ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS

Today is the birthday of Jerry Siegel, co-creator of Superman, who changed the pop culture landscape in a single bound. There wouldn't be a comic book business as we know it without him.

We all stand on his shoulders.

CIMMERIAN MEMORIES

If you're a fan of Robert E. Howard's Conan I think you'll enjoy this: a deep dive into the Marvel Comics years, with some comments from the guy who was lucky —or perhaps unlucky—enough to follow Roy Thomas's classic run on the book. (Yeah, that would be me.)

COSMIC CURMUDGEON

Late September saw the release of The DC Universe by Keith Giffen—which is a sampler of some of the brilliant work my much-missed friend and frequent creative collaborator produced for the company. I wrote an intro for the book and you can read it below. Enjoy!

When my son was three or four years old, he had what was called, for obvious reasons, a Bubble Bear. You’d squeeze the plastic bear’s belly, his head would pop up, and a stream of bubbles would emerge and drift off across Creation (or at least the living room). I’ve often thought of that bear when people ask me about Keith Giffen, because Keith was essentially the same as the bear: squeeze his belly and, instead of bubbles, a stream of remarkable ideas would cascade out.

Okay, you didn’t squeeze his belly—he’d probably slug you if you did—but it didn’t take much to get endless characters and concepts flowing out of Keith’s head. The man possessed one of the most formidable imaginations in comics. Scratch that, I’d put Keith’s imagination up against anyone’s in any field. He was a story machine, a massive, and genuinely impressive, creative dynamo. I’ve often called him the Jack Kirby of my generation of comic book creators and, given my respect for Kirby—the preeminent god in my comic book pantheon—that’s not a statement I make lightly. 

 
If memory serves (and I can’t swear that it does), Giffen and I first worked together on a Doctor Fate mini-series that I wrote and he drew (Keith being Keith, he continually threw in amazing visual bits and surprising twists in the tale. He was never “just” an artist). This was a little before we were put together, as a writing team, on Justice League International. We didn’t know it then—how could we?—but that began a collaboration that lasted for more than three decades. After Keith passed, I made a list of all the books we’d worked on together—JLI and its multiple spin-offs, Booster Gold, Justice League 3000, Metal Men, Larfleeze (and the list goes on, at DC and elsewhere)—astonished at the volume of work we produced. 

 

Did I say work? Collaborating with Keith was more like two kids playing in a sandbox. I’ve often said (and I’m sure his other writing partners—which include Paul Levitz, Robert Loren Fleming, Tom and Mary Bierbaum, and Jeff Lemire, to name just a few—would agree) that it wasn’t the project that mattered when I was working with Keith, it was the collaboration itself, the joy of creating something together, bouncing ideas back and forth, trying to top each other, and having tremendous fun doing it. (I remember when Keith called me up and said DC wanted us to develop a new twist on Scooby-Doo called Scooby Apocalypse. If anyone else had called with that suggestion, I might have hung up on them. But it was Keith, I immediately said yes, and SA turned into a wonderful three-year gig: one of my favorite Giffen-DeMatteis collaborations.) 

 

Keith had no creative ego. He loved it when I added story elements and character developments that weren’t in his plot and, in the following issues, he would build on what I’d done, give it all a uniquely Giffenesque spin, then throw it back to me.  It was like a game of tennis, but with ideas instead of a ball. Together we created something in our work—an offbeat and very specific tone and attitude—neither of us could have done alone. (Keith always encouraged his creative partners to revise, expand, alter. He’d have been disappointed if we’d just parroted what he’d done.)  

 

Keith and I eventually achieved a kind of mind meld. I’d take a quick look at a Giffen plot—usually drawn out as a kind of mini-comic, with layouts that looked like a combination of Kirby and Harvey Kurtzman, with guide notes to let me know where the story was going—and I was off. I didn’t have to think about it, I just built on the rock-solid foundation Keith provided, got the characters talking to each other, and let them surprise me. And, I hoped, surprise Giffen, in turn. 

 

Over the years we got to know each other not just as fellow professionals, but as friends. What was he like when he was away from the computer and drawing board? Smart, incisive, and so damn funny he could have had his own HBO comedy special. And the man loved playing the curmudgeon (imagine, if you will, the bastard child of Harlan Ellison and the acerbic Dr. Cox from Scrubs and you’ll have some idea of the Classic Giffen Persona). It was a wonderful performance, but that’s what at least half of it was: a performance. Beneath that carefully-cultivated, apparently-cynical shell was a thoughtful, heartfelt family man and consummate pro. A loyal friend and generous collaborator, who’d go out of his way to champion fellow freelancers. (Please note I said half of it was performance: There’s no denying Keith enjoyed indulging the other half, saying outrageous things and basking in the stunned reactions.)

  

It’s been more than two years since he passed away, but I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that we live in a Giffenless universe. Keith had his share of health issues, but he was such a feisty, resilient, tenacious guy I was sure he’d outlive us all. Whenever life knocked him down, he’d get up again (and sometimes that getting up wasn’t easy)—then shrug, make a joke, and start working on another comic book. And, who knows, given his mischievous, some might say wicked, sense of humor, it’s always possible he faked his death and right now he’s sitting on a beach somewhere, ever-present cigarette in hand, blowing smoke-rings, basking in the sun, and laughing at all of us. (Okay, that’s not true. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was?)

I’ll end with my wife’s words when she heard Keith died. “He was,” she said, “like a character out of a Keith Giffen story.” I can think of no higher praise. 

 ©copyright 2026 J.M. DeMatteis

SPIDERBATAVERSARY!

If the internet is to be trusted, this arrived in comic book shops on this day in 1995. Still can't believe I was fortunate enough to team these two up, not once—but twice. (Once for Marvel with Mark Bagley, once for DC with Graham Nolan—and both of them knocked it out of the park.) 

Talk about childhood dreams coming true!

LENNON DAY 2026

It's October 9th, what would have been John Lennon's 86h birthday (how is that possible?), and in honor of the occasion I'm happy to once again tell the tale of my two encounters with my rock and roll hero. (And if you want to take a deeper dive into Lennonology, you can join me for a tour of Lennon's extraordinary solo career here and here.) Enjoy! 

                                                        ***

In January of 1975, I was twenty-one years old, attending Brooklyn College (drifting through Brooklyn College is more like it; academics were never my strong suit), playing music, writing songs, dreaming of rock and roll glory—and, simultaneously, an equally-glorious writing career. I’d been in and out of bands for years, partnered with some terrific players, but among our crowd of Brooklyn musicians, there was no one better than Jon Cobert. Jonny was an extraordinary piano player—but he was also the kind of intuitive genius who could pick up just about any instrument and make memorable music. I may not have been sure about my own rock and roll future, but I knew, we all knew, Jonny was headed for great things. As noted, I was writing songs on my own—had been since I was fourteen or fifteen—but Jonny and I often wrote together, as well. I crafted the lyrics—a few of them quite sublime, many of them truly atrocious (and, happily, long forgotten)—and Jon, with far more consistency, would provide the superb musical bedrock. (Three of the songs we wrote together—"April Rainbow," "I Can Fly" and "Don't Wanna Live in Yesterday"—appeared on Jonny’s CD, Here’s Your Canoe, and you can listen to one of them here.)

In those ancient days, Jon was in a band that, at various times, was called Dog Soldier, Community Apple and, the name that seemed to stick, BOMF. The band was managed by Roy Cicala, who ran one of one of Manhattan’s premier recording studios, Record Planet, East. Roy was also a skilled engineer—one of the best in the business—who’d worked with John Lennon on Imagine, Some Time in New York City, Mind Games, Walls and Bridges and Rock and Roll. Not surprising that RPE was Lennon’s studio of choice in New York or that BOMF’s destiny and Lennon’s became temporarily intertwined. The band added hand claps and vocals to some Walls and Bridges tracks, appeared in now-classic videos for “Slippin’ and Slidin’” and “Stand By Me” (more about that later) and backed Lennon up for his last major television appearance—a very odd affair called “A Salute To Sir Lew Grade”—wearing outer space jumpsuits. Lennon also provided lyrics for a song that BOMF recorded called “Incantation.” (The song was never released, but I remember it as a throbbing, voodoo-inspired rocker, with lyrics in the “Come Together” vein.)

