Peter David's Blog, page 64

My Schedule for NY Comic Con

I will be there Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Most of the time, you can find me at my Artist Alley table, which will be B5 (please save the jokes.) I will be selling Crazy 8 novels, YOUNG JUSTICE and BEN 10 teleplays, novels of FABLE, BATTLESHIP, AFTER EARTH, and HOW TO WRITE FOR COMICS AND GRAPHIC NOVELS. When I’m not there, I’ll be here:

Friday, October 11

Panel–MARVEL: Amazing X-Men & The Marvel Universe

Time: 11am

Location: 1E

Signing, Marvel booth, 2 PM

Sunday, October 13

Panel–Marvel Unlimited Plus Member Event

Time: 11:00am

Location: 1A08

Signing, Marvel booth, 2 PM

I hope to see you there.

PAD

Summer Fun 1999

Originally published July 23, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1340

And now, as part of my ongoing self-delusion that you folks are interested in what’s going on in my personal life, I’m updating you as to what’s been going on in and out of casa David during the summer.

Shana, 18, has just graduated high school and is preparing to begin college in September to study vocal performance. Determined to display her own style through the end of the year, she sported gossamer fairy wings on the back of her prom dress. This gave her a Drew Barrymore Ever After look, although she went Cinderella one better by also carrying a wand with a star at the end so that she could spread prom happiness wherever she went. As for graduation, while other kids were content with complaining about the length of their gowns (to say nothing of the innate dorkiness of the traditional mortarboard), Shana chose to shorten her gown to mid-thigh length, trim it with faux leopard fur, and decorate her chapeau with little red gemstones (which certainly made it easy for her to locate after they all tossed their caps into the air).

Gwen, 14, no slouch in the unique department, attended her moving up ceremony (junior high to high school graduation) wearing her Gromit backpack (as in Wallace and Gromit). There’s something rather strange about watching one’s daughter marching down the aisle in the processional, and a round-eyed plush British dog sporting a raincoat is staring back at you. At present, she has a part-time job at a local bakery, which is in keeping with her life’s goal of being a baker. Although recently it’s been slightly modified; she now wants to open a bed-and-breakfast which would be renowned for its dazzling homemade baked goods. Sounds like a plan.

Ariel, 7, had no graduation or moving up this year, which, considering the logistics for all the ceremonies of her older sisters, was something of a relief. She is presently attending her beloved summer daycamp, and every so often Gwen and I will take her along to a rehearsal for Li’l Abner. Displaying the same frightening facility for memorization that prompted her—during rehearsals for 1776—to learn the whole opening monologue and much of the score of that show, including the entirety of the opening number “Sit Down, John,” Ariel is already capable of singing most of “Jubilation T. Cornpone.” When I was having trouble getting harmony down for one part of one song, Ariel got tired of hearing me sing the wrong notes and started correcting me.

I’m hardly attending any conventions this year, as opposed to two summers ago when I was so omnipresent that you couldn’t spit at a convention without hitting me (and Lord knows I found that out the hard way). All three girls live with me pretty much full time now, and I’m not inclined to just ditch them for weekends at a time. My priorities have shifted. After all, why should I go to conventions and have thousands of strangers telling me how much they like my work when I can be at home and have three children who love me saying, “Daaaad! You’re so embaaarassing! When I go off with my friends, do you have to stand at the door and shout, ‘Have fun stormin’ da castle!’?”

So, by and large, I try to stick with conventions that will bring all of us (including Kathleen) out. This becomes slightly problematic, since the number of conventions that are generous enough to provide transportation and hotel for myself and the entire brood are few and far between. So this year I’m at Dragon*Con in Atlanta, at Mad Media in Wisconsin, and Windy Con in Chicago, and that’s pretty much it. The kids like going to conventions. They like going around to dealers and saying, “Hi. We’re Peter David’s daughters. Can we get a discount?” It usually works, which is pretty impressive considering that I go around with my name badge that reads “Peter David” and with rare exceptions I wind up paying full price.

Still, it’s not as if I have nothing to do this summer. Li’l Abner opens at the Bayway Arts Center in East Islip, Long Island, the weekend of July 10 and runs through the rest of the month there, and then moves to Molloy College in August. I’m running a couple of our publicity stills here. Since they’re early shots, the costumes are purely temporary. One of the pictures, I’m posed with our Daisy Mae, played by the fetching Sarah Wilbourn (as in, back home she can generally get guys to fetch, roll over, beg—whatever she wants them to). In the other, I’m with Abner, portrayed by future opera star Daniel Cafiero, who has a tenor voice that can be heard halfway down the Southern State Parkway. Also take note of the brilliantly crafted prosthetic double chin I’m wearing to give me that Stubby Kaye appearance. Almost looks real, doesn’t it? Bet I had you fooled.

As for Kathleen, she is presently working her “day job” at Borders Books while continuing to make puppets. She also spent a week and a half in Italy, staying with her folks at a rented villa in Tuscany. Upon unpacking there she discovered that she had inadvertently brought along a puppet she’d made of South Park‘s Mr. Hat, so she decided to have him tour Italy with her. Here you can see Mr. Hat visiting an Etruscan Arch in Pisola, and also graciously positioning himself so that CBG can safely run a picture of a statue of Neptune from the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.

Hope your summer is going well.

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

 

The X-Men and Homosexuality

Originally published July 16, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1339

Did you know the X-Men were gay? At the very least, that they were a metaphor for homosexuality?

I’ll get back to that.

When the X-Men first showed up, I wasn’t buying the title. Then again, when most Marvels first started, I wasn’t aboard for the ride. My dad had banned Marvels to me at a young age, feeling that characters such as the Thing, the Hulk, and others were too ugly to be remotely considered heroic, and therefore were inappropriate for young Peter to be exposed to. Remember Aunt May complaining about Spider-Man’s hideous mask and ugliness? That was my dad (although, sadly, he never offered to bake me brownies or knit me a sweater).

So I missed the early, initial excitement of Marvel titles. By the time I caught up with X-Men, the book was already in its reprint stage. But both the early reprints, as well as when the series continued its numbering with more reprints, were so intriguing to me that the series rapidly leaped to the top of my must-read list, even though nothing “new” was going on with the characters.

Perhaps no series, other than the first six issues of Incredible Hulk, had as much of a feeling as “making it up as we go” as those early stories of the X-Men. Who can forget that immortal panel wherein Professor X—Professor X—is having sad, romantic thought balloons about Jean?

Stan and Jack must have realized pretty darned quick that a teacher rhapsodizing romantically about a student was simply not a good idea. Then there was Scott, who sported the most short-lived nickname on record: “Slim.” Or Hank McCoy, who traded in a standard Ben Grimm-esque speech pattern for a fairly unique and stupendously pretentious dialogue style rife with polysyllabic words.

What made the early X-Men work so well was the sheer humanity of the characters. As opposed to the frequent fractiousness that characterized the early FF or Avengers, it seemed as if the X-Men genuinely liked each other and wanted to be with one another. Whatever angst they experienced seemed to derive mostly from romantic feelings, requited or otherwise. And what made them the most unique was the bond that they shared: they had a mutual secret. They were outcasts among the rest of the world, and only in each other’s company could they find solace and peace.

The FF, after all, were not outcasts. They were considered glamorous; when the Human Torch streaked across the skies of Manhattan in that first issue, people didn’t run screaming. The Avengers had their big honkin’ mansion smack in the middle of New York City; folks weren’t picketing the Avengers, telling them to get out of town.

The X-Men, by contrast, were in hiding. One always had the feeling that if the general public knew there were mutants hiding out in Westchester, the school would have been under assault by John Q. Public. To say nothing of the fact that here was a teacher who was knowingly sending his young charges into dangerous situations against super-powered foes.

Bad enough that he was hung up romantically on one of his young female students, but he was putting them head-to-head with the most dangerous, monstrous mutants that the world had to offer. And he did so without the permission of, or knowledge of, any of the kids’ parents. What in God’s name would he have said to the folks, who thought that they were simply sending their children to a school for gifted youngsters? How would parents of MIT students feel if they knew that their tuition money was being spent on sending their kids, in costume, against the likes of Magneto? Call me crazy, but I don’t think they’d be too jazzed. Would you be?

I also liked that they had matching costumes in the old days. The number of teams who have matching uniforms in comics can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Actually, aside from the FF, I can’t think of anybody else off the top of my head. When Professor X gave them each their own ensembles to celebrate that they were each of them unique, it actually made them less unique because now they were just like every other team: separate outfits.

The thing is, in the early days, X-Men featured so many “realistic” elements (students, school, teacher, unrequited romance) that it was probably the most accessible book in Marvel’s stable. It felt real. It felt right. They were the ultimate clique: they hung out with kids of their own type and other cliques (i.e., homo sapiens) couldn’t stand them. Considering that the series, over the decades, “mutated” into one of Marvel’s most inaccessible titles—wherein you could pick up several issues at random and have absolutely no clue what was going on—that’s really somewhat ironic.

(And, while we’re on the subject, did it ever occur to them that if they hadn’t called themselves “homo superior,” regular folks might have been just a little less hostile? I mean, good lord, how snotty is “homo superior”? Why did they bother to call themselves “X-Men”? Why didn’t they just name themselves, “The Legion of Guys Who Are Better Than You”?)

And speaking of “homo” (how’s that for a snarky segue?)…

Imagine my surprise upon learning that, by some in the gay community, the plight of the X-Men and mutantkind is seen as a huge gay metaphor.

Did you know that? I mean, I sure didn’t. Then again, I’m frequently the last person to find out about stuff like this. I’m kept out of the loop, information passed along to me on a need-to-know basis. So I had zero clue. Heck, you probably knew.

My source for this is the gay newspaper The Blade, which stated that many readers equated mutation in X-Men with homosexuality. I’m not entirely sure why this would be. After all, within the Marvel universe, parents live in fear that their children might be mutants; mutants are subject to loathing, misunderstanding and disdain; the mutant characters come to a realization of their actual “persuasion” sometime around their early teens; mutants have been persecuted by religious zealots; and in many cases, mutants are forced to hide their true nature for fear of upsetting those around them who do not display similar tendencies. Gays, on the other hand, are…

Oh.

Well… okay. Maybe they’ve got something there.

I think it fairly safe to guess that creating a gay parable was not uppermost on Lee and Kirby’s minds when they first crafted the merry mutants. Indeed, what made X-Men successful (or at least, as successful as an eventually cancelled comic book could be) was the universality of it.

Anyone who had ever felt downtrodden, put upon and oppressed was able to relate to the X-Men. Me, I always thought of them as a metaphor for Jews.

Gee, perhaps that was why the series wasn’t a huge sales hit in its first incarnation. The majority of the comic buying public is probably white Anglo-Saxon protestants, and how much oppression do WASPs have to deal with? I mean, really?

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

 

Movie review: Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me

Originally published July 9, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1338

It’s depressing not being a target audience. It’s disconcerting feeling one’s age. And it’s particularly uncomfortable when one feels that way when lots of other people are around, as was the case when I saw Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me.

I went with Gwen, my fourteen-year-old, except I didn’t really. She actually went with several friends, and I was obliged to sit on the opposite side of the theater so that no one could remotely, possibly, think that by some incredible happenstance, she was with me. (This is as opposed to the times that she is at a convention with me, where she’s all-too-happy to bop around dealer’s rooms, bat her eyes at exhibitors, and say, “Hi, I’m Peter David’s daughter, can I get a discount?” Oh yeah, then she wants to associate me. Ah, well…)

With a film such as Shagged, it is imperative that one turn one’s mind off. Unfortunately, as eager as the assorted teenagers around me were to do so, I found I could not. Nor, as it turned out, could Gwen, nor could my eldest, Shana—at least, not completely. I suppose I should be proud. Instead I feel a bit sorry for them. Some of the things they, and I, tripped over throughout the film were:

(Warning: Spoilers for some aspects of Shagged. Right. As if a film that fans will see a hundred times is going to be harmed by discussion of story elements.)

1) How could Vanessa (Elizabeth Hurley) possibly have been a Fembot when she was clearly shown as having a mother the previous film? Was her mom a fembot, too?

2) The first film clearly established that Austin Powers (Mike Myers) was put into suspended animation until the year 1997. The sequel begins with a copyline that informs us we’re “later that night” in following up on Austin and Vanessa’s honeymoon. But Shagged is clearly established as being set in 1999. What happened to the intervening two years? That is one incredibly long honeymoon. “Oh behave!” indeed.

3) Mini-Me is ostensibly one eighth the size of Doctor Evil (also Myers). Mini-Me can be considered to be 32 inches (the height of the actor who plays him). Based on that, we have to conclude that Doctor Evil is around sixteen feet tall. Either that or, if we guess that Dr. Evil is no taller than six feet, that would mean that Mini-Me has to be about nine inches high, which he obviously is not.

4) If Austin, in best Dorothy of Oz style, didn’t really need his mojo to function as was claimed in the denouement—if, in short, it was all in his mind–then how could its theft thirty years previously have possibly affected him some thirty years later when he was in bed with Ivana Humpalot (3rd Rock‘s Kirsten Johnson, gone entirely too soon from the film)?

After all, if the need was purely psychological, he couldn’t have known that it was gone in the first place. For that matter, if it was indeed stolen in the late 60s, then it was gone by the time Austin thawed in the late 90s. Anything done to the Austin in the past must impact on the Austin of present day. That is to say, he should never have had his mojo at any point in the second film—or the first, for that matter.

And the most important question of all: Why would anyone in his right mind be concerned about such things when the film obviously isn’t?

I suppose the problem is that I felt as completely out of his proper time as Austin was. The things that I got the biggest kick out of went right past the kids seated near me. In fact, when I laughed out loud at them, they stared at me since they couldn’t quite grasp just what it was I found so amusing. In a way, I guess I should be upset. Austin Powers has made it impossible for any new viewers to take any of the early Bond films seriously. How could any kid just being introduced to Blofeld, for instance, possibly refrain from saying “Throw me a frickin’ bone here” when they see him stroking his cat.

Then again, how many kids are ever going to bother to seek the films out? Which is a shame, since it would make them better able to appreciate some of the absurdist angles that the film takes. It was depressing to be the only one laughing when Felicity emerged from the surf clad in a bathing suit identical to that worn by Ursula Andress in Dr. No.

Likewise, when Austin caught a reflection of an assassin in the eye of a dance partner, he used her as a human shield just as Bond did in Goldfinger—although in Bond’s case, she collapsed after a single bullet. For Austin, his makeshift buffer not only survived the first bullet, but withstood a full clip from a machine gun, a bazooka, and a fall of approximately twenty stories. Me, I thought that was funny as hell, because I had the original point of reference in my head.

What worked for the rest of the audience, on the other hand, didn’t remotely work for me. When Austin inadvertently drinks a stool sample (ruining forever the image of the “Got Milk?” ads, which might not be such a bad thing), it took the audience about five minutes to compose itself. I haven’t heard that much sustained laughter since Indiana Jones’ dad informed him the he knew Ilsa was a Nazi because “she talks in her sleep.” I just kind of sat there. I wasn’t grossed out by it, anymore than I was bothered by other gross-out points (such as the incredibly obese Scotsman) because I just felt kind of removed from it.

