Sovereign Seven in Seven Parts: An Ant Critiques An Elephant

Gene Kendall here to remind you in our final installment that, sure, Sovereign Seven could be a frustrating read, but it was hardly the total dud the early online fandom believed it to be. Three years on the stands is nothing to sneer at, especially when you consider the comics industry was collapsing right as the book debuted. To this day, a new series reaching thirty-six issues and a few annuals is the exception, not the rule. Actually, most new titles launched after 1995 have never sniffed that kind of longevity. 

While there are plenty of legitimate grievances to launch at Sovereign Seven, much of the book's low reputation can be traced to a time when it was trendy to roll your eyes at Chris Claremont, That Dude from the 1980s. (Imagine anything good coming from that decade?) And let's not forget many of the voices dismissing him as washed up were the same folks who based entire personalities on Joss Whedon patter and Warren Ellis cynicism. It's all aged very well.

So, before launching into a list of likely blunders that hobbled the series, I will acknowledge the things Sovereign Seven got right. Even though Claremont's attention is always wandering, there is a sense he enjoys writing these characters. The concept of the Sovereigns using teamwork to blend their powers together and achieve some of the feats the X-Men consider commonplace is fun, and the opening premise of exiled royalty forced to work menial jobs at a coffee bar has real promise.

The dynamic between Cascade and the rest of the team also toys a bit with the standard superhero team's interplay. As the issues go on, an idea develops that Cascade isn't very affirming as a leader -- she seems to expect her teammates to do as she says without any handholding or praise. She isn't necessarily portrayed as unlikeable, but she is someone raised by a dark goddess mother who had some expectations of one day becoming a queen herself. Her people skills maybe aren't the best.

For all the talk of Claremont Clichés, there is one recurring motif that I do enjoy: Claremont's curiosity about the world around him. His characters don't exist in bland landscapes, empty backdrops for the inevitable superhero fights. They inhabit something that's at least pretty close to our world, and Claremont always has some factoid or bit of local flavor to impart upon the reader.

Even if the introductory Force Majeure story stumbles at the end, Claremont still manages to make the secretive military team feel as if they have some grounding in the real world. Issue #6 opens with the team in downtown Ottawa, where the Department of National Defence's principal headquarters sits right beside, and is physically connected to, a shopping mall. This is actually true (or was true as of 1995); the sort of verifiable, who-the-heck-knows-that detail you only get from a writer who spends real time reading, learning, and picking up any small tidbit that could make his stories more interesting.

Now, having established a few of the series' positives, I feel like less of a jerk pointing out some of the errors made along the way. 

If I were tinkering with year one, I'd make the bad guys immediately recognizable. Let Sovereign Seven bump into established DC villains with motives you can explain in one sentence -- not mysterious, vaguely defined plots and cryptic origins. The book already opens on a moody, theatrical note -- seven unknown figures, thundering in from nowhere on a stormy night -- so doubling down with enigmatic antagonists is just clutter. Give the villains simple aims: steal the artifact, rob that bank, blow up the supply line.

Using villains with established origins and some level of recognizability automatically declutters these early stories. We don't need an explanation for who the Joker is, but certainly Skin Dance is going to require an origin…which means pages that could have been spent on our seven protagonists are being squandered elsewhere. Additionally, it would serve as a great justification for why this is being published as a DC series, and not through Bravura or Legend or any of the other creator-friendly lines of the era.

The same logic applies to names. In the early issues, the cast routinely calls each other only by their first names, instead of their superhero handles, making it a little difficult to keep such a large cast straight. Of course, one reason why Claremont's work with the X-Men resonated was the casual camaraderie among the cast, but he had the benefit of several years of continuity -- several years for readers to already know who "Scott," "Jean," and "Hank" refer to -- behind him. Even though X-Men: The Animated Series was aimed at a slightly younger audience, the decision to only have the cast use their superhero names in the first season makes a lot of sense. The audience is given a year to become familiar with the cast, have a quick handle to identify each member, and then in the second year, we'll casually hear Cyclops referred to as "Scott."

Also, not every issue needs all seven members. Taking another page from X-Men: The Animated Series, we can see that stories with a smaller cast let the narrative breathe and allow relationships to form organically. One reason the cartoon paired down the cast for the average episode was because animating so many X-Men each week would've been a nightmare, true, but for basic storytelling purposes, a smaller cast does provide an easier means for the audience to enter the characters' world.

The first year could've been spent telling smaller stories that pair the cast in diverse ways. Maybe some solo stories thrown in as well, similar to John Byrne's first year on Alpha Flight. And to cut down on all of these mysteries and cryptic conflicts, a goal should've been set to give each of the Sovereign Seven an established origin and backstory. This could've been achieved via conversation scenes, dream sequences, flashbacks, back-up stories…whatever. Just let the readers in on this. It's essential information that has to be conveyed; material that can't be ignored in favor of digressions involving two teenagers chasing after a cat.