That night in January of ‘75—if I’m remembering correctly, it was a Tuesday or Wednesday, I know for sure it was a weeknight—my old friend (and brilliant drummer) Cliff Hochberg and I were bored and, looking for something to do, drove into the City—if you lived in Brooklyn, you never referred to it as Manhattan, it was just the City—to hang out at the Record Plant with Jonny. (Something we did regularly because...well, wouldn’t you?) There was nothing of any major (or even minor) import going on that night: we were just drifting from the band’s rehearsal room to a little songwriting studio that had been set up for Jonny. At one point, I was sitting alone in the hall when I saw Roy Cicala walk by. A moment later, Cliff appeared, with an excited expression on his face. “Do you know who’s here?” he asked. “Yeah,” I replied, not sure why Roy’s appearance had Cliff so elated, “Mr. C.” “No,” Cliff said; and then, after a suitably dramatic pause (hey, even if he didn’t pause, he should have), he added: “Mr. L.”

Cue the thunder and lightning. Cue the orchestra. Cue the earth shaking beneath our feet. John Lennon was in the building. John Lennon: the man whose music and wisdom, anger, wit, lunacy and honesty had fascinated and inspired me since the Beatles invaded America when I was ten years old.

A moment later, Jonny appeared. “Hey,” he said, casually (he, of course, knew there was nothing casual about it), “you guys wanna meet John?” By the time he’d finished that sentence, Cliff and I were racing down the hall ahead of him, like two demented roadrunners.

Lennon was in Cicala’s office and that’s where we (along with several of the BOMF boys) were headed. When we stepped into Roy’s outer office, we heard a distinctive nasal voice—a unique mixture of Liverpool and New York—from inside. It was a voice I’d been hearing for most of my life, but always on television, on the radio, on the record player. But now that voice—and the source of that voice—was on the other side of the wall. I’m sure my cheeks drained of color: it's a miracle the top of my head didn’t blow right off. Cliff and I exchanged looks of wonder—he was as much a Beatles fanatic as I was and (almost) as big a Lennon fan—and then we filed into the main office.

Roy was there, along with his then-wife, Lori Burton. May Pang—John’s girlfriend (this was during the infamous “Lost Weekend,” when John and Yoko were separated)—was, too. And Lennon was there—right there—looking...well, real. The only time I’d ever seen him in person was in 1972, at the Madison Square Garden “One to One’ concert—and I was way up in the cheap seats, under the influence of...well, that doesn’t matter. But this wasn’t some distant figure on a stage or a flickering image on the television. This was an actual human being—looking somehow more fragile, thinner, and shorter than I’d imagined. And yet, somehow, larger, too: every inch the rock legend; wearing a long black coat, a white scarf tossed across his shoulder, a bottle of Kahlua in his hand, all topped—or perhaps bottomed—by cowboy boots with spurs (yes, spurs). He’d been out to dinner with Pang and afterwards they’d haunted some record stores, where Lennon had purchased a pile of 45s that he’d stacked up on Roy’s turntable. “Disco,” Lennon said, indicating the new and unfamiliar sounds coming from the speakers. “Gonna be the next big thing. It’s all you’re gonna hear for the next ten years.”

None of us had ever heard the word disco, let alone the music, but this was John Lennon, after all, so we took it as gospel (good thing. Turned out he was right). There was some more chit-chat and the bottle of Kahlua was passed around (I wasn’t a drinker, so I can’t comment on the quality) and then, soon after, it became clear that Roy, John and their partners wanted to be alone. The audience with the Pope of Rock was over. As we all filed out of the office (well, the other guys filed out, I’m pretty sure Cliff and I floated, five feet off the ground), someone inside put on John’s exquisite Walls and Bridges track “Number Nine Dream,” which had just been released as a single. “No, no,” we heard an agitated Lennon bark, and it was very clear that he meant it, “get it off, get it off.” (So much for the Great Lennon Ego).

