... v. athletic, action-packed, and histrionic, but also a reminder of why most superhero comix are a tough read for me, even the ones starring the most iconic and comforting heroes. I'm familiar with the Fantastic Four, and even though I'd never read these stories in particular (or the ones preceding them), there wasn't a significant barrier to entry, plot-wise. In defiance of decades of accumulated narrative baggage, superheroes generally don't change. Their curse is an eternal return to a status quo of waiting, flexed and charged, for danger to arrive.
As it's impossible to care, in the conventional sense, what happens to the heroes, reading (as opposed to looking at) these comix becomes similar to watching sports or playing video games; the pleasure has to come from the authors' manipulation of well-known materials, structures, and strategies.
Lee/Kirby's concern for the emotional problems of the Fantastic Four might still have been novel at the time (1966-67), but their cursory, corny treatment of how people talk about and act on their feelings would be greeted with rolled eyes by today's 12-year-olds. The stories' conceptual oddities -- monsters made out of pure sound, a futuristic African nation, the mute king whose voice contains disastrous potential, the giant dog who can teleport -- have stood up much better, which might explain why Marvel writers have revived and revised these inventions again and again, along with the heroes themselves. It's too bad that the inventions amount to trippy furniture placed inside a conventional, non-trippy house. The stories go where you think they're going to go.
It's likely, though, that most people who pick this book up aren't seeking great writing, not even great children's writing, in the same way people don't listen to Black Sabbath for the lyrics. Here, Jack Kirby's drawings of bodies flying through the air are the ass-rocking music. He has never been surpassed in drawing BIG things: BIG, heavy, retarded, humongous machinery; BIG, dumb, cute, ugly monsters; BIG celestial objects; and BIG muscles. I don't know what to make of all these beefy things. They're not sexual things. They're not necessarily funny -- though, especially in combination with Stan Lee's pseudo-Elizabethan dialogue, they often are. Mostly they seem to be the brain belches of a man who has seen some extremely big things and is trying to tell you about them, and the only language available to him is spacecraft and beefy thighs. The language seems incomplete, but the terror and majesty of what this man has seen somehow come through, anyhow.
Two biggest highlights of this book: 1) the Negative Zone collages (WANTED: a whole book of that), 2) the moment Doctor Doom betrays the Silver Surfer and steals his power cosmic. What a dick!