Peter David's Blog, page 69

Movie Review: Blade

Originally published September 25, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1297

I still remember the first time he showed up in Tomb of Dracula, with a bandolier full of wooden knives, tinted goggles, a duffle coat, and more attitude than any five vampire hunters put together. He called himself “Blade” (which, admittedly, if you’re going to name yourself after your weapon of choice, is probably a catchier name than “wooden knife”). It always seemed to me that, whereas Dracula seemed to hold the rest of the book’s supporting cast in open contempt, there was something about Blade that the master vampire found unnerving.

Perhaps he saw the movie potential. Perhaps somehow he was able to intuit that while Marvel’s headliners would wash out in a series of films that ranged from embarrassing (The Punisher, Howard the Duck—although I suspect that if they were making the exact same Howard script now with the duck done in CGI, the film would be a hit) to unreleasable (Captain America) to unreleased (The Fantastic Four) to unmade (Spider-Man, tangled—naturally—in litigation), that it would be this third string character in a second-string title (no offense, Marv) who would be the first to vault to the number one box office slot.

Dracula is no longer a player in the Blade storyline. Intact, however, is Blade’s origin: Blade’s mother, while in the throes of giving birth to her son, is attacked by a vampire named Deacon Frost (Stephen Dorff in the film, although he’s not silver-haired as he was in the comics). The attack has an even more pervasive influence on Blade than it did in his comic origin: In the film, he’s part human, part vampire, with a vampire’s strength and speed and also a vampire’s thirst for blood with which he’s constantly struggling. In a way he’s an amalgam of the comic Blade and another Marv Wolfman/Gene Colan creation, Hannibal King, the vampire detective (and boy, if they make a second Blade film, would he be an ideal character to introduce).

In the film, vampires are not simply monsters creeping about in the night. They are everywhere, having infiltrated the entire power structure of the human world. And within the vampire society, there are power struggles, with the old guard of “born vampires” struggling with the hotshot young vampires (led by Frost) who tended to remind me of the Lost Boys, or those vampires in that recent sunglasses commercial.

Bad to the bone, the young vampires like to get jiggy with it in nightclubs that spray blood from the sprinkler system and dream of a time when the world is entirely populated by vampires. Unfortunately, what the vