Few writers would be better qualified to chronicle the life
of Harvey Kurtzman than Bill Schelly. A
longtime comic historian and author of several books, including two about
artist Joe Kubert, his American Comic Book Chronicles: The 1950s,
was nominated for a Harvey, the prestigious award named after Kurtzman. Now Schully has produced Harvey Kurtzman: The Man who
Created MAD and Revolutionized Humor in America. Despite the clunky
title, it’s a smoothly written, exhaustive tribute to an iconic figure.
Kurtzman is important because he created the seminal humor
and satire magazine of the 20th century. Granted, if Kurtzman hadn’t done it, a
magazine similar to MAD would’ve appeared at some point. The vibe was out
there, the societal balloons were ready to be busted, and the writers and
illustrators were out there, champing at the bit. But without Kurtzman leading the way, the
product might not have been as good as MAD.
Consider the number of MAD knockoffs that came up over the years,
including Panic, Cracked, Crazy, and
others. (I even remember one called Plop.) They paled in comparison. In fact, not even Kurtzman could duplicate
MAD, and he certainly tried. After years of arguing with EC publisher Bill Gains,
Kurtzman left MAD after 28 issues and tried to recreate lightning in a bottle,
first with Trump, then Humbug, and then Help! He never found the
groove again, which is part of what gives Schelly’s book an unexpected feeling
of melancholy.
There’s a sense of good old American pluck about Kurtzman’s
early years. He was the shy middle son of a hugely dysfunctional family,
pounding the pavements in post war New York, trying to sell himself as an
illustrator. He hoped to work for the slicks,
but after several fits and starts, he ended up drawing horror comics for Bill
Gains at EC. Kurtzman worked his way up
to being the editor and creator of such
gripping EC war titles as Two-Fisted
Tales and Frontline Combat, which showed him to be a visionary. Rather
than follow the trend of other comics that sold patriotism and inhuman
portraits of the enemy, he wrote ironic tales where soldiers were human. But
the war comics took a toll; Kurtzman grew tired of meticulous research and
yearned for something in a lighter, or jugular, vein. Hence, MAD was born in the autumn of 1952.
MAD was great from the first hop. The earliest issues are already bursting with
the satire and silliness that would be the magazine’s trademark. Superman, Batman, Tarzan, Frankenstein, Dracula, TV commercials,
King Kong, game shows, were all ripe for Kurtzman and his gang to skewer. Hell, even if you didn’t know how to read,
you could enjoy those early issues for
the brilliant illustrations. The
magazine had the pulse of a crazy person who couldn’t stop talking. As he’d done for his war comics, Kurtzman
outlined everything, and expected his artists to follow his sketches. The results were beautiful, hysterical, and
dangerously alive. And of course, it was
too good to last.
Gains comes off as the sort of lucky buffoon who has always
been rampant in publishing, building an empire on the sweat of others. He’d been the son of a bullying dad, and seemed
to take pleasure in bullying Kurtzman.
(Many people in the book are the sons of distant or
cruel fathers, finding solace in the world of cartoons) When Hugh Heffner, a
major admirer of MAD, offered to help Kurtzman create his own humor mag, Kurtzman split from Gains’ shabby enterprise
and joined the Playboy mogul’s burgeoning empire. Bad move.
Heffner’s ego was such that he had to oversee every move
Kurtzman made, which choked Kurtzman’s creativity. The result was Trump, a glossy but uninspired half-brother of MAD that Heffner
canceled after two issues. The Heffner -
Kurtzman alliance wasn’t dead, though. Kurtzman would helm Playboy’s Little Annie Fanny
strip for two decades. Heffner loved
Annie, but the strip did little for Kurtzman besides supply a steady paycheck.
The book’s underlying theme seems to be, Be careful what you wish for. Kurtzman had never liked comic books, and
yearned to work for a slick magazine like Playboy.
He was, as Schelly writes, “an iconoclast who sought the Establishment symbols
of success.” But working at Playboy was
an albatross around his neck. He earned
money, but never enough. In the 1970s, Kurtzman began a 17-year stint at the
School of Visual Art in Manhattan just to make ends meet. In one of the book’s
most dramatic scenes, he actually leaves in the middle of a class to cry in the
hallway. One can only imagine the
breaking point he’d reached, as MAD raked in money without him, while he tried
to teach a bunch of long-haired kids how
to appreciate satire.
But this frustrating time coincides with what is arguably
the best part of Schelly’s book, the era when Kurtzman became a sort of
national treasure. Comic cons were a growing phenomenon, and Kurtzman was often
invited to events where he’d be feted and praised like visiting royalty. The
attention was good for him, and by now he was being heralded by many former
employees who’d gone on to other things, including Terry Gilliam of Monty
Python fame, and underground comic king Robert Crumb. Kurtzman was by now considered the patron
saint of all things silly, the guru of guffaws.
This period of appreciation allowed Kurtzman to mount a comeback of
sorts, but most of his late period output was a disappointment. He was, after all, competing with
himself. How does one top MAD? How does
one even match it?
Schelly gives plenty
of coverage to the lineup of great side characters in Kurtzman’s life, such as
the other artists of the day (ie. Wallace Wood, Jack Davis, Bill Elder, etc)
and Charlton Publications co-owner John Santangelo, a Sicilian immigrant who
wasn’t shy about his mob connections, and was “notorious for paying the lowest
rates, and having the worst printing in the business.”
At times, Schelly
gives us too many plot summaries, but Schelly’s fascination with Kurtzman rubs
off on the reader. Yet, Schelly never
presents Kurtzman as a man without foibles. We get a sense of the perfectionism
and occasional callousness that drove some good artists away, and at times Kurtzman
seems to be quietly self-destructive. He’d strive to reach a goal, but inevitably
he’d complain about it. There are
moments when you want to reach into the book and grab Kurtzman by the collar
and say, You have a good thing here. Don’t screw it up.
Schelly gives just the right amount of attention to
Kurtzman’s family life, including the challenges of having an autistic son.
Kurtzman’s later years, where he struggled with major illnesses, are incredibly
poignant, especially when it becomes clear that Kurtzman will never have the
big comeback.
In a way, Schelly’s book is the big Kurtzman comeback. Thanks to Schelly, Kurtzman gets his due, and
seems larger than life.
- Don Stradley
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