To Thee I Web, Finale: Bygones

Previously, our prolific host—in attendance, portraying Spider-Man villain, Green Goblin—recounted the historic wannabe wedding of the iconic Web-Slinger and Mary-Jane Watson at the former home of the New York Mets, Shea Stadium. That event taking place in the bygone eighties,
June 5, 1987, to be precise.

Back in the reserve locker room where I and my fellow character actors had changed, we hustled out of our costumes. There wasn’t any time to bask in the glow of being a part of such a monumental comics event. The heroes and I—the token baddie—had town cars waiting to whisk us off to the reception. The newlyweds were already on their way, having left the field in the limos in which they’d arrived. And, as much as he probably would have preferred, Spidey creator Stan Lee, would not be accompanying us. He disappeared soon after departing the field, but would certainly be reemerging at the wedding reception.

Cool! I can party with Stan Lee, I thought. Yeah, and we’ll be doing Jell-O shots at the bar and break dancing together. The fumes inside the Goblin mask must have made me delusional. Five minutes ago, I couldn’t even talk to the man.

From Flushing, Queens—the borough in which Shea was located—we traveled to the lower west side of Manhattan, where the reception was to take place. Named for the converted train tunnel that the venue occupied, The Tunnel was a sprawling complex, located along the city’s Westside Highway. It was “the” club at the time and, as such, never enjoyed my presence. I’m about as “in” as an outhouse. Visit any trendy bar, restaurant or club and I won’t be there. It’s not that I have an aversion to such places… Well, actually it’s exactly because I do. And I definitely don’t care to hang out with the vacuous, want-to-be-seen types that flock to these spots.

I hadn’t even heard of The Tunnel, but was agog nonetheless. I was still pinching myself (Oh, the bruises I was going to have in the morning) over the fact that I was a member of the Spider-Man wedding party, and now I was clubbing with the Marvel Elite, with the chance to hang out—or hover nearby in awestruck immobility—with Stan Lee. Of course, us characters would have to jump through a few more hoops for the PR people first.

A large private room beneath the main area of the club, was set aside for the Web-Swinging wingding. In a far corner to the left of the bar, a small area containing a couple of comfy couches was draped off in black for the actors to dress and take breaks. The festivities were already underway when we entered. The club proper, though, was deserted. It wasn’t even 8 PM, yet, and any self-respecting clubber wouldn’t think of leaving the house before ten. Otherwise, you wouldn’t get to stand in line, praying to be one of the few selected as worthy of spending twenty bucks to enter.

I was always one of the last ones chosen before any game growing up. It was especially “gratifying” when there was an odd number of kids and I was the one left over, standing on the sidelines, hoping someone else would show, so I could join the kids who didn’t want to play with me in the first place. Why the hell would I want to go through that again?

We made our way through the partying throngs of Marvel Nabobs with our duffel bags in tow. I’m sure the suits wondered who this motley crew of crashers were or why we weren’t ushered through the employee entrance with the rest of the help. Ironically, in a few short minutes, these same haughty honchos would be fawning over us to get their pictures taken like tweens over Justin Bieber.

Unfortunately, with the reception in full swing—so to speak—the only chance I’d have of reconnoitering the area would be during our initial jaunt to the characters’ private section. Because of the limited sight of the costumes, I always liked to scope out the appearance venue in advance to make mental notes of any potentially hazardous zones, i.e. low outcroppings, tables, chairs, columns, essentially anything that someone in a costume might trip over or walk into.

Even when playing Spider-Man—the costume of which offers greater visibility than any of the characters after Cap—I preferred to see where I was going beforehand, especially since the clarity of the vision in the Spidey costume was dependent on the lighting of the target area. In this case, the lighting was horrific: dim ambient illumination under a constant barrage of flashing strobes and sweeping spotlights of various colors, and a swirling fog, the opacity of which went from dense to denser, depending on how many seconds of rest there was between the firing up of the smoke machine. Add that to the cigarette smoke—this was many years before the ban on smoking in clubs—and the air was going to be both visually impenetrable and difficult to breathe, while in costume.

This video of The Tunnel several years after the Spider-Man wedding reception gives you some idea of the atmosphere

As for “potentially hazardous zones,” the entire room was a minefield. A makeshift stage, about two feet high and approximately the size of a Twister playing surface, sat before the bar, which stretched on either side. This was fronted by the only open space on the floor, a small “dance” area the size of the average dental waiting room, around which stood dozens of dainty, cabaret-style, pedestal tables, each sporting a pair of chairs. What little exposed floor there was already shone with spilled drinks.

