Landscape of migraine-stoking yellow? Check.) Their attempts to flee her ire take them into uncharted territory. She wields an enormous hammer and presides over what looks like a prog-rock album cover designed by Roger Dean. Trying to scrape together some credits, Quill and his companions fall afoul of a woman named-honest to God-Lady Hellbender. At least the Guardians, however much they may bicker, like to battle as one. Still, they mark an improvement on the squad at the centre of Marvel’s Avengers, the problem with that game being that the centre cannot hold its stars keep breaking off and brawling through their own solo segments. As underdogs go, they are practically subterranean.

And Rocket, a talking raccoon with an advanced brain, capable of chewing through the tangles of any tech-based problem. Drax, all blades and biceps, who is unable to register even the most seismic sarcasm. There is Groot, whose grasp of language is modest but who, as a sentient tree, shades a number of scenes with surprising emotional depth. They are led by Peter Quill, a man who, true to his name, possesses a blonde quiff on which you could impale yourself. To be fair, you can’t exactly blame anybody for taking one look at these guys and backing out. The problem, as pointed out by Gamora-a woman as ebullient and, indeed, as green as the Grinch-is that, while their services are for hire, “no one will hire us.” As a rule, narratives that are nagged along by financial troubles are to be celebrated there are few other story-starters as universal and, thus, as effective at guaranteeing a high interest rate. Our heroes don’t have enough of it, and, when they are issued a fine by the Nova Corps-a sort of local council for the cosmos-they must rustle some up, fast.

The plot of Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy, I’m pleased to say, is driven by money.

Boots of the dark iron raider