The Virtue Of Vera Valiant

The Virtue Of Vera Valiant, by Stan Lee and Frank Springer

June, 1977  Signet Books

Last weekened I was in the room we use for storage and going through a bunch of boxes of junk. I came across a big printer box that had books in it, all of them still in the padded envelopes in which they’d been mailed to me (not sure why I never put them in a bookcase or whatever, but anyway). The majority of them were hardcover editions of the Greek/Roman poetry I was into many, many years ago (I guess my estrogen level must’ve been high at the time), but on the sides of the box were two smaller padded envelopes with mass market paperbacks in them. 

Of course, those were the packages I opened first – and they turned out to be this book, The Virtue Of Vera Valiant, and the sequel The Virtue Of Vera Valiant #2. According to the postage stamps, each book was mailed to me in June of 2009…pre-blog, baby! As I mentioned before, one of the reasons I started Glorious Trash was to force myself to actually read all the books I bought, so these two Vera Valiant paperbacks would’ve been read back then if I actually had a blog. 

I am not sure how I discovered these books, which were scarce and obscure then and apparently even more today; I am surprised to see that The Virtue Of Vera Valiant, a daily/weekly newspaper strip by Stan Lee and Frank Springer that ran from October 11, 1976 to August 28, 1977 has still not been collected, other than in these two old paperbacks.  And even then the full series was not collected, so even if you get these two paperbacks you aren't getting the entire strip run.  This perhaps shows how obscure the series really is, as even Lee’s other newspaper strip, The Amazing Spider-Man, has been collected. But then, it’s kind of unfair to compare Spider-Man to The Virtue Of Vera Valiant. 

I think I found out about these books shortly before I bought them from online sellers in June of 2009 thanks to the then-recent DVD release of soap opera satire Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. This was a soap that mocked soap convention, and since it was before my time (I was born in 1974, so would’ve been 2 years old when it was on TV) I’d never seen it. But I recall thinking the commercials for the DVD release were funny (to this day I still haven’t seen the show, though I still think it looks funny)…and somehow, somewhere, I learned that Stan “The Man” Lee had done a short-lived newspaper strip “inspired” by Mary Hartman. 

How inspired? Well, just check the back cover of this first Signet paperback collection, which even mocks the title of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, repeating “Vera Valiant” twice: 

So, Signet Books was aware that this strip was intended to be a soap opera spoof, same as Mary Hartman was. I wonder if actual newspaper readers knew this. I’m guessing not, hence the short life of The Virtue Of Vera Valiant. The book, by the way, is copyright The Los Angeles Times Syndicate, so I’m assuming they too were in on the joke. It’s also my understanding that some papers printed the series under the title “Vera Valiant, Vera Valiant,” to give further evidence of the strip’s inspiration. 

But the sad fact is that, judging from this 126-page paperback that collects the first three months of the series (October 11, 1976 to January 15, 1977), The Virtue Of Vera Valiant just isn’t very funny. This really surprised me; just the other month I mentioned how funny Stan Lee’s work was in the The Amazing Spider-Man strip. Here though his humor falls flat; the jokes do not seem very natural, given the artificial nature of the series itself (it’s intended to be a spoof of a stilted, melodramatic soap opera), and the jokes themselves are often of the groaner variety, or just lame in general. Also, there is a lot of repetition in setups and payoffs, but that seems to be standard in the disposable, ephemeral world of newspaper comic strips. 

We don’t get any setup or intro, and the strips are arranged on each page without the series banner. The Sunday strips, as they are longer than the dailies, take up a few pages – and more often than not they cover the same material as the dailies, only offering a little “new” material. And the Sundays are here printed in black and white, even though they were in color in the original newspaper printings. 

As I say, there is a lot of repetition, given that the audience might not be with the series every day; there could be weekend readers who only saw the Sunday strips, or weekday readers who didn’t see the daily strips, so Lee has to ensure the story is understandable for both parties. 

