for fantasy and taste

Dungeons & Dragons creator Gary Gygax passed away yesterday morning at the age of 69. His pioneering work in formalizing the concept of make-believe though complex tables, graph paper, and polyhedral dice allowed generations of social misfits to directly express their power projection and other vicarious fantasies in a relatively controlled (and frequently contentious) environment.

I've already discussed my qualified affection for the hobby in this classic post, so instead of simply restating what I said last April, I thought I'd pay my respects to the man who taught me the difference between a bardiche and a glaive by spotlighting what I hold to be Mr. Gygax's greatest work, which appeared in an appendix to the 1979 first edition of the AD&D Dungeon Masters Guide:


Luck be a lady of the evening tonight (but preferably a "brazen strumpet" rather than an "aged madam".)

Billy Idol - Flesh for Fantasy (from Rebel Yell, 1983) - What happens if you roll a critical fumble on a "sex attack"? (Please don't say "weapon breakage.") And into what category of the above table does Heidi Fleiss fall?

a she-wolf after the war

Chris Claremont and John Bolton's sword and sorcery property, "Marada the She-Wolf," was originally envisioned as a Red Sonja epic, but the then-forthcoming movie (featuring future reality show queen Brigitte Nielsen) put the kibosh on that plan, causing the writer/artist team to repurpose the concept as an original character. Heroic fantasy is pretty much a drag 'n' drop genre to start -- the names may change but the clichés remain the same.

I've previously mentioned my simultaneous attraction and repulsion to heroic fantasy, a genre that largely caters to adolescent power fantasies, hormonal angst, and the love of archaic bladed weaponry. It's a strangely nostalgic place to visit on occasion, but hardly a fit place to linger as it's only a matter of time before the reactionary solipsism starts to take its toll on one's psyche. Even attempts to upend the status quo are more likely than not to either involve simply "flipping" stock clichés (Xena) or unintentionally adding new ones for lesser talents to imitate (Moorcock).

Still, one can't live on Proust or Sterne alone (or at least I can't) and some hungers can only be sated by junk food's blatant palate-pandering, which is why I decided to give the 1985 Marada, The She Wolf graphic novel a shot. In retrospect, I shouldn't have bothered.

It's not as if I set my expectations especially high, though John Bolton is an excellent illustrator and Chris Claremont was only just coming off the peak of his storytelling powers when the book was released. The cover even took the rare step of having the protagonist wear an actually functional suit of armor -- a bold move in a genre where chainmail bikinis are norm for the she-barbarian set.


What's inside the cover is a entirely different matter. The story begins with the confident woman depicted (in flashback) here...


... having been transformed into the docile, broken thing shown here:


Any guesses on what could effect such a change on a headstrong, confident, independent woman? Anyone? Anyone?

I'll give a hint. It begins with the letter "R" and rhymes with "cape."


...and because it's a fantasy story, it's demonic rape, to boot. Just to be sure all the noxious cliché bases are covered, Claremont even makes use of the rape seduction myth with Marada's confession that "when that endless night came to an end [Wait, what?!?] and he returned to his maggot-ridden realm, I begged him to stay."

Sweet fucking Providence on an import motorbike, what fresh hell is this?

The strange thing is that Claremont garnered for himself quite a rep for being "the writer for women in comics," despite an odd predeliction for using metaphoric rape as a recurring motif. Jean Grey/Phoenix, Carol Danvers, Storm, Rachel Summers -- all incorporated "violations" of their being, spirit, soul, mind, or whatever into their characterizations during Claremont's tenure as writer. The Marada (each time I type her name I hear "The 2008 Nissan Marada: A different kind of SUV. Fully loaded at $26,999" in my head) bit differs only by being explicit in its depiction rather than relying on thinly-veiled analogy.

Mechanically, the rape provides the basis for Marada's heroic transformation, the process by which an action hero loses his or her confidence so as to eventually regain it and emerge stronger from the experience. Think Clint Eastwood's character in Fistful of Dollars, making a near-fatal mistake in sizing up the opposition then slinking off to re-arm, re-train, and re-gain his mojo. In that sense, the use of rape as a character-buliding obstacle capitalizes upon an extremely horrible real-world event by turning it into just another piece of genre shorthand, one exclusively used for female protagonists. (There have been instances of male rape/revenge scenarios in comics, but swift and violent revenge is the operating principle on those rare occasions -- Kid Miracleman turning London into a bloody ruin or Apollo going for talion-plus on the faux Avengers in The Authority. Never, ever would the act of violation be couched in terms of "he grew to like it" or "he's a broken, simpering shell of his previous self.")