Oh my God, he’s drinking liquid crap! Well, no, it’s just some colored water or something.

Oh my God, Fat Bastard is so gross! Well, no, it’s a massive rubber suit with crumbs.

It didn’t prompt any reaction from me other than rolling my eyes.

Although, I do freely admit that I find Doctor Evil much more entertaining than Austin himself. It’s probably because Austin is a send up of a very specific type of particular Brit spy (which was self-parody even in its heyday), whereas Doctor Evil (Blofeld-origins aside) is iconic, a take-off on virtually every mastermind/evil scientist/super villain whose plans would succeed if he would just put a gun to the hero’s head and pull the trigger—as the increasingly contemptuous Scott Evil is quick to point out. If there’s a third film, Scott has GOT to get more screen time.

The thing is, there’s all this talk now about how gross comedies are becoming these days. I found myself wishing I could de-age myself somehow and figure out whether my inability to “appreciate” them came from the concept that I was the wrong age, or whether the films just weren’t funny. Then I realized that, in a way, I could. So I tossed on my laserdisc of Animal House, which I saw when I was—if not just the right age—a lot closer to it than I am now.

Geez, what a gross film. What an utter celebration of mindlessness and juvenile attitudes. What a debauched and tasteless waste of celluloid. What a great movie.

I mean, really—is there any more glorious moment in film history than John Belushi’s Bluto, confronted by the snobbiness of the rival fraternity members declaring him to be a pig, asking, “See if you can guess what I am now?” Whereupon he shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth, engorging his cheeks, then slams his fists into the sides of his face, discharging the milky white contents over the snobby onlookers. “I’m a zit? Get it?” he announces, whereupon the all-too-short food fight breaks out.

I came to the horrific and very depressing realization that if Animal House was first released today, I would very probably not enjoy it at all. For that matter, if the film were remade, they’d probably have to jack the grossness level way up in order to pull in the desired audience.

Perhaps that’s part of what’s so frustrating for many older comic fans. Books that come out now are judged using adult standards or criteria formed by exposure to increasingly sophisticated entertainment. Meantime, we can re-read books that we enjoyed in our youth, stories that, if they were first published now, we know in our heart of hearts that we would say, “How stupid. How juvenile. How tortured is the logic, how crude is the artwork, how absurd are the plot twists that come out of left field.”

Books such as Tom Strong endeavor to recapture the charm of such bygone days, and many fans don’t know how to react to such a book, viewing it as sinful or wrongheaded or just plain stupid to try and “roll the clock back,” as it were. It’s as if any effort to produce a “retro” comic is suspect, or insincere, or viewed as a cold-hearted, calculated ploy to play on the youthful recollections of fans. It’s almost as if there’s a self-loathing involved for many fans, wanting to experience the same reactions that comics gave us in our youth, but resenting any attempts to produce comics that do so, and knowing in our hearts that even the comics we really did like as kids wouldn’t pass muster anymore.

What is the answer, I wonder? Only one really comes to mind:

“Oh, behave!”

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

 

Darth Maul’s Lament, and some Wishful Thinking

Originally published July 2, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1337

Assorted observations and ramblings:

* * *

I love the advertising angle that TNT is using for Crusade.

They’re calling it a “Special Limited Series.” Well, yeah: limited in that TNT canceled it before it ever even made it onto the air.

Some folks think that TV series are ruled purely by the almighty Nielsen ratings, but such is not the case. Internecine politics can also kill a series just as dead as low ratings.

Quite simply, the wrong people at TNT decided they didn’t like the show and shut it down. It is amazing to me that executives in such positions don’t realize that their taste should not be the final arbiter of what people see and don’t see. The audiences should be given the opportunity to pass judgment and let that be what decides a series’ fate.

I can’t begin to count the number of times, when I was in sales at Marvel, that we were given a particular comic book or series to sell that simply wasn’t my cuppa. But I didn’t give any less effort to pushing that series than I did any other. Instead I did everything I could to make sure that the intended audience knew the book was out there and bought as many copies as possible. My personal feelings had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

So it bugs the hell out of me when executives become convinced that their opinion of a creative endeavor’s quality is remotely relevant. Their job should be to hire the best people possible, get out of their way, target the audience and push the series. Period. Not decide ahead of time, “This isn’t how I would do it” and then do everything to kill it based on that.

Wishful Thinking #1: Executives who dislike a series should not fight to kill it.

* * *

Once upon a time—thirty, forty years ago—a comic book would come out on the newsstands. And after a few months, it would be canceled because the numbers and support didn’t seem to be there. Six, seven issues, and then boom. Gone. Problem was, because of the slow and inefficient news stand system, a true picture of the series long-term potential didn’t come into view until nine months after each issue would come out (because they couldn’t make a final determination until they knew what the returns were going to be like). So half a year or more after the kill order had been made, and the series was moldering in its grave, the boys in circulation would get in the return numbers and discover that issues 2, 3, 4 and so on had a spectacular sell through. They could determine that the series was finding its audience and had the potential to be a major hit—except, whoops. All gone.

Now we have the direct sales market firmly in place, and we’re at the other extreme. Rather than being in the situation of decades ago when decisions suffered from too little information, we’re dealing with too much information. Retailers order gingerly on a first issue of a non-returnable book because no one wants to be stuck. But since the orders for the subsequent issues are made without any indicator of how the first issue is going to do, retailers automatically slice their orders. As a consequence, any new series that is a bit novel and quirky (such as the wonderful Vext) or that have a shaky track record in previous incarnations (Nova, which practically arrived DOA, cancelled as of issue seven with issue two barely having hit the stands) are simply not getting a fair shake.

At this point, orders beyond issue #1 are irrelevant. Let’s say a company’s “bottom line” is 35,000 copies. Anything below that is cancellation bait. If orders on issue #1 come in at 40,000, they might as well cancel it right then. Hell, they shouldn’t even bother to publish it, because by issue #3 or #4, the pattern of order-slicing will doom the series. Like Mr. Andrews explaining why the Titanic couldn’t survive with five compartments breached, it is a “mathematical certainty” that a sinking will occur.

As a consequence, the trigger is pulled on a series that might have been a hit. Anything new and different takes a while to build up an audience, but that time is no longer being given. (In television is a truism that a Cheers or Seinfeld hitting the airwaves now would not make it out of the first season, since both were slow starters.)

Faced with extremes of ordering procedures, perhaps it’s time a blend be developed. It may be that in an effort to try and nurture and protect new series, publishers are going to have to take some extreme steps to get retailers to order them. Retailers, by the same token, are going to want some protection so that they’re not stuck with extra copies. It’s up to the publishers to get behind their books and show some confidence in them.

Perhaps a concentrated and organized overshipping program might be in order, particularly for the first six or seven issues of a new series, with the overshipment being returnable. That way the books are out there and the retailers aren’t stuck with them. Let’s face it, if a retailer eats a book, he’s swallowing a book or so a book, depending upon the retail price and his discount. If a publisher swallows a book, there’s only the manufacturing cost lost, which remains relatively peanuts. For that matter, any returned and unsold books could be donated by publishers to any of the many reading programs throughout the country; potential tax deductions present themselves. Everybody wins.

It would help if executives decided that they liked a series for its long-term potential and fought to keep it alive instead of just letting mathematics crush anything different or interesting.

Wishful Thinking #2: Executives who like a series should fight to keep it.

* * *

Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace spoiler warning (yeah, sure, like you haven’t seen it.)

