Peter David's Blog, page 56

Captain America: The Winter Soldier

We saw it last Friday and I agree with what a lot of people are saying: this might well be the best Marvel movie yet.

For starters–and there’s no other way to put it–it didn’t feel like a comic book movie. Instead it felt more like a spy thriller that happened to feature Captain America as its lead in the same way that James Bond is the lead of Bond spy thrillers.

Chris Evans has, over three films, morphed into the foremost of the movie heroes. The fight sequences have become even more dynamic (although occasionally edited with the salad shooter technique that made “Quantum of Solace” unwatchable for me.) Whether he’s battling Batroc the Leaper or the Winter Soldier, Evans comes across as an almost unstoppable force of nature. Likewise Sebastian Stan as the Soldier (and Bucky, the revelation of which stunned the audience I was with, much to my surprise. When you hear people gasp over something revealed ten years ago, it’s a little startling.)

In the meantime, Nick Fury and the Black Widow have as much to do, if not more, in this film than in “The Avengers.”

There are major developments with SHIELD that leaves you wondering how this is going to impact on the TV series, including the revelation that one featured agent from the program is a traitor. The major ramifications from the film are going to be felt for quite some time, and I’m very excited to see where it goes.

PAD

Reviews of Stuff

Originally published July 21, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1392

“Reviews,” I am told. This is to be the “All Review” issue, which is to given out at the San Diego Con. Okay. I’ll review everything that I’ve read or seen in the past few days, excluding television.

Chicken Run. I first got turned on to the work of Nick Park by Joe Straczynski, who was singing the praises of Wallace and Gromit—a gently daffy inventor and his mute-but-much-smarter dog—before just about anyone else was. And now Park, the maestro of Claymation, unleashes his first full-length Claymation effort on a public that might still, for the most part, remain unsuspecting of his work and genius. But Chicken Run will certainly put an end to that.

Basically, it’s Stalag 17 in a chicken ranch (the main conspirators even assemble in Hut #17) as the chickens-in-residence conspire to escape their confines before they can be fed into the newly acquired chicken pot pie machine. Taking center stage is Ginger, voiced by Julia Sawalha, former Absolutely Fabulous actress whose voice puts across consistently wistful intelligence… to say nothing of a character with conscience. It’s clear that Ginger could bolt on her own at any time… but she refuses to leave behind her peers, a bunch of easily panicked—well—dumb clucks, really.

The film is chockablock with marvelous little in-jokes, ranging from Mel Gibson’s character of Rocky the Flying Rooster making his entrance shouting “Freeeeedom!” (if I have to explain it, forget it) to a Scottish technically-savvy chicken who, slowly but surely, morphs into Star Trek’s Scotty (right down to announcing the threat of a Klingon. If you see the movie, I won’t have to explain that one.)

There are several jobs in the entertainment industry that continue to astound me, and stop-motion animation artists are among those. “How was your day, dear?” “Oh, wonderful, honey. We got footage of Mr. Tweedy walking across the yard today. Looks really wonderful.” The patience these guys exhibit is nothing short of superhuman, in my view, and the result is definitely worth it.

For those who are relatively new to Nick Park, once you’ve seen Chicken Run, and then made the obvious move of snatching up the three Wallace and Gromit half-hour features (“A Grand Day Out,” “The Wrong Trousers,” “A Close Shave”) I’d then recommend you make the extra effort and hunt up a copy of “Creature Comforts.” A video of Park’s shorter work, it includes the absolutely hilarious title piece which consists of actual off-the-cuff interviews done in a man-in-the-street format, with the comments “interpreted” by Claymation animals. It must be seen to be believed.

* * *

For Better or For Worse. I was in sixth grade. I had a friend named John. He and his sister, Ann, lived on the street behind us in Verona, New Jersey, and we used to hang out together. One day we were going to meet after school over at the convenience store behind the school, across the street, to get a candy bar or something like that. I lagged behind in the playground, though, talking with some other kids.

And then some kids came running from the direction of the store, babbling almost incoherently. We managed to sort out what they were saying, and couldn’t believe it. “John got hit by a truck!” they were saying.

We bolted as fast as our young legs would carry us, crashing through the forest-like brush that lined the back of the school and separated it from the street. We emerged on the sidewalk, and the howl of the emergency vehicles could already be heard in the distance.

John was wedged under a parked car, the lower half of his body obscured by it, his arms splayed to either side, his eyes closed. I thought he was wearing a red shirt, and then realized that it, in its previous existence, been white, but was soaked through with blood. There was blood all over his face, blood everywhere. The truck that had hit him—a phone company repair truck—was skewed at an angle nearby. The guy who I took to be the driver was crouched nearby John, apparently talking to him. John didn’t seem to be replying. It might have been because he was already dead. It was my first first-hand experience with mortality, with the fragility of our existence. I have never forgotten John, nor Ann. Ann developed a little bit of a crush on me at the time—the first girl in my life to express those kind of feelings toward me—although I suspect in retrospect that it was as much a longing to find a brother substitute as anything else. Her family moved away a year or so after the accident, and I lost touch with them.

In any event, the genius of Lynn Johnston’s For Better or For Worse is that she is so easily able to pull up experiences that we all share, although the names and circumstances vary wildly. Her most successful endeavor to date was the heroic death of the Patterson’s family dog, Farley. But the current strip places a very close second. Jeremy Jones, the school bully, has targeted Young April (whose adventures I take particular interest in since she’s so close in age to my youngest, Ariel) for some months. That gives a high recognition factor right there. But in the current run, the relentless bully was pursuing April on bike, and when he swerved around a parked car to cut her off, an oncoming vehicle nailed him. While the elderly driver vegged out in shock, April had the presence of mind to call 91l, turning her from intended victim to de facto hero in the course of three button pushes.

Johnston continues to have the guts to live up to the “Or For Worse” part of the strip’s title. Accidents, death… these are part of life. Hers is the only strip out there that takes these kinds of risks. Even Doonesbury almost never loses sight of the gag-a-day format, no matter how dire the circumstances might be. If by some horrific circumstance your local newspaper doesn’t carry it, then I suggest you subscribe to Comic Relief, a monthly magazine which carries a run of the strip every month, as well as Doonesbury, Dilbert, and an assortment of political columns and editorials from throughout the country.

* * *

People hand me stuff at conventions all the time. But I can’t recall the last time I got something quite as weird as My Monkey’s Name is Jennifer, given to me at the recent Madison Square Garden convention by the strip’s writer/artist, Ken Knudsen. Intended for self-publishing, I have absolutely no idea what to make of it. It’s like Angel and the Ape filtered through Frank Miller, with a heavy dose of hallucinogens thrown in. Basically, for reasons surpassing understanding, a couple of parents have decided that it’s a good idea to allow a clearly deranged chimp to be a playmate/pet for their young daughter, Jennifer. While the child dresses the chimp in an apron and has tea parties, with him, the animal—neutered, and with claws clipped short—keeps up a meditative stream of homicidal rage while waiting for its claws to grow back so it can rip out the kid’s eyes. I give this work a rating of three and a half JC’s. That’s the number of times I said “Jesus Christ” while reading it (the half being one point where I just said, “Jeeeez.”) It helps if, when you’re reading the monkey’s captions, you hear the voice of Mojo Jojo in your head.

It’s utterly demented, I’ve no idea what to make of it, and I look forward to when it’s published so that you can read it and likewise have no idea what to make of it. And frankly, I sure hope that this time around my recommendation makes some difference, because a few months ago both Maggie and I highly recommended a delightful black and white comic called Zzz and retailers and fans in turn provided about as much support as a toilet paper jockstrap.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

Reality TV

Originally published July 14, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1391

“I want to decide who lives and who dies.”

–Crow T. Robot

It’s really coming true, isn’t it. From peek-a-boo websites to game shows where people screw up their courage to face Regis Philbin and try to land a million dollars (although, considering the tax cut, the show’s name should really be changed to, “So You Want To Be a Half-Millionaire?”) to—most hideously—the new shows that make such future-vision films as The Truman Show, EdTV, and Network seem short-sighted in comparison. After all, Truman was ultimately more parable than prediction: Man’s relation to his creator, with man deciding this time around to walk away from the Garden of Eden on his own, leaving an unnecessary God whining and begging for him to come back. And EdTV, a marvelously realized comedy that was unfortunately overshadowed by Truman, was nothing more than the story of a network formalizing what already exists on assorted websites—twenty four hour observations of one person’s life.

But shows such as Survivor and the forthcoming Big Brother take voyeurism and add something new to the mix: Cruelty.

You see, the subtext of the cinema verite websites (or The Real World on MTV or even talk shows such as Jerry Springer, for that matter) is that so-called “ordinary” folks are putting themselves out for public display and basically saying, “Here I am. Watch me. Take interest in me. Accept me for what I am.” That’s what it boils down to. Every one of us, even the most contentious of us, wants to be accepted and loved on some level for who we are. The horrifically brutal spin is that Survivor and Big Brother give America as a whole the opportunity to reject people precisely for who they are, a privilege previously reserved mostly for elections (and even then, we generally suspect that we’re rejecting politicians not for who they are, but who they’re pretending to be.) I wonder how Americans will feel the first time someone who is rejected by the viewing audience winds up committing suicide, metaphorically throwing himself on his sword, because every time he walks down the street he imagines that passersby are looking at him and thinking, Get away from me, loser, and just can’t deal with it.

I have never watched Survivor. I have no immediate plans to do so, because I find the entire concept repellent. Perhaps I seriously don’t have what it takes to go places in show business. It never would have occurred to me, upon reading Lord of the Flies, to think, “Whoa… this would make a great game show.”

Survivor, for those of you who might have been in a cave or—appropriately—off on a desert island somewhere, involves a cross section of over a dozen volunteers (culled from a reported six thousand) who endeavor to survive on a desert island with a bare handful of extra “items.” They engage in various competitions and, one by one, are voted off the island by their fellow castaways until only one is left. The “Survivor” then gets a million dollars for his efforts. Whether he or she gets back self-respect, dignity or privacy remains to be seen. Big Brother takes it one step further, in which residents of a house, under constant surveillance, are voted out of that home by the viewers.

Now there are presently all sorts of analyses going on as to just what makes this entire phenomenon tick. What does it say about us as Americans that viewing habits have been transformed into the electronic equivalent of a burning factory fire? The last time real-life images and concepts as repulsive as this hit the airwaves, it was the six o’clock news showing American soldiers getting napalmed in rice patties and it led to the U.S. pulling out of the Vietnam war… if for no other reason so that Americans could go back to watching the news during the dinner hour without being grossed out of their TV dinners.

Fulfilling the prophecy that in the future, everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes, the future is clearly here. “We have met the enemy, and he is us,” quoth Pogo, and we are watching the enemy with rapt fascination. I don’t have to watch Survivor to comment on it, because I hear about it from everywhere. It’s on the news, in magazines, on chat boards. Every week someone gets punted off and becomes a media star who, like Roy Batty in Blade Runner, flares brightly and then is gone.

And possibly the most appalling aspect of all is the tendency to refer to the contestants as “characters.” That’s what I hear all the time. “I like this character,” “I like that character,” “My favorite character is the Navy SEAL.” “Really? I can’t stand that character, is he gone yet?” My God… they’re not characters. I know characters; I’ve worked with characters. These are not characters. These are people, flesh and blood, warts and all, endeavoring to mush their way through an experience that I freely admit I would have managed to endure about five minutes, if that. My idea of roughing it is not eating rats. My idea of roughing it is staying someplace that doesn’t provide room service.

I feel some mild twinge of hypocrisy in that I admit to being intrigued by 1900 House, the Brit series in which a Victorian house was restored to its 1900 condition and a British family endeavored to live for three months there with only the accouterments of the Victorian era to sustain them. I missed the second episode, but was fascinated by the first (which mainly detailed everything that was involved in refurbishing the house.) Nevertheless, there are differences. For one thing, no one’s deciding which members of the family are going to be thrown out of the house each week. Second, there’s no money involved. And third—as is appropriate for a show being broadcast stateside by PBS–it’s educational. Survivor provides an extremely unusual and horrific situation, but in watching 1900 House you cannot forget that everyone lived like this—and many not even quite as well—merely a hundred years ago. Whereas Survivor paints a nauseating picture of where we’re going as a nation, desensitized to human strife except when we’re captivated by misery, 1900 House gives dazzling insight into where we came from and an appreciation for what relatives as near as our great grandparents had to deal with on a routine basis.

But you know what? I’ve been thinking it over… and maybe the problem is that we’re not going far enough. If we’re going to view fellow humans in a degrading manner, then by God, let’s up the stakes, shall we?

The next step, obviously, is to do a series called Death Row. Hosted by George W. Bush, it would be the biggest threat to life to come out of Texas since J.R. Ewing was gunned down at the end of the third season of Dallas. Each week we’d have a new contestant on Death Row who presents his case to the American people. Why not? Gary Graham did essentially that. The story of his conviction, with no forensic evidence placing him at the scene of a murder, exactly one eye witness, contradicting evidence from other witnesses, and a defense lawyer who apparently displayed the legal acumen of Jethro Beaudine, was not enough to sway the hearts of a plethora of Bush appointees who had him lethally injected. It did, however, sway the hearts of many Americans, including the several hundred protesters I saw in Times Square (although what protesting in front of the Warners Store was intended to accomplish, I’ve not a clue.)

Basically, on Death Row, the details of the crime would be presented. Everyone, from convict to victim would be heard from. Arguments and pleas would be made all around. And then, just like the kill-Robin hotline, Americans would get to vote as to whether or not the guy should be executed. Better make sure the guy’s heavily made up so it can’t be discerned whether he’s black or white: If it’s the former, Bush might not wait for the vote.

By instituting Death Row, we’re simply reducing populist entertainment back to its roots, giving Americans the yea-or-nay power enjoyed by Roman citizens centuries ago. Like the Romans or even Crow T. Robot, we should get to decide who lives and who dies.

Life and death too high-stakes for you? Then consider my alternate show: Strange Bedfellows.

I submit, my friends, that there is something fundamentally wrong with a presidential election process that narrows the field to two candidates who generate as much enthusiasm as a hemorrhoid commercial.

Imagine, if you will, that it had been done entirely differently from the start. Picture all the candidates being dumped on a desert island and having to fight to survive. Would Gore continue to remain so wooden that they could use him for kindling? Would Bush remain so cold to people fighting for their existence that he would continue to support an imperfect capital punishment system? Something tells me “no.” And every week, the “Strange Bedfellows” (which, as we know, politics makes) would vote another member of the group off the island. Money, soft or hard, legit or ill gotten, would make no difference here. Dirty campaign tactics would be irrelevant. We’d get down to the nitty gritty. You wanna be president? Would you be willing to eat a rat to do it? Bugs? You think you can be of use to the country? Let’s see you anchor a tug of war or run a relay.

To hell with carefully conceived debates and canned answers. Finally, finally, you’d get to see John McCain as you know you wanted to: Slamming Dubbya around, shoving his face into the sand while snarling in his ear, “You’re mine now, maggot. Who’s your daddy? Say it! Say it, you turd!” It’d be a fascinating study in conflicts. Sure, the candidates would want to vote McCain off first. On the other hand, the chances are they wouldn’t last a week without him. McCain survived a ’Nam POW camp. You don’t think he can handle a month and a half with a bunch of guys whose idea of torture is being asked if they know how much a gallon of milk goes for? The only way McCain doesn’t come out on top is if the final conflict boils down to a slam dunk contest, in which cast Bill Bradley would have a significant advantage. And forcing the candidates to make the harsh choices of who goes and who stays will be an indicator—for themselves and for Americans—of the type of decision-maker they will be. Hell, some of them may vote themselves off, coming to the harsh realization that they simply don’t have what it takes.

Granted, the flaw in this plan is that it means the American public doesn’t get to vote on who becomes the leader of the free world. On the other hand, two out of every three Americans don’t bother to use that privilege anyway. Besides, they’ll have the chance to vote in the only way that anyone really seems to care about anymore: The remote control.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, was unaware that the word “Get” was in such disfavor. In the spirit of Winston Churchill, who stated, “A dangling participle is an abomination up with which I will not put,” he cheerfully suggests that those who have a problem with “get” are cordially invited to acquire a life, remove themselves from his back, and become stuffed.)

 

Archie and the Lawyer Guys, part 2

Originally published July 7, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1390

One of the best moments in Austin Powers is when Dr. Evil informs his son, Scott Evil, that he is about to place Austin in an “unnecessarily slow moving” death trap, which he will then not deign to watch. The reason is, of course, is that the hero is being given every opportunity to escape, as is standard in any action movie death-trap. An incredulous Scott, not able to wrap himself around the concept, keeps urging his evil father to keep it simple. “I’ll run upstairs, I’ll get my gun, it’ll take five seconds, we’ll shoot him, done. It’ll be fun!” Scott’s agitation grows as Dr. Evil consistently rejects the course of action which will unquestionably guarantee that Austin Powers will never bother him again.

Finally Dr. Evil looks sadly at his son and sighs, “Scott… you just don’t get it.”

He could just as easily have been talking about Archie Comics.

Mike Silberkleit, the chairman and co-publisher of Archie, sent a press release around (and recycled the same press release into a personal letter that he sent to people who wrote in and complained) that endeavored to explain Archie’s position in the matter of Dan DeCarlo.

For those who came in late (as Lee Falk used to write) Dan DeCarlo, creator and/or co-creator of such Archie staples as Sabrina and Josie and the Pussycats, has been suing Archie Comics. You remember Archie Comics: They’re the publisher which, on the one hand, excoriated TV-Sabrina Melissa Joan Hart for posing in lingerie… and, on the other hand, think nothing of routinely producing comics which appeal to the most juvenile and prurient instincts of young male readership by showing its female characters in barely-there microbikinis while all the male characters endlessly ogle them.

The advent of the Josie movie prompted DeCarlo to move forward with a suit pressing what he felt were legitimate rights to the character—and, even more, rights to the money such a film might generate. The suit is wending its way forward, as such things do with excruciating slowness.

Is it possible for such a suit to be “just business,” as it were? For an employee to sue an employer and still continue reporting to work? Well, David Duchovny sued Chris Carter and Fox for X-Files money he felt he was owed. But Carter didn’t fire Duchovny; instead, the suit was subsequently settled during contract renegotiation.

Apparently Archie Comics wasn’t up to the challenge. Dan DeCarlo, eighty years old, a faithful employee for forty years, was bounced and informed that he should never darken its door again.

Silberkleit, in correspondence to inquiring minds, referred to the coverage of said event as “misleading reports.” In the press release itself, Silberkleit stated;

The central issue in the lawsuit between Archie Comics and Dan DeCarlo is what transpired in the early 1960′s when the original Josie property was created. Archie Comics has always acknowledged that the original Josie property–including Josie herself–was created jointly by DeCarlo and Richard Goldwater in the early 1960′s when Goldwater, acting on behalf of Archie Comics, commissioned DeCarlo to work with him on the creation of a new set of teen-age characters on a work-for-hire basis. The joint participation of Richard Goldwater and Dan DeCarlo in the original creation of the Josie property was publicly acknowledged by Archie Comics in the 1960′s by the placement of the legend “by Dan ‘n’ Dick” on the covers of many issues of Josie and Josie & The Pussycats comics.

The generosity of credit distribution is truly awe-inspiring. Not “Created by Dan DeCarlo and Richard Goldwater.” “By Dan ‘n’ Dick” on the cover. Could be Diver Dan and Dick Dastardly. Could be Dan Dailey and Dick Nixon. There’s something to inspire the creators. “Look, grandkids,” Richard Goldwater could say. “I’m the Dick that helped create Josie and the Pussycats.” He “commissioned” DeCarlo to work with him to create a new teen group? What does that mean, exactly. Pope Julius II commissioned Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. That doesn’t make the Pope the co-creator of the fresco. Which isn’t to say that “Josie” is exactly high art, but then again, it was never meant to be. It was meant to be pop art that would generate money for the parent company… money that DeCarlo apparently feels he hasn’t gotten his fair share of.

The next paragraph gets really fun:

When DeCarlo brought his unfounded lawsuit asserting sole creatorship of Josie and seeking completely unwarranted monetary relief, the owners of Archie Comics, a small, family-owned business, ultimately found that they and their employees could not stomach having Dan, in his words, “sneaking” around Archie Comics’ offices. Accordingly, Archie Comics’ owners informed DeCarlo that they could no longer make use of his services.

Ohhh, where to start, where to start.

“His unfounded lawsuit.” That should save time and wear and tear on the court system. His Honor, Judge Silberkleit has decreed that the lawsuit is unfounded. Archie Comics is a “small, family-owned business.” That’s nice. Tony Soprano can say the same thing. One can almost picture Silberkleit sitting there, rasping deeply in a Brando-esque mumble, “Why is he treating us with such disrespect?”

“Their employees could not stomach having Dan” around? Surely that should be the employees problem rather than Dan’s. If employees don’t like having an upset woman who is suing for sexual harassment around, does she get the heave ho? If employees don’t like having a black man in the office, does he go, too? How many employees didn’t like Dan coming around? More than half? Less? Were they polled? Also, here’s a news flash: I work for half a dozen publishers, and I rarely come into the offices (sometimes never, what with Dark Horse being on the left coast.) Did Archie Comics say, “Dan, y’know… having you around here is kind of awkward. Why not just work out of your house and we’ll rely on Fed Ex?” You know, kind of like every publisher does.

No, not Archie Comics. The only possible remedy to the offended sensibilities of Archie employees was to fire an eighty year old man. No, not just fire. They could “no longer make use of his services.”

A beautifully constructed sentence, in that it puts the lie to Archie’s previous, and subsequent, protests of the esteem in which they hold DeCarlo.

This is not a situation in which an artist independently created a property which he signed away and has been left destitute. Rather, Archie Comics solicited DeCarlo’s involvement in the creation of the original Josie property and he has been handsomely compensated for his artwork on Josie and other comics published by Archie Comics over the years.

Oh, I see. The only circumstance in which an artist or writer should be able to move against a publisher whom he feels has shortchanged him is to wait until he doesn’t have the money to do anything about it. Otherwise, where does he get off not being satisfied?

(For many years, he has been the most highly compensated individual at Archie Comics, employee or independent contractor, other than the two owners). In addition, Archie Comics has given voluntary bonus payments to DeCarlo in recognition of his contribution to the creation of the original Josie property (as well as the Sabrina property). Archie Comics firmly believes that it has always treated DeCarlo fairly and that his lawsuit is an undeserved slap in the face.

And there’s no better response to a slap in the face than kicking an old man in the crotch, right, Mike? Dan DeCarlo is highly compensated? Good. But obviously he feels he’s not being compensated highly enough. And the key to Archie’s inability to comprehend that lies with the earlier comment about no longer “making use of his services.” Ultimately, as far as Archie is concerned, Dan DeCarlo isn’t a partner in imagination, a co-creator of some of the most popular and lucrative characters around. No, he’s simply a field hand, laboring away in the bean fields. But wait, what’s this? DeCarlo wants more than just being the best paid laborer? He wants not only money that’s commensurate with his contribution, but he wants to be thought of as (gasp!) something special? Well, look how quickly the esteem in which he’s held goes south.

Archie Comics is trying to say that it’s just about money. But it’s not. It’s about Dan DeCarlo overstepping his bounds, becoming a metaphorical uppity nigger, and being slapped down quick and slapped down hard because he dared to be dissatisfied. Dissatisfied with what was being offered to him after the Massuh benefited from a crop that reaped far greater benefits than anyone could have envisioned.

And ultimately, it’s about good business and smart business versus bad business.

Harlan Ellison remembers, and worked for, Louis Silberkleit, Mike’s father and pulp editor. According to Ellison, Silberkleit pere was a notorious skinflint, but even he (Ellison claims) “would have known better” than to do what Michael Silberkleit and Archie Comics are doing. It’s bad publicity. It’s a black eye for the company, and it’s so damned unnecessary. Archie Comics is trying to do two things, and two things only: Save a buck and punish the uppity DeCarlo. Whether they’re saving money in the long run is something yet to be revealed, but in the short run they’re taking incredible hits. Pros are siding with DeCarlo in droves, and fans are talking boycott. Certainly a boycott is something Archie Comics could relate to and understand. After all, Archie Employees “couldn’t stomach” having Dan DeCarlo around. So it’s equally logical for retailers and fans who can’t “stomach” supporting Archie Comics to treat them with as much consideration as Archie Comics treated DeCarlo.

Bad business. Bad decisions. Bad judgment. Bad moves all around that, as the press release indicates, were motivated basically by pricked egos and egotistical…

Well, you get the idea. As for Archie Comics, well… they just don’t get it.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

Guest column: Vic Chalker’s cousin, Geoff Neubee

Originally published June 30, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1389

It’s been a while since we’ve seen a guest column by superfan Vic Chalker. And it’s going to be a while longer. Instead we here at BID want to welcome to the fold Vic’s kid cousin, eleven year old Geoff Neubee. Geoff’s only been reading comics for a couple of years, but already has his older cousin’s unique perspective. Take it away, Geoff…

So okay, so, since I’m writing for Peter’s column, I’m going to write about Supergirl, who Peter writes about and she’s pretty cool. She’s like this angel, okay? She’s got these flame wings, and she’s merged with this girl named Linda Danvers. She used to be called Matrix, back when she was just a pink blob from another universe, but now she’s Supergirl. And she’s my favorite character of his that he writes. She’s got flame wings, like I said, and flame vision, and she can use these psychic blasts. Her parents are Fred and Sylvia Danvers, but she lives on her own, except now she’s going to be rooming with her friend, Mattie.

So anyway, I go to my comic book store to get some new books, and I see there’s this new Supergirl book out. It’s called Action Comics, and it’s got this weird gold seal in the upper left hand corner that I can’t make out at all. I think it says “Million” something, but if it’s about Supergirl, I am, like, so there. There’s kind of like a mistake on the cover, because at the top it says it’s the May issue, but at the bottom it says July. So I figure maybe it’s like the May/July issue.

So I buy this thing and I read it, and man, what a rip-off! IT’S NOT SUPERGIRL! The whole thing is, like totally confusing! There’s no flame wings, and no flame vision, and her cape is much shorter. I don’t know why, but DC is trying to introduce ANOTHER SUPERGIRL, and she is, like TOTALLY LAME. They’re, like, totally ignoring the comic I buy each and every month like it doesn’t even exist or something and treating this like it’s a first story. And she’s NOT EVEN AN ANGEL. She’s FROM KRYPTON TOO! Is that the lamest thing you’ve ever heard? Everybody knows that Superman is the last survivor of Krypton, and suddenly there’s this girl running around who’s ALSO from Krypton? That is so lame!

And the story, jeez, that’s the lamest thing of all! For starters, the captions are all weird. Sometimes they tell us what we’re already seeing. Like, “Clark sheds his outer garments to reveal his other dynamic costume!” while he’s changing. And what’s that supposed to mean? “Other dynamic costume!” What, he’s got Batman’s costume stashed at home? And sometimes the captions even talk right to him: “You’re due for a super-shock, Superman!” How cutesy is that?

So as Clark Kent, he’s working as a reporter, and he’s got paper in front of him, which is stupid, because real reporters would be working on computers. So he sees this crashing ship, and it gets all crumbled up, which it shouldn’t, because it turns out it’s from Krypton and everything from Krypton can’t be hurt. And out pops this blonde chick wearing a little Superman outfit who says she’s from Krypton, except she speaks English.

Listen to this origin they came up with. It’s totally lame.

She tells him that, when Krypton blew up, a big chunk of it blew away intact with all the people on it. And this guy, Zor-El, says, “Fortunately, a large bubble of air came along with this chunk! Also, this food machine is still working! We can stay alive indefinitely!” Fortunately? Try lamely! A LARGE BUBBLE OF AIR? Sh’right! And the food machine is a direct rip off of Star Trek’s food replicators! All the stuff in here is just lame or ripped off from other stuff! And even if, as crazy as it sounds, there’s air attached in a bubble… they’re drifting away from their solar system! There won’t be any sunlight to warm them in no time! They’ll all freeze to death in space! How lame! But wait! It gets better!

So then it turns out that the ground’s turned to Kryptonite, and they call it Kryptonite, which is weird, because it never existed before the planet exploded, so how do they know to call it that? And Zor-El, he just happens to have enough lead in his lab to cover the ground.

So they float along in this air-bubble piece of Krypton, and years go by. But then meteors show up and smash holes in the lead shield. They managed to refilter the air, but they don’t have some arc welders to repair the holes? In a month’s time? “We have a month before Kryptonite radiations slowly poison the air,” he says. But that makes no sense. The air should have been unbreathable long before this. Because they’ve been breathing for years, right? Breathing in oxygen… and breathing out carbon dioxide. Since there’s no new oxygen to replace the oxygen they breathed in, why haven’t they suffocated already… from CO2 build up, like they almost did in Apollo 13.

So Kara’s mom, who doesn’t get to have a name because she doesn’t rate, uses a “super-space telescope” and sees Superman with it. Now I don’t care how super the telescope is. Light only travels so fast. We learned in science that the stars we see in the sky aren’t actually the stars like they are now, but from years ago. That stars could even have blown up and we’re still seeing the light from when they were around. So if she’s looking at Superman, she’s looking at Superman from years and years ago. Oh, and the space radio teaches them the language. Pretty darned lucky that, of all the languages they picked up, it was English. Lame lame lame.

So they shoot Supergirl off into space, and she lands, and she and Superman find out they’re cousins. So here’s this girl, an alien, an orphan, just arrived on earth. And what does Superman do? He’s so worried about his identity “being jeopardized” that he DUMPS HER IN AN ORPHANAGE! And then he makes her wear a brown wig to DISGUISE HER! Disguise her WHY? No one’s ever SEEN HER! And then she says she used her super-hearing to hear earth-girl’s names. What, she never heard a SINGLE EARTH GIRL’S NAME WHILE SHE WAS BUSY LEARNING ENGLISH? At least she calls herself Linda, like the real Supergirl does, but where did “Lee” come from? What, is that, like, a reference to Stan Lee or something?

And how cruel is Superman? Instead of keeping her with him, helping to introduce her to things on earth, he’s dumped her in the orphanage. It never even occurs to him to try and take care of her himself. Or what about the Kents? He could bring her to ma and pa, like he did with Matrix! Geez, you’d think they were dead or something!

And then what does she do? She immediately risks her secret by using her super strength to straighten out the iron leg of a cot. And she uses her super breath to blow dust out of her room… like that would work. She uses her x-ray vision on a mirror and it doesn’t bounce back at her.

The only thing that makes any sense is when she says that she’s going to do stuff to help people without being seen, “like a sort of ‘guardian angel.’” Which is obviously tossed in to at least make fans of the real Supergirl feel a little better. But not much.

It just kills me that DC acts like something’s wrong with the real Supergirl, Linda Danvers, and tries to put this lame Kryptonian cousin Kara over on us, like we’re gonna accept such a lame, badly written story. And the “Metallo” story is no prize either. In the beginning of the story, when the scientist takes the uranium capsule out of his chest, Metallo almost falls down right there. But later on in the story he’s operating on a rock which he thinks is Kryptonite, but is actually just a painted rock, and he’s working fine for at least six solid minutes. The only story that made sense in the whole lame book was the one with Congorilla, whoever the heck HE’S supposed to be.

If we’re lucky, DC will quickly drop this lousy and lame notion of a new Supergirl and she’ll be forgotten fast. And I’ll tell you one thing: If DC puts out many more books like this one, forty years from now they’re not gonna have any audience left at all.

(Geoff Neubee can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

Spider-Man 2099

The news is officially out on Newsarama so I can tell you guys now: Yes, I will be writing the new Spider-Man 2099 comic. When word of this first circulated weeks ago, I really did NOT know I’d be on board. Marvel only contacted me two weeks ago about it.

The first issue ships in July. Be sure to be there.

PAD

There’s an announcement coming this Thursday

At least that’s when I’m told it will be coming, just in time for Emerald City Con.

It’s a really cool announcement. I hope you’re all jazzed by it. I know I am.

PAD

Aquaman’s cancellation and Mission: Impossible 2

Originally published June 23, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1388

A couple of things…

* * *

Folks are asking me my opinion on the announcement about the cancellation of Aquaman. Perhaps they think I’ll take some sort of glee or satisfaction in the demise of a title that I left in such frustration over.

Quite the contrary. I couldn’t be more upset. (Well, I could. If one of my kids was lying in an ER with tubes up her nose, I’d be pretty distraught.)

When I started on that title, I had three goals. First and foremost, of course, was to tell stories that would engage the attention of the readers. Second was to erase, for all time, Aquaman’s reputation as a loser of limited appeal who was unable to sustain a title. I have never, ever understood why anyone regarded Aquaman as a second-rate hero. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Drop Aquaman, with no provisions or life-sustaining equipment, in the middle of Gotham City at midnight, and he’ll come out of it just fine. Drop Batman in the middle of the North Atlantic under the same conditions and the odds are spectacular that he’ll never be heard from again. And third—and admittedly, purely selfishly—I was hoping that a successful Aquaman title would finally stir the powers-that-be to put out in trade paperback The Atlantis Chronicles (as I was assured they would a mere decade or so ago), the single work of which I’m the most proud. A project that I’ve been told would be financially impossible to undertake, although curiously they had no problems releasing them as TPBs in Italy at a reasonable price a few years ago.

