy sessions to discuss the financial status of all the company’s publications, including the men’s magazines. “I suddenly realized that I am doing something that millions of people can do better than I can do. The thing I enjoy doing—the creative stuff—I’m not doing anymore.” This realization led Lee to soon give up the president position to concentrate on the publisher’s duties.23

  In the meantime, Goodman didn’t stay retired for long. Angered by his son’s termination, Goodman retaliated by founding Atlas Comics. He put Chip in charge and began an aggressive poaching program, even hiring away Lee’s younger brother Larry to serve as editor. Many other Marvel freelancers and artists also left because Goodman paid more. The desertions grew so prevalent that Lee had to issue a memo reminding staffers and freelancers of Marvel’s commitment to them. Although a negative blip for Lee, the industry had changed, and Goodman’s maneuverings were outdated. Atlas soon folded.

  There were additional growing pains for Lee as publisher and Thomas as editor. Lee had a looser vibe with people, but also was a legendary figure. “He sent them off feeling very enthused about doing something new,” says writer Mark Evanier, who worked with both Lee and Kirby. “They didn’t operate for him out of fear, as they did for some editors.”24 Thomas inherited a staff loyal to Lee, but they still had to churn out some forty titles a month. The production schedule remained king. “I knew I didn’t have the power Stan had had as editor-in-chief, because he was right there, and I wasn’t looking for that,” Thomas recalled. “I wasn’t threatened by anybody, and who’s going to have a better rapport with Stan than I did? It was very good, most of the time, so I didn’t feel that insecure.”25

  Thomas’s ascension and Lee’s pull toward management did shift the editorial direction, if for no other reason than that Stan wouldn’t be writing full-time any longer. “It was time to kind of branch out a little bit,” Thomas explained. “We wanted to keep some of that Marvel magic, and at the same time, there had to be room for other art styles and other writing styles.”26 The most overt change came when Lee turned in the copy for The Amazing Spider-Man # 110. The late 1971 issue was the last Lee wrote for the character. Writer Gerry Conway succeeded Lee and the next books in the series would be cocreated by Conway and star artist John Romita.

  While many adults looked down on Lee for writing comic books, especially early in his career, he developed a masterful style that rivals or mirrors those of contemporary novelists. Lee explained:

  Every character I write is really me, in some way or other. Even the villains. Now I’m not implying that I’m in any way a villainous person. Oh, perish forbid! But how can anyone write a believable villain without thinking, “How would I act if he (or she) were me? What would I do if I were trying to conquer the world, or jaywalk across the street? . . . What would I say if I were the one threatening Spider-Man? See what I mean? No other way to do it.”27

  Lee’s distinctive voice captured the essence of his chosen medium.

  Lee also understood that the meaning of success in contemporary pop culture necessitated that he embrace the burgeoning celebrity culture. If a generation of teen and college-aged readers hoped to shape him into their leader, Lee would gladly accept the mantle and be their gonzo king. Fashioning this image in a lecture circuit that took him around the nation, as well as within the pages of Marvel’s books, Lee created a persona larger than his publisher or employer. As a result, he transformed the comic book industry.

  CHAPTER 11

  MARVEL’S MULTITUDE OF MALADIES

  Although it might have been difficult to put downbeat words in the mouth of the company’s most important promoter, the 1970s were troubling times for Lee and the company. Everyone at Marvel—including Lee, the creative teams responsible for putting out the books, the accountants struggling to make sense of internal spending, and corporate managers determined to rein in the comics division—seemed at war with one another, desperate to address the sagging sales.

  Like so much of the national scene, the comic book industry faced years of uncertainty, slippery footing, and ultimately a struggle to survive. Marvel’s per-comic sales dropped, so the company attempted to offset the decrease by publishing more titles. For example, there were ten comics with “Marvel” in the title (ranging from Mighty Marvel Western and Marvel Triple Action to Special Marvel Edition).1

  By January 1973, Lee oversaw the annual production of some sixty-nine titles, including twenty-eight superhero books, sixteen mystery/monsters, and ten westerns. Total sales rose, but the fact that Marvel published so many comics actually concealed weaknesses internally and revealed stagnation across the industry.2 Flooding the marketplace had been a Martin Goodman trick from the early days. The practice boosted the overall financial picture but also increased pressure on the creative teams who put pen and ink to paper.