By the end of year one, the full septet can finally assemble and face off against Maitresse, the character we were led to believe was the series' equivalent of Dr. Doom. A clear explanation for her predicament could be revealed, and the series would then be free to explore new directions during its second year.

For the sake of a simple sales stunt, it's also surprising that Chris Claremont's 1990s merc hero the Huntsman didn't appear at all during Sovereign Seven's run. The character was introduced in those "special guest appearance" arcs in WildC.A.T.s and Cyberforce, receiving a decent amount of hype when those titles remained Top Ten books. Perhaps Claremont was still hoping the Huntsman monthly series would be happening at Image, with Whilce Portacio attached as artist, and felt having the character pop up in a DC series might strain a relationship with Image.

But since Claremont owns the concept, and there were fans out there curious to learn more about this Huntsman, an appearance in Sovereign Seven would've made a lot of sense. Marketing could've promoted it as the first time a character who'd debuted in an Image title was appearing in a DC comic. And perhaps Claremont could've answered some of Huntsman's own dangling mysteries during his guest spot. There's a sales draw: actually answering questions.

It doesn't seem as if a lot of thought was put into the book's commercial appeal -- which is odd, because in the '90s, comics live and die by who looks coolest on the spinner rack. Finale truly feels like wasted potential: a female Snake Eyes before there actually was a female Snake Eyes, debuting right as the "bad girl" craze was heating up. Mystery, silhouette, and those intimidating, pupil-less Batman eyes…yet she's rarely the focus of a cover. The series' storytelling churn doesn't help either; when the plot hops all over the place, the audience is too disoriented to select any standout characters.

That lack of focus on marketable visuals becomes important when you remember what was on the stands in 1995, an avalanche of X-inspired, hyperbolic titles begging for Wizard's attention. The mid-90s racks were already groaning under the weight of dumbed-down and roided-up X-Men retreads, meaning Sovereign Seven had to compete for the attention of a readership that adored Mortal Kombat far more than the classy science fiction novelists that inspired Claremont. Claremont's instincts were never really superhero-first, approaching the comics world far more influenced by science fiction and fantasy. (As he says, he didn't get into Marvel until late in his teens.) The audience who had admired Claremont's previous work also tended to be fans of brick-sized fantasy and hard science fiction…influences that weren't particularly commercial in the days of the Extreme Studios Swimsuit Special. 

Those readers either stuck around, grumbling, or they drifted off to other hobbies. If a sizable number of those readers did still exist, it's also possible another new superhero series from Claremont, garbed in '90s dress, just wasn't all that appealing.

All of this raises another question: did Claremont truly want to write yet another straightforward tights-and-fights book? Or is this what everyone just assumed to be the most commercial move? If he'd launched a proper fantasy ongoing in the mid-90s, one with methodical worldbuilding and a sprawling cast, would that hold his interest more than another superhero series? With the 1990s gaming crowd already filing into comic shops looking for Magic: The Gathering cards, would a fantasy series from Claremont, backed by DC's promotional might, have fared better than yet another series that looks like an X-spinoff?

Or, forget baroque fantasy… Think of Eerie, Indiana -- that odd little NBC show that pitched kids into bizarre, small-town weirdness -- and you can see the shape of what Claremont might've been thinking. A serialized, town-centered drama about a New England community with a lot of strangeness going on was meant to be an aspect of Sovereign Seven, but it often doesn't play well with the superheroes.

Introducing seven brand-new heroes and attempting to turn the locale into a character in its own right doesn't leave a lot of room to explore either idea properly. What might have worked was to narrow the lens. Perhaps a single superhero, someone used to big-city showdowns, has to move to this weird town and readjust. Or maybe no capes at all; it occasionally reads like Claremont wanted to write a Sheriff Malloy series, anyway. A single-mom cop who patrols a strange little town, balancing domestic life with escalating, and often creepy, threats. Maybe this wouldn't have been as commercial as superheroes in 1995, but it certainly sounds more coherent.

Ultimately, Sovereign Seven is an awkward, occasionally rewarding and occasionally irritating misfire. It arrived at the wrong moment, lacked the editorial spine to hold itself together, and couldn't maintain the hype for more than a few issues. A few years back, Claremont was teasing a prose novel continuation of the series, and maybe there was some talk of a possible crowd-funder. If nothing else, it remains a curious footnote in the author's career. There are enough stray notions in play that it's not wild to imagine something might be salvaged out of them.

This is our S7 finale, but until next time, check me out on Instagram (where I'll continue a retrospective on Claremont's '90s work; this time with a certain "First Family"), YouTube, and Substack. And you can read my new novella Gutbuster for free right this very second!