Paul Levitz

For the ancient history buffs, the Phantom Stranger launched as a title of his own in 1952, at a time when it was pretty rare for DC to debut a character in their own pages.  The original thought was to do a riff on Mark Twain’s the Mysterious Stranger, and if you look closely at that first issue you can see the lettering was originally done for the longer word and then corrected.  It was part of a mystery moment for DC: Sensation Comics had become Sensation Mystery, Star Spangled Comics demoted Robin from the cover feature in favor of Doctor 13, The Ghost Breaker, and House of Mystery (named after a popular radio program) had debuted.

I’ve seen those first stories (there were three in the issue, plus a very short anthology type tale) credited to Manley Wade Wellman, a prolific pulp writer who did a bit of comics work, and John Broome, one of editor Julie Schwartz’s favorites.  In any case, the art was provided by Carmine Infantino, maturing into his modern style as one of the industry’s leading talents, with inks by Sy Barry.   It set up the premise of a Stranger who would enter people’s stories, have an effect on the resolution, and then vanish.  And his comic followed that pattern, vanishing after 6 issues, barely enough time for sales reports on the first couple of issues.  While it had its charms, it was pretty tepid stuff compared to the E.C. horror titles of the period, and newsstands were very crowded.

The Stranger came back in 1968 in an issue of Showcase cobbled together with a new framework by Mike Friedrich and Bill Draut surrounding reprints of the Stranger and Dr. 13.  Without waiting for sales, he was launched into his own series three months later, keeping the same format.  The early issues bounced between the reprint format and some original tales, with editor Joe Orlando using some young writers like Friedrich, Gerry Conway and Len Wein, and stalwart Bob Kanigher, then making the transition from editor to staff writer after health challenges.  The art side varied even more, with longtime DC contributor Mike Sekowsky taking a turn, and the about to be star Neal Adams dropping in.  But by issue #14 magic happened.

Len Wein got the scripting assignment (his first ongoing series) at around the moment his first legendary Swamp Thing story appeared, and was teamed with Jim Aparo, just hitting his stride a few issues into settling into it as a regular gig.  The team collaborated for a baker’s dozen of tales (a two year run in those days of mostly bi-monthly comics), and made the title one of the most interesting DC was publishing at the time.  I loved it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t love the work of the next writer on the series, as longtime professional Arnold Drake stepped in, with the art now assigned to Gerry Talaoc, of the Redondo Studio in the Philippines (with interesting interruptions by Bill Draut and Mike Grell).  Arnold had written some wonderful comics in his life (most notably the Doom Patrol, on which he was the primary creator, but also on a wide range of stories from humor comics to horror, and the proto-graphic novel, It Rhymes With Dust.   Joe gave a couple of issues to new writer David Michelinie, but he wasn’t able to continue on the series (ppssibly because of picking up assignments on Swamp Thing and the Unknown Soldier, but I can’t recreate the timeline that neatly in my head).  Arnold was continuing, and I was agitating (as Joe’s assistant editor my agitating was from a front row seat).

Then I did something I now consider wrong.  I agitated enough to take over the assignment myself.  I still think my criticisms of Arnold’s work on the series were fair ones, but taking advantage of my proximity to replace him wasn’t fair.  I wasn’t the only assistant editor of the period at DC (or Marvel) who acted that way, with varying degrees of justification or self-aggrandizement.  Arnold was justifiably unhappy about it, and we had a long period of a difficult relationship as a result, though I’m enormously glad he ultimately forgave my youthful folly (I was 17) and we became friends before he passed.

Still, Phantom Stranger became my first regular assignment.  I got to do five issues, one as a rewrite of Arnold’s last script, then four of my own before the series was cancelled.  I think I went in the right direction (bringing back Len’s wonderful character Cassandra Craft, and pulling Deadman into the series when he was without a home), but I’ll leave it to others to decide if I actually did any better than Arnold did.

I would get to return to the Stranger a few times over the years: filling in on his series when it was a back-up in Saga of the Swamp Thing in the early ‘80s, using him in a Superman team-up in DC Comics Presents, and getting to be one of the several writers speculating on his origin in a lovely issue of Secret Origins.  My version was magnificently brough to life by Jose Luis Garcia Lopez, but it was hard to compete with a contribution from Alan Moore and Joe Orlando.  And now, almost five decades after I first touched the cloaked conjuror, I got to do a short story of him for DC’s Halloween anthology for this year.  It’s particularly neat because it’ll come out almost simultaneously with a Phantom Stranger Omnibus that will include all the stories I’ve discussed, allowing you to make your own judgements.

One last note on inspiration.  I particularly turned to John Brunner’s Traveler In Black for my vision of the Stranger.  Brunner’s character was a being of a singular nature, who walked a primordial and magical world, slowly helping it turn from chaos and magic to order by granting wishes of its inhabitants, though rarely in the way they expected.  It’s a lovely little book, and well worth hunting down.

