Peter David's Blog, page 66

“Shoeicide”

Originally published March 26, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1323

I dunno why, but I felt like sharing this short one-act that I wrote some time back. I’ve dabbled now and again with producing something for the stage. That’d be fun, I think. Movies worship directors, television is enamored of the actors, but only in legit theater does the writer truly rule. In any event, the following is a little piece I call:

Shoeicide

We open with an empty stage. Then, slowly, Felice enters. She looks as if she’s lost her last friend in the world. She’s wearing a nice sweater, jeans, and very nice shoes. She’s scribbling something on a note. She finishes writing the note, then puts it down on the middle of the stage. She exits.

Moments later she comes back in carrying a chair and a thick rope tied into a hangman’s noose. She places the chair in the middle of the stage by the note. She places one foot on the chair, testing its strength.

As she’s testing it, Linda enters. Linda stands there, simply watching, hands draped behind her back, as Felice puts one foot on the chair, lowers it, puts the other foot on the chair. Then Felice tentatively climbs up on the chair—and then stops, noticing Linda for the first time. They stare at each other. Linda waggles her fingers at Felice. Felice rolls her eyes.

Felice: Do you mind?

Linda shrugs, exits. Felice steps down from the chair, picks up the rope. She pulls on it to test its strength, nods approvingly, then steps back up onto the chair.

Linda enters again, as Felice is looking down, measuring the distance from herself to the ground. Linda is carrying a bag of popcorn. She sits down, as Felice experimentally puts her face through the noose (but without draping it around her neck), and starts eating the popcorn as if she were at a movie. Slowly, Felice becomes aware of Linda’s presence and stares at her incredulously. Linda looks at Felice, looks down at her popcorn, and then extends the bag up, offering her some. Felice makes no move other than to stare at Linda as if she’s just landed from Mars.

Linda: (thinking to assuage her concerns) Don’t worry. It’s low-fat.

Felice: (incredulous) Low fat.

Linda: Yeah, low-fat. I saw this thing on the news where regular movie popcorn is, like, three million calories or something. So I get this stuff, instead. It’s low-fat popcorn. (looks down at it) Either that or it’s Styrofoam packing chips. Haven’t made up my mind yet.

Felice: (dazed) Low… fat.

Linda: Y’know, when you say it like that, it sounds like a bad guy from one of those cheesy Kung Fu movies. (she speaks in a deep, “Asian” voice) You have killed my karate teacher, Low Fat, and for that you must pay. (and her lips continue to move silently for a couple of seconds, as if she were badly dubbed)

Felice: Are you completely nuts?

Linda: That’s a weird question, considering the source.

Felice steps down and stands there, face to face with her.

Felice: Who are you?

Linda: I’m Linda. Who are you?

Felice: Felice. Now, would you get out of here please, so I could have a little freakin’ privacy?

Linda: Okay, sure. Fine.

She gets up, starts to leave, as Felice gives a sigh of relief. Felice steps back up onto the chair. Linda turns.

Linda: You really shouldn’t do that, you know.

Felice: Uh huh. Right. I’ve heard it all before. Live for tomorrow. The world’s going to get better. We love you, we care about you. Don’t do anything stupid. Well, y’know what, it’s all crud. All of it! The world sucks, and, if I want out of it, then that’s my choice, understand?

Linda: Oh, yeah. Completely. I just meant that you really shouldn’t step on that chair with your shoes. It’s leaving footprints all over.

They stare at each other. Then Felice steps down from the chair and removes her shoes.

Felice: Okay?

Linda: Fine. Just trying to be considerate.

Felice starts to climb back on the chair.

Linda: Can I ask you something?

Felice: What?

Linda: I mean, it’s kind of personal, and I figure I should only ask if, y’know, you’re really certain you’re going to do this—

Felice: I am.

Linda: And there’s no chance of you changing your mind—because this is really tough to ask?

Felice: What is it?

Linda: (beat) Can I have your shoes?

Felice: You want my shoes?

Linda: Yeah.

Felice: No!

Linda: Why not? It’s not like you’re gonna need ’em.

Felice: These shoes cost a fortune! Do you have any idea how long I had to save up for these? I had to work my butt off babysitting for, like, ever! These are my best shoes!

Linda: You can’t take it with you.

Felice: The hell I can’t. I wanna be buried in this outfit. It’s my best stuff.

Linda: I can believe it. Where’d you get the sweater?

Felice: Eddie Bauer.

Linda: Get out! Really?

Felice: Yup.

Linda: It’s really nice. (beat) It’d go great with the shoes.

Felice: I’m not giving you my shoes, my sweater, my pants, my socks, or my underwear! Jesus! Why don’t you just ask for the gold fillings out of my teeth?

Linda: (beat) Which teeth?

Felice steps down from the chair again.

Felice: What are you—some sort of ghoul? Some sort of—of depraved lunatic who finds teenage girls in trouble and picks over the bones of their rotting carcass to see what kind of goodies she might be able to find for herself?

Linda: I just don’t like to waste things.

Felice: Well, neither do I.

Linda: You’re wasting yourself.

Felice stares at her.

Felice: Ha. Bloody. Ha. (beat) I can’t believe this. All I wanted was a little privacy. Was that too much to ask?

Linda: I dunno. Why are you—y’know—

She mimes a noose choking around her neck.

Felice: Because nobody gives a damn about me.

Linda: So you’re doing it to be noticed.

Felice: Well, kinda, yeah.

Linda: Then why did you want privacy? Seems kind of stupid, if you ask me.

Felice: I didn’t ask you! I don’t know you! I don’t even like you!

Linda: I don’t blame you. I don’t like me, either. That’s why I tried to kill myself.

Felice: You?

Linda: Yeah. Buncha times. Here, look.

She holds up her wrists. Felice steps down to look at them.

Linda: See? One day I was kinda freaking out, because my boyfriend had left me for another guy? So I grabbed the closest sharp object and did this.

Felice: You got, like, a hundred little scars there. What did you use?

Linda: Toenail clippers.

Felice: You tried to clip yourself to death?

Linda shows a scar just under her ear.

Linda: When that didn’t work, I tried shoving my head into my mom’s blender and setting it to “puree.” That’s where I got this.

Felice: You are pathetic. I mean, you are really pathetic. I have met some unbelievably pathetic people in my time, but you—you look up “pathetic” in the dictionary, your picture is there. You didn’t really try to kill yourself. This is just—just stupid.

Felice plops down on the chair, shaking her head. Linda looks down at the note, indicates it with interest. Felice gestures that, yet, she can pick it up. Linda does so, starts to read it. Slowly, she nods.

Linda: I see. Yes—definitely—I see.

Felice: Well, hallelujah. I figured you’d read that over and give me more grief or ask if you could take something else off my not-yet-dead body or tell me I’m stupid. That it’s ridiculous for me to write things like that everyone dies, so I might as well just get it over with.

She goes to the chair and, as she speaks, steps up onto it, puts her head through the noose, adjusts it.

Felice: I thought you’d tell me that, if I just stick around, I’ll look back on all this in 10 years and be thankful that I didn’t go through with it. That this deep black pit all around me is just normal teenage angst and that I’m not alone. That everyone’s gone through this at some time or another, and if I just give the world a chance, I can find a place in it for me. That I’m just wallowing in self-pity, not considering the feelings of others, and—in short—being selfish and fatalistic in a world that needs more hope than ever before. (beat, then softer, reflecting on it) But, instead, you read that over, and you understand me. Thanks. I mean that. Thanks for reading it over and simply saying, “Definitely—I see.”

She closes her eyes, prepared to step off.

Linda: Oh yes, definitely I-C-I-D-E. Not I-S.

Felice opens her eyes.

Felice: What?

Linda: You spelled “suicide” S-U-I-S-I-D-E, and it’s definitely I-C, not I-S.

Felice: (she pauses a moment, then explodes) It’s a hand-written suicide note that I scribbled from the depths of my despair, for Chrissakes! Whaddaya want me to do, run it through Spellcheck?

Linda: Grammarcheck might not be a bad idea, either.

Felice: (fighting to remain calm) Okay, Professor—What do you think of the note, other than grammar and spelling?

Linda: Oh. It’s bull.

She picks up the popcorn, sits down and starts eating it again.

Felice: I rip my heart out and spill it all over the paper, and you say it’s bull.

Linda: (isn’t it self-evident?) Well—yeah.

Felice: I hate you.

Linda: More than you hate yourself?

Felice: Much more than I hate myself.

Linda: You gonna kill me?