We regrouped back in BOMF’s rehearsal room, Cliff and I sharing our amazement, shock and wonder at what we’d just stumbled into; Jonny delighted by our jaw-dropped stupefaction. (And let’s face it, despite the fact that the BOMF boys already knew Lennon, each new encounter was something special for them.) I don’t think we’d been in the room for more than ten minutes when a figure appeared in the doorway, holding a guitar: Lennon. He wanted to play some of this new disco music that had so captured him and wondered if the guys were up for it. Needless to say they were. There was only one problem: Lennon didn’t have a guitar pick. Cliff quickly offered up his Brooklyn College ID card. It was a clumsy substitute, but Lennon didn’t seem to mind.

So there I was, on a random weeknight, sitting on the floor of this small rehearsal room in the middle of New York City, while—maybe three or four feet away from me—John Lennon was playing guitar, urging the band on, jamming away. It was completely surreal. I mean, what were the odds of this happening? Cliff and I exchanged occasional looks of astonishment—but not for too long, because we didn’t want to take our eyes off the magician in front of us, perhaps for fear that, if we looked away too long, he’d just disappear in a puff of smoke. (Five years later, he did.)

BOMF's drummer was having a little trouble getting the distinctive disco beat down—not surprising, since it was a very specific, and, at the time, very new, rhythm—and Cliff, I later found out, had to restrain himself from leaping up, knocking the guy to the floor and taking over. (And I’m sure Cliffy would have nailed that beat instantly, too.) I, meanwhile, was watching Lennon’s hands fly across the guitar neck, studying his every move (there was a rhythmic effect he got by muting the strings and using the pick percussively: I’ve been doing the same trick ever since).

I don’t know how long this off-the-cuff, extraordinarily private concert went on—time, as you may suspect, had taken on a very distorted, other-dimensional quality—it might have been fifteen minutes, it might have been forty-five; but, eventually, Lennon satisfied his disco-craving and was done. That’s when he turned to me, offering Cliff’s ID badge. “Here’s your credit card,” he said, assuming I was the guy who’d given it to him.

You might think this was my opportunity to be witty, profound or, at the very least, gushingly fannish. It was certainly a chance to say something to this man whose life and work had meant so much to me for so long.

Didn’t happen.

In the movie version of Woody Allen’s Broadway play, Play It Again, Sam, there’s a scene where Woody’s character, Allan Felix, is on his first post-divorce blind date. Felix is a barely-functional, sputtering, jittery nervous wreck, a walking disaster, and, when he’s introduced to his date, the only thing he can do is wave like a moron and emit a guttural caveman grunt: “Nugh!” That’s pretty much what I choked out at Lennon—”Nugh!”—as, bug-eyed, I pointed to Cliff, clumsily indicating that it was his “credit card” and not mine. Lennon returned the ID badge, then quickly vanished back into the land of myth and Kahlua.

And that, in and of itself, would have been as memorable, and embarrassing, an encounter as I could have ever asked for. But this was just a set-up for the second, even more memorable and far-more embarrassing, encounter that would come, a few months later, on a sunny afternoon in March (the 18th according to Wikipedia—although they got the name of the recording studio wrong, so who can say for sure?) when I got to spend a day watching Lennon and BOMF film videos for the recently released Rock 'n' Roll tracks “Slippin’ and Slidin’” and “Stand By Me”—both intended for a British television show called The Old Grey Whistle Test.

Looking back, it’s amazing that I was allowed in at all. Jonny C and I were good friends, of course, but I suspect it helped that we were also songwriting partners: a number of songs we created together were part of BOMF’s repertoire and, as a result, we were both under contract to the aforementioned Roy Cicala. (The contract sounds impressive, but it didn’t lead me to rock and roll fame and fortune. Jonny, on the other hand, has had a long, successful—and well-deserved—musical career.) In any case, on that sunny March day, I skipped my classes at Brooklyn College (something I was in the habit of doing, anyway), hopped the subway into Manhattan and hustled over to West 44th Street, where the Record Plant was located.