I’d like to think that I succeeded in the first ambition. But the fact that Aquaman is once again being deep sixed is a personal disappointment. I feel as if I let him down somehow; that I wasn’t able to set up the character in a sufficiently strong situation that was able to sustain him after my departure. Writers on Superman and Batman can come and go and sales will go up and down, but not to cancellation levels. And even if sales do drop, there’s enough confidence in the characters’ long-term selling power that patience will be displayed. Not so, apparently, the King of the Sea. Whatever I did, obviously it wasn’t enough.

Especially because, from everything I understand, Dan Jurgens is doing commendable work on Aquaman. I haven’t read it, but that’s nothing personal; I rarely read anything on any title that I’ve departed, particularly when it’s under as acrimonious conditions as my leaving Aquaman. However the sentiments of the fans have been uniformly positive, and anything that has fans uniform about anything is certainly worth checking out and even supporting. The book has, to my knowledge, received absolutely zero promotion. If there have been posters or full page ads touting a “new era of greatness” or some such line in Aquaman, it sure hasn’t registered on my radar. As we’ve discussed, it takes any comic at least nine months to a year, on average, to show a noticeable turnaround in sales. It seems to go like this: It takes retailers at least three months to notice that there’s an increased demand for a title. Then they just kind of watch this for another three months or more to see if the demand maintains, and during that time they may engage in reorder activity to get a read on just how many copies of a title they can sell under optimum conditions. And after they’ve gotten their collective toes firmly in the pool, they jump in and start increasing the orders… for the issue that will be coming out three months after that.

It’s easy for me to be sitting in the trenches and say that publishers have to be more foresighted than the retailers. That they have to look at the whole picture, including the reception work is getting, the track record of the creative team, etc. The thing is, DC must have some belief in Aquaman. They keep starting him over again. By taking a short-term view of the current profit situation, they’re shooting themselves in the foot because sooner or later, based on publishing history, they’re gonna take another whack at launching him.

The thing is, when I started on the title six years ago, I faced cynicism and skepticism from fans and retailers who wanted to know why I was bothering to waste my time with a character that was such a consistent sales failure. I worked hard to overcome that. I ran into serious editorial misdirection, getting such contradictory instructions and story interference that I gave up and walked away. Erik Larsen hit the exact same problem to such a degree that, like the secretary in Mission: Impossible, he has disavowed his actions on the title. Well, the editor’s gone, and Dan Jurgens is trying to keep Aquaman afloat. By cancelling the title yet again, not only is DC undercutting Jurgens’ efforts, but it’s undermining the efforts of whoever is the next creative force whenever DC decides it’s time to try and restart Aquaman again. Because retailers are going to be looking at the (effectively dead) 70+ issues of the yet-again-canceled previous endeavor, gathering dust in the back-issue bin because there’s no ongoing title to fire interest, and the cynicism and caution I encountered six years back is going to be that much greater. It’s not going to matter if God comes down and says, “Hey, got a great take on Aquaman, and Da Vinci is going to do the artwork. Wait’ll you see the smile he puts on Mera.” Retailers will still say, “Oh, not another Aquaman title,” and they’ll short-order it. And fans will say, “Why bother? They’ll just cancel it again,” and not buy it.

C’mon, DC. Give Dan Jurgens some breathing space, commit to getting Aquaman to an unprecedented issue #100, get behind the series promotionally in a big way, and see what happens. What you have to lose over the short term is a little money. What you may gain over the long term is another DC success story… instead of just another unfortunate chapter in a “lame” character’s history.

* * *

Speaking of Mission: Impossible…

Just saw M:I2 over the weekend. My basic take: A middling-to-solid John Woo endeavor. The thing that impressed me was that this film had even less to do with Mission: Impossible than the first one did. I wouldn’t have thought such a thing was possible. Then again, to paraphrase Anthony Hopkins, apparently doing so was merely difficult, but not utterly impossible.

The thing is, Hollywood produced a Mission: Impossible movie years ago. It starred Robert Redford and Paul Newman, it won the Oscar for best picture, and it was called The Sting. The current Hollywood geniuses endeavoring to build a franchise out of M:I seem to think that if you’ve got the tape-recorded mission, the theme music that remains catchy no matter how badly it’s butchered, and the snappy pull-the-mask-off-reveal (the instances of that stunt this time around has tripled from the previous one, by my count), then they’re doing Mission: Impossible. Except they’re not. All they’ve done is graft a couple of surface elements from a far more imaginative concept onto a warmed over James Bond plot.

Yeah, sure, watching Tom Cruise dangling with his ripped body freeclimbing on the rock was eye candy (I kept waiting for Captain Kirk to come from the other direction saying, “Do you mind?”) And yes, watching the trademark John Woo slo-mo action (“trademark,” you will note, is the word used by audiences as the intermediate step before moving on to, “God, this again?”) was entertaining enough. And heavens, yes, Thandie Newton as the female lead was gorgeous enough (although male fantasy lives took a hit when she showed up on The Daily Show at least six months pregnant.)

But none of that has anything to do with Mission: Impossible. M:I was something very specific: Although Mr. Phelps and his crew were the protagonists, the story actually unfolded from the POV of the mark. You never really knew what the IMF was up to. And every week, there would always come a time at least once, if not twice, where you’d think that the whole thing was suddenly unraveling faster than Chevy Chase’s talk show career. And then you’d find out that Phelps had anticipated it, or it was part of the scheme, or they’d simply improv something fast enough to finesse it. The series was not a celebration of fast motorcycle chases or chop-sockey action, no matter how lovingly filmed. It was about ingenuity, a mental chess game. For years, a bunch of TV writers were able to pull that off for twenty-plus weeks every season. So why, in three years, has Hollywood been unable to do that once in two tries?

Look, I know it was just a TV show, okay? I know it’s not, and never was, high art. But I loved that series because I was always trying to outthink Phelps and anticipate what the IMF had cooked up, and twice now I’ve gone to the theater hoping that there would be some of that and been disappointed on that level (Cruise’s Ethan Hunt does briefly pull one fake-out, except I saw it coming a mile away.) They’re already talking about a third film. For crying out loud, if you’re going to call it Mission: Impossible, just for once, have it be Mission: Impossible. There’s got to be someone still in Hollywood capable of turning out an ingenious, twisty-turny caper film that will leave the viewer mentally disoriented rather than visually so. Then again, perhaps considering the dumbing down of writing in general, that may be the most impossible mission of all.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. This column will self-destruct in five seconds after you set it aflame.)

 

Movie reviews: Battlefield Earth and more

Originally published June 16, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1387

I see dead movies…

I can’t help it. Call it an obsession, call it a sickness.

I’m not talking about going to see movies that critics say are stupid. There’s an overabundance of those, and if I spent all my time going to them, I’d never have a chance to see anything good (“good” being a relative term.) I’m not talking about films that are poorly or amateurishly shot, or badly acted, or badly written. I’m talking about the kinds of films that are so over-the-top awful that they can destroy careers and even entire movie studios.