Felice: No.

Linda: That, of course, raises the question—

They stare at each other. Then Felice draws the end of the rope high over her head.

Linda: You’re not gonna kill yourself.

Felice: Yes, I am.

Linda: No, you’re not. Not that way.

Felice: Here I go!

Linda: You’ll never do it.

Felice: Why do you keep saying that? Because you think I’m scared? Because you’re trying to goad me?

Linda: No, because you’re just holding the end of the rope in your right hand. It’s not attached to anything.

Felice stands there, staring out at the audience. Holding the rope taut, she jumps off the chair. She lands on the stage. Nothing, of course, happens. Linda patiently eats popcorn. Felice knows that Linda is watching and half-heartedly tries to mime choking while standing on her toes. Her head slumps over. Linda continues to eat the popcorn. Felice sways slightly from side to side, making little “creaking” noises desperately trying to maintain the illusion. Linda says nothing. Finally, giving up, Felice releases the rope, stands there, and sighs.

Felice: It was supposed to be symbolic. You were supposed to imagine it was attached to something.

Linda: I’m only good at imagining ways to live, not ways to die.

Felice: You’re lucky.

Linda: Felice—when you think about genetics, and people getting together at just the right time and everything—the odds against any of us being here are astronomical. We’re all lucky. You. Me. All of us. You just have to see it, that’s all.

Felice pulls the noose from around her neck, tosses the rope to the ground. She slips into her shoes.

Felice: So who’re you, really? My guardian angel?

Linda: Me? No. Just a life-loving, wandering teenaged smart aleck.

Felice: You’re good.

Linda: You’re not so bad yourself.

And Felice actually grins, shakes her head. She takes a handful of popcorn, chews it—and looks like she’s going to gag. She exits quickly, leaving Linda behind.

Linda picks up the rope, pulls on it experimentally. It’s pretty strong. As she exits after Felice, she calls—

Linda: Can I have your rope?

~

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

 

 

A Look at Lois Lane

Originally published March 19, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1322

Okay… I admit it. I was a bit hung up on Lois Lane when I was a kid.

When one judges the Lois Lane from the comics of the time, one would be hard pressed to figure out why in God’s name anyone would find her vaguely interesting as a “person,” much less a fictional character. She was apparently rather shallow, concerned only with trying to prove her theory that Clark Kent was, in reality, Superman, due to her oft-stated observation that no one “had ever seen them together.” Curiously, Lois’ suspicions never fell upon any of the other millions of people in Metropolis and/or the rest of the United States who’d never been seen with the Man of Steel either. Certainly that process of elimination could have been a full time job for her all on its own.

The fact is that, overall, Lois seemed shallower than the average bassinet.

But I liked her. I liked her so much that I even regularly bought her title. You have to understand what a concession this was for a boy to make. I never would have touched, for instance, a Nancy Drew novel. Nor would I have gotten within eyeball distance of Betty and Veronica. Those were giiiirls titles. Likewise Lois Lane should have been verboten to me. But I never considered avoiding the title. Certainly there was the boy-safe connection to Superman, but it was more than that.

My main inclination is to credit to Kurt Schaffenberger. The simple fact is that the only artist who was Schaffenberger’s equal at drawing women who were easy on the eyes was probably John Romita (pre-senior).

Schaffenberger’s Lois was soft, feminine, and attractive. When she smiled she seemed to light up the page. She was attractive, but not in the comic book over-the-top super-woman manner. She seemed—well—real somehow. Perhaps, to some degree, I also admired her intrepidness. No matter how many times she came up empty in her search to prove the Clark/Superman connection, she kept coming back for more. She was probably the pre-eminent underdog in comics, because the odds were stacked so thoroughly against her, and we Americans do tend to side with the underdog (something that the GOP had driven home to them during the entire Clinton impeachment.)

No matter what she did, no matter how clever she was, Superman was cleverer still. Sometimes he was even insufferably smug about it, laughing it up with Batman about how they had managed to once again foil Lois’ latest scheme to prove Superman’s secret ID. Neither of them seemed impressed with the fact that it had taken the combined efforts of the world’s mightiest man and the world’s greatest detective (not to mention, on occasion, Supergirl, Superman robots and/or the entire bottled city of Kandor. Boy, with a name like Kandor, you’d think they’d be interested only in truth and honesty) to thwart the plans of one woman reporter who had nothing to rely upon except her own ingenuity and wits. That she repeatedly came so close to uncovering Superman’s secret should have been cause for being impressed, not derision.

Indeed, the Superman/Clark/Lois triangle remains one of the most perverse of that era, when you get right down to it. Here you had Superman, a.k.a. Clark Kent. He would endeavor to woo Lois in his persona as Clark, because he felt that Clark was his “normal”, i.e. “true,” self, and if Lois fell in love with him as Clark, then her love was true and genuine. Whereas if Lois remained attracted only to Superman, then obviously she was only attracted to the glamor and powers of the Man of Steel. But, y’know, you can’t really blame Lois if that’s where her attractions lay. Put aside the glamor for the moment. Isn’t it possible that Lois was simply attracted to the more honest incarnation of Kal-El? His powers and abilities, far beyond those of mortal men, were a part of him. He was tossing around tractors from the days when he was still Superbaby, displaying a lack of understanding for personal pronouns that was shared only by Bizarro-Superman and possibly the Incredible Hulk. And because of those powers, he dedicated his life to helping those who were not as physically capable as he (which is to say, pretty much everybody.) His superpowers weren’t like a huge goiter or some other appendage that just happened to be there; they informed and shaped every decision he made in regards to how his life was going to go.

The fact is that, although he had “been” Clark Kent for as long as he could remember, the persona of Clark Kent was carefully manufactured through years of practice. Clark was, in reality, neither meek nor mild. He could bench press the entire planet and kick the butt of most anybody on it. And he was so utterly confident in his masculinity that he could wear tights and red undershorts on the outside. It wasn’t like, for instance, Barry Allen, who probably would have been perpetually late for dates with Iris whether he’d become the Flash or not. In Clark’s case, the attitudes and behavior that he developed for his alter ego of Clark were deliberately chosen in order to draw attention away from his double-life as Superman. They were carefully selected and manufactured.

Ostensibly he became a reporter so that he could become immediately aware of any emergency that required his attention and help. But that’s nonsensical. We’re talking about Superman here. The guy could have walked into the Oval Office or Pentagon, said, “Okay, here’s what I need,” and within hours he would have been set up with an office with a complete staff and monitors to inform him of where and how he was needed throughout the world. As a matter of practicality and managing his Superman ID, his Clark Kent identity was completely unnecessary excess baggage (a realization currently being explored, some thirty years after I first started reading about the character.)

No, the truth is that in those halcyon days, he maintained his identity as the mild-mannered Kent for one reason and one reason only: To have social intercourse with mere mortals without the 800-pound gorilla of Superman hanging around his neck. One wonders why since, perversely, he had pretty much all the same friends whether he was wearing the glasses or the blue suit. (I’m talking “civilian” friends. Indeed, it could be argued that Lois, Jimmy, Perry, Lana, Pete Ross et al were the better friends than, say, the JLA. They could be friends with Clark or Superman with equal aplomb. But how likely would Green Lantern, the Flash and the rest been to hang around with the so-called “real” identity of Clark Kent. It was they, and not the rest of the cast, who were friends with Superman purely because of his super powers.)

And most of those civilian friends were so dense that they couldn’t see through the disguise (although, as I’ve said in the past, at least Chris Reeve made such a blindness among his acquaintances seem credible. When I came out of the first Superman film, I still didn’t believe that a man could fly, but I did believe that a man could actually—with no more than some good acting, slumped shoulders and a changed timbre in his voice—deceive those around him into believing that they were two different people. To my mind, that was certainly the far greater accomplishment.

Clark’s desperate endeavor to disassociate himself from Superman almost comes across in retrospect as a sort of self-loathing. Although he acknowledges the need for Superman, he tries to distance himself from the ID at the same time, as if he considers the presence of his powers and the personal obligation to use them for the common good to be something that destroys any hope he might have for a “normal” life. Except… normal is what you’re used to. His powers were normal, for him. But he spent the vast majority of his time not only not using them, but actively hiding them.

Really, he had set a task for Lois that bordered on the impossible. He wanted her to fall in love with a man who was, in fact, a sham. A fabrication. Meek and mild Clark Kent didn’t truly exist anywhere except within Superman’s own head of wish fulfillment, in terms of his desire to be seen as no more “special” than any other beings on the planet. He aspired to being a human being, except it was the one thing he couldn’t be since he was truly a superpowered alien. And he tormented himself, issue after issue, by pretending to be one of us without actually being able to be one of us.

