The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay

“Sam Clay.”

Sammy smiled. Once again, as when he had first enclosed the pair of newly minted American names in a neat inked rectangle of partnership on page 1 of the Escapist’s debut, Sammy’s belly suffused with an uncomfortable warmth, and he felt his cheeks color. It was not merely the blush of pride, nor of the unacknowledged delight he took in thus emblematizing his growing attachment to Joe; he was also moved by a grief, half affectionate, half ashamed, for the loss of Professor von Clay that he had never before allowed himself to feel. He gave Joe’s shoulder a squeeze.

“We’ve done something great, Joe, do you realize that?”

“Big money,” said Joe. His eyes opened.

“That’s right,” said Sammy. “Big money.”

“Now I remember.”

In addition to the Escapist and the Black Hat, their book now boasted the opening adventure, inked and lettered by Marty Gold, in the career of a third hero, Jerry Glovsky’s Snowman, essentially the Green Hornet in a blue-and-white union suit, complete with a Korean houseboy, a gun that fired “freezing gas,” and a roadster that Sammy’s text described as “ice-blue like the Snowman’s evil-detecting eyes.” Jerry had managed to rein in his bigfoot style, letting it emerge usefully in the rendering of Fan, the bucktoothed but hard-fighting houseboy, and of the Snowman’s slavering, claw-fingered, bemonocled adversary, the dreaded Obsidian Hand. They also had Davy O’Dowd’s first installment of the Swift, with his lush, silky Alex Raymond wings, and Radio Wave, drawn by Frank Pantaleone and inked by Joe Kavalier with, Sammy was forced to admit, mixed results. This was Sammy’s own fault. He had yielded, in the creation of Radio Wave, to Frank’s experience and prowess with a pencil, not daring to offer him assistance in the development or plotting of the strip. This act of deference resulted in a dazzlingly drawn, tastefully costumed, sumptuously muscled, and beautifully inked hero with no meddling girlfriend, quarrelsome sidekick, ironic secret identity, bumbling police commissioner, Achilles’ heel, corps of secret allies, or personal quest for revenge; only the hastily explained, well-rendered, and dubious ability to transmit himself through the air “on the invisible rails of the airwaves,” and leap unexpectedly from the grille of a Philco into the hideout of a gang of jazz-loving jewel thieves. It was soon apparent to Sammy that once they were wise to him, all the crooks in Radio Wave’s hometown need simply turn off their radios in order to thrive unmolested, but by the time he had a chance to look the thing over, Joe had already inked half of it.

Julie had done a nice job on his Hat story, illustrating one of Sammy’s retooled, custom-fitted Shadow plots in a flat, slightly cartoony style not too different from that of Superman’s Joe Shuster, only with better buildings and cars; and Sammy was satisfied with the Escapist adventure, though Joe’s layouts were, to be honest, a little static and overly pretty, and then rushed and even scratchy-looking at the very end.