I summarized the climax of the above film to friends thus: “Darth Mauled Qui-Gon who became All-Gone, but in the end, Obi-Won.”

However, other folks on the net have come up with their own observations and takes on the subject. Jeff Morris was prompted to develop the following charming ditty:

 DARTH MAUL’S LAMENT

(sung to the tune of “Yesterday” by Lennon/McCartney)

 

Yesterday

Both my lower limbs were here to stay

Now it looks as though they’re far away

Oh, I believe in yesterday

 

Suddenly

I’m not half the man I used to be

There’s a Jedi standing over me

His lightsaber hit suddenly

 

Why he made that blow

I don’t know, he wouldn’t say

I killed Qui-Gon Jinn

Now I long for yesterday…

 

Yesterday

I could run and dance and walk and play

Now I need a cart to get away

Oh, I believe in yesterday…

Meantime, editor John Ordover at Pocket Books didn’t quite see the big deal about Darth Maul. “He shows up twice and loses both times. Wow.” Then again, John also had no patience for the Jedi Knights the moment that Qui-Gon calmly said that they had no intention of trying to free the slaves. His belief was that, dammit, by the time James T. Kirk left Tatooine, at the very least he’d have Anakin’s mother in tow. More likely, he would have managed to lead an entire slave revolt and they’d have been running the place, because a hero’s job is to challenge the status quo—particularly when faced with such a heinous one as slavery.

But, to me, the crowning comment came from Ben Varkentine, who observed, “How am I supposed to take Darth Maul seriously as a villain when I’ve already eaten his head as a fruit snack?”

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

 

 

L’il Abner and Political Correctness

Originally published June 25, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1336

When I was nine or ten years old, something like that, my dad—who was a reporter at the time—did a lot of reviews of local theater. Road companies and such like came through places in North Jersey, and if there was something that my father thought would be appropriate for me (and presumably if my mother wasn’t interested) then he’d bring me along.

Knowing how much I was into comics, it seemed a natural fit as far as my dad was concerned when the musical Li’l Abner rolled into town.

I have no recollection of who was in it at the time. I don’t even remember most of what I saw of the show that evening (most of my familiarity comes from the film version). But what I do remember is that on the ride home, my father kept singing the show’s big song, “Jubilation T. Cornpone,” a hymn sung by the denizens of hillbilly town Dogpatch, U.S.A., to the memory of the man who founded the town—a Confederate officer with a stupendously hideous track record whose battles had such names as “Cornpone’s Misjudgment,” “Cornpone’s Catastrophe,” and “Cornpone’s Humiliation.”

I’ve no clue why my dad thought this was one of the catchiest songs he’d ever heard, but all I know is that the whole ride back, he was singing it or humming it or drumming on the dashboard. We’d gone to any number of shows together and I’d never seen him get that into a song.

Not too long after, I got the record out of the library (quite the little spendthrift I was) and I memorized the song—and most other of the songs sung by the character of “Marryin’ Sam” (Stubby Kaye on Broadway and in the film; Kaye’s rendition of the part was one of those that tended to cast a long shadow and informed others who might essay it, much like—say—most anyone who does Tevye is echoing Zero Mostel to some degree). I found that, even at a young age, the songs were within my vocal range.

I wanted to play the part. I was sure I could handle it. It was the first time in my life that I’d ever seen a role on stage and said, “I want to do that.” Unfortunately, there wasn’t a tremendous amount of call for ten-year-old Marryin’ Sams. Furthermore, unlike apparently everyone else’s junior high or high school, no school I ever attended mounted a production of Li’l Abner. The closest I ever came was at a Heroes Convention in Charlotte where I did a spontaneous duet of “The Country’s in the Very Best of Hands” with George Perez, who has a community theater track record and played Abner some years back.

So a few months ago, I was out to dinner with some folks from the Bayway Arts Center (including one of the owners) in Long Island, where I was in a production of 1776. Understand, I’ve had no hobbies for as long as I can remember. There was family, work, the occasional movie—and that was it, that was my life. So lately I’d been dabbling in community theater, and this production of 1776 was a nice bit of wish fulfillment, even though my role was a fairly small one.

So there we were, out at dinner, and we were talking about parts we’d like to play. And I said, “My dream part is Marryin’ Sam. But nobody ever performs Li’l Abner anymore.” And the owner, Jerry, said, “Actually, we’re doing it during the summer.” My eyes lit up (it was really cool, except for the moths that were attracted). I kept a careful eye on Newsday‘s casting call notices and, when auditions came up for the show months later, I was there. I figured I didn’t have a shot, because I’d never played anything larger than a small supporting role in my life, and Sam is basically the second male lead. He’s got as many songs as Abner. But I had to try.

On Wednesday, I was called by the director and offered the role I’d wanted to play for over three decades. Not only that, but my 14-year-old daughter, Gwen, was cast in the ensemble as “Scarlett,” the Dogpatch gal to whom Sam actually sings “Cornpone.” Twenty years from now, I want her to be able to look back fondly on that summer of 1999 when she was in a show with her dad. It runs at Bayway Arts Center during July, and Malloy College Theater through August.

When I got the role, I went to my local, very well stocked comic book store and picked up a copy of the Li’l Abner trade edition, volume 18—the one in which Abner and the long-suffering, long-pursuing Daisy Mae “get hitched.” The sequence in the comics bears zero resemblance to the way it was done in the show, but it’s classic and brilliant Al Capp, back before the series devolved into the bile and bitterness that would come to characterize not only the strip, but its creator.

What I found interesting in reading the volume, however, was Capp’s “intro,” actually a reprint of an article he wrote for Life Magazine in 1952, in which he explains just why he decided to marry off his hero after Abner’s many successful dodgings of matrimony. The marriage was a major event in its day, as big—if not bigger—than the wedding of Clark and Lois. In the article, Capp explains why he decided to tie down his perennial bachelor after eighteen years of fruitless pursuit by Daisy Mae (and other assorted females). It’s rather astounding to read now, because Capp puts his finger on a problem which, at the time, had no name. Capp wrote, in part:

My kind of comic strip finds its fun wherever there is lunacy, and American life is rich in lunacy everywhere you look… For the first 14 years I reveled in the freedom to laugh at America. But now America has changed. The humorist feels the change more, perhaps, than anyone. Now there are things about America we can’t kid.

I realized it first when four years ago I created the Shmoo. It was a totally boneless and wildly affectionate little animal which, when broiled, came out steak, and, when fried, tasted like chicken. …Mainly the response to the Shmoo was delight. But there were also some disturbing letters. Some writers wanted to know what was the idea of kidding big business, by creating the Shmoo (which had become big business). Other writers wanted to know what was the idea of criticizing labor, by creating the Shmoo (which made labor unnecessary).

It was disturbing, but I didn’t let it bother me too much. Then a year later, I created the Kigmy, an animal that loved to be kicked around, thus making it unnecessary for people to kick each other around. This time a lot more letters came. Their tone was angrier, more suspicious. They asked the craziest questions, like: was I, in creating the Kigmy, trying to create pacifism and thus, secretly, nonresistance to Communism? Were the Kigmy kickers secretly the big bosses kicking the workers around? Were the Kigmy kickers secretly the labor unions kicking capital around? And finally, what in hell was the idea of creating the Kigmy anyhow, because it implied some criticism of some kinds of Americans and any criticism of anything American was (now) un-American. I was astounded to find it had become unpopular to laugh at any fellow Americans…

So that was when I decided to go back to fairy tales until the atmosphere is gone. That is the real reason why Li’l Abner married Daisy Mae. At least for the time being, I can’t create anymore Shmoos, any more Kigmies; and when Senator Phogbound turns up now, I have to explain carefully that, heavens-to-Betsy, goodness-no, he’s not typical; nobody like THAT ever holds public office.

Yes, that’s right: Al Capp was among the first to identify, react to, and feel stifled by something that we have only recent assigned a name to: political correctness. We seem to be under the impression that it is a relatively recent phenomenon, but apparently nothing could be more wrong. Capp pegged it as a problem more than four decades ago, and PC attitudes colored and shaped the futures of Li’l Abner, Daisy Mae, and the other denizens of Dogpatch. Granted, Capp was under no obligation to “give in,” as it were. Perhaps he should have stuck to his guns and not pursued a storyline that he felt was sufficiently PC to pass muster. Perhaps his waiting “until the atmosphere was gone” was one of the contributing factors that made him and his strip as relentlessly unpleasant as it eventually became.

Because not only did the atmosphere never go away, but it became worse and worse. On the one hand I always felt that Daisy and Abner belonged together, but on the other, I wonder what the strip would have been like if Capp hadn’t knuckled under to perceived pressure. What sort of stories would have been told, what characters created, if Capp had had his druthers. Obviously, we’ll never know.

Li’L Abner may set some sort of record as the earliest victim of the politically correct.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. C’mon by and see the show.)

 

Movie review: Trekkies

Originally published June 18, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1335

Would you like to go to your very own private screening of Trekkies?

It shouldn’t be all that difficult. All you had to do was go this past weekend, the very first weekend that The Phantom Menace was playing. Because while other studios did everything they could to clear any other film the hell out of the way of Star Wars‘ path, Paramount Pictures—boldly going where no intelligent distribution would go—released a documentary called Trekkies the exact same weekend. They did so with virtually no promotion at all, on an extremely limited number of screens, with a film whose target audience was off seeing possibly the most anticipated movie of the century.

The words, “What were they thinking?” come to mind. Some fans are claiming that Paramount released it in direct conflict with Star Wars for the express purpose of burying it. I’m not sure why they would feel the need to do that; if they wanted to not release it, they always have the option of, well, not releasing it. But if they were trying to make sure that they could put it out without anyone watching it, then they made exactly the right move.

Kathleen and I went to catch it this weekend, having already done our Star Wars duty. I know any number of people in Trek fandom, not to mention a few of the actors and writers, and I was curious to see who—if any—was in the final product.

The theater was deserted. Absolutely deserted. Star Wars, running with greater frequency than my father’s nose during a high pollen count, was packing ‘em in, and here was poor little Trekkies, with zero attendance. Well, zero plus two.

Watching the film in an otherwise deserted theater did give us some tremendous latitude. We could converse with each other during the film at normal voice levels since it was the equivalent of watching it at home on a reaaaaaally big screen. Occasionally we could talk back to the screen. And every time one particular individual came on the screen—a person who, while he was employed at Paramount, made the lives of every Trek author, including myself, a living hell—I would unleash a bloodcurdling scream.

When I informed my 14-year-old, Gwen, that we were going to see a film called Trekkies, she asked, “What’s it about?” If you must likewise ask, then, while I’m also letting you know who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb, I will inform you that Trekkies is a documentary exec-produced by Denise Crosby (who also serves as on-camera interviewer) exploring the world of Star Trek fans.

As is usually the case where anyone or anything from the media is involved, the focus is not on the relatively normal people who come to conventions to hang, socialize, get some autographs, but otherwise don’t let Star Trek overly intrude into their lives. You know, the sort of people who constitute the vast majority of fans. There are some normally dressed people, convention-goers, appearing on screen from time to time, but they’re mostly limited to fast cuts in which they either comment about Trek or tell whereabouts they’re from (although I believe I did spot retailer John Barrett briefly).

No, the film places most of its focus on the fans who put the “fan” in “fanatic” (a word derivation the film mentions right up front). Like the dentist who completely redid his office into Starfleet headquarters, and not only wears a Trek uniform but insists that everyone on his staff do likewise. (One woman only did so after a year of resisting. Appropriately, however, her resistance was futile. She was assimilated.) And I have to admit, I would have run screaming from the theater if we’d spent one more minute with the woman in Arkansas who got tossed from the Whitewater trial—not because she insisted on wearing a Trek uniform, as seems to be the perception—but because she disobeyed a judge’s direct instructions not to talk to the press about her unusual attire. She’s held up as an example of dedication to the Star Trek ideals.

Me, I’m thinking, Hey, lady: You’re wearing a fleet uniform. In Starfleet, you have a duty to obey orders. The judge was your CO. He issued a direct order. You then flagrantly disobeyed it. That’s adhering to ideals? Plus her claims that she wore the uniform to work every day turned out to be incorrect, since she’s shown at her place of business dressed normally, albeit with pins and accessories.

This is a documentary that, had it been made by the producers of The Daily Show, could have been the most unbelievably scathing commentary on fan mentality of all time. It would have made William Shatner (who is notable in his absence from most of the film, with only Patrick Stewart less visible) and the classic “Get a Life” sketch seem like an ode of joy to Trekdom in comparison. But Crosby walks a fine line. Maybe she’s trying to remain journalistically impartial. Or it may be that she simply doesn’t want to get the fans angry at her, and who could blame her? Personal appearances can be quite lucrative, and actresses can be making a very healthy living on the convention circuit at a point in their career when casting agents are tossing out their phone numbers. So she gives no real personal commentary or observations, nor does she ever look into the camera in a “Can you believe this stuff?” way.

There are points where you almost wish she would, because there were times during the unspooling of the film where I was just squirming in my seat. Did the people being interviewed know how they were coming across? Did they care? The happy Trek family where mom, dad and the two kids are shown all marching around in their uniforms—are the parents at all aware that when these kids become teenagers, they’re going to be shouting, “I hate Star Trek! I hate these stupid uniforms! I hate you! Why can’t we be normal?”

There’s one story recounted by a Trek convention organizer about a half-filled glass of water left on a podium at a convention by John (“Q”) de Lancie, who had been ailing with some sort of nasty bronchial infection. During an auction, the organizer jokingly held up the glass of water and offered it for bid. Before he knew it, it had been purchased for sixty bucks, and the lucky winner ran up to the front of the room, grabbed the glass, downed the remainder of the water that the infected actor had been drinking, and shouted, “I’ve got the Q virus!” Kiddo, wherever you are, you’ve got bigger problems than that, I can assure you.

But Trekkies tries to run the gamut. Just when you think that the film can’t creep you out any more than it already has, interviewees start to describe all the positive benefits that Trek has had on their lives. People whose careers were shaped by the original series, in professions ranging from aerospace to show business. (Whoopie Goldberg told Nichelle Nichols that it was watching Uhura on the original series that made her realize a black woman could grow up to be something other than a maid. Yeah, like a glorified telephone operator, which is what Uhura essentially was. But, hey, if that was what inspired Whoopie to her career, one can’t argue with results.)

There are points where you actually find yourself saying, “Awww, that’s nice.”

And then, of course, there’s the politely bemused reactions of the actors whose careers and lives have been sent off in some very odd directions thanks to Trek. Without question the best interview subject is Brent Spiner, who at one point is holding up a fan-rendered portrait depicting a very buff, very muscular and very nude Data and Tasha Yar going at it. With a straight face, Spiner tells interviewer Crosby, “What’s really amazing is that not only did the artist get my body exactly right, but, you know, your naked body is also perfectly depicted, right down to the—” Then he suddenly stops, looks into the camera in “chagrin” and says, “Are… are we still filming?”

Frankly, by the end of the film, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Fortunately the film makers take the decision out of your hands since, over the closing credits there is a series of comedians, each one uproariously talking about Star Trek. One of them makes the point that fans of sports teams think nothing of wearing team jerseys wherever they go, and that practice is really no different than Trek fans dressing up to feel a part of their own “team.” That’s true enough as far as it goes. But a guy wearing a baseball shirt with “Sosa” on the back obviously isn’t trying to be Sammy Sosa. A guy in full Klingon garb speaking a language that sounds like a blend of gargling, a Torah reading, and a bout of Turrets is clearly in a whole ‘nother realm.

Then again, I remember the convention I attended some years back when the hotel double booked us with the Shriners. There’s nothing like having a passel of senior citizens wearing fezzes and green or red blazers commenting on the oddly dressed weirdos in the hotel.

In the end, no conclusion is drawn other than that Trek has had a tremendous impact on a lot of people, and no one seems to have any real idea as to why that is. However, if fans were looking for a movie that was somehow going to “legitimize” them in the public eye, this film isn’t it. Hardcore fans will nod and smile and be pleased at the presentation, but anyone outside of that circle is going to be left shaking their heads.

Still, it’s not as if they’re alone. Because as noted, just outside the theater, people dressed like Darth Maul were wandering around, spinning their double-sided plastic lightsabers. Granted, they love Star Wars, just as Trek fans love Star Trek and Babylon 5 fans love B5. But to quote, of all people, Captain Kirk, “Too much of anything… even love… isn’t necessarily a good thing.”

And what’s really hilarious is that oftentimes fans of one can’t stand fans of the other. Endless debates of “Star Wars vs. Star Trek,” “Star Trek versus Babylon 5,” etc., rage on. Actually, what do you call fans of Star Wars and B5? “Warries?” “Fivers?” (They could outlaw Star Wars fans in Australia, proclaiming, “No Warries, mate.”)

Here’s an interesting question I toss out at you folks. A very informal survey, if you will, and I would like to hear back. Two questions:

1) Do you consider yourself a Trekkie, Warrie or Fiver, and why?

2) Which one of the three types of fans mentioned above would you least want to be stuck in an elevator with, and why?

Send your responses to “No Warries, Mate,” c/o Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

 

Movie review: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace

Originally published June 11, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1334

Peter’s Star Wars Journal

WEDNESDAY, MAY 12: I make a rare trip into Manhattan. There is a weekly get together of people in the science fiction writing community which has been held every Wednesday at the same restaurant for nearly a decade, if not longer. I decide to show up for once. Much discussion is made of various people being “on line.” I assume they’re discussing the Internet. It is only after some minutes that I realize they mean that the aforementioned folks were actually on line for Star Wars Episode I. There is much talk of the multiple-block-long queues that await anyone determined/foolish enough to try to score tickets.

I then spend the mid-afternoon at the audio division of Simon & Schuster, participating in the recording of background crowd noises for the audio release of a Trek novel, Vulcan’s Heart, along with writers Josepha Sherman and Susan Schwartz, editor John Ordover, and Alan Zimmerman, a friend of John’s who used to own a comic book store (and aren’t former comic store owners as rare as hen’s teeth, huh, kids?). Variously impersonating a Romulan and a Klingon, I pitch in with an assortment of efforts including derisive laughter, gasps of horror, shouts of “Let it be war!” and, my personal favorite, grunting “It is a good day to die!” in Klingon. By the end of it I’m getting so punchy that I start vamping a whole Klingon weather report. “It is a good today to die—and tomorrow is also looking like a good day to die, thanks to the incoming warm front. Now let’s look at the five day forecast. Yes, it appears in fact that the entire week will be a good week to die. Back to you, Roger.”

I return home at 6:15, tired of riding around, my throat raw, and Gwen and Kathleen are waiting for me. The moment I walk in the door, Gwen is on her feet. “Can we go get Star Wars tickets?” I am somewhat daunted by the prospect. I beg for a few minutes to get myself together, but it’s made pretty clear to me that the only acceptable answer is going to be to turn around and get in the car.

Gwen and I prepare for the lengthy wait sure to be ahead of us. I get some books, a bottle of water. She collects things to keep herself busy. Kathleen will remain home with Ariel and bids us adieu. I don’t expect to be back home for some hours.

We drive to the theater. It’s 6:30 p.m. Under normal circumstances at dinnertime on a Wednesday, there wouldn’t be much of a crowd, but these aren’t normal circumstances. I’m expecting the place to be mobbed and, as we approach the theater, I strain my eyes trying to spot the parking lot so I can see just how crowded the place is.

Parking lot’s empty, or nearly so. Crickets chirping.

I’m afraid to believe it could possibly be that easy. “Well, people probably just pulled up and dropped other people off,” I say. “It’s probably packed inside.”

We park the car and go in.

There is no line.

I don’t mean that the line is so short as to be insignificant or unworthy of comment. I mean there is no line. The ticket counter is devoid of ticket purchasers. The ticket sellers are standing there staring at vacant carpet.

“They’ve sold out!” says Gwen, but that doesn’t stop her from breaking into a dead run, as if afraid that a horde of customers are going to pour in from the other direction. Her fears are groundless. No one else materializes.

“Okay,” I say, “I’m going to need five tickets. What’s the first showing you have five tickets available for?”

“Well, there’s the midnight show on Wednesday. That’s the first showing.”

I blink like a blinded owl. “Excuse me? You have tickets available for the very first screening?”

“We have tickets for all of them,” she says. “None of them are sold out.”

I’m picturing block-long lines in Manhattan. “Let’s do it, then,” and quicker than you can say, “You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy” with a straight face, we have the tickets in hand. “I can’t believe there wasn’t a line,” I say. “Oh, there was,” says the ticket seller. “At 3 this afternoon, it was a madhouse. The line went all the way around the theater.” I’m trying not to cackle dementedly as I picture all those people waiting for tickets to shows that we just walked up and purchased.

We return home to the waiting Kathleen. She is stunned that we’re back so soon. “Well?” she asks. I adopt my most hangdog expression and say, “I’m sorry, I simply could not stand on the line. I couldn’t do it…” Once she’s totally snookered, I then shout, “Because there was no line!”

Sometimes I love living in the sticks.

FRIDAY, MAY 14: I’m in the supermarket and see the new issue of TV Guide. There are four different covers from Star Wars. I get the one with Liam Neeson cause Kathleen digs him. The one thing I can’t figure out is what possible relevance the new film has to television. Could it be that TV Guide is simply trying to cash in and turn a buck? Naaaahh.

SUNDAY, MAY 16: It turns out Shana has other plans for Tuesday night and will not be able to join Kathleen, her sisters and me. I suggest to Gwen that she invite a friend. “None of my friends like Star Wars,” she says. I tell her to call around. Gwen shows no interest in doing so. Ariel then asks if she can give the ticket to her gigantic, four-foot-tall plush Ewok. I say, “If Gwen doesn’t want the ticket, then sure you can.” Horrified by the prospect of possibly being seen seated next to a life-size Ewok, Gwen gets on the horn and finds a taker for the ticket, her friend, Cayley. Handy little creatures, those Ewoks.

TUESDAY, MAY 18: At Gwen’s request, I drop her and Cayley off several hours early to save places on line. There’s no one there, so they’re first on line. At 11:30, Kathleen, Ariel and I show up. Ariel is wearing the head dress which fits the full-sized Ewok, so it looks pretty convincing on her, and she’s toting her small-sized plush Ewok. I haven’t ever told her that most fans absolutely despise the little furballs. That some fans were advocating that—in the re-release of Return of the Jedi—they should digitally remove them.