This also means there isn’t much in the way of continuity; subplots come up and are dispensed with wily-nily, with no explanation. This was another surprise, as the Spider-Man strips did have continuity, so my assumption is Lee was either finding his footing with this series (and perhaps dealing with editorial mandates), or he was spoofing the often surreal nature of soap operas themselves. But still, this makes for an unsatisfying read at times. 

The setup is simple: titular Vera Valiant is a young, dark-baired beauty in Hackensack, New Jersey – a lot of the easy jokes come from the fact that the story occurs in Hackensack, by the way. She lives with her Aunt Gladys (parelells to Peter Parker and Aunt May) and her brother Herbert; Aunt Gladys, in the little we see of her, is a doting but air-headed older lady, and Herbert is a heavyset buffoon. A lot of the repetitive “groaner” comedy comes from Herbert; there’s a lot of jokes about him flunking out of various correspondence courses, his latest subject being podiatry. 

There’s even more repetitive jokery around Vera’s boyfriend, Winthrop, a meek C.P.A. That Winthrop is a C.P.A. is constantly mentioned, usually in a facetious light – Winthrop going on about how being a C.P.A. is a noble profession and whatnot. It’s funny the first time, sort of, but by the tenth time it gets old. Also, Winthrop happens to be married, but for the past 14 years – since his wedding night, in fact – Winthrop’s wife Melba has been a victim of “sleeping sickness.” Thus she is asleep in a hospital and has been so throughout the marriage; Lee plays up the melodrama of Vera wanting to be with Winthrop, but feeling he should be true to his wife, even if she’s asleep, and etc…all of it done in a satirical way, of course. 

Thus each strip ends with a big “shock” moment, usually with Vera putting her hand to her mouth in terror, but it’s always something goofy or dumb that causes this…like late in the book a limo keeps circling the house and “strangers” barge in, and Vera is terrified..but it turns out the strangers are from a TV show and want to make Vera a real-life soap opera star. It’s stuff like this throughout, but then again this particular subplot is a curious prediction of reality TV. 

The bit with the “sleeping sick” wife takes up the first storyline, then we have a random storyline where Aunt Gladys falls for a guy who claims to be from Beta-III and who wants to sell condos on other planets; he has a spaceship that apparently is a hunk of metal sitting on the Valiant lawn, but the black-and-white reproduction of the panels kind of prevents us from seeing what Frank Springer intended it to look like. There’s more lame, repetitive comedy with the joke that Gladys’s husband “ran off with a defrocked TV repair person.” 

As for the supposed alien, he too is presented as a meek looking CPA type; overall The Virtue Of Vera Valiant occurs in a rather bland world, with most panels taking place in the Valiant home. There is little of the escapism of a true soap, with rich characters in rich surroundings, and it’s altogether more of a threadbare, humdrum sort of affair. 

Then there’s the problem of Vera Valiant herself. She’s such a cipher she is hard to relate to, but then I’m not sure it was even Stan Lee’s intention that we would relate to her. She’s there to act as a spoof of the perennially-shocked and worried female protagonist common in soap operas, so her dialog is generally reduced to voicing concerns or gasping in surprise. Her brother Herbert meanwhile seems to have wandered in from an out-and-out comedy, and doesn’t fit with the vibe Lee is trying to create for the series. 

It’s interesting how Stan Lee seems to lose interest in his subplots so quickly, but again this could be his reacting to editorial demands. The subplot with the Beta III salesman is lame, and Lee himself seems to get sick of it; after spending so many strips on the storyline, he abandons it with Vera being sent to an insane asylum (a cop shows up and doesn’t believe her when she says that Aunt Gladys’s boyfriend is an alien), and the Beta III guy is never mentioned nor seen again. 

The next storyline is no less annoying, and just as long; Vera in an insane asylum, where the hunky psychiatrist seems to have a thing for her (he’s also treating Winthrop’s sleeping wife, by the way) and thus won’t let Vera check out. But Lee gradually loses interest in this plotline, too, with the abrupt reveal that Vera works in a library and is visited by a coworker, an outspoken feminist who rails that there are more men in the insane asylum than women. 