The horribleness of the act gives it shock value which makes it a preferred option for off-the-rack gravitas by (male) writers which leads to overuse which trivializes and distorts a highly problematic and complex problem. (Well, simple as in "rape = bad," but complex in terms of the host of related issues involved.) It's nothing that hasn't already been addressed (better and in much richer detail) across the comics internet scores of times already, but it bears repeating.

So, having been reduced to a submissive state, Marada is taken in by a mystical society of not-elves-but-humans-who-come-damn-close where her Potential Love Interest^TM keeps trying (by needling and provoking her) to bring back the ferocious Marada of old. At first, Marada responds by simpering and whining and taking group baths with the other women in the community, but when Potential Love Interest^TM gets offed by an agent of the wizard who orchestrated the demon rape, she realizes that she actually did love the Potential Love Interest^TM and takes up sword and shield again to deliver some payback and rescue Potential Love Interest's^TM kidnapped daughter.

At this point you may find yourself thinking, as I did, that the story's initial grottiness is over, and that some straightforward she-barbarian ass-kicking is in store. Well, you'd be wrong, just like I was, because when Marada confronts the sorceror and his rape-demon in their lair...


Okay, I can accept the concept of tailoring the story details for the gender of the protagonist. That's a given in good writing, but still, can you imagine Conan or King Kull or Bloodphisto thinking those lines while making an "O-face"? This isn't a case of writing for gender as it is writing for a gender. Or, more specifically, "writing for horny fanboys."

At least the story ends on an empowering note...

..which comes off as stilted and poorly concieved as anything else found within its pages.

This was actually only the first half of a two-part arc included in the graphic novel. The second part, which I could only bring myself to skim, involves Marada and Potential Love Interest's^TM rescued daughter participating in a full-contact foot race with a scheming African queen. Honestly, I'd rather just watch Deathstalker and the Warriors from Hell again where the crapulence on display doesn't aspire to be anything more that what it plainly is.

In closing, I'd just like to state that the Wikipedia entry on Marada says, and I quote, "she fights against evil demons, wizards, witches and other fantastic creatures, but also against the threats a woman could expect from a world ruled by males" in a story written by males for males. Also, "Marada is also more sensual than Red Sonja, perhaps due to Bolton's drawings." If you're going to make such a claim, Mr. Wikipedia Contributor, the least you could do is provide a citation linking to the raw data.

my spells cannot be broke

The final gate stood before them, its adamantite bars shining in the flickering torchlight. Beyond lay the inner sanctum of the Gheshezimar the Witch King. The muscular half orc snorted dismissively. The stink of foul magic was heavy in the air. The end of his journey was near at hand, a quest for vengeance that had bought him across half of Xyrolia. Gheshezimar’s thrice-damned soul would join those of his spider-limbed minions in the Abyss.

The barbarian gripped the bars in his massive hands and attempted to lift the gate. The sinews in his shoulder blades knotted and popped with the strain, but the barrier would not lift. “By the fire caves of Zamphr!” he bellowed, “I shall not be denied!”

His slender companion stepped up to the gate. “Allow me,” he hissed, and made a quick gesture with his ebon fingers. Sparkling tendrils snaked from his hands and wrapped around the bars. Slowly the gate began to lift. The barbarian did not approve of such arcane trickery, but he had come to grudgingly respect Nightshade D’rozz’s talents during the many kizmals they had journeyed together. The dark elf mage had proven his worth once again.

No sooner had the gate opened than a shadowy form lunged from the dark passage beyond, screaming profane curses in the long dead language of the Lala-Bar. “A wraithling!” Nightshade screamed, and scrambled to prepare another spell. The half orc barbarian was quicker, and swung his massive axe at the attacker. The blade went wide of the target, shattering on the stone wall of the dungeon. The wightling closed in for the kill….

“What the hell? How could I have missed it? I’m swinging a dire axe that’s as wide as the passage and I have triple weapon specialization!”

“Well, if you account for the speed factor and the encumbrance penalty on initiative…”

“But the axe was forged by the Dwarfsmiths of Hron! It’s supposed to be unbreakable!”

“Um, yeah, well, I think there’s a table that covers that in the Big Dudes With Axes Survival Guide. Just give me a minute; I’m going to look it up. Wait, did I bring that book with me?”

“Aw, screw this. I’m going to see what’s on TV.”

Ah, the raw stuff of nerdy adolescent maleness, roughly shaped by popcult touchstones and polyhedral dice, and set to the dulcet peals of heavy metal thunder… It’s truly a wonder to behold.