And Lois saw through this charade with such facility that it was completely unnerving to Superman.

As noted before, the notion that she was on to him because they’d never been seen together was just ridiculous. Even if we confine the notion to the Daily Planet building alone, there had to be dozens, perhaps hundreds of employees there whom Lois had never seen side-by-side with the Big Guy. Every pressman, every janitor, everybody in classified or advertising or promotion or subscriptions, she’d seen them all in Superman’s presence? Aw, c’mon. No, the truth had to be that she was truly a woman in love, and as a woman in love she was able to see through the sham that was the Clark Kent identity and perceive the true individual within.

This may very likely have been threatening to Superman on several levels. First, it threatened his self-delusion that Clark was his more real, accurate personality. And second… well, let’s face it, deep down he knew damned well that he was superior to everybody else around. Smarter, faster, better. How unnerving it must have been to that sense of superiority challenged, even ruthlessly punctured by not only a mere mortal, but a mere woman. Yeah, sure, yok it up with Batman, big guy. But we, the reader, knew that deep down the man who was faster than a speeding bullet had been sweating bullets for a while there.

The bottom line is that no relationship can possibly function without trust. Then again, how could Superman trust Lois to love him for himself when even he was conflicted as to his “real” identity was.

As far as I’m concerned, Superman’s problem wasn’t that Lois was constantly trying to find out who he really was. His problem was that he wasn’t trying to find out who he really was.

(Dr. Peter David, amateur psychiatrist, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. And hey… here we are in the supposedly more “aware,” “attuned to women’s needs” 1990s, and there hasn’t been a Lois Lane comic book in years. Wassup with that?)

 

Looking Back on the Hulk

Originally published March 12, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1321

I wondered if I would be able to read it.

I stood there in the comic book store I frequent once a week and observed the new titles. Apparently it was Books-I-Used-To-Write week. It’s kind of like standing outside a frat house from which you’ve been rejected, knowing that there’s a party going on and that you’re not invited to attend.

There was the latest issue of Aquaman with the newest installment of the systematic dismantling of everything I did in the series. But I was pretty much used to that by now. Right nearby, however, was issue #1 of The Hulk. No longer incredible, but the recipient of a massive ad campaign, a Marvel-created website, and lots of other support that they hadn’t given the title for years while I was writing it.

I stared at it. And thought back to twelve years ago, when Bob Harras approached me about writing it…

Back then, you see, I was still working in the sales department. I had an iron-clad, inviolable rule: Between nine and five, I never discussed editorial matters with anyone. I was striving to keep my writing career and my sales career separate. Of course, since my writing career wasn’t going anywhere at that time, it wasn’t that difficult a chore. My only assignment until that point had been Spectacular Spider-Man, from which I’d been fired by Jim Owsley who was trying to placate Jim Shooter (and hopefully save his own job. Although for some reason Owsley kept trying to get me to change my name to Moishe Rabbi. Could never figure that one out…) So it wasn’t as if editors were banging down my door. In point of fact, no one really wanted me on their books since the idea of a sales guy writing a comic was anathema to practically the entire staff.

It was with some degree of surprise, then, that I looked up from my stack of rack credit forms to see Bob Harras standing in the doorway of my office, asking me if I was interested in taking on The Incredible Hulk. I told him to come back after 5 and we’d discuss it then. He did and we did.

It wasn’t as if there was a ton of interest from other writers. People simply weren’t falling over each other to hop onto a book that many considered to be a dead end. Bob could offer me the title without putting editorial noses out of joint because, unlike the flagship Spider-Man titles, no one in editorial particularly gave a damn about who was writing Hulk.

So I said sure. I figured I’d last maybe six months on the title.

Bob showed me the artwork of the artist on the series at that time, a young artist named Todd McFarlane. He wanted to make sure I was okay with McFarlane staying on the title. He’d previously had him working on GI Joe, but writer Larry Hama absolutely couldn’t stand his artwork. Hard to blame Hama; at that point, McFarlane’s art was rife with weaknesses, most of which he’d managed to hide during his previous work on Infinity, Inc., thanks to flashy storytelling stunts such as panels drawn on the side of giant dice (and this isn’t me just being mean in my assessment; McFarlane critiqued his early work in exactly those terms in later interviews.) Harras was determined to get McFarlane to knock off the stunts and concentrate on storytelling, but Hama wasn’t interested in GI Joe being McFarlane’s training grounds. He wanted McFarlane off GI Joe, ASAP.

Harras, however, didn’t want to tell McFarlane that a popular writer wanted him as far from a successful series as possible. He was worried that such a flat rejection might be upsetting to a young artist, discouraging young McFarlane so much that he might not be able to afford home run balls someday.

So instead Harras came up with a cover story, telling McFarlane that it was Hasbro who had arbitrarily said they wanted “a different look” for the book. That way it would seem far less personal. Instead it came across like the capricious demands of an unfathomable corporate mentality, and editor and artist would be able to shrug their collective shoulders and say, “Well, what can you do against such stupidity?” In short, he’d be able to spare McFarlane’s feelings. In the meantime, to keep him busy, he assigned McFarlane to Incredible Hulk.

Was that okay with me, I was asked. If it was, he could make McFarlane’s assignment to the series permanent. My suspicion is that if I’d said no, Bob would have kept him on the title anyway and then asked me to grin and bear it. But, as I noted, I figured I wouldn’t be around for too long on the title anyway, so I chose the path of least resistance. I said, “Yeah, sure, I can work with him.”

Thus began my very unpromising tenure on Incredible Hulk. Unpromising in that, when readers realized that I wasn’t going to change him back to green-and-stupid, I was universally condemned for it. What few letters (and there were very few, I assure you) we received hated everything I was doing. But by and large, fans didn’t bother to write in at all. Missives were so scarce that I wound up publicly pleading for reader feedback just so we wouldn’t feel as if we were operating in a vacuum.

I endeavored to tailor my stories to Todd’s strengths. I asked him what he wanted to draw. “Machinery… lots of huge machinery. And Wolverine. I’ve love to draw Wolverine.” So I gave Bruce a high-tech RV to ride around in, or huge robots to fight. And Harras and I moved heaven and earth with a somewhat intransigent X-office, which didn’t especially feel like lending out X-characters at that time, until we managed to finagle Wolverine for a guest shot.

(I know, I know. I’m speaking of a time when writers had say over which artists were on their books, and there was reluctance to overexpose the X-characters. Not only does it sound like I’m describing another era, it seems like another planet.)

Sales during McFarlane’s run were not particularly good. They spiraled downward until the issue guest starring Wolverine. We had a nice sales spike there, then they plummeted again… but slowly began to build over the following year. Apparently non-regular readers liked what they saw, because they showed up and stayed.

Before I knew it, I’d racked up a year’s tenure, and also developed a long-term game plan. A story had appeared in an earlier issue of Incredible Hulk which established that Bruce Banner had had a remarkably abusive father. The story was credited to Bill Mantlo, although Barry Windsor-Smith has since stated that it was actually he who developed the concept and that it was co-opted by Marvel editorial. Since Mantlo is unfortunately in no condition to say, and my inquiries into the matter with Marvel editorial months ago yielded nothing concrete, I can’t say for sure, although Windsor-Smith certainly makes a convincing case. In any event, the story suggested to me the notion that Bruce Banner actually suffered from what was then called Multiple Personality Disorder, and I knew eventually I’d do a story wherein the Hulk was “cured” via a merging of the personalities. It was just a matter of laying the groundwork for it. Took me four years, but I finally did it.

During that time, I pretty much got to do whatever I wanted on the series because no one cared what I was up to. It was, after all, Incredible Hulk. Bob Harras stepped aside after a year and his assistant, Bobbie Chase, stepped in as editor, and remained for the duration of my tenure on the book. I probably formed a tighter creative bond with her than I did with any other editor, and came to trust her judgment implicitly.

I sailed along peacefully until hitting my first road bump around #359, when I was informed that the highers-up had decreed that a pregnancy storyline I’d embarked upon had to be—you should pardon the expression—aborted. I was furious. I considered resigning from the title at that point, but I still felt I had stories to tell… including the merge story that I’d been working towards. I refused to write a story in which she lost the child, however, so Bob Harras was tapped to write it. It was one of only two issues in my entire run on the series that didn’t bear my name.