The theater is about three-quarters full. Probably at this moment, every theater in Manhattan is packed to overflowing. Fans are reasonably rowdy, but not uncontrollably so. Lights come down. Trailers start. Tarzan is, inexplicably, booed. Austin Powers II gets an enthusiastic response, as does The Wild, Wild West. The 20th Century logo rolls. I’m glad that the studio’s involved; the opening fanfare just wouldn’t seem right without it. The Star Wars logo hits. Place goes wild. Several fans up front start swinging glowing plastic lightsabers, and an usher is right on them, using the Force to make them stop. The opening crawl starts rolling. I read it softly and quickly to Ariel. It’s a lengthy dissertation about taxes and embargoes. Ariel looks completely confused. I can’t blame her. I’m not entirely sure I’m following it, either. Pretty complicated stuff for a film that Lucas claims is aimed at 12-year-olds. I’m still fuzzy on why Naboo, of all places, is targeted to have an embargo. As opposed to the previous films where all the bad guys have British accents, this time around they seem to have Asian accents. That, combined with the Queen in Kabuki make-up, makes me feel like I’m watching The Seven Jedi Samurai.

Ariel is sound asleep fifteen minutes into the film. The film continues without her. Liam Neeson maintains his dignity, Natalie Portman is stiffer than her costumes, and Jake Lloyd—Mannequin Skywalker comments to the contrary—is the second-best thing in the film (the best thing being his mother, a nicely underwritten and quite well-acted character). I find that Jar-Jar Binks is not only the most annoying individual in all of Star Wars, he may be the most annoying character I’ve seen in a movie, ever. I haven’t wanted to see a character die this much since the guy who kept babbling about shrimp in Forrest Gump. The only Phantom Menace individual more insufferable than Jar-Jar is his boss, the one who talks like Brian Blessed and looks like Earl Sinclair from Dinosaurs.

Everyone keeps calling Anakin Skywalker “Anni,” which weirds me out. My eyes get tired; I’m getting too old for this stuff. I start fading in and out. Different movies start to run together in my mind. In my confusion, I’m envisioning young Obi-Wan Kenobi crawling down a toilet and swimming to an underwater city. I picture young Anni Skywalker with a red curly wig singing, “The suns’ll come out, tomorrow, bet your bottom credit that tomorrow… there’ll be suns.” I wake up and find that I’m watching the chariot race from Ben-Hur, except Judah Ben-Hur is ten years old, and Massala has a snout and weird ears.

Then I close my eyes to rest them, open them a moment later, and I’m in the middle of a big fight scene with robots and even more of the irritating Jar-Jar guys—the most distressing turn of events since one Ewok was joined in battle by several hundred—and I realize that I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. I’ve slept through the previous half hour, and I’ve completely lost the storyline. The final credits run. Ariel finally wakes up after sleeping through almost two hours of the film and announces she loved it. I have no idea whether I liked it or not because I’m still not entirely sure how the whole thing fits together.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 19: The family decides to see it again, during the day, since (a) Shana is now available to come along, and (b) Ariel and I have a much better shot at staying awake, having gotten sufficient sleep during the first viewing. It turns out to be a better film if you’re actually conscious. (Don’t laugh. There are some movies which only improve if you’re comatose.) At least I don’t have trouble following it this time.

So many people seem to want to have the same reaction to this one as they did to Star Wars twenty years ago. I find that I genuinely do. Twenty years ago, I thought. “Hunh. Great effects, but the dialogue is stilted, the actors are having trouble making it come to life, and the direction is kind of leaden. I liked American Graffiti better.” So now I’m watching Episode I, and I’m thinking the exact same thing.

Then again, it comes down to honing one’s abilities. Lucas has spent twenty years perfecting the craft of special effects, and on that score, the film is unassailable. But the rest of the stuff has been left to whither. His scripting, for instance, is still of the same caliber as it was two decades ago, back in the days when Harrison Ford threatened to tie Lucas to a chair and make him read his own dialogue out loud.

However, the good news—in retrospect—is that the flat characterizations of A New Hope became lots more fun under the scripting and directorial guidance of folks other than Lucas once Empire Strikes Back showed up, and I can only hope that Lucas will have the good sense to do that again. I start making mental guesses as to what the second and/or third films will contain. I list them here for you with no concern about spoilers since they give nothing away about Episode I, and they are pure speculation based on no inside information whatsoever. In fact, since I’ve read very few of the novels and manuals, for all I know some of this is already “established.”

1) Anakin’s mother is killed, Anakin blames Obi-Wan Kenobi for it for some reason, and that is the catalyst for sending him towards the Dark Side.

2) Anakin’s little black-haired friend grows up to be Boba Fett.

3) The limitations of the battle droids prompts the development of cheap cloning techniques designed to create almost limitless soldiers. These clone warriors are not only the basis for the stormtroopers of the other films, but for the Clone Wars alluded to in A New Hope.

4) At some point, a group of defenders will have to blow up a large space-going thing in order to defeat the bad guys.

Speaking of A New Hope, a local station that evening is wisely running the original film (the updated version). I’m watching Luke go up against the Death Star. The phone rings. The Force seems strong within the phone. I answer it. I was right: it’s Mark Hamill, calling to chat about something. It’s a surreal experience, talking with him on the phone while I watch him blow up the Death Star. A pity: If only Vader hadn’t been so damned tall, they could cast Hamill to play Anakin in Episode III. Although now that I think about it, who knows how much of Vader was biological as opposed to mechanical? Kenobi said he’s more machine than man. So maybe the only human bits left of him are his head and machine-aided circulatory system. Which means he could have been any height before he was remade as Vader. Oh, Mr. Lucas, sir…

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

 

Dennis the Phantom Menace

Originally published June 4, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1333

Now it can be revealed.

In an exclusive But I Digress scoop, we have learned the true origins of Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace.

Despite whatever the Lucasfilm party line may be now, the truth appears to be this: George Lucas originally had no intention of continuing the story with live action films. Instead, due to the wide-spread popularity of the classic animation in the now-legendary Star Wars Christmas Special—to say nothing of the widely acclaimed, sumptuously and fluidly rendered Star Trek: The Animated Series—George Lucas had originally planned to continue the saga via the Saturday morning cartoon route. Such series as Droids and Ewoks were merely the testing grounds for his greatest, most ambitious project.

Intended to put a new, fresh slant on the Star Wars universe, Lucas, in conjunction with King Features Studios, developed the aborted series entitled:

Star Wars: Dennis the Phantom Menace

Alarmed that the Star Wars series had so many adult fans (Lucas recently stated that the target audience for the films is 12-year-olds), Lucasfilm joined creative forces with Hank Ketcham’s rascally scamp and transported Dennis and his supporting cast to a far away galaxy, there to chronicle his lively adventures as the galaxy’s most powerful and annoying Jedi. Dissatisfied with the initial sketches, however, the legendarily perfectionist Lucas sought out comic art great Richard Howell, who provided a number of sample character drawings. Lucas was quite happy with them, but subsequent negotiations with King Features fell apart over licensing disputes and the project died—only to be revived, live action and sans Dennis, when the reissue of the initial films proved so popular.

Howell has graciously provided BID with these long lost sketches, a fascinating insight into a Star Wars TV series—and, for that matter, t-shirt and action figure—that you’ll never see.

May the farce be with you.

 

 

 

Roots of Evil

Originally published May 28, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1332

And so it starts.

Actually, its beginnings go all the way to the beginning. There was Adam in the Garden of Eden, and he had nothing in particular to do. So God gave him what could be considered busy work: name stuff.