This takes us into the homestretch, where a dashing, older man who runs the network’s biggest soap operas (Martin C. Martin) shows up at Vera’s home, having seen her on TV (another gag has Vera being put on a late-night TV news program while in the insane asylum), and coming up with the idea of making a real-world soap about her life. 

That’s it for The Virtue Of Vera Valiant, but more of the storyline was soon published in the second paperback, which I’ll be reviewing soon. A curious note, which I’ll belabor in the next review, is that the second volume states that a third volume would be forthcoming, but one never was – so The Virtue Of Vera Valiant not only failed to secure a long newspaper run, but also failed to garner paperback readers. 

Here are some random photos of the book, but the photos suck because the binding of my copy is so tight I could barely hold the book open with one hand while snapping pictures of the pages with the other. At any rate, Frank Springer’s artwork is great throughout, fully capturing the spoofy pathos of the series and giving each character their own look. However, unlike the Spider-Man strip, there is little in the way of risque material; Vera wears a full dress throughout the series and there’s nothing in the way of sex appeal. It’s just not that kind of story, I guess, but still the creep in me wishes there was at least a little of it…but then maybe I was just spoiled by the T&A John Romita brought to the Spider-Man strip. 

Mr. Right

Mr. Right, by Carolyn Banks

May, 1980  Warner Books

I recently discovered this one at a Half Price Books. Apparently making a bit of a splash upon its original 1979 hardcover publication – the back cover quotes a glowing review from Cosmo – Mr. Right was republished in 1999 under much “parafeminist” ballyhoo. Curiously this 1980 paperback doesn’t mention that at all, and indeed does a better job of describing the book. 

To be honest, I didn’t get any “feminist” angle from the novel. Sure, protagonist Lida is a sexually-liberated young woman who keeps a list of the 30-some men she’s been with, but at no point does she use this as a proclamation that “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Indeed, in another of those unintentionall “tells” that I love so much, Lida thinks something is wrong with her and wonders if she’ll ever find true love. Lol, there goes the “feminism” thing; Lida needs a man, after all. 

Another humorous thing is how much the sex angle is exploited on the back cover. Folks, I have to report that again we have that curious ‘70s phenonmenon of a “sexy book” that hardly has any sex in it, and indeed the vast majority of the sex occurrs off-page. There is nothing in this book to the sleazy length of, say, The Baroness, or even of contemporary popular fiction like Harold Robbins. Rather, the sex scenes we do get to read about are over and done with in a few sentences, and seldom if ever dwell on any juicy details. 

I also found it interesting that there’s nothing different about Lida, at least when compared to the average female protagonist of the day – in Robbins, in Hirschfeld, in Susann. Those authors, and innumerable others, gave us female characters who were both strong and promiscuous, who were literate and witty. All told, the only thing different about Lida is her self-doubt (she’s certain something is “wrong” with her), and also she has small boobs – though, again demonstrating the lack of focus on anything risque, we aren’t even told this until rather late in the game. 

Well anyway, Mr. Right is really more of a mystery, anyway, one that just happens to feature a promiscuous single woman in her 30s who fears that the man she is falling in love with might be a murderer. This is Duvivier, a famous mystery author who writes under other pseudonyms and who might have murdered a woman back in the early ‘60s, though Lida only learns this through coincdental plotting – her friend, Diana, happens to sleep with a guy who knew of a murderous colleage, years before, and Diana fears this man might have gone on to become Duvivier. 

A big problem with Mr. Right is that Duvivier is not built up enough. Lida reads one novel by the guy, brought to her in the hospital by Diana (Lida’s there to have an abortion!), and Lida likes it so much that she writes Duvivier a fan latter. It would have helped tremendously if we had been told more about the man’s novels, or maybe even gotten to read snatches of them; author Carolyn Banks could have had a lot of fun spoofing the mystery thrillers of the day, but apparently this thought did not occur to her. 

So, as with so much of the novel, we are only told of how great Duvivier’s books are, particularly his murders. Lida also responds to the fact that Duvivier clearly enjoys writing his books – Lida is an English teacher at an all-black college in Washington, D.C., and thus responds to what she sees as Duvivier’s gifted mocking of literary conventions. 