Every so often I’d take a whack at tackling controversial subjects. A story on capital punishment, in which I depicted a character being electrocuted on panel, prompted a firestorm of protest. Mightn’t this be too upsetting for younger readers—and even many older ones? My attitude was, Excuse me, this was a fictional character. In the real world, however, real people are really killed by the state. If that’s so upsetting, then it might behoove readers to do something to prevent real executions, rather than raise protests over fictional ones.

Probably the most controversial angle was when I revealed that former Hulk sidekick Jim Wilson had AIDS. As that story developed, I realized I was in a no-win situation when it came to explaining just how Jim had contracted the disease. If I said he was gay, I’d be accused of feeding into the gay-equals-AIDS mindset. If I said he got it through straight sex or a blood transfusion, I’d be accused of being too weasly to reveal that a mainstream Marvel character was gay. Ultimately, as I waffled, I realized that I had inadvertently backed into the point of the story: It didn’t matter how he had contracted the disease. What mattered was that he had it and needed help and support. I wound up giving that exact exchange to Bruce and Betty.

Ah, Betty.

I will never forget when Bobbie suggested knocking off Betty.

“It’d be a way of really shaking up the book,” she pointed out. “Betty’s always been his anchor… and if he were cut adrift, imagine how—”

“Fine, she’s toast,” I said.

But it quickly became clear, once the storyline had been started, that highers up at Marvel wanted a series completely different from what I was prepared to write. The death of Betty, I was told, was to launch a storyline which would take the Hulk back to brainless, inarticulate savagery. Big fights, ideally with the Avengers, and crossover storylines would be the order of the day. I tried to come up with storylines that would address what Marvel wanted while, at the same time, maintaining something of what I wanted to bring to the storyline. The highers up didn’t like any of it.

Or maybe they just didn’t like me anymore. I was, after all, old news. Marvel is event-driven, you see, and my being on Incredible Hulk is simply not an event. You can’t start a book over with a #1 when it’s the same old writer on it. I found myself wishing that they’d gone through with their earlier plans to drop the title during the Heroes Reborn mess. That way I might have gotten the prodigal son returning welcome that Mark Waid got on Captain America.

In any event, it was made clear to me that, since I was unable or unwilling to produce the stories they wanted to see—that I felt the direction they wanted for the series was just wrong—my presence was no longer wanted, needed or required.

Their prerogative, of course. I had mentally prepared myself for it years ago, ever since Chris Claremont spoke of how he had come to think of the X-Men as “his” characters, and how difficult it was for him to come to terms with losing them. I endeavored to learn from that and never lose sight of who owned the Hulk, so that when the inevitable time came that I was shunted aside, I’d have insulated myself.

I was given an opportunity to write one last story to try and “wrap up” my storylines. I gave them nothing they were expecting, jumping to a point ten years down the line. Convinced that within a very short time, no one would remember or care about everything I’d put into the series as subsequent writers would doubtlessly undo or ignore all that I’d accomplished, I split my own persona, speaking alternately through Bruce (“My legacy will be nothing but fallen, forgotten rubble.”) and Rick (“There’s other things in life, y’know?… Realize what’s important. Family, loved ones… that’s the important thing.”)

And as Rick held a child on his knee who bore a striking resemblance to my youngest, Ariel, he spoke on my behalf once more as he said, “I could keep on talking about (the Hulk) for ages… but sometimes you reach a point where something stops you.” Yeah. Something like a desire to bring in someone new.

When I’d been forced off the series, John Byrne proclaimed on his computer board that my leaving was proof that “there was a God.” Empathetic talk from someone who’d had his own share of editorially-motivated departures. I wondered how long it would take him to grab the series. Not long, as it turned out.

So there I was in the comic store, my mind awash with mixed emotions over my tenure on the series. And questions. What would the book look like? What angle would the storyline take? Would there be gaping plot holes? And most importantly… how long would it take for Byrne to show up as a character in the book, a la She-Hulk? (I’d materialized on panel as the priest at Rick and Marlo’s wedding, but that was nine years into the run. In my last issue, Rick spoke to an off-panel writer named Peter, but that could easily have been Peter Parker since he worked for The Bugle.)

Ultimately, I did something I always scold other people for: I skimmed it/read it in the store. Yup. The Hulk drawn as big and monstrous, quite ably and satisfyingly unsubtle. Just what Marvel wanted.

Bruce Banner, afraid that he’s rampaging and presenting a danger to people in the town, remains in the town rather than getting the hell out of there so that he won’t endanger more people. A sheriff trustingly leaves his young daughter in the care of a stranger he just met. Gloriously huge plot holes. And lo and behold, there was Byrne on the last page. I admired his restraint. At least Bruce didn’t look like Dr. Quest anymore.

It was like reading about a stranger. I put the book back, bought the latest Strangers in Paradise and Cerebus, and left, certain that the book would likely be a big hit. I could hear the noise of the party going on without me. Ah well. There’s always other frat houses.

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

 

My Newest Book: Fearless

Several years ago I wrote TIGERHEART which remains, to some degree, my favorite novel ever. After I read it to Caroline, she wanted to know what happened next. And together we wrote the sequel, FEARLESS, which is now available on Kindle and Nook and shortly in paperback. Please buy it so I don’t have to have another stroke in order to get people purchasing my work. Thanks.

PAD

Phyllida Archer-Dowd on Teletubbies

Originally published March 5, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1320

Hello. Phyllida Archer-Dowd here. As one of the founders of the Children’s Protectorate Council, I have once again been allotted space in But I Digress. This is, of course, a self-serving action on Mr. David’s part, since he has become so enmeshed in his stage activities that he has little enough time to attend to his proper writing duties. Indeed, it is not surprising to me that he was drawn to 1776, a musical “entertainment” that degrades our founding fathers, rife with profanity and jokes about such riotous subjects as urination, lust, and prostitution.

The last time I was involved with this column, I wrote of Mulan, a Disney animated feature whose supposed female role model in fact broke at least half a dozen holy commandments. The film is now out on videotape . I watched this tale of a Chinese legend on home video and, curiously, half an hour after I finished it, it was as if I had not watched it at all. Would that that had truly been the case, because there’s no improvement in the transition. Everything, from the Satanesque worshipping of deceased ancestors rather than the one true God, to Mulan’s becoming the first female in Disney history to murder not just one, but thousands of opponents, has made the transition to small screen and is no less repellant for the change in venue. An unsurpassed Disney body count, all blood shed at a female’s delicate hand.

At least we have some degree of proper presentation of appropriate subject matter in the film, Prince of Egypt. Whereas Mulan was simply a borrowed copy, Prince of Egypt will have a valued place in the Archer-Dowd household, I can assure you.

But I’m not here to discuss that today, having already gone over it at length in a previous column. No, I am here to praise the actions of Brother Falwell… and, I must admit, to take a bow and some credit for myself.

You see, it was my organization, the CPC, which ripped the cover off the Teletubbies and outed Tinky Winky. I rang up brother Falwell the other month and pointed out the sinister messages being sent by the supposedly harmless creature. Never has there been a less subtle advertisement for the gay mentality and life style.

I brought this to the Reverend’s attention, and the very next thing I knew, Brother Falwell had gone public with my private musings, and the Associated Press had picked up the story, which said in part:

Under a headline that reads “Parents Alert: Tinky Winky Comes Out of the Closet,” an article in the February edition of the National Liberty Journal notes that Tinky Winky has the voice of a boy yet carries a purse.

“He is purple—the gay-pride color; and his antenna is shaped like a triangle—the gay-pride symbol,” the story said. The paper is edited and published by Falwell.

Falwell contends the “subtle depictions” are intentional and in a statement issued Tuesday said, “As a Christian I feel that role modelling the gay lifestyle is damaging to the moral lives of children.”

To that, Brother Falwell, I can only add huzza, huzza. And when one considers the scandalous truth that one of the actors who plays the Teletubbies moonlighted as a male stripper, one cannot help but feel sorry over the moral decay prevalent in this supposedly harmless children’s show. Perhaps they should be honest and change the character’s name to Kinky-Winky.

The only problem is that, regretfully, Brother Falwell did not go nearly far enough. No, not nearly. The undercutting of our young people’s philosophical boundaries and morality has been a slow, steady erosion by the Hollywood elite (rife with homosexuality) for decades now. The only possible interpretation is that they are looking for recruits to their perverted cause, and are obtaining them through the most pernicious and vile means available: Going after young, impressionable children. The simple fact is that Tinky Winky is only the most obvious of these efforts, which is understandable. Teletubbies is a British-created television series and, as the sage Archie Bunker put it so well, “England is a fag country.” It’s actually appropriate that I opened this column mentioning 1776, because the fact is that if the stridently American heterosexual personality had not asserted itself some two hundred years ago, prompting us to break away, this would be a predominantly poofta nation by now.

There has been some discussion of the problem thus far. The flagrantly homosexual relationship between Bert and Ernie has been bandied about, and that Sainted Man, Dr. Wertham, turned the spotlight on the perverse relationship between Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson. But this is such a pervasive problem and conspiracy that it is incumbent upon us to “out” further exploration of the topic in hopes of abolishing the danger to our youths’ moral underpinnings before it’s too late.

Let us be willing to accept the notion of talking animals as a staple of children’s television. One is inclined to consider such a phenomenon to be Satanist in nature, but I think it’s deeper than that. By cloaking rampant homosexuality in the guise of funny animals, the producers make such perverted activities seem harmless, even charming. For proof of that, one need look no further than the fact that there are virtually no happily married anthropomorphic characters (aside from the superb and wholesome Berenstain Bears, which doesn’t really count since it was adapted from a book series. I assure you that if the Bears were original-to-TV, there would be no mother figure and the brood would be raised by the Father Bear and his “good friend.”)

Instead, every major funny animal cartoon pairing is between two males who do nothing but spend all their time together. They never go on dates; indeed, females hardly seem to exist in their world. Furthermore, one is always tall while the other is short, thereby putting the latter’s eyeline squarely into the groin area of the former. Just a few examples:

Quick Draw McGraw and Babalooie. Imagine Quick Draw in his cheerful purple hat, and his occasional tendency to dress up in black with a mask as if he just came galloping in from the Christopher Street Halloween parade.

Secret Squirrel and Morocco Mole, rife with symbolism as Secret Squirrel–in a bizarre agglomeration of dominator and exhibitionist–goes about masked at all times and has an obsession with throwing open his trenchcoat at key moments in the “action.”

Tom and Jerry, a sicko sado-masochistic relationship that is so stripped down, they needn’t even bother to talk. What words, indeed, could possibly be required?

Yogi Bear and BooBoo. Taking a giant step forward for perversity, they’re actually depicted sleeping together on occasion (“hibernating,” naturally, is the cover story). BooBoo is probably the most pathetic of the homosexual pairings; his plaintive voice sounds so downtrodden, so utterly without hope, that one can only imagine a lengthy existence of submitting to Yogi’s appalling demands. A lifetime of flagrant lawbreaking combined with extensive forays into gluttony and sloth. Certainly Yogi feigns interest in Cindy now and again, but that’s likely just to torment the already tortured BooBoo further.

Rocky and Bullwinkle. Rocky, who is literally light in his non-existent loafers, speaking with a high-pitched female voice, and his “friend,” Bullwinkle, who is—in the best known running gag—constantly trying to out himself symbolically (“Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.”) At least Boris and Natasha are a male and female pairing and view each other with obvious affection (“Darlink”), but it’s undoubtedly no coincidence that they’re the villains.

And let us not even get into human hosts of TV shows. We must shudder if we dwell too long upon the overly neat, tidy, and obviously suspect persona created by Mister Rogers (who is, in real life, a minister yet! What was he thinking?) Or consider the grotesque relationship between Captain Kangaroo and Mister Moose, who is compelled to torment the Captain regularly by pelting him with his massive collection of balls.

The list could easily go on and on, and I suspect further examples are already occurring to you. This is children’s entertainment? These are the supposedly harmless individuals that we have turned the youth of America over to? What in God’s name have we been standing by and allowing to occur?

I can only applaud Brother Falwell’s bravery, particularly since the Hollywood establishment will no doubt orchestrate a massive disinformation campaign, designed to demean and undercut Brother Falwell’s stance and diminish him in the eyes of the public. I beg you, the perceptive readership of CBG, not to be fooled by the perverts’ attempts to cover their tracks and prevent their vast conspiracy from being revealed. Keep their recruitment campaigns out of decent households everywhere, and in the gutter where it belongs. People speak with concern of the graying of America? Of far greater moment is the gaying of America, and for that you need look no further than the Cartoon Network and this country’s long history of perverted entertainment.

I ask that such talented cartoon-involved individuals (and noted heterosexuals) as Paul Dini, or Mark Evanier take time from depressing superheroic dystopias or brainless Conan-esque barbarians and create instead series that focus on positive, uplifting, masculine and indisputably heterosexual characters. In that way, American youth can be salvaged from the morass of perversity into which the current Hollywood braintrust is plunging it.

(Phyllida Archer-Dowd can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. And watch what you say.)

 

The Wedding of Popeye and Olive

Originally published February 26, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1319

I don’t make a habit of discussing projects I’m working on in this column, but I’m involved with two projects that are off beat, even for me… so you know that it’s gotta be pretty offbeat. So I thought that I’d take this opportunity to tell you about them.

The first is a project that’s got not only the attention of the national media, but even Tony Isabella itself… so you know that it’s got to be a quality endeavor. I am speaking of The Wedding of Popeye and Olive, a one-shot that I wrote for Ocean Comics.

Fans have been asking me how in the world I got involved in writing such a title. The answer is shockingly simple: Bob Palin of Ocean Comics asked me to. But it was certainly a bit of a bumpy road from first blush to final product (which should be out within a couple of weeks.)

I am fully aware that fans do not speak with one massive unimind, and therefore consistency is not really a possibility. Still, there is one contingent which asks me why it seems I’m content to stick with only the major publishers and never get involved with smaller indy publishers (those folks being unaware that I co-write a series called Soulsearchers & Company for Claypool Press.) By the same token, if a project for a small indy is announced with my name on it, fans scratch their heads and wonder why I would get involved.

Well, indys don’t get much smaller than Ocean. Bob, as near as I can tell, constitutes the entirety of Ocean’s staff (making the tiny early staff of Marvel, back in the Stan Lee/Solly Brodsky/Fabulous Flo Steinberg days seem positively luxurious by comparison). Bob called me some months ago and told me that he had gotten a license from King Features to do the above-mentioned one-shot. Would I be interested, he asked, in signing on.

To say this would be a labor of love would be to understate it, because it sure weren’t for the money. No one’s getting rich off this puppy… certainly not me. Thus far the entirety of my take for the 25 page book is enough to buy groceries for maybe a day. Basically, I was working for free (or even at a loss if one considers an hour of my time worth a specific amount of money.) Nonetheless, I didn’t want to miss out. If nothing else, I was certain that–presuming the book went ahead–I’d wind up seeing mentions of it on news shows and such (particularly if it was a slow news day) and (knowing me) I’d wind up gnashing my teeth rather fiercely. With the possible exception of the Marvel/DC crossover, I’ve never really written anything that got any sort of national attention. I felt it would be kind of cool to be responsible for a story that I was certain would get tongues wagging. After all, Popeye is still a cultural icon to many, and the news of his marriage was certain to garner news interest.

I also saw it as a singular opportunity to try my best to revive–at least for a little while–Popeye as he was, rather than what he’s devolved into. I’m certainly glad I went in that direction because most folks have no idea of Popeye’s true supporting cast. When The Daily Show on Comedy Central recently featured a news item about the comic, the biggest laugh came in reaction to something that wasn’t a joke: Jon Stewart made mention of Olive Oyl’s brother, Castor Oyl (with accompanying illustration on the screen behind him.) That got a huge laugh, as if the Daily Show‘s writers had come up with the character for the purpose of the bit, rather than Castor’s having been created more than seven decades ago. Granted the entire cast and crew graces the Robert Altman Popeye film, but despite brilliant performances by Robin Williams and Shelly Duval, unfortunately that film didn’t do a great deal to educate the public (if nothing else, those insufferable and bizarre songs drove people screaming from the theatre.)

My first exposure to Popeye was doubtless the same as yours: the cartoons. Brilliant as many of them were, particularly the very early ones, the vast majority of them were simple and formulaic: Popeye would either “first encounter” Olive Oyl or else they would already be a couple, and then Bluto would happen along and catch Olive’s interest. Eventually, however, Bluto’s advances would become too noxious, at which point Olive would bellow for help. Popeye would slug it out with Bluto, get trounced, eat the spinach, kick the crap out of Bluto, and that would be that.