I’ve played in hyper-sophisticated, tightly run role-playing campaigns where every in-game location has been mapped down to individual trees and bushes and the game master stressed the importance of “playing in character.” They were admirable, often enjoyable, efforts, but lacked the unrefined entertainment value derived from a cabal of socially awkward misfits cracking the seal on the Dungeons and Dragons Basic (“Red Box”) Set for the first time.

Give an experienced gamer a rule book, some dice, and a character sheet, and you’ll end up with “Eldremere Lightspear, Son of Ulthren, Protector of the Silver Forest and Bloodthrall of the Lady’s Kithband,” complete with a family tree, detailed backstory, and minute personal details.

Give the same to a fourteen year old boy in a Scorpions t-shirt circa 1985 and you’d get this:

Sophisticated characterization and internal logic are fine and all, but when you’re a geeky pubescent manchild trying to grapple with personal power fantasies, there’s nothing like kicking some ass in a dungeon haphazardly populated by a random assortment of the “coolest” monsters listed in the Fiend Folio (“’Cause that was, like, on sale for four bucks at Kay-Bee, and the Monster Manual was, like fifteen.”). It’s a realm where the rules, when properly understood (i.e. not often), are reduced to mere guidelines. The average strength score is 18/00 (the whole 18-slash-percentage strength rating for AD&D always struck me as rather stupid, and opened too many opportunities for meta-gaming), and every character is either a Half-Orc barbarian or multiclassed Dark Elf fighter/magic user/thief. Oh, and did I mention the harem girls?

It’s stupid, nonsensical, and immature (plus frequently sexist), but I have a certain weakness for that form of fantastical yearning. Unpretentious to a fault, it wore its patchwork of influences proudly on its sleeve. The Sword and the Sorcerer, Conan comics, metal and hard rock songs, pinball machine artwork – all thrown together in a steaming cauldron of testosterone, with the end result resembling an independently invented version of John Norman’s Gor as manifested in an eighth grader’s 3rd period English notebook. (Big thanks to the talented Dave Campbell for providing the excellent artwork that leads off today’s post. He nailed the concept perfectly.)

It might seem odd for me to wax nostalgic over such things, given my track record of bitching about the excesses of nerd behavior, especially those associated with the male side of the fan divide. It’s a matter of context, really. There are worse ways for an adolescent boy to work through his issues than projecting his self worth onto a larger than life fictional avatar named Doomhammer for a few months. As a step toward maturity, it’s no big deal, and kind of interesting to look back upon. As a developmental terminus, it’s creepy as fuck.

Even if I still gamed, I wouldn’t want to participate in such a campaign, even if it was possible to overcome my accumulated wisdom and approach it as fresh and free of irony as I did twenty-odd years ago. There are some aspects of youth that cannot be recaptured, no matter how hard one tries. I’ll just have to content myself by watching Deathstalker and The Warriors From Hell for the umpteenth time.

Improbably named and costumed characters? Check. Happens in a universe that is not so much a physical location as an abstract series of events linked together with the thinnest of plot threads? Check. The hero is an obnoxious asshole? Check. Acts of derring-don’t-make-much-sense? Check. Despite the absence of a heavy metal soundtrack, Deathstalker and The Warriors From Hell is the purest realization of a beginner’s D&D run ever caught on film. Potatoes are what we eat.

On to today’s xvart-stomping, blade-swinging, well-oiled and waxed collection of songs:

It’s kind of funny to consider that heavy metal’s fixation with fantasy themes grew out of the 60’s hippie counterculture, by way of Led Zeppelin’s shared fascination with Tolkien and Black Sabbath’s incorporation of 70’s occultist elements, with some Wagnerian (Richard, not Jack) bombast thrown in for good measure. It’s not that long a road from the peace sign to the mark of the beast, if you think about it.

Dio – Holy Diver (from Holy Diver, 1983) – I probably could have skipped all the overblown writing today and just posted this track and its video, which sum things up more effectively than my tortured prose ever could. (Did you know there was a NES game based on this song? Friend CJ has the scoop.)

Savatage – Hall of the Mountain King (from Hall of the Mountain King, 1987) – I saw Savatage open for Testament back in the late 80’s. I can’t remember if was at the Orpheum or the Channel, which reveals two embarrassing facts about me:

1. I can be very forgetful.
2. I paid to see Testament twice.

Don't forget to catch the video. It's priceless.

Deep Purple – Stormbringer (from The Very Best of Deep Purple, 2000) – Blood and souls for my Lord Blackmore! Thank you, Tanelorn! The Last Emperor of Melniboné says “Goodnight!”