We also have a lot of scenes from Duvivier’s point of view; the novel hopscotches a lot, and I’m happy to report that Banks either gives us white space to denote this or just starts a new chapter. In fact there are a lot of chapters in Mr. Right, some of them as short as those in the average Richard Brautigan novel. Anyway, Duvivier is droll, elitist, and condescending – and also enjoys masturbating when devising the murder scenes in his novels. 

The gist of the novel is that Lida belives she’s found “Mr. Right” in Duvivier, due to that one novel of his she’s read; again, it would have been so much better if we’d learned more about his books. It would have helped explain why Lida, a woman who is having sex with one guy on the very first page and will with another not many pages later – and who chastizes herself for being screwed up and whatnot – would fall in love with Duvivier in the first place. 

There’s some cool stuff that resonated with me where Lida tracks down Duvivier’s real name. Showing how this sort of thing was done before the internet, Lida calls the Library of Congress and has them root through varous files; it’s a nice bit of investigative work that impresses even Duvivier, when he learns of it late in the novel. This “uncovering an author’s real identity” was right up my alley, and I’m also happy to report that Mr. Right even refers to Jimi Hendrix, not just once but a few times. 

The pseudonym stuff might have seemed revelatory in the day, but is altogether quaint n our internet/AI world. But it was cool to see the work one had to do to find the real name of an author – and, as Duvivier is told by a librarian who takes his job very seriously, there’s nothing to be found if the author specifically tells the publisher not to share his real name, something Duvivier never thought to do. 

Banks drops more ‘70s topical details here, like mentions of the pseudonymous bestsellers The Sensuous Woman and The Sensuous Man; she also references The Sensuous Dirty Old Man, another real book, but the librarian states that it was by “Mr. X;” in reality it was by Dr. A. This same librarian claims to know who “Mr. X” really is, and tells Duvivier that he’d never believe it; one wonders if Carolyn Banks herself knew that Dr. A was really Isaac Asimov. 

All these things are up my alley, but unfotunately a big problem with the novel is Lida. In another “tell,” instead of coming off as the strong and independent woman the author and publisher(s) intend, she instead comes off like a self-involved whore. Perhaps this is another “tell,” or self-own. Lida sleeps with a married man and even visits him for more sex while he’s in the hospital, all while wondering why she can’t meet a real man – we even learn she had sex with one of the students in her class, a black kid named “George Washington,” just so she could write that particular name down on her list of conquests. Or, as the kid told her – all of this relayed to us via dialog, as a lot of the story is – Lida would be able to put up a sign over her bed that stated, “George Washington slept here.” 

There is a lot of pre-PC humor here that had me laughing at times, but I’m sure it would be forbidden today, as a lot of it has to do with Lida’s comments about her black students, the majority of whom are not intelligent. When Lida and Duvivier meet, there’s also a lot of witty repartee between the two; Banks capably demonstrates how the two were made for each other. There’s also a very funny part where Diana tries to come to Lida’s rescue during a play and starts yelling that she can’t see when the house lights go down, much to the annoyance of the audience. 

But a lot of Mr. Right is made up of incidental scenes that have little bearing on the plot. Also, Banks has a tendency to write in short, punchy sentences, not much setting up scenes or giving us an idea why they are important to the story. In a lot of ways – from plotting to writing – the novel reminded me of another contemporary “spoof” of popular fiction, The Serial. 

Also, a lot of the book occurs in the early 1960s, right after the JFK assassination. This part is very much out of a mystery novel, concerning a nebbish and possibly homosexual young man who might or might not have murdered a woman, and who might or might not have become Duvivier. Banks hopscotches from the ‘60s to Lida in the ‘70s and also Diana (who has her own share of the narrative), so there really is a lot of jumping around in the novel. 

What puzzles me is why contemporary reviewers would think this novel was so different. I mean, this was an era in which a mainstream bestseller featured characters giving each other golden showers, so how in the hell could anything in Mr. Right have been considered risque or boundary-pushing? It’s altogether tame in comparison. And Lida, despite her sparkling wit, isn’t too different from sundry other female protagonists of the time. Only in her previously-mentioned self-doubt is she different, and that begins to wear thin quickly. 