I didn’t have the slightest idea that there was more to Popeye than that until, as a teen, I read Bill Blackbeard’s brilliant essay on the sailor’s origins, “Popeye, the First *arf arf* Superhero of Them All,” in the thoroughly educational collection of comic-related essays, All In Color For a Dime (now available through Krause, arf arf). In those pages, Blackbeard chronicled Popeye’s early days in E.C. Segar’s legendary Thimble Theatre strip. That was the first time I read of the strip’s existence before Popeye was introduced, its early focus on the (mis)adventures of Castor Oyl, and his associate Ham Gravy. Popeye wasn’t introduced until a number of years into the strip, when Castor—seeking the services of a swab–encounters our future hero on a pier and demands to know if he’s a sailor.

Clearly clad in sailor-esque garments, Popeye sarcastically utters his first words, “’Ja think I’m a cowboy?” It’s a phrase that I took care to include in the comic.

From that unprepossessing start, Popeye rose in popularity and stature, wound up taking over the strip, and driving Ham Gravy out of it for good. But the strip still contained a plethroa of other characters, including the future-casting creature, Eugene the Jeep, Olive’s parents, Nana and Cole Oyl, Alice the Goon, Swee’pea, Poopdeck Pappy (Popeye’s reprobate father who was introduced specifically to be a reprobate as Popeye was given more of a moral center due to the increased focus on him), the dreaded Sea Hag, and probably the best known supporting character, the burger-mooching J. Wellington Wimpy. Bluto (a.k.a. Brutus) was a fairly minor muscleman; however, he was the villain who happened to be in the strip at the time that the cartoons were being developed, and so it was he who was immortalized into cinematic history. Some of the other characters popped up here and there for a cartoon or two, but by and large it was just Popeye, Bluto and Olive, and that was that. In the intervening years, the strip shrunk in popularity and circulation. Nowadays only a bare handful of papers carry the Popeye strip which consists of a simple, standard, gag strip, rather than anything remotely akin to the vast, sprawling, epic that Segar crafted.

It’s unfortunate and limiting, not remotely doing justice to Segar’s vision. So when I embarked on doing the wedding issue, I was determined to try and do something about it. I’m not remotely in Segar’s league, but I felt the very least I could do was try and give readers at least a remote flavor of what Thimble Theatre was all about. Characters who haven’t seen the light of day in half a century trot through the pages of Wedding, which not only features the return of Ham Gravy, but the magical Wiffle Hen, whose mysterious powers are actually the thing that gave Popeye his edge seventy years ago (rather than spinach.) Still, I knew that generations who grew up on the cartoons were going to be reading the book (at least theoretically) and there was going to have to be some aspect of that present.

And so I had the plot turn upon a notion that had always bugged me, even as a kid:

Why the hell didn’t Bluto ever eat any of the spinach?

After all, he was presented as more than Popeye’s equal when they were one-on-one. It was only upon Popeye’s downing the spinach that he gained superiority. But if Bluto ate the spinach as well, then arguably he should be able to pound our hero into the middle of next week.

Basically, I tried to merge in my plot the sensibilities of the cartoon with the cast and concepts of Thimble Theatre. The only snag came when Ocean Comics sent the plot to King Features for approval. The response from King Features kind of floored us. They said to Bob, “It reads very well, but we want you to make one small change: You can’t have Popeye and Olive get married.”

That presented a twofold problem. First, the plot hinged on the wedding, because Popeye is spurred onto the matrimonial trail by Eugene the Jeep’s predicting that he and Olive are going to get hitched within 24 hours. Since the Jeep is never wrong (unless June Bugs are around, but we won’t go into that), Popeye immediately leaps into action to make sure the prognostication is carried out, i.e., it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. If they didn’t really get married, the whole story falls apart.

The second problem was pure audience expectation: If you publish a book with that title and then they don’t get married, the readership is gonna get kind of honked. I had absolutely no intention of doing a rewrite that was going to cheat buyers of the book. Nor did Bob have any desire to publish the book if it wasn’t going to live up to its name. You could get away with it, I suppose, if it were one storyline in an ongoing comic book series. But this was a one-shot, and to back out on the last pages would have been a cheat.

Furthermore, considering that there was a cartoon series some years back called Popeye and Son which featured the sailor married and with a young son, the character’s own continuity indicated that at some point Olive and he must have gotten married. So it was odd that a comic book which was going to have a fraction of the audience that the TV show had was making King Features weak in the knees. They wound up coming around after Bob went mano-a-mano with them, but it was touch and go for a while.

Dave Garcia did a wonderful job carrying off the story, which I hope will both interest and educate Popeye novices and also satisfy long-time Popeye purists. Naturally, you all are the final arbiters of whether I carried it off or not.

Okay. That’s the first project I’m involved with that’s a bit offbeat. The second is this: I’ve finally gotten around to participating in something that I’ve always wanted to do: community theatre.

One of the best theaters on Long Island is the Broadhollow Theater, and I recently auditioned for—and got into—a production of what is probably my favorite musical of all time, 1776. Detailing John Adams’ endeavors to unite a fractured congress and march them unanimously toward independence, it’s got a wonderful score and probably the best book ever written for the musical stage, ever.

I have maybe a handful of lines, but considering my relative lack of stage experience, they’d have been insane to put me in anything major. Besides, I get to speak with a Scots brogue and carry a musket around, so I’m a happy camper.

The only mild downside is that, for whatever reason, the costumers decided that I, among all of congress, shouldn’t wear a wig. Figures. It’s the 18th century, the time when male wigs were in bloom, and I still don’t have hair. On the other hand, I suspect I’ll sweat a lot less.

I fully admit that I’m not in a position to be unbiased, but I think we have a great cast, and that comes from someone who’s seen four different productions of the show, including the recent revival of Broadway (not to mention owning the laserdisc with the uncut version of the film.)

Go see it if you can. If nothing else, as Ben Stein says: You might learn something.

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

 

Space Ghost Writer

Originally published February 19, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1318

It was recently reported that Columbia-Tristar has optioned the classic comic series Nexus as part of its children’s programming. Both Mike Baron and Steve Rude, the series’ creators, are aboard with Rude signed on as a producer and Baron as the scripter.

I remember the first time I saw Nexus in development as an animated property. Somehow I knew that, in that particular instance, it was doomed from the get-go.

I had been brought to Hanna-Barbera studios to meet with an executive regarding a project that seemed, to me, to have tremendous potential: An animated feature film of Space Ghost.

I’m probably one of the few people who isn’t all that blown away with Space Ghost: Coast to Coast. Oh, it’s certainly clever and well-crafted enough, with a snarky and entertaining sense of humor. But you have to understand, when I was a kid, I unreservedly adored Space Ghost as a character. I thought he was the coolest thing going. Everything, from his visual to the creepy and memorable theme music, to his assortment of nifty powers… it all worked for me. Hell, Space Ghost even pioneered the first mega-crossover in superhero animation as one storyline took a time-traveling Space Ghost into the arenas of such HB superfolks as the Mighty Mightor.

Basically, the message I come away with from Coast to Coast is, Hey, you idiot, how could you possibly have taken Space Ghost seriously, even when you were a kid? Look how stupid he and his villains are! The thing is, I know that now. But I don’t feel as if I need an entire TV series to tell me that. I still have enough of that childlike affection and loyalty to the character that it just rubs me the wrong way to see him portrayed as a total doofus… especially when they don’t have to do all that much to make him come across as a total doofus.

So when reps at HB wanted to see me about the concept of giving Space Ghost a big screen treatment that would restore him to his (rightful, I felt) place as a genuine crusader for heroism in the galaxy, I was absolutely there and ready to go.

So I met with this woman, and she was very sweet and very enthusiastic about the project. There were a couple of illustrations of Space Ghost around her office. But what also caught my attention was a very large poster of Nexus. “Why do you have the Nexus poster?” I asked.

“We’ve optioned it,” she told me proudly. “We think it has tremendous potential. Are you familiar with it?”

“Oh, it’s a great series,” I said. “I admit, I’m a little surprised… it’s not the type of property I would have associated with Hanna Barbera… no offense.”

“We’re trying to branch out,” she said. “Go for some more adult-oriented properties.”

“Well, that’s certainly one of them, what with his being an assassin and all…”

She looked at me with an expression that indicated polite confusion. “Assassin?”

“Sure. He has these dreams that compel him to execute people…” My voice trailed off. “You… did know that, right?”

“Well, it’s in development,” she said, unflappable. “Things can be changed.”

“Changed?” I made no attempt to hide my confusion. “How… can that be changed? The entire character and story hinges on that. If you change it, he’s not Nexus anymore, and what was the point?”