There was a clear path from the actors’ hidey hole to the nearest end of the bar, but it was bathed in shadow, which wasn’t so much a problem when returning from a break—just follow the light—but terribly treacherous when trying to go on break. If we did manage to get to the curtain concealing the space without tripping or hitting the wall, we then had to find the slit in the drapes which served as its only access point. Anyone who's had to find the opening in a curtain with the lights on may understand the challenge we faced doing so in complete darkness and while masked.

Had any of us in the wedding party stopped to think about this, we would have probably sent our regrets and a check. But as invited guests, the heroes and Green Goblin were expected to act as such, which meant partying with the corporate big-wigs. So as soon as we had our costumes on, we hit the dance floor. Okay, we gingerly followed Captain America, making our inability to see where we were going look like heroic—or nefarious, in my case—posturing. Spider-Man and MJ were there to meet us, having recently arrived to a cadre of press photographers, entering like stars at a movie premiere.

Cap strode to the nearest table and dragged up the woman seated there to join him. Firestar just had to appear. In no time there was a bevy of tongue-wagging execs encircling her like prepubescents vying for the latest issue of National Geographic (You young ’uns may want to ask an older gent to explain that last allusion). The remaining trio—Hulk, Iceman and me, Gobby—the ones who could barely see each other, didn’t worry about partners. Hell, we wouldn’t have seen them anyway. We shook our booties to beat the band. A more surreal tableau had not been witnessed by mankind since Batman introduced the Batusi on his TV series in the 60s. Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, Firestar, Iceman and The Green Goblin boogying to George Michael’s I Want Your Sex and The Bangles’s Walk Like an Egyptian.

I found it most freeing. No canvassing the floor for someone with which to dance; no fear of rejection; no self-consciousness over how good I was. Quite the contrary; I whooped it up like a drunk divorcée. Had there been a lampshade, I’d have been wearing it. And because I was an evil-doer, I could flirt without fear of recriminations. Of course, I couldn’t exactly see who I was speaking with—although I could discern enough to distinguish the guys from the gals—but many a lap got sat on and many a hug was given.

Soon, I realized that I needed a break. I was overheating and sweating profusely. What little I could see before was now clouded by the sweat cascading down my face, mingling with the water already dripping from my eyes from the fumes of the mask’s glue. There was no light-headedness, but experience told me that I was running on adrenaline and needed to stop. But where was everyone? I scanned the room for some hint of primary or garish color. This was a New York City nightclub where black is de rigueur, so a splash of anything other would be a sure sign of a hero. It’s not like I could just stop, either. The show doesn’t end when there’s a flubbed line or missed cue. I had to continue cackling and interacting as Gobby, while I worked my way back to the dance floor. From there, I could tackle the walk to the rest area.

Suddenly, a familiar voice… “There you are Green Goblin!” It was Barbara, come to check on me. I nearly kissed her, as she escorted me to safety.

This recently released Mary-Jane commemorative Barbie celebrates the historic wedding of the titular model to the iconic super-arachnid

When I finally removed the mask in the rest area, I was dizzy and my face was dripping. I needed hydration… badly. Unfortunately, no one thought to provide water to us. I guess the costumed characters were the only ones who got that memo. Well, if there was one thing you learned doing costumed appearances, it was to take matters into your own hands, whether that meant traveling with your own supply of Sharpies—the autographing implement of choice—mastering the bodily contortions it took to get into costume without aid, or purchasing thermal underwear to withstand the unforgiving 20-below winters of Winnipeg. So Captain America—who had by this time dried out—redonned his mask and, in true heroic fashion, whipped the black curtain aside and strode forth to save his brethren. And boy, did he ever. In a matter of moments, he returned carrying a case of mineral water. I chuckle whenever I envision the scene that took place at the bar. I mean, who’s going to refuse Captain America?

It was around this time that one of us asked, “Uh… where’s The Hulk?”

Shit, we’d left him on the dance floor by his lonesome! It had been well over the recommended twenty minutes, and that’s when the character’s movement is limited to shaking hands, not dancing! It had more than an hour, since he went onto the floor. Just as Captain America was donning his mask to make another daring rescue, the drapes parted and the Hulk was led in by a Marvel employee, who worked on the same floor where the personal appearance department was located. We barely had enough time to remove his head and unhook his torso when the Hulk collapsed onto a couch. Gary, the actor within, was wan and soaked. Even in the dim lighting, steam was visibly rising from the chest cavity. He guzzled a half dozen 12-oz. bottles of mineral water in the blink of an eye and appeared as though he was ready to throw back six more when the head of the publicity department bustled in.

“What are you doing back here? They’re about to cut the cake!” she admonished.

We glad-handed Miss Publicity—who was sure to be there when we had to return to the floor, but was conveniently absent when we needed a rest—then told Gary to stay put, after she had departed. We’d handle the situation. I don’t think he could’ve moved again so soon anyway.

A modest, three-tiered cake—unworthy of Duff Goldman’s dog—was wheeled out on a cart before the stage. A Spider-Man action figure and custom-sculpted MJ-as-bride figure topped the confection. I’m not even certain there even was a cake-cutting. After all, the bride would have a hard time getting it into her web-swinging hubby’s mouth, and no one wanted to risk staining the costume or MJ’s Willi Smith–designed gown. The ritual was purely ceremonial and was followed by more dancing and mingling.

It wasn’t long before additional speechifying. The event was finally winding down and it was time for the “Thank-yous.” The characters—this time with The Hulk who had sufficiently rested by then—gathered behind then Editor-in-Chief Jim Shooter and Stan Lee onstage. Shooter spoke more about the importance of this “momentous event and brown-nos—er, thanked the appropriate parties.” But apparently not enough. He was canned before the end of the year, replaced by Tom DeFalco.

Marvel’s 20th anniversary was the cover story of the premiere issue of Comics Scene in 1982 which featured Lee and Shooter

Lee followed. I hadn’t seen my idol all night. Of course, at times he may have been standing right next to me, hobnobbing along with the other heroes. I just couldn’t see him. The consummate showman, he enthused with his signature alliterative and superlative remarks before bringing the evening to a close with a rousing “Excelsior!” After a bevy of photographs were taken, he and Shooter left the stage whilst heroes and villain alike remained to shake hands with the departing guests.

As we disbanded, a strange thing occurred. From the stage I spotted an acting classmate of mine from Boston University, one who had been “axed” after her sophomore year, having not made the yearly cut. What was she doing here? Was she affiliated with Marvel or one of its sister companies? I hadn’t realized at the time that Marvel’s exclusivity to the lower room had expired and had since been opened to the public. The Tunnel being the hot club at the time, and it being Friday night, she was simply out partying.

That's Lisa in the middle wearing the "Williams" sweatshirt

“Hello, Lisa!” I screeched in my best Green Goblin cackle.

“Steve Vrattos . . . Is that you in there?” she answered, unfazed in her southern drawl.

How the f*** did she know it was me? I nodded mutely in response as she disappeared into the crowd. I would loved to have caught up with her. She was one of the funniest woman I’d ever met, sharp-witted and cute to boot, with a quirky Meg Ryan-esque smile and lovely bedroom eyes. We were friendly toward one another in college, but shared few classes together, so never had the chance to get close. It would be nice to actually know someone in the Big Apple. I figured on checking out the club for her as soon as I was done with my gig.

Another half hour of mingling and we got the “OK” to change back into our civilian identities. I looked for Lisa afterward to no avail. No surprise. The place was packed. So I collected my bag from the back room downstairs and headed toward the exit.

Ah, but my tale did not end there. Midway up the stairs, I was interrupted by a shout from below.

“Hey, Green Goblin!”

It was an admirer of mine from the Marvel offices; a girl who would have been adorable if not for an unfortunate off-putting hirsute chin. She wasn’t sporting a Van Dyke, by any means, just several scraggly intertwining whiskers like the hairs that sprout from the ears of old men (I’m sorry… I’m shallow… I just couldn’t get passed it!). She’d been threatening to get a picture of me out of costume all week. I was less than willing to oblige, visions of her stroking her chin hairs while gazing upon my photo like Ming the Merciless contemplating Flash Gordon’s demise filled my mind. She had her camera at the ready and me in her sights. I was doomed.

Flash!

A Cheshire grin spread across her face as she lowered her camera triumphantly. But it was no bigger than the one on my face, when I noticed that her camera flashed behind her; she had taken the picture backwards, essentially into her face. She must have been schnockered not to have noticed the flash in her eyes.

I made another cursory scan of the club for Lisa before I left. But who was I kidding. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in catching up with me. It’s not as if she was revisiting the character area to see me again. Just another “small-world” moment in a city of ten million.

