Marvel Select Comic Iceman Action Figure

From: Diamond Select Toys

Pete's Expert Summary

Honestly, the Human bringing me a "toy" that is clearly meant for their own clumsy hands is a bit of an insult. This "Iceman" is a seven-inch piece of translucent blue plastic, which, I'll admit, has some potential for catching sunbeams in a visually stimulating way. It comes with its own little plastic glacier, which offers interesting angles for a strategic shove. The most appealing feature, however, is the "multiple interchangeable parts." Small, easily lost pieces are the lifeblood of any good game of "Where Did That Go and Why Is the Human Making That Annoying Panicked Sound?" It's likely destined to gather dust on a shelf, a tragic waste of potential, but if liberated from its plastic prison, it might just be worth waking up for.

Key Features

  • Cast in translucent plastic
  • Stands 7" tall
  • Ice slide diorama base
  • Multiple interchangeable parts
  • Display-ready Select action figure packaging

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It arrived in a transparent tomb, a shrine of thin plastic and cardboard that the Human handled with an infuriating reverence. He called it a "collectible," which I've learned is Human-speak for "expensive dust-magnet." He placed the entire sarcophagus on the mantelpiece, a monument to his poor financial decisions. For days, it watched me from its perch. A silent, blue man, frozen mid-stride on a shard of what my instincts told me was not water, but pure, solidified arrogance. I felt a professional rivalry brewing. He was icy and cool, but I am the master of aloofness in this domain. One evening, during a fit of what I can only describe as "re-organizing," the Human finally broke the seal. The scent of a Chinese factory filled the air, a disappointing perfume for such a mythic-looking figure. He assembled the man on his little ice ramp and, for a moment, left him on the living room rug. This was my chance. I approached not as a predator, but as a connoisseur of fine art. The late-day sun slanted through the window, striking the figure. It did not merely reflect the light; it captured it, splintering it into a thousand tiny, shimmering blue ghosts that danced on the floorboards. I was momentarily captivated. This was not a toy; it was a prism. I circled the statue, my soft gray form a stark contrast to its sharp, crystalline edges. Its face was a mask of grim determination, but its eyes were blank. A hollow god. I extended a single, white-gloved paw, claws meticulously retracted, and gave the base a gentle, testing tap. It slid an inch. The light patterns skittered across the room. Ah, so it *was* interactive art. I gave it a more purposeful nudge with my nose. The figure tipped, slid down its own pre-packaged glacier with a faint *ziip*, and landed perfectly upright on the rug. We stared at each other. He, with his vacant, icy gaze; me, with the profound understanding of a true critic. The Human, of course, snatched it away and returned it to the dreary prison of the mantelpiece. But he was careless. He left behind a small, alternate hand, balled into a tiny, blue fist. I waited until the house fell into the deep silence of night, then I hopped onto the coffee table. The fist was my tribute, my critic's choice award. I batted it from the table, chased its skittering form across the floor, and finally, triumphantly, nudged it into the dark abyss beneath the television stand, where all true treasures are kept. The statue can keep its cold vigil on the shelf; I have claimed its soul. It was a worthy, if temporary, exhibit.