Overall I’m glad I came across Mr. Right in the bookstore, as I doubt I would’ve have learned of it otherwise. Carolyn Banks proves she can deliver witty dialog and memorable situations, but all told I didn’t feel that the actual novel lived up to the sordid spectacle promised by the back cover. But then, do they ever?

Yankee King Of The Islands

Yankee King Of The Islands, edited by Noah Sarlat

No month stated, 1963  Lancer Books

Another vintage Men’s Adventure Magazine anthology I picked up many years ago, Yankee King Of The Islands is credited to editor Noah Sarlat, whose name appeared on many such books at the time. Sarlatt was an editor at the Atlas Magazine line, and thus the stories collected here are taken from those magazines – with the caveat that we are not given the names of the magazines themselves, just the date of their original copyright. Another thing to note is that the cover – which I believe originally appeared on an issue of For Men Only – is misleading. The majority of the tales collected here occur in the 1800s; only two of them take place in WWII, and one other takes place in the 1950s. 

Another thing to note is that, unlike anthologies like Our Secret War Against Red China or Women With Guns, the stories here are more pseudo-factual, like actual news articles, than the narrative-driven fiction that was typical of the men’s mags. 

This unfortunately means that the stories are not as fun as the average men’s adventure yarn; at least they weren’t as fun for me. I like the escapist stories, and the ones here are too mired in history. There’s also much less of the female exploitation one generally encounters in the average men’s mag story; zero in the way of the sleaze that would eventually take over the mags, too. About the most we get is that a busty island native gal will “please” one of our heroes, and that’s it. 

The title story is up first: “David Whippey: Yankee King Of The Islands,” by Robert J. Levin and copyright 1958. This is one of the stories where we only learn rather late that the action is occuring in the early 1800s. It’s about a young American who ventures to the South Seas to get away from “the white man” and learn about the native culture first-hand. 

The story is also Avatar a few decades early. Whippey even undergoes a “test of the heart” where he has to endure various stages of a trial – walking over coals, chasing after the unmarried women as a sort of tribal mating right, and finally engaging a rival tribe in warfare. Here though we learn that this collection will lack the escapist vibe of the typical men’s adventure magazine story, as it’s all relayed in a dry tone – there’s zero in the way of the customary female exploitation, and Whippey’s native bride receives a scant few lines of text, none of it exploitative. 

Rather, the focus is on telling who Whippey was and how he became one with the natives on this South Seas island; it’s essentially a history story, with little in the way of the action and escapism the reader might expect. 

Next up is “32 Wives For The Captain,” credited to Robert J. Fuller and copyright 1958. This one at least takes place in contemporary times, but the story is so strangely written…essentially it’s the summary of a trial a woman named Charlotte Lemieux endured in France in 1951. So the tale is focused on what was said in the courtroom, again as if the story is a recounting of true events – something you’d read in a standard magazine, not something with a Nazi strapping a busty blonde to a torture device on the cover. 

Again, the narrative thrust is nonexistent as we are told, not shown, of the horrors poor Charlotte endured – she and her husband discovered a lost island in the South Seas, and were prompty taken captive by the inhabitants…her husband locked in a cage and forced to have sex (off-page) with all the women on the island. The women however were French, and long story short, Charlotte deduces that they were the in-bred descendants of a crashed ship of French whores that was lost at sea in the late 1800s – indeed, the titular captain refers to the man who sired all the ensuing generations, taken captive by the 1800s whores and impregnating 30-some of them. 

The wonderfully-titled “The Adventures of a Yankee Beach-Comber on Many-Bride Island” is next, credited to Leon Lazarus and copyrigth 1960. We’re back in historical times, the 1850s to be exact, and Captain Josiah Flagg is shocked one day when a nude young island woman washes up onto his ship. This one is more of a survival at sea tale, as the horny men onboard want the girl, but Flagg insists on keeping her in a room and nursing her to health; there’s even a part where they endure a long storm at sea. 