She smiled at me in a way that clearly said, You poor, innocent thing… you don’t know Hollywood very well.

Which, of course, I didn’t. But Space Ghost was something of a learning experience, as conversation steered away from Nexus and to the proposed film adventure of one of the galaxy’s premiere defenders.

“What we’re going to do,” she told me, “is try to convince Turner (their parents company at that point) of the viability of Space Ghost as a big screen property. And what we want you to do is rethink him and reimagine him for a modern day audience.”

“Well, what precisely did you have in mind?” I asked, leaning forward, all attentive. I was holding a glass of water. In Los Angeles, people in offices are very big on bringing you water. All you have to do is sit down to wait in a lobby for about five seconds and an assistant or receptionist will offer you either bottled water or a glass of it.

“What we’re looking for,” she said, “was something in the spirit of Spawn. Are you familiar with Spawn?”

I kept the glass steady, not spilling a drop. “I’ve heard it mentioned here and there,” I said. “I don’t read it… but it’s fairly dark, from what I understand. Are you sure that’s the direction you want to go?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “We’re looking for a Space Ghost story for a 90s viewers: Something dark and grim and intense.”

“But… that will be nothing at all like the old TV show. Are you sure you want to go that far afield from the source material?”

“Definitely,” she told me, head bobbing.

So I went home and drafted an outline for a dark, grim intense Space Ghost that was nothing like the old TV show. I turned the outline in, and it was greeted with much enthusiasm by the exec who said it was exactly what they were looking for. I then wrote the script, following the approved outline exactly, beat-for-beat, and sent it off to HB.

I was then back out in Los Angeles and another meeting was scheduled with HB. I went to the office where I had been greeted so cheerfully before, and got a somewhat frostier reception this time. “We’re very disappointed in the script,” she told me without preamble.

“Disappointed?” I couldn’t quite wrap myself around the sentiment. “I don’t see why. You guys approved the outline. The script is absolutely no different. How could I have gone that wrong?”

“But it’s so dark!” she said. “And grim! And intense! It’s nothing like the old TV series at all.”

I sighed. And I said, “Okay… I gave you what you asked for. And now I’m going to go back home, and do a page one rewrite, and give you what you really want.”

And I did exactly that. It was still a relatively mature handling of Space Ghost, with some changes and fleshing out of the character for a big screen feel (including giving him a name, an origin, and up-aging Jan so that she represented a potential romantic interest. I also included Blip the monkey, who was nowhere to be found in the grim-and-gritty version, although I made him in a computer-generated entity rather than simply an annoying chimp.) I was very pleased with it. The exec at HB was also very pleased with it.

At which point they sent it to Turner, and the folks at Turner said, “Under no circumstance are we interested in making a Space Ghost film.” Which frustrated the hell out of me, because if they weren’t interested under any circumstance, why the devil did they bring me aboard in the first place? I decided to be philosophical about it; at least it left me with two interesting writing samples in case anyone was interested in reading a feature-length Space Ghost film to judge whether I could write movies.

The utter futility of the exercise, however, convinced me that Nexus would likewise never see the light of day as long as it was optioned by HB. No slam intended against that fine studio; I just had a feeling that Nexus and HB wasn’t going to be a good fit. Which, as it turned out, was the case.

I can only hope that the Columbia-Tristar deal has a much happier result, although the “children’s programming” tag on it makes me wonder. But if Rude and Baron are aboard in any sort of creative capacity, and that capacity gives them a modicum of power, then it could be pretty sharp.

And even if he winds up not being an assassin—which wouldn’t surprise me—whatever they come up with has got to be better than Nexus: Coast to Coast.

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

 

Hypertime

Originally published February 12, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1317

Lots of fans are writing me (mostly via e-mail) asking what I think of hypertime.

Now for most of America, there are various definitions of hypertime. April 15 represents hypertime to many, while for others it’s the last couple of shopping days before Christmas. But for comics fans, hypertime is the concept introduced in the second issue of the excellent Kingdom, Mark Waid’s follow-up to the Kingdom Come limited series.

At the climax of Kingdom, the heroes of the DC universe find themselves confronted with “the greatest secret in creation.” To me, that would have to be the mystery of Pauly Shore’s continued popularity, but instead we learn of the existence of Hypertime: the revelation that “the universe… is actually a part of an unpredictable multiverse, an infinite realm of parallel worlds where reality as you know it has taken different twists and turns. Where fallen allies live on… where tragedies can be turned to triumph.”

This, of course, will come as no shock to anyone who was clued in to the same thing by sources as diverse as Larry Niven’s “All the Myriad Ways” or even the Watcher back in the first issue of What If?

For that matter, I even put forward my own theory several years back in this very column. What I said was:

I think that time is constantly in flux. That there are fault lines in the time stream, and they’re constantly shifting in thousands of little subtle ways, just like tremors rearranging California real estate. Or think of time as telephone lines stretching from the present backwards to infinity (kind of like Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure) and you get line noise that screws the connection up. It’s part of your day to day existence, and you accept it and move on.

Proof? That’s easy.

Ever walk into a room to get something and suddenly you can’t remember what it was you wanted?

Ever put something down, go back and look for it, and it’s not there?

Ever run into someone who greets you like you’re old friends, and you are absolutely clueless as to their identity?

We chalk it off to lapsed memory, but it’s not. It’s Time Burps. You can’t remember what you wanted in the room because time just Burped and suddenly the reason why you went in there ceased to exist. The item you put down has vanished because time Burped and you never put it there in the first place. Your newfound old friend, in his or her past, was a close buddy… but in your own past, you never met.

The thing is, I floated the notion and then did nothing with it. Mark brilliantly (and independently, I’m sure… as if he’s going to remember a passing concept that was part of a BID Time Cop review) expanded upon that same notion.

“Off the central timeline,” we’re told, “events of importance often cause divergent tributaries’ to branch off the main timestream… On occasion, those tributaries return–sometimes feeding back into the central timeline, other times overlapping it briefly before charting an entirely new course. An old friend is suddenly recalled after years of being forgotten. A scrap of history becomes misremembered, even reinvented in the common wisdom.” Mark calls them “hyper-time fluxes,” which is certainly infinitely classier than “time burps.”

What do I think? I think it’s the best scab yet.

The continuity of long-time comic companies invariably creates wounds. The passage of time renders origins and events problematic if you have any intention of trying to keep the characters current. And whenever one of these wounds becomes too big, too gaping, the companies try to do something about it. Try to heal it, scab it over. Sometimes topical references are just thrown out wholesale, origins rebooted with no other explanation than, “We’re the publisher. We say so.”

Other times, the scab is more creative; but what makes a truly creative scab is its simplicity, its elegance. The first great scab was the revelation that the Golden Age DC heroes were alive and well and living on Earth-2. In one shot it solved the problems of fans who were wondering where Jay Garrick, Alan Scott and the rest of the bunch got off to.

The problem is, most comic book creators are kids at heart. And you must remember perfectly well the eternal link between kids and their scabs. You just can’t… resist… picking at it. It sits there, big and inviting, hard and crusty, like nothing else on your skin, and no matter how much you know you shouldn’t, you just keep going back to it and fiddling with it.

Which is why, a mere decade or so after its inception, Earth-1, Earth-2 and its offspring had swollen to such unwieldy proportions that an entire limited series, Crisis on Infinite Earths, was required to get rid of it. But even Crisis couldn’t quite be left alone as people tried to sort out the fallout, and thirty seven incarnations of Hawkman later, we had Zero Hour, and even that’s kind of confusing as fans argue and dispute what counts and what doesn’t count, what’s part of continuity and what’s moot.

Mark Waid, in laying out Hypertime, even seems to fire a broadside at continuity mavens, recasting them as the Linear Men and saying, “They’re too linear. They’re vested in enforcing an inflexible view of reality…They think orderly cataloged continuity is preferable to a kingdom of wonder.” Basically he’s saying, Let the creators alone to tell the best stories we can, and stop obsessing about how it ties in with books published years ago.

Hypertime is the comic book equivalent of the moment in Fiddler on the Roof, where two men are in dispute and Tevye the dairyman allows that both of them are correct in their opposing views.

“He’s right… and he’s right? They can’t both be right,” a villager chides Tevye.

Tevye hesitates only a moment and then says, “You know, you are also right.”