I also never chanced to see Stan again that evening. He was long gone by the time I was done Green Goblin-ing. No matter. I’d met my childhood idol, who proved to be as wonderful as I’d imagined. What’s more, I was in the wedding party at Spider-Man’s nuptuals. The only villain invited, I might add.

Good thing, the Web-Swinger doesn’t hold a grudge. I did kill his previous girlfriend, after all.

It's Not Easy Being Green

My first Spider-Man gig, being a Halloween appearance, occurred at the tail end of 1986. As far as I knew, that was it. Pfft! Done! It was nothing more than desperation on the part of Marvel’s Personal Appearance head, Barbara, that landed me the job. Not that Barbara would have hired anyone with which she didn’t feel comfortable assuming the role of the company’s figurehead and world-renowned icon; I was still representing Marvel, after all. But I knew going in that my audition wasn’t for a permanent spot on the roster, just a temporary one.

The Rutland gig wasn’t exactly on the same level as throwing the first pitch for a Major League Baseball game, either (that would come later). It wasn’t even a meet-and-greet at the Grand Opening of a Hill’s Department Store in Chilicothe, Ohio (that also would come later). From what I could glean from speaking with my hosts in Rutland, they were either getting a special rate or a gratis appearance. The comic store I visited while I was there may have helped sponsor the event—I later learned comic shops got a special rate on appearances—and the appearance itself afforded little access to the public. I was to be on a float, waving to the crowds along the parade route. That’s it. In Barbara’s eyes, it was a safe gamble to send a novice. To me, though, it was an E-ticket ride at Disney World. Upon my return, it was back to the mundane world of the restaurant business.

It wasn’t until a few months later that Barbara called me again. And again, she was desperate for an actor for a big event that was going down in the city a few days later. It was now 1987 and the 25th Anniversary year of the creation of Spider-Man in 1962. To celebrate, Peter Parker, the Web-Slinger’s alter ego, was going to get married in the Spider-Man titles to his girlfriend Mary-Jane Watson. As part of the marketing for this event, Marvel was staging a live “bachelor Party” for Spider-Man. In attendance—beside Marvel’s hierarchy and the press—would be a pantheon of superheroes. Actually, whatever ones they had costumes for at the time, which were Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, and X-Men members Iceman and the superheroine Firestar.

With the large number of heroes in use, Barbara needed me once again, but not to portray everyone’s favorite neighborhood Wall-Crawler. Hell, no! This event was far too important to throw a mere rookie into the suit. Major Mucky-Mucks and Nabobs from eminent corporations would be in attendance, not to mention the press. I was needed to be Spider-Man’s arch-nemesis The Green Goblin who, in a rare show of respect, was putting away his pumpkin bombs to congratulate Spidey on his impending nuptials. If I screwed my lines up or the appearance in general, it was no big whoop. I was a super-villain. Jeremy would portray everyone’s favorite Web-Slinger. The warhorse and veteran of Marvel’s Personal Appearance Program, Jeremy had been portraying Spidey since the Carter Administration. At the time I began, Reagan was finishing up his second term. He’d be playing Spidey at the forthcoming “wedding” as well as the press junket leading up to it.

Part of my role concerned my entering the festivities by jumping out of a cake that would be wheeled out as everyone sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Upon the song’s completion, I would burst from the cake and deliver my lines. I wasn’t worried about the lines. I once memorized an entire role in a Christopher Fry play overnight in college when the actor originally cast in the role broke his kneecap that afternoon in Movement Class (Yes, Movement Class). My script for this event ran approximately three lines, hastily written by the publicity department that afternoon. Not exactly Shakespeare... or Christopher Fry for that matter.

My biggest concern was the jumping-out-of-the-cake. The giant tiered confection would never have won any awards, nor struck fear in Entenmann’s stockholders. It was constructed of pressed wood—not very well either, if the splinters that covered my body afterwards were any indication—and the shoddy paint job was chipping. It was purchased that day, probably from a prop warehouse and probably after a desperate search, when the marketing wizard, who thought of the idea, got the thumbs-up from upper management. The top tier was hinged onto the base, which had no bottom, and the whole cake was put on a large, wheeled dolly.

The Green Goblin costume was made of similar, if not the same, stretch material as the Spider-Man costume—at least the two-piece under-layer was—and dyed a “cartoony” green, covered with black, silk-screened scales. Over that, was worn a fluorescent fuchsia tunic with matching shorts, gloves and saddlebag, in which the character kept such nefarious weapons as pumpkin bombs and razor-edged, bat-shaped boomerangs. I had none of these. My bag was empty, and I hoped my performance wouldn’t stimulate the need for any. The boots were not so much boots as gaiters that covered my sneakers. They shared the same fuchsia coloring normally reserved for the sort of upholstery only found in strip clubs. And the toes curled up, so they gave the appearance of elvin boots. Unfortunately, they weren’t stretchable and obviously were not made with a size twelve foot in mind. They had a feeble elastic swatch on the bottom that barely kept them in place. My Converse All-Star High-Tops were plainly in view underneath.