  Yet, in front of a microphone or with a reporter nearby, Lee remained positive, trumpeting the company’s successes. Reading the Stan’s Soapbox essays, no one would have guessed at the troubles that dogged Marvel, particularly after it achieved its primary goal, which was to knock DC off as the industry leader. When that happened, Marvel had to change. It was no longer the scrappy underdog and perennial also-ran. For some organizations, that drive to the top defines its culture. Once Marvel became the top comic book producer, the company had to find a new path.

  Amid the chaotic climate of the early 1970s and Marvel’s struggles to find its footing, Lee’s transition from writer, art director, and editorial lead to publisher proved jarring. In the office, he shifted from creative force to company man, serving as a kind of conduit between the intransigent figures running the corporation at the top of the executive food chain and the chaos of the creative bullpen filled with artists and writers who—like the 1970s as a decade—wanted to buck the system.

  Lee struggled to find his place in this unfamiliar corporate system, never fully understanding his fellow “suits,” but also constantly worried about the status of the artists and writers, who thumbed their noses at conformity and economic realities. He had to be the boss, for example, creating an approval process for cover art and copy for all domestic comics, plus the British titles, while balancing storylines and juggling the workloads of the creative teams.3 The operation grew too large for one person to control everything, but the publisher role demanded his attention across the business and creative functions.

  Unlike his friends and protégés in the bullpen (many of the them younger writers or artists who grew up inspired by his work), Lee knew the intricacies of the financial situation and recognized just how precarious the future looked. In an interview, he discussed his role, explaining, “What I do mainly is worry about the product we are turning out. . . . I’m really like an over-all executive editor.”4 He worked with Cadence leaders to get approvals for new magazines and comics, each decision having significant consequences, since the profit margins in the comic book division were so thin.

  Lee and many other industry insiders expected the superhero craze to eventually fizzle. If Marvel faltered, the best-case scenario for Lee would send him back to his editor’s desk, writing multiple books for whatever the next fad might be, again relying on freelance artists to keep the company afloat. He shuddered at this thought, having no desire to return to his former role as a one-man comic book operation. Such fear drove him to keep up a relentless pa
ce—at any given moment, Lee could be found overseeing strategic editorial decisions, managing the expectations and meddling of his corporate bosses, launching new magazines, or flying from college campus to campus to fulfill his marketing and lecturing role.

  Marvel needed a boost. Superhero popularity skyrocketed, yet sales dropped. Demographics worked against Marvel. Readers skewed younger, buying titles such as Archie Comics, the bestselling comic of 1970 at 515,000 sold per issue versus The Amazing Spider-Man at about 373,000.5 At the end of 1971, the official Audit Bureau of Circulation (ABC) audit revealed that paid circulation per month had dropped over the preceding three years. Marvel sold about 96 million comic books in 1968, but the figure fell to 91.8 in 1971, despite more total books on sale.6 Over the following year and a half, the number would plummet to just over 5.8 million per month or just under 70 million annually for 1972 and 1973. In comparison, DC dipped from about 6.3 million per month in 1968 to just 4.7 million five years later.7

  Hoping to reverse course, the comic book division spent the early 1970s jumping from fad to fad. Marvel rushed headlong into the fantasy and horror market, publishing The Tomb of Dracula, The Monster of Frankenstein, and Man-Thing, among others. Lee urged fans to accept the new direction in Soapbox columns, calling the new Monster Madness title, “the most frantic, far-out, fabulously frenzied monster mag you’ve ever goose-pimpled over!” In his carnival barker cadence, he implored readers to obey the first Marvel Commandment in his faux biblical exhortation: “thou shall not miss it!”8