One thing that worries me about the increasing trend of virtual offices is the learning process.  In some fields, very specifically comics but I’m sure others as well, much of the learning is informal and osmotic.  There’s some formal or structured training, to be sure, but equally important (more important?) is what you learn by observation.

When I came onto the DC staff in the early 1970s, the company had a very small (30-35 people?) but exceptionally talented staff augmented by another handful of freelance editorial people who came into the office on their own schedules, some daily, some weekly, some rarely.

The size of the place was such that everyone was in contact with everyone else, formally or informally, and it was natural to observe others at work.  The full-time salaried editorial team was tiny: Julie Schwartz, Murray Boltinoff, Joe Orlando, one reprint/support editor, Nelson Bridwell, and one editorial assistant, Allan Asherman.  Coming in and out idiosyncratically were Joe Kubert, Denny O’Neil, Archie Goodwin and Joe Simon.  [If you’re counting, that’s six Hall of Famers—seven if count Carmine Infantino down the hall as President—which is why I sometimes have described this period of my life as the equivalent of being batboy for the Yankee’s Murderers’ Row.]

I worked directly for Joe, and later for Gerry Conway as well when he became one of the freelance editors, and learned enormous amounts of my craft from them.  Some of it in the brief instructional ‘lectures,’ some by doing tasks like rewrite or copy editing which they would review, and much by simply observing their interactions with writers and artists.  Broadly I’d characterize what I got from Joe as principally under the heading of tools to get the best work from writers and artists.  From Gerry I got deeper tools for my own writing and reviewing the writing of others.   [And not discounting that both of them played major roles in simply protecting my young self from own errors and teenage arrogance.]

But I also learned from the other people on the hallway.  Julie Schwartz’s organizational tools and disciplines made the editorial process smooth, ensuring regular work for valued contributors and punctual production of isssues barring accommodation to the rarest of talents or situations.   It wasn’t the specific tools [the equivalents of spreadsheets in modern terms] that I adopted as much as the attitudes and priorities.  

And I learned what not to do, as well.  Murray Boltinoff was an accomplished editor [his titles in any genre tended to sell better than other DC editors’ similar ones], and a decent man weighed down in those years by family challenges and his own frustrations with his career.  But watching him deal with writers and artists was both a time tunnel into DC’s past when editorial emotional abuse of talent was commonplace, and an object lesson in behaviors I never wanted to model.

There were other observational lessons: watching how some editors treated their assistants less generously than Joe and Gerry had been with me [and there’s no possibility that I would have had my long career at DC if they hadn’t gone above and beyond customary practice to carry me through a valley during those years, for which I’ll always be grateful]; watching how different editors interacted with production or the freelance craftspeople doing lettering and coloring; and learning about the processes of comics from the extraordinarily experienced and skilled Sol Harrison and Jack Adler.  Other small assignments from Carmine, Sol or VP-Business Manager Bernie Kashdan taught me things about copyright, scheduling, and dealing with Controller Arthur Gutowitz on inventory gave me insight into…well…the tricks editors used to game the system.  Denny began years of writing advice.  And freelancers coming in and out of the office taught lessons as well; Len Wein hovering over me proofing SWAMP THING together, for example.  I’m not confident that I’d have had the chance to learn any of those things in a virtual structure; much less watch artists working in the bullpen finishing up or correcting assignments, or gabbing with writers of my generation or predecessors back to legends like Alfie Bester.

Every moment has its own opportunities and challenges, and I’m sure the virtues of the emerging virtual systems will create their own.  But I feel very lucky in how I got to learn, and I hope it works out as well for this generation’s beginners.

It’s July 4^th weekend, a time when many fans of my generation remember the amazing time we had at the New York Comicons of the 1970s.  Everyone’s memories of great events is biased by the point they occurred in the individual’s life, so it’s pretty much useless to argue about when the “best” Comicons were.  But objectively, the conventions of those years had a few things going for them: our gatherings had grown large enough to have budgets that permitted flying in legendary guests (and so many of the legends were still with us), but were still small enough that the guests were totally approachable; original art was being returned to artists and so was available for sale (but inexpensive enough that you probably could have had every piece in the hall for the auction price of Frank and Lynn’s iconic DARK KNIGHT RETURNS cover); likewise the wealth of early issues being offered (unslabbed) by a roomful of dealers (okay, I didn’t think the $150 it would have taken to get a copy of ACTION #1 was wise—who says I’m a good businessman?); and publishers were beginning to support the shows without trying to turn them into ‘activations’ the size of a Vegas trade convention.