As I recall—and, in retrospect, it’s fairly astonishing—there was no security detail to pass through: I just walked in, headed straight for the studio and opened the door. There, leaning over the sound board was John Lennon, who looked up, peered over his glasses and said, in that sharp, utterly distinctive Liverpudlian voice, “Is this the place?” I scanned the room, looking for Jonny C—who was my ticket in—but he wasn’t there; so, utterly intimidated (just because I’d encountered Lennon before didn’t mean I was any less overwhelmed by his flesh-and-blood presence), I muttered, “Uh...yeah, it is, but I’ll wait outside...”, closed the door and retreated to a nearby couch. I probably would have sat out there all day if a couple of the BOMF boys hadn’t come by, noticed me and alerted Jon to my presence.

Jonny C promptly appeared and ushered me into the studio—where I was soon sitting comfortably in a chair in the engineer’s booth while, on the other side of the glass, John Lennon and the band ran through take after take of “Slippin’ and Slidin’” and “Stand By Me” for the film crew. (BOMF was actually miming to prerecorded tracks from the Rock ‘n’ Roll album. Lennon, though, was doing a live vocal.) Anyone who’s followed this blog for more than five minutes understands how profoundly JL—as a Beatle, as a solo artist, as a human on the planet—has inspired me; so I think you can imagine what it was like for me to sit there, for hours, watching him perform, running the band through their paces (miming, as I learned that day, isn’t as easy as you’d think); one of the greatest vocalists in the history of rock and roll singing take after take: laughing, joking and, well, being John Lennon.

And yet as I watched Lennon work, it seemed as if—despite more than a decade as one of the most famous, admired men on Earth—being on camera, the center of all that attention, made him uncomfortable. His attitude, his bearing, wasn’t that of the Clever Beatle, the peacenik sage, the political firebrand: it felt as if he’d retreated into Hamburg John, the young, rock and roll tough guy. It was a subtle thing and there was certainly none of the aggression or anger that often got him in trouble: he was, as expected, charismatic and charming. Still it seemed to me that he was wearing a mask to protect himself and keep the world at bay. In a few short months he’d retire completely from music to concentrate on being a husband and father (by March of ’75 “Lost Weekend” girlfriend May Pang was gone and Lennon had reunited with Yoko, who was pregnant with Sean) and it’s clear—in retrospect, at least—that he was, in fact, sick of "riding on the merry-go-round" (as he sang in "Watching the Wheels") and was preparing for his retreat. Soon he’d be shedding all his personas and reconnecting with the person he’d been before the Beatles. Until then, he’d keep pretending to be some version of Famous John Lennon.

There was a telling moment when, during one break between songs, he muttered—it was more like a discussion with himself than a request to the group—”Anybody got any coke?” (And, no, he wasn’t talking about Coca Cola.) A second later he shook his head. “Nah,” he said, retracting the request, “if I do that, I’ll probably bite Tom Snyder’s head off.” (He was scheduled to tape an interview for Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow Show that night. You can watch it here.) The coke request seemed like an old reflex, the immediate denial of the request reflecting a high level of post-”Lost Weekend” self-awareness—and a signpost to the new, family-centered life that was waiting for him at the Dakota. (It’s very possible I’m reading into this—after all, I didn’t know the man, who am I to analyze him?—and yet, given my own intuition and the insights Lennon himself provided in interviews he gave after his emergence from his five years of House Husbanding, it feels true.)

After they ran through both songs a number of times, Lennon and the band took a break and the musicians filed back into the engineer’s booth. Everyone was standing around chatting, the vibe amiable and low-key (well, I was low-key on the outside, but in my head I was doing backflips and screaming “John Lennon! I’m standing here with John Lennon! Dear God—how is this even possible?!”). Jonny C took this opportunity to formally introduce me to Lennon. “John,” he said, trying hard to sound casual (yet knowing full well what a Momentous Occasion this was for me), “have you met Marc, my lyricist?”

Lennon quickly looked me over and then offered a perfect, deadpan Lennon greeting. “Hello, Marc my lyricist,” he said, as if "my lyricist" wasn't a description, but my last name.