But the “boots” were a dream compared to the mask, a hard latex iron maiden for one’s noggin. On the plus side, it looked great and had a long cap—more fluorescent fuchsia—attached to it. On closer inspection, it looked like someone used a case of rubber cement to glue the topper in place.

The eyes were mesh, like Spider-Man’s costume, but hard plastic (or equivalent), not fabric, also cemented into place… dangerously so. No attempt was made to smooth the edges inside, which fit perilously close to the wearer’s eyes. And, as with the cap, no rubber cement was wasted in applying the eyes to the inside of the headpiece. The abundance of hardened glue in the mask produced a potent, malodorous aroma that made one’s eyes water. It also produced the same psychedelic mind-warping that sniffing glue effected. The increased heat and sweat of the wearer only exacerbated the problem. Do I even have to tell you how poor the vision was? The evening was shaping up to be a catastrophe just waiting to happen.

I would much rather have been out mingling with the guests, like the superheroes. Improvisation, I can do, even with VIPs and celebs. Besides, wearing a mask makes interacting with anyone a breeze. Too much can go wrong with scripts and props, especially anything mechanical. So, like any good evil doer, I was left alone to resent the good guys. That and worry about my entrance. At least, the room I was secreted in was just off the ballroom, so I wouldn’t have far to be dragged.

I spent the time working the cake, as it were, climbing in and out while reciting my lines. The cake only rose to approximately four feet from the floor on the dolly, which was about a foot more than my inseam, so I couldn’t just swing a leg out onto the floor. Not that getting a leg out at all was going to be easy. The hole I was to clamber out of was slightly tighter than my shoulder width. I’d have to collapse by shoulders in when “popping” out of the cake. Then, a few quick yoga moves to lift my leg up and over the lip of the cake and “voila” instant villain. I hoped my bag didn’t catch.

Then, I got word that Stan Lee—creator of Spider-Man and a slue of other famous comic book characters, including The X-Men, The Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, Daredevil and The Fantastic Four—was in the house. I don’t know what bothered me more. The fact that one of my childhood heroes was just on the other side of the wall or I was moments away from making a complete idiot of myself in front of him whilst besmirching one of his creations. And of course, in my mind, all the superheroes were kibbitzing and having a grand ole time with Stan, and they couldn’t care less. I was the comic-book geek! If I didn’t know what my motivation was before, I certainly did now. That’s it, Stephen, “use it in your acting,” the ubiquitous mantra of hopeless actors everywhere.

After what seemed like hours, while at the same time seeming a mere couple of minutes, it was time. Captain America came to get me. Cap would be the lucky one to pull the cake into the ballroom, using a thick cord of fraying rope attached to the dolly. Besides being one of the most recognized of the superheroes present after Spidey, his suit was the only one that allowed the maneuverability to do the deed. The cumbersome Muppet-like costume of The Hulk made him ideal for one thing only: walking into things. I shimmied into the cake, the top was secured and I waited for the guests to begin singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Whoever was speechifying before the song was taking their sweet time. I wasn’t exactly in a state of bliss. This had to be akin to being in a clown car. At least I wasn’t sharing the space with a dozen Krustys. Maybe the speaker was Stan. He was garrulous at the most economic of times. I wouldn’t have minded as much if I could hear him. Then I had a momentary panic that I wouldn’t hear my cue. That quickly passed when I heard the singing begin and the cake lurched forward.

Patience isn’t one of my strongest traits. Still, though I was itching to burst from my cramped confines, I was more afraid of jumping the gun. There wasn’t going to be any Jan Brady yelling “Who goes there?” before her brother Peter shouted, “Hark!” If I was going to ruin the evening’s festivities, I was going to be on time about it. As the guests wound up the third refrain of the song—my cue—I exploded from the top of the cake. I remember my shoulders getting stuck for a moment and the entire cake lifting off the dolly, before it clunked back into place. But I don’t think anyone noticed or heard over my maniacal laugh, a high-pitched, villainous cackle backed by an evening of edgy nerves and discomfort.