But most of all, I remember Phil Seuling on the 4^th.  He was as loud and explosive as a fireworks, inviting the world to his party and furious when anything threatened to make it less than memorable.  His vision of a comic convention lives on, now almost four decades after his premature passing: even within the largest shows events mimic what he dreamed up or polished. 

I knew Phil from when I was 11 or 12, and my Dad rented him space for a used bookstore venture he briefly tried in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.  One of my fondest childhood memories is of a summer day when I walked across the borough with friends, 10 miles of hitting used bookstores and places that randomly racked new paperbacks, ending at Phil’s.  Later on, I worked on the convention program books, helped him mail out ‘progress reports’ (think of an analog equivalent to Kickstarter communications with backers but being hand-coallated in a 90 degree living room with my Mom unwilling to open windows on a summer day), helped at his dealer’s tables at my first San Diego Con, got to know Bill and Annie Gaines racing through the woods of Canada with Phil driving like a maniac (a very skilled maniac, but still), worked briefly for him at the dawn of the direct sales system and had a challenging couple of years dealing with him as I took responsibility for the business side of DC in the years when his distribution company was facing increasing competition.  Oh, and I wrote his eulogy for DC’s Meanwhile page, probably the first time a fan was so ‘honored.’

Phil was full of enthusiasm and energy, bouncing through life, a big kid who was content not to completely grow up.  He loved comics, he loved creativity, and he loved the next idea, sometimes before he’d been able to make the last one work.  He quietly supported projects by others, buying up improbable and likely unsalable quantities of early zines (or a garage full of the AMAZING WORLD OF METROPOLIS tabloid).  He experimented, putting together everything from classic reprints to coloring books.  And when he focused on something, he almost always made it better.

If you saw him with Jonni Levas, in their good years, you might hear a booming voice singing of their love.   If you saw him with Gwen and Heather, you saw a father who was always ready to be a playmate.   And while I was too young to get any kind of read on his marriage to Carole before it ended, just seeing the pics that circulate of them in costume before the word cosplay was invented tells me they had their good times too.

I made so many friends at those early shows, and had so many moments that I cherish.  But when I think of the 4^th, the first person I think of is the guy who threw the best parties of my life.  And if you have a great time at a comicon this summer, stop for a second and think of him too.  He’d like that.

I’ve been teaching on an undergrad and graduate level at a number of colleges for the last dozen years or so, usually 3-4 classes per term.  I don’t teach required courses, or relatively conventional classes because I’m not the best person for them; traditional pedagogy isn’t something I ever studied, and my goal is to bring my unusual life experience to the students. 

This upcoming term I’ll only be at Pace University, but with a nice diverse workload: undergrad creative writing program Writing Comics & Graphic Novels, graduate M.S. in Publishing program the practice of Comics & Graphic Novels, and my first-ever course in their business school, New Ventures In Arts & Entertainment Management. 

I’ve always used guest speakers in my classes, and had some wonderful ones (Chris Claremont, Denny O’Neil, Neal Adams, Laura Lee Gullidge and Miss Lasko-Gross were among the ones we’ve had at Columbia; Vivek Tiwary and Fabian Nicieza are reoccurring ones at Pace).  But what I learned from the plague years of teaching via Zoom, besides that I really prefer being in a physical classroom, is the ease of bringing in speakers from distant places when the school offers the right technology.  And Pace usually does.

So last year for Alternative Literature & Media at Pace  I was able to bring in a great range of folks: Cheryl & Wade Hudson, who founded Just Us Books (an early children’s book line featuring people of color), Lee Marrs (co-founder of WIMMEN’S COMIX, one of the few underground comix cartoonists to also contribute to DC, a computer animation pioneer), Isabel Yap (fan fictioneer turned sf writer(, and topping it off, Alison Bechdel (if I have to tell you who she is, not sure why you’re on this website).  Needless to say, I learned things from each of them that I didn’t know.  I was even able to get one of my former Columbia students who had done a wonderful paper on Fun Home to join in.

Speaking of learning, I seem to learn three categories of knowledge while I teach: first, ideas that I focus on as I try to codify what I already know to share with students; second, new slang (well, relatively new—I’m an old guy, after all) from my writing students; and third, the occasionally obvious thing that I overlooked or never considered.  An example of the third was this past term, in a discussion of the external and internal media forms and how comics treads that line in an interesting way, the point was raised that song in musical theatre is often used as an internal form to reveal emotion and thought.  Obvious, right?  I just never focused on that, despite having enjoyed musical theatre since Fiddler as an adolescent. 

Learning from students and the process, getting to share my experiences and others, and enjoying the vitality and energy of the young…overall, a very rewarding experience.  And I’ll admit to a certain satisfaction from being a college dropout, whose odd life has enabled him to have entre to this profession.  My colleagues used to occasionally point out that I was pedantic, and now I’m making constructive use of it.