So there I was, standing face to face with John Winston Ono Lennon. He’d just greeted me with a clever quip and I desperately needed something to say in reply. It was like flash cards were flipping over in my mind, each one stamped with a possible answer: I could tell him, I thought, studying the cards, how much he means to me; how his Beatles music—from “I Want to Hold Your Hand” to “I Am The Walrus”—completely rocked my world and my consciousness; how John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band—aside from being one of the greatest albums in the history of popular music—helped get me through an incredibly difficult period in my life; how brilliant I think Walls and Bridges is. There were so many things I could have said, but I rejected them all. I kept returning to the fact that Lennon had greeted me with “Hello, Marc my lyricist”—and I knew I needed to come up with a matching quip, something sharp and witty. In the name of symmetry, it had to begin with “Hello, John my...” But “John my” what? My internal computer frantically scanned the Lennon archives, recalling a story about JL meeting Chuck Berry, during the taping of a Mike Douglas Show; how Lennon—always a teenaged rock and roll fan at heart—greeted Berry by calling him his hero. (Keep in mind that all of these mental acrobatics actually happened in a matter of, at best, two or three seconds. Subjectively, it felt like an eternity.)

And then it clicked—and I had my reply.

“Hello, John, my hero,” I said. As soon as it came out of my mouth I felt like a total fool. This wasn’t cleverness, this was revealing myself as a transparent Beatles fanboy. I was certain my idiocy would get me ejected from the building, unceremoniously tossed out onto 44th Street and banned from the Record Plant for life. To my immense relief, the group laughed—not at me, they actually seemed to find my answer amusing (or perhaps they were just acknowledging the unspoken fact that they all felt the same way)—but Lennon had an odd reaction. For a moment—just for a moment—he pulled back, as if he couldn’t believe One Of Them had gotten in: another wide-eyed, open-mouthed Beatlemaniac trying to make him into the god he didn’t want to be. He recovered quickly, but I’d noticed—and it underlined the sense I had about how uncomfortable he was wearing the fame he’d been cloaked in since 1964.

Soon after that, Lennon and the band went back to work, finishing up the videos. The last bit of filming was of the musicians in the booth, gathered around the sound board, listening back to the tracks. I was hoping no one would realize I was still there and I’d get myself immortalized on film with John Lennon—but Jonny C quickly gave me A Look and I knew I had to retreat. In the end it didn’t matter: the film of that day had been forever imprinted on my mind.

A little later, Jonny and I were heading upstairs to the band’s rehearsal room and we found ourselves standing in the elevator with Lennon, who was also heading up. This would have been the perfect chance to say something, anything, else and perhaps atone for my humiliating “my hero!” outburst—but I couldn’t get a word out. The elevator stopped, Lennon went his way and we went ours.

My time with John Lennon was over that day, but Jonny’s wasn’t. Not long after the Rock ‘n’ Roll videos were filmed, Lennon recruited BOMF to appear with him on the Salute to Sir Lew Grade television special. This time the band didn’t just mime, they actually got to record—and perform—a new version of “Imagine.” This turned out to be the last public performance of John Lennon’s lifetime. (If you’re wondering about the two-headed masks BOMF had on, this was apparently Lennon’s way of commenting on Sir Lew’s two-faced business dealings.)

As for me, looking back with the wisdom of hindsight, and the knowledge of the tragic fate that awaited Lennon outside the Dakota in 1980, I’m far less embarrassed by what I said to him at the Record Plant that day—and far more grateful. He was my hero and I got to tell him that.

That’s not humiliation, that’s grace.

copyright © 2026. J.M. DeMatteis 

SHRIEKING

I was recently asked to provide an introduction for a Hungarian collection of my Amazing Spider-Man story "Shrieking." It was an interesting exercise going back in time, assessing a story written decades ago, and remembering my collaboration with the great Mark Bagley. You can read the intro below. Enjoy!

Family.  It’s the foundation of our lives, the human experience that, perhaps more than any other, shapes us as children and guides us in navigating the world when we become adults.  Of course, in many cases, those childhood influences, our interactions with mothers, fathers, siblings, doesn’t help at all: it hinders us, wounds us—and we either spend the rest of our lives healing those early wounds or surrendering to them, sinking down into the dysfunctional dark.