I hoped my entrance shocked the room enough that the unfolding of my body and leap-of-faith out of the cake would go unnoticed. It reminded me of the Yogi Kudu painstakingly removing himself from the foot-square clear plastic box on the seventies’ TV series That’s Incredible! or, for the younger of you readers, the alien dislodging itself from the machinery in the final moments of Alien. I slithered out in what I hoped would appear to be a villainous manner, made trickier with my aforementioned size-twelve sneaks. As I extended my leg out the side to reach the floor, the height was greater than my inseam by a couple of inches. I had to brace myself on the cake and hop as a shifted my weight to the outside leg, while clearing the lip of the cake lid with my privates. One slip and my high-pitched cackle would have climbed to even greater heights. Fortunately, it didn’t, and I made it out with my privates intact.

The crack Marvel marketing team’s script was corny, yet dramatic. Stan was most assuredly green with envy. From the bits and pieces that I can remember, the scene went something like this:

EVERYONE
(Singing while Captain America enters, pulling the giant cake from the room
behind the podium) For he’s a jolly good fellow. For he’s a jolly good fellow.
For he’s a jolly good fello-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow . . .

Green Goblin’s villainous cackle cuts the audience off as he bursts from the cake.

EVERYONE
Gasp! (Okay, maybe not a gasp, and maybe more than a few chuckles and “Oh, brothers,” but work with me, here)

The heroes in attendance tense for action.

SPIDER-MAN
I should have known you’d try something like this Goblin!

GREEN GOBLIN
Don’t get your webs in a bunch, Spider-Man (Okay, I made that part up, but it’s a lot more interesting than “Relax, Spider-Man,” which is more likely to have been my line). I’ve come merely to congratulate you on your impending nuptials.

Spider-Man hesitates, but finally decides to trust his arch-nemesis (I guess his Spidey Senses weren’t tingling), and the two shake hands.

Like I mentioned, it wasn’t Shakespeare, but given the hokey context, the script worked. And it was blessedly short.

The skit accomplished, I was free to mingle with the guests (read: find Stan Lee) or so I thought. I didn’t realize that my appearance was the Grand Finale to the ballroom festivities. The room emptied faster than a pensioner’s change purse at a slot machine. The only people to greet me as I exited from the dressing area were the wait staff deeply involved in stacking chairs and breaking down tables to clear the room so they too could go home.

Heroes for Hire

At the time of my first appearance in 1986, the only characters available for personal appearances were Spider-Man, Captain America, The Incredible Hulk, Dr. Doom, Green Goblin, Firestar, Iceman and Spider-Woman. The latter three heroes aren’t exactly setting the world afire with their notoriety today, and what little repute they had garnered which led to Marvel's creating costumes for the characters was lost by 1986.

Firestar and Iceman had earned a place in the pantheon of Marvel's Personal Appearance Program by virtue of their co-starring with Spider-Man in the 1981 Saturday-morning cartoon Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends, running a respectable three years to 1983, with an additional two years of repeats thereafter. Created in 1963 as a member of the original incarnation of the X-Men, Iceman hadn’t been on the team for more than a decade and was not a part of the new X-Men, which featured arguably the most popular and widely known member at the time, Wolverine. And the revamped iteration of the team—though crazily popular in comicbookdom and despite guest appearances on the aforementioned Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends—had yet to achieve the public renown that eventually led to the 2000 film based on the franchise. Firestar was actually created for the cartoon, but made her comic-book debut quickly thereafter.

Spider-Woman, aka Jessica Drew (no relation to Peter Parker aka Spider-Man), had the ability to shoot venom blasts from her hands and could glide upon the air currents, using a swath of webbing attached to the underarms of her costume. Despite a mildly successful comic series—which ran for 50 issues from 1978 to 1983—and a short lived Saturday-morning cartoon that aired only sixteen episodes from 1979 to 1980, Spider-Woman was all but forgotten by 1986.

You may notice a pattern here: cartoon = live representation of character. But licensing also played an important factor. Some early costumed characters in Marvel's stable included ROM, Spaceknight; Crystar, the Warrior; and Destro; all of which were based on toys from which Marvel licensed comic book adaptations, the former with their own eponymous books and the latter a villain in the G.I. Joe comic and cartoon series.



By the early 90s, the number of available characters had expanded greatly to include Iron Man, Daredevil, Dr. Strange and X-Men members Wolverine, Cyclops and Storm (some of which are shown in this 1991 Marvel Personal Appearance promotional pamphlet above—that's me in the Spider-Man and Iron Man costumes.).