Although Hypertime takes its potshot at fannish obsession with continuity, it is in fact the continuity buff’s dream. It’s the all-purpose explanation. Two stories in conflict? Hypertime. Wait, this character was killed off fifteen years ago… why’s he alive? Hypertime. Subspace is suddenly being called the Negative Zone? Hypertime. Botched continuity has been transformed into Pee Wee Herman catapulting headlong off his bicycle, dusting himself off, and announcing, “I meant to do that.”

It’s great. I love it.

Just one problem.

The moment I read, “The possibilities of hypertime are infinite… and humble the power of any man,” I started getting a queasy feeling. Oh lord. Here we go. Scab picking. Hypertime is the most elegant explanation for snarled continuity ever proffered. Great. Perfect. Now leave it the hell alone! Don’t pick at it! Just tell stories, don’t worry about occasional continuity glitches, and never mention Hypertime again!

Not going to happen. New hypertime stories are already in the works. And for all I know, they’ll be nifty and imaginative and whiz-bang keeno… just like the first JLA/JSA crossovers were after the Earth-1/Earth-2 introduction in Flash.

But…

Pick. Pick. Pick. And ten years down the line…

Crisis on Infinite Hypertimes.

Pass the Bactine, please…

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

 

San Diego Comic Con Schedule

I know I’m wasting my time. I’m putting this up on my website, Twitter feed and Facebook and there will STILL be people declaring they couldn’t find me at the convention. But the hell with it; I’ll put up my schedule anyway.

THURSDAY

11-12, Marvel signing

7:30 PM, Multiple Man gathering 7:30 PM Manchester Grand Hyatt lobb

FRIDAY

3-4, Marvel signing

6-7, International Association of Media & Tie-in Writers Awards, Room: 23ABC

SATURDAY

11-11:45, “Young Justice” gathering behind con center

5-6, Marvel signing

SUNDAY

12:30-1:30, Marvel X-panel, Room 6DE

Peter and the King

Originally published February 5, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1316

The first time I saw him was on television.

I was a kid, and the local news was doing coverage of a comic book convention in New York, one of the now-legendary Phil Seuling conventions. And there was Jack Kirby himself, signing autographs, talking to the TV reporter about the comic fans. The coverage of the convention made it sound tremendously exciting.

(Comic book conventions are generally reported by TV folks with somewhat more respect than, say, a Star Trek convention receives. Each generates a very distinct, fairly repetitious approach. At Trek cons, the attitude of the reporter is invariably, “Look at the goofy Trekkies.” For every hundred Trek fans who are dressed in perfectly normal attire, there’s always one guy wearing Spock ears and a uniform shirt, and that’s the guy that they always train the camera upon. In short, they’re made to look like idiots. But at comic book conventions, they always intone, “That comic book which you bought for twelve cents in your youth is now going for twelve hundred dollars!” and they’ll zoom in on a display of bagged and up-priced comics. Money, as always, commands respect. Of course, that doesn’t take into account the towns where the news crew comes to the comic con looking to do a story about dangerous adult comics, and skews its coverage accordingly. But I digress…)

As the news report concluded with the information that the convention was going to continue through the weekend, I turned to my father and said, “Dad” (I called him “Dad.” We’re very close.) “Dad,” I pleaded, “can we go?” To my complete and utter shock, he said, “Okay.” It’s not like we lived in Timbuktu; we lived in North Jersey at the time, in a town called Bloomfield (in a small house at 11 Albert Terrace, for those of you who are interested in conducting a walking tour of my youth.) Even so, we didn’t go into Manhattan all that often. But in this instance, we packed up and headed into town the next day as I went to my first comic convention.

Now you have to understand, I got into Marvel comics kind of late. I was pretty much a Superman/Batman reader. Furthermore, my dad wasn’t too big on letting me read Marvels. Characters such as the Thing, or the Hulk, or Spider-Man clashed with his sense of aesthetics. He felt that heroes should look heroic, not be dressed in bug-eyed costumes or look like monsters. The DC stable met this criteria, the Marvels did not. So Marvels were sort of my guilty pleasure. Other kids stashed away National Geographic with pictures of topless tribal women; me, I was hiding a few copies of Fantastic Four. So when it was announced in the pages of “Bullpen Bulletins” that Kirby was departing the hallowed halls of Marvel, although this must have come as something of a mortal blow to long-time fans, this earth-shattering news kind of rolled right past me. Being a newcomer, it just didn’t have the sort of emotional punch that the older, more experienced fans must have felt. I understand it now, of course, but back then I just kind of thought, Oh, good, he’ll be doing stuff at DC, my company of choice.

When I attended my first convention, New Gods was what was hitting the stands. I was totally into it, into the entire Fourth World line. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Even at that age, I was able to tell that the characters’ speech patterns were… odd… to say the least. But it was consistently odd, and when you get down to it, I suppose it was appropriate. Let’s face it, visually no one could possibly mistake a Kirby comic for anything else. And if Kirby’s visual style, with its relentlessly dynamic poses, incredibly involved machinery and so on, was fingerprint-unique, then somehow it made sense that his dialogue would read like no one else’s as well (although, let’s face it, reading Kirby’s dialogue certainly left no doubt as to what it was that Stan Lee brought to the party. The success of Marvel’s early characters was shaped as much by what they said as by how they looked, at least in my opinion.)

So my dad brought me to the convention, and sure enough, there was Kirby. To my eyes, he was about seven feet tall, which was a pretty good trick considering he was seated behind a table signing autographs. Brilliantly, I hadn’t brought any comics for him to sign.

So I had him sign my program, book, I think, and I asked, “Is it ‘Darkside’ or ‘Darkseed’?” Either one seemed a viable way to go.

“Darkside,” he told me briskly, and so I didn’t have to lay awake at night anymore, wondering how the villain’s name was pronounced. And then he nodded to me politely, to indicate the audience was over, and it was time for me to step aside and let the next fan up.

It was one of the greatest moments of my life. It was the first time I was in the presence of a comics professional. The autograph line was orderly, and was–as I recall–composed predominantly of kids. That doesn’t seem to be quite as much the case these days. And Kirby was polite and answered my question in a straightforward manner. You couldn’t really ask for better than that.

Once I grew up and entered the industry, I ran into him again from time to time, usually at the San Diego con.

I think the entire period with the struggle over his artwork was one of the saddest times in the history of the industry. Watching the whole thing was like witnessing a messy divorce, in which all the parties involved work on diminishing the contributions, good will, or entitlements of everyone involved. The Marvel camp endeavored to treat Kirby just like any other freelancer, and that was a mistake, because he wasn’t just any other freelancer. He was a cornerstone to the success of Marvel, and should have been handled in that way. The Kirby camp, on the other hand, in its rush to accord Jack his proper due, occasionally rewrote history, diminishing and even shunting aside any contribution that Stan Lee might have made. I was astonished, for instance, to see the claims that Kirby had been single-handedly inspired to create the Hulk when he had witnessed a frantic mother displaying remarkable brawn by lifting a car off her pinned daughter, an incident that made him realize that anger and/or fear could induce incredible strength. But that couldn’t have been the case, because the first Lee/Kirby Hulk had nothing to do with adrenalized power; it was Jekyll/Hyde-meets-werewolf, with Banner changing to the Hulk at moonrise. The entire strength-from-anger-or-fear angle didn’t occur until the Hulk’s debut in Tales to Astonish.

As is usually the case when extreme positions have been staked out, I suspect that the truth lay somewhere between the two. In any event, it was a rather depressing period, and an unfortunate post script to what was undeniably an incredibly productive and fruitful career.

I have two particularly fond memories of Kirby at San Diego (which I know I’ve talked about in previous columns, but this is the Kirby issue of CBG, and so I might as well bring them up.) The first was at a celebration of Jack and Roz Kirby’s wedding anniversary. “Seduction of the Innocent” was playing, and Jack and Roz stepped out onto the dance floor and boogied in most credible fashion to SOTI’s catchy tune, “King Jack.” It gave everyone watching a warm, squooshy feeling.

And the second was one point where I was walking through the lobby of a hotel, and off in a corner I saw Stan and Jack. They were seated fairly close to each other, on two couches, and they appeared to be chatting. Just… chatting. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it seemed a polite exchange. Even, dare I say it… friendly. When all is said and done, after all the acrimony that occurred, that’s the way I would prefer to remember them.

Thanks, Jack. Especially for the autograph.

Damn. I really thought it was “Darkseed.”

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Also, if you hurry, you can still get a copy of the February issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, featuring his superhero-esque short story, “The Archetype”… a story that started out as a notion for a Superman story until he realized that, if it was published, there couldn’t be any more Superman stories.)