As was mentioned in the recent issue of Aria, naming is powerful magic, for to name something is to define it, and to define it is to control it. There is one overwhelming impulse hardwired into mankind’s mainframe: Survival. From survival stems the sex drive, necessary for man to survive as a species. That’s why it feels so good; to make it an attractive pastime in order to heighten the likelihood of perpetuating mankind. It’s sure not because it’s the most dignified looking thing a person can engage in to kill an hour or three. Or a minute or three. From survival stems the Second Amendment, and the defiant NRA war-cry about getting their guns when they are pried from their cold, dead fingers (to which the obvious response seems to be, “Sounds like a plan”). And, on a fairly global scale, from survival stems the need to control the environment in which man lives.

This one has remained the most elusive. Titanic commanded the seas, up until the time that the seas said otherwise. Californians can earthquake-proof their buildings all they want; if a crevice opens up under one, I’m sure that all those books and tsatskes neatly secured onto shelves will stay all nice and neat while the building itself topples. Tornados come sweeping in to remind us just how easily the finger of nature can wipe away whatever we’ve put up. Oh, sure, we’re tough guys when it comes to whacking down the Amazon rainforest. We can slice through acres of that in a day, no problem. Of course, when the oxygen then goes away, nature once again has the last laugh.

But another way we try to control our environment is to have it make sense. From that urge come conspiracy theories about JFK’s assassination, which were nicely skewered in the recent brilliant book by The Onion, Our Dumb Century, in which a headline for the November 22, 1963 edition of The Onion blares, “Kennedy Slain by CIA, Mafia, Castro, LBJ, Teamsters, Freemasons,” with a subheading reading, “President Shot 129 Times from 43 Different Angles.”

From that urge to make sense of the world, some would contend, comes all forms of religion.

And now we endeavor to make sense of the tragedy in Colorado. It couldn’t be something as simple as that some people are just evil and do evil things. That they do not consider human life sacred. That there’s something wrong with them. The perpetrators are not at fault, no, no. It was society. Society drove them to their brutal act.

My father bought a blue Buick a bunch of years back. My dad, he generally likes Buicks. Most Buicks have run well for him, so he’s stuck with the brand.

So he bought this blue Buick, and man, was this thing a lemon from the get-go. It was constantly in the shop. One thing went wrong with it, something else went wrong with it, and so on. And as soon as it went past the warranty period, it really went to hell in a handbasket.

The term for what my dad did is “throw good money after bad,” because he kept sinking bucks into the stupid Buick, convinced that as soon as this one-more-thing was fixed, the car would run fine. He didn’t know, apparently, that the vehicle had actually been spit up from the bowels of hell for the single and sole purpose of driving him nuts. Which is what it did until he got rid of it, finally and mercifully.

Everyone can accept that sometimes there are particular cars which are lemons. Which are just defects. And cars are remarkably simple machines when compared to the machine that is the human beings. Furthermore, the more complex a machine is, the more ways there are for the machine to break down, malfunction. The brake suddenly goes on the Buick while you’re driving, and suddenly that device is an engine of death, for the driver and whoever’s in its way. So when the morality brake goes on a human being—same thing applies. The thing is, society didn’t make the brake go on the car. It simply wore out, or perhaps was never installed properly to begin with. Same deal with humans.

But no, the media must discover what it was that brought about the tragedy, what facilitated the slaughter of innocents by evil people. And naturally the news media finds fault in—the entertainment media. Not that the news media itself could be at fault, oh no. The compelling and horrifying images shown on the news—a bloodied boy tottering out of a window, sobbing parents, and so forth—these pictures shown over and over again on CNN and morning news and evening news and newsbreaks—these couldn’t possibly prompt some budding sociopath to say, “Wow, great idea. I want to make people suffer, too. I want my picture on national TV. And look! All these experts are saying that even if I go in and blow away half the school, I’m not really at fault! It’s society! Where’s my gun?”

No, we must protect our children from the horrors of entertainment. Doom. They play Doom. That must be it. Sure, hundreds of thousands of kids play the same game and don’t go around icing the homecoming queen. Sure, it could even be considered that such games provide a harmless outlet for pent-up hostilities, channeling them into assault on electronic monsters rather than flesh-and-blood people. And before Doom, it was Dungeons & Dragons that was destroying children’s sense of reality and right and wrong.

An article that ran in the Washington Post, breathlessly entitled, “When Death Imitates Art,” knew right where to point the blame. The journalists wrote, among other observations:

“This slide to the shocking takes many forms. You can see it in pro wrestling, whose televised stompfests bring a ratings bonanza. You can see it in cartoons like South Park and Futurama, in which Tuesday night’s episode featured a planet run by robots whose goal is to kill all humans. And in Family Guy, a cartoon featuring an infant neo-Nazi character who keeps bumping people off.”

As if the idolizing of wrestlers is anything new. Quick, kids: Add Gorgeous George to the list of people responsible for bringing about JFK’s death. Lee Harvey Oswald wasn’t at fault; it was society’s worship of the long-haired wrestler that corrupted his sense of right and wrong.

South Park? An absurdist send-up, a Charlie Brown special on acid, was responsible for kids dying? I might give it some fragment of credence if only kids named Kenny had been targeted.

Futurama? The episode cited ends with the race of robots realizing that humans aren’t so bad at all. It was, in fact, an episode preaching for tolerance and against prejudice.

Family Guy? Stewie of Family Guy? A character capable of inventing world-conquering machines and yet finds himself helpless before the seductive cooing of the Teletubbies? My eldest, Shana, thinks Stewie is hilarious. I don’t for a moment think that it means Shana is now a menace to the life and limb of her fellow students.

But the article gets even better:

“Dark themes pervade the comic book industry, too. The trend started in 1986, according to some industry experts, with Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and Watchman (sic.) In one, Batman ruthlessly kills off bad guys to clean up the city. The other is a murder mystery in which someone keeps snuffing out super-heroes who are discovered to be flawed characters.”

Ahhh… so now it’s the fault of comic books.

Never mind that the examples are utterly specious. Never mind that in Dark Knight Returns, Batman makes a point of using rubber bullets to cut down hordes of criminals in order to preserve their lives. Never mind that Watchmen (they couldn’t even get the name right), a complex and award-winning piece that defies any easy categorization, is a murder mystery in about the same way that Hamlet is a murder mystery (although I still take issue with several aspects of the story’s conclusion, but that’s neither here nor there). Comic books are what’s causing kids to flip out. Just like Catcher in the Rye was the cause of John Lennon’s death.

What the media pundits still don’t get is that just because evil people are attracted to certain comic books or TV shows, that doesn’t make the comics and the TV shows inherently evil. I mean, why don’t psychopaths influenced by Dark Knight Returns use rubber bullets? Why don’t readers of Watchmen imitate Night Owl or Silk Spectre and go out and try to stop crimes or rescue people from burning buildings? Why do pundits feel the need not only to hold up “negative influences” as being the only type that can possibly delineate human behavior, but also feel compelled to make stuff up when it isn’t there in the first place?

In the meantime, Chuck Heston hits the lecture circuit and warns against any infringement upon the Second Amendment. Restrictions, says he, are inherently bad because the next thing you know, “There’s no guns at all,” quoth he. Wow. Now there’s a threat to conjure with.

By all means, put an end to violence on television but keep the guns. Do away with the fictional murders but fight to maintain the means for performing the real ones. No one’s ever used a Magnavox to turn a student body into a pile of student bodies, no one’s ever used a copy of Watchmen to blow someone’s head off, but hey, one has to have priorities.

“Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.” Bull. People with guns kill people. Can’t rid of the people, so therefore…

Guess it all goes back to defining a problem, looking for answers, trying to make sense of it all, looking for a convenient scapegoat. Stewie the evil baby caused the deaths in Colorado, not the guns.

In an insane world, perhaps that’s the most consistent answer yet.

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