Although, as an aside, I’ve noticed that somehow male leads and directors manage to rise above debacles, whereas studios and female leads tend to be annihilated. One thinks of Showgirls, a movie so frighteningly bad that it was correctly cited as something truly scary in Scream 2. But the one whose career took the biggest nose-dive was star Elizabeth Berkley, despite the poor direction of Paul Verhoeven (who was promptly handed the big-budget Starship Troopers) and howlingly bad writing of Joe Eszterhas (who sold the concept for an ungodly amount of money based—so legend has it—on something he scribbled on a cocktail napkin.)

If nothing else, the film was worth it since it inspired Berkley’s memorable appearance on “Late Night” in which she lap danced on David Letterman (pre-heart condition, presumably), reducing the normally unflappable host to inquiring in a strangled voice, “Can you come back here every night?” Would you pay good money to see Paul Verhoeven or Joe Eszterhas lap dance? I think not. And from what I understand, Showgirls is now acquiring kitsch value and providing amusement for the midnight movie-going crowd… which, let’s face it, could inspire even more entertaining fan participation rituals than Rocky Horror ever did.

Then there was The Last Action Hero, a film that was a huge failure for Schwarzenegger, mostly, it seemed, because it was time—as far as the public was concerned—for him to have a huge failure. I dunno… I kind of liked it, actually. There was staggering evidence of too-many-cooks present, and one deconstructs one’s own genre at one’s extreme peril. But there were enough entertaining lines, interesting ideas, and novel moments (Arnold being dissed by his wife! Calling him a Cro-Magnon with a sloping forehead and crabbing about the humvee. How can you not love a film where Arnold’s being dissed by his real-life wife!?) to make it worth my time. And if nothing else, it mercifully put an end to the obsession with Arnold having to utter catch phrases from earlier films in his later releases. (“I’ll be back. Ha! Bet you didn’t know I was going to say that!” “You always say that!” “I do?”)

And then there was Hudson Hawk, which was… well, actually, that was pretty wretched.

Many people would bring up Waterworld by this point, but I wouldn’t. Road Warrior on the water, the film had gaping plotholes, but hey… it wasn’t boring. Hudson Hawk was boring. And give Kevin Costner points for sticking to his guns and playing the Mariner as someone initially unlikable (trying to toss a child overboard and knocking cold his leading lady), as opposed to most films where he portrays someone likable and I just don’t like him in the role (although for reasons surpassing understanding, I loved Tin Cup even though I don’t like Costner as an actor and golf bores the hell out of me. Maybe I’m just a sucker for anything with Rene Russo. Hmm. Rene Russo in Showgirls. That would have been interesting.)

And now we have the latest dead movie calling me. It is, of course, Battlefield Earth, which some reviewers are actually dubbing the worst film of the century. If, like me, you’re taking 2000 as the end of the 20th century, this might actually be an assessment one can defend. If you believe it to be the first year of the 21st century, well, it seems a bit premature.

I knew going in there was going to be a problem, simply because John Travolta has no idea how to play a villain. He did it right in Pulp Fiction, presumably because he felt his character was at heart a good guy who simply did bad things. He offered no judgment on him. But his subsequent villainous turns in Broken Arrow and, heaven help us, Face/Off, have been almost painful, as he’s stopped just barely short of growing a mustache for the purpose of twirling it. If you want quality over-the-top villainy, you get Dennis Hopper. If you want pure smug menace, send for Alan Rickman. But for God’s sake, don’t get Travolta unless you’re casting Snidely Whiplash (and that boat’s already sailed.) However, since Travolta was a producer on this puppy, no one could gainsay him.

Battlefield has been inspirational in a way, however. Critics have risen to the occasion, and fans are gleefully passing the top quotes around (my personal favorites being the Variety comments, “The film is all too faithful to its source material, an 819-page doorstop that reputedly sold 5 million copies” and “Costumes are less inspired, with the humans coming off like the dance troupe Stomp! doing a tribute to Mad Max in their tasteful war paint, caveman-chic leathers and Ally McBeal-on-a-bad-hair-day dos.”)

When a film—particularly a genre film—gets as shredded as this one has been, I am absolutely compelled to see it as quickly as humanly possible.

For those few of you who may not be up to speed, Battlefield gives us the planet earth under dominion of the Psychlos, an alien race which sounds like it came from a dream sequence hatched by Robert Petrie from the Dick Van Dyke Show, whom we are told managed to conquer the earth in nine minutes (presumably by making them watch this film.) The Psychlos basically have a corporate structure that was co-opted and done better by the Ferengi years later, and are obsessed with gold for no discernible reason. Then again, to be honest, I’ve never been entirely clear on why we were ever obsessed with it, other than that it’s rare and there’s not a huge supply. On that basis, someone should be able to start a country with a financial system predicated on anything from Pokemon chase cards to supermodels. Usually invaders just want to conquer us because we’re here and annoying, or they’re warlike and we’re just the latest targets, or else we have some mineral or byproduct that they can put to practical use. I suppose to we earthbound moviegoers, we expect an invading alien race to somehow be superior to us, not as dumb or dumber than us.

In short order, lots of stuff blows up very loudly, and every single shot is Dutch-angled, tilted, giving the impression that the way the Psychlos beat us was by knocking the earth to an awkward angle and making everyone fall down.

The thing was… I wanted to find something good about this film, just as I do with other movies that tank big time. I used to think that maybe it was an ego thing. That there was actually something there that critics and others were missing, and I was going to be sharp enough and perspicacious enough to discern what others might have missed. But lately I’ve been thinking it’s something else.

I’ve written a bunch of spec movie scripts of all different sorts, and thus far haven’t gotten any of them off the ground. Had a couple of things optioned, but none of them got anywhere. Some I thought would be a tough sell, others I thought would be sure fire. No luck. I’ve had far better luck teamed with Bill Mumy, and I did a couple of work-for-hires for Full Moon, but the stuff that’s originated purely in my own head and I’ve tried to market… nothing.

The thing is, on some level I know that movies are far more about business than they are art. Yet some part of me wants to believe that there’s a merit system involved. Despite all the horror stories I’ve heard and even experienced, I want to believe that if one is simply good enough, one will get movies made. Therefore, if a movie is bombing big time, I’m there in the audience trying to determine just what it was that made this screenplay better, more deserving, than any that I’ve written. Why are these screenwriters being hired, why are their words being spoken on the big screen. It’s not a matter of jealousy or resentment. It’s a matter of trying to understand. Just as our ancestors looked to the stars and tried to discern patterns which they dubbed constellations, I look at the detritus, the debris, try to strip away what I’m seeing on the screen and seek out that which made the film appealing enough to make in the first place.

In short, I went to Battlefield Earth to try and see for myself if the film had any saving grace at all. If there was anything good about it.

I found three things.