Then eventually they crash and Flagg is washed up on a deserted island where he lives for two years, eating seal meat and such, untill one day some natives from another island come by and take him away. Eventually Flagg hooks up with the chief’s daughter or somesuch, but again the girl is barely a presence in the story, and at the end she helps Flagg fake his death so he can be put on a boat and set out to sea and return to his own people. 

By far my favorite story in the collection is the next one: “The Amazing G.I. Who Took Three Head-Hunting Brides,” by Bill Wharton and copyright 1961 (it’s also the latest story in the collection). It concerns Geoffrey Hunter, a British soldier in the Sarawak Islands who leads a guerrilla band of native headhunters in attacks on “the Japs.” The titular brides, native beauties with “small, firm breasts” once again are incidental to the story; much more focus is placed on Hunter training the headhunters how to fight the Japanese. 

Curiously the story too approaches the vibe of a “real” piece of journalism, with a long climax in which we’re told of Hunter’s escapades post-war…how he decided to stay on the island, living with the headhunters, how he sent a detachment of them to handle the troubles in Malaysia some years later, and then ultimately how he died there in the early ‘50s. 

Perhaps one of the more unlikable protagonists in men’s adventure mag history follows, in “Pacific Girl Trader,” credited to George V. Jones and coyright 1960. Another “real history” piece (though I had to look the guy up to learn he did in fact exist), this one focuses on Nels Sorensen, a guy from Denmark who became a US citizen and is now the “lone white man with a native crew” in the South Seas. With the detail on how Sorensen was a deep sea diver with the US navy, I thought this was another contemporary yarn, but once again we have a late-in-the-story revelation that it’s actually in the 1880s. 

Sorensen makes his sleazy living in the South Seas, sailing to and fro and selling stuff to the natives…that is, when he isn’t kidnapping them and selling them into slavery. I knew I was in for an unusual sort of yarn when the story opened with Sorensen gamely watching a friendly tribe kill off some captured enemy and then eat them, and Sorensen helps himself to a chunk of thigh. From there he figures he could buy the captured women for a pittance, and he takes them onto his ship…where they “please” him, the book as ever not getting full-on sleaze, and then he sells them off. 

The crux of the story is more focused on Sorensen’s scheme to trick people into signing on for an expedition into the South Seas and then leading them into captivity while there, but the plan backfires and he’s sent to prison. But he escapes, and the rest of the story is about him trying to concoct various schemes to get back to the South Seas, including even setting himself up as a notable in early 1900s America. But all told the story is again delivered in that dry, journalistic tone, robbing it of the escapism of the average men’s adventure story. 

“Marooned In Paradise” is another one by Robert J. Fuller and copyright 1958. It’s another dry, pseudo-factual yarn, this one with the novel conceit that it features a Japanese protagonist: Akio, a Japanese navy man who is marooned in ’42 and washed up on a deserted island of Arabic people, and fell in love with a girl there, but managed to get off the island and now is consumed with finding it. 

The last tale is another historical yarn: “Jacky-Jacky: King Of Convict Women Island,” by Robert Irwin and copyright 1958. It’s the 1800s and the titular Jacky-Jacky is a notorious convict on the penal colony of Australia. This one has an opening that’s actually like the average men’s adventure mag story, with Jacky-Jacky making the moves on a busty waitress before discovering it’s an ambush. But from there we are back into the pseudo-reportage that sinks all the other stories here. 

Unusually, this one also has a bit of a social justice undertone, as Jacky-Jacky – another real person – rose to fame posthumously for his statements on the horrible life of the penal colony. Also, the “women island” of the title is such a non-event in the story that it made me chuckle: there’s a part late in the story where Jacky-Jacky is on an island prison where women are also kept, and we’re told that some of the other men make use of them, but Jacky-Jacky himself is too busy plotting escape. Mel Gibson could’ve done this one instead of Braveheart; at least his Australian accent would’ve made sense. 

And that’s it for Yankee King Of The Islands. Not the best introduction to men’s adventure magazine stories, but interesting in how it shows what paperback publishers of the day thought readers would be interested in.