Family is the theme that runs through all four issues of “Shrieking,” which was my first continuing storyline when I took over the writing duties on Amazing Spider-Man, way back in 1994 (has it really been that long?).  I’d explored the theme before in Spider-Man stories, most notably in the “Child Within” arc in Spectacular Spider-Man; but those stories focused on the singular experiences of Peter Parker, Harry Osborn, and Edward Whelan. With “Shrieking,” Mark Bagley (more about him later) and I were focusing on the family as a unit.  On the internal dynamics that can either lift us up or shatter our souls.

 

For Peter Parker that dynamic flows from past to future.  Still reeling from the revelation that his parents—apparently returned from the dead—were actually robotic imposters, Peter, in shock and emotional agony, finds it difficult, almost impossible, to sustain his relationship with Mary Jane, retreating—much as Peter does in the recent Brand New Day film—into his Spider-Man persona, rejecting his wife and literally cocooning himself in an effort to avoid the inevitable struggles of being human.  (The rupture in her marriage also forces MJ to confront the shadows of her own troubled childhood, something she’d been avoiding for years.)

But no cocoon can protect us from life’s vicissitudes—as Peter learns when his beloved Aunt May, the very bedrock of his family life, has a stroke.  It will take Mary Jane’s pregnancy, an event that comes along soon after this story, to help heal Peter and MJ, allowing them to fully embrace each other and find the love and nurturing that a functional family unit can provide.

There’s nothing functional or loving about the family unit Louise Barrison (aka Shriek) tries to build with her “son,” Malcolm Mcbride (aka Carrion).  Barrison (I provided Louise’s civilian name, but the character was created by writer Tom DeFalco during the “Maximum Carnage” crossover) has suffered unimaginable childhood abuses and that pain has driven her to madness.  For all that, she’s trying, in her demented way, to assuage that childhood pain by building a new family.  Malcolm, tortured by the abominable deeds of his alter ego, rejects Shriek’s efforts, but Carrion embraces Louise and becomes a willing part of this massively dysfunctional delusion.

 

Perhaps the true hero of “Shrieking” isn’t Spider-Man at all, but Malcolm’s mother, Beatrice McBride, whose love for her son burns fierce and bright—and whose determination to bring Malcolm back into her maternal arms will not be broken, no matter what violent and seemingly unassailable obstructions Shriek throws in her way. Beatrice is the very embodiment of family at its most heart-forward and self-sacrificing.  “Shrieking” is a dark story, but Bea McBride is the blazing light that shines in the heart of that darkness. (In the end, even Shriek is touched by that light; it momentarily pierces her madness and drives her to a stunning act of self-sacrifice.) 

 

Comics is a visual medium, and a script—no matter how good—rises and falls with the illustrative power and storytelling skill of the artist.  For “Shrieking” I was paired with one of the most celebrated Spider-Man artists of the past forty years, Mark Bagley.  Success as a comic book artist isn’t just about being able to draw well, it’s about telling a story from panel to panel, emphasizing the right moments, drawing the eye across the page in such a natural way that the reader sees the characters actually move, breathe, and come alive. Mark is able to do all that and more.  He delivers the massive action sequences necessary for superhero tales, but his work also underscores the powerful emotions at the core of our tale.  I was fortunate to have him as a collaborator during my Amazing run.  Fortunate, too, to be working with one of Marvel’s most gifted editors, Danny Fingeroth, who remains a dear friend to this day. 

 

“Shrieking,” as noted, is an unusually dark Spider-Man story, but, at its core, it’s about moving through that darkness toward something better, truer, more lasting. And that, I think, is the essence of Spider-Man.  Peter Parker, no matter what terrible obstacles he faces—outside of or, just as often, within himself—will always do the right thing, always rise up and embrace kindness, compassion, and hope. 

 

May we all follow his example.

©copyright 2026 J.M. DeMatteis

SALTY!

Coming up in one week: FanX Salt Lake—September 24th through 26th at the Salt Palace Convention Center in Salt Lake City. I haven't been to the beautiful state of Utah for many years and I've never attended a con there, so this should be a great time. If you're attending, please come by and say hello.