First and foremost… I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. Battlefield Earth cured that. After half an hour, I was out. Drifted in and out for a while after that, and came to for the senses-assaulting last half hour. Came out of the theater feeling totally refreshed.

Second… as near as I can tell, there’s no high profile female leads to have their careers damaged.

Third, the odds are slim that John Travolta will give David Letterman a lap dance.

Embrace the positive where one can.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He found it interesting that, in doing some quick research online, the E! filmography for Joe Eszterhas does not have Showgirls listed. Maybe he thinks we’ll forget.)

 

Archie and the Lawyer Guys

Originally published June 9, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1386

The cast of “Friends” must be patting itself on its collective back at the moment. They just inked a deal (to use Variety speak) that will bring them in twenty million a piece for next season. Most impressive.

What are the writers getting, I wonder?

The cast is, after all, actors. They were fortunate enough to catch the lightning in a bottle that is this series, but the driving force remains the writing. The actors didn’t decide unilaterally that Chandler was going to propose to Monica; the writers chart the course, write the jokes, are the source of the show’s quality. The actors do a great job with what they’re given, of course, but if thousands of quality thespians can be found throughout the centuries to perform the Prince of Denmark, I’m sure that there’s any number of actors who could likewise bring life to Phoebe or Joey and do so quite capably (although, I dunno… Ross might be tough to replace.)

But if the writers demanded twenty million a piece, they would be laughed at and—I’d wager—dismissed without a second thought.

Just ask Marv Wolfman, suing for a piece of Blade. Or, more recently and even more abominably, just ask Dan DeCarlo.

Dan DeCarlo, the creator of Josie and the Pussy Cats, the co-creator of Sabrina, has just been fired from Archie comics after 43 years. Archie publisher Mike Silberkleit now gets to have a new claim to fame besides defending the creation of the censorious Comics Code of America—the organization which served to drive Bill Gaines out of the horror comic business. He heads up the publisher that has driven DeCarlo out of the Archie Comics business.

According to an interview with Beau Yarbrough of The Comic Wire, DeCarlo said, “I was going to bring my work in, and I was trying to sneak out,” whereupon Silberkleit handed him a letter that said, in essence, “You are no longer needed here. We’re terminating your services.” No gold watch. No pat on the back, or a thanks of appreciation for developing characters who have (presumably, unless their lawyers were lousy) brought tons of money into the Archie coffers through Saturday animation and Friday night live action.

DeCarlo, you see, wanted a taste of some of that money. The material developed in his brain, after all. His was the springboard, the notion that gave rise to it. Now of course, I’m not privy to his contract with Archie. Perhaps from a work-for-hire point of view, Archie is entirely in the right and DeCarlo hasn’t a leg to stand on. That is to be decided through the lawsuit that was spurred on by the live action Josie film slated for 2001 and starring Rachel Leigh Cook and Parker Posey.

But as the negotiations with the cast of Friends (and other notorious high-profile contract disputes) have made clear is that in the entertainment industry, contracts are not the be-all and end-all of negotiations. Work that brings success and remuneration is rewarded, contracts retooled… provided that the Big Boys feel that those asking for the “taste” of the money are worth making the effort over.

Which writers virtually never are. If corporations feel that one is interchangeable, that the contribution you have to make is something that others can just as easily do, there is no consideration given for whatever you as the writer (or artist) have brought to the package. The publishers, the producers, operate on high from the insulated, impersonal arrogance that the shield of a corporation provides. Marvel Comics and the movie producers don’t have to give Marv Wolfman a share of Blade, and so they don’t. Archie Comics apparently feels it doesn’t have to provide Dan DeCarlo any sort of money because there’s no financial or contractual obligation to do so. Archie Comics apparently feels it doesn’t have to provide Dan DeCarlo any true recognition of his contribution. Why should it? After all, anyone my age can hum the theme of Josie and the Pussycats… most everyone knows who Sabrina is… most people under the age of twenty-five know who Melissa John Hart is. But do a man-in-the-street interview and ask those same people whom Dan DeCarlo is, and you’ll get blank stares or people guessing he used to star on The Munsters.

The worth of the individual in terms of name recognition means something. The corporate money monkeys, if that person might be able to continue to provide something that the Big Boss wants, also recognize the worth of the individual. But the intrinsic worth of the work itself, the worth of the person himself, these do not fall onto the corporate radar. Movie producers, publishers, have lawyers on retainer. Might as well let slip the dogs of war at any given opportunity. Better to go into court, better to try and smash and obliterate whatever middle aged or senior citizens dare to cross swords with the big guns, then to give a few percentage points off the top to those creative individuals who provided the material generating the money to pay those selfsame lawyers.

And to think that Archie Comics had the gall—the unmitigated gall—to complain when Melissa Joan Hart posed in lingerie and gave a candid interview with Maxim. They felt it to be obscene. They demanded that she apologize. They demanded it in every media venue that would listen to them, because their moral outrage had been so piqued by an adult woman posing in skimpy underwear for a magazine that is neither aimed at, nor purchased by, the target audience of Sabrina.

The thing is, in this day and age with corporate insensitivity, one becomes almost used to it. We live in a society accustomed to impersonalization. Even as the world shrinks, the distance between us grows, with everything from voice mail replacing secretaries who answer the phone, to chat rooms or chat boards that encourage barbaric social behavior instead of social niceties. You get used to it because you develop a thick skin. You have to.

But hypocrisy is something I never get used to, never develop a taste for, never stand for. Archie Comics believes that the Hart layout was obscene? Well, you know what? I think that not only refusing to give DeCarlo a share of his indisputable creations, but to fire him after more than four decades of service, is a far greater obscenity.

Publishers, movie studios… they don’t respond to what’s right, or what’s wrong, what’s fair, or what’s just. They respond to two things, and two things only: Convenience… and shame. Yes, shame. Corporations can, on occasion, be shamed into doing the right thing, or at least trying to. Steranko did it with Marvel. Siegel and Schuster and, more on the point, the media, did it with DC in regards to Superman.

It brings to mind the first four bars of the Josie theme. If you remember it and can carry a tune, it strikes me it would work for us to modify that theme to serenade:

Archie and the Lawyer Guys

Have hearts the size of flies,

As sweet as spinach pies.

Guys who made you laugh—

Watch ’em get the Archie shaft.

Hurry, hurry—

 

Come see Dan DeCarlo work for years

Giving it his blood and sweat and tears!

He created Josie

And Sabrina.

Didn’t matter to the boss;

They just gave Dan the toss.

Hurry, hurry—

 

Archie and the Lawyer Guys,

Cheapskates who take the prize.

Let’s cut ’em down to size—

Archie and the Lawyer Guyyyyyyys

 (Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. And considering his track record lately, Archie will have turned around and done right by DeCarlo by this point, and made the above rant completely moot. Which means David gets to look like a schmuck. But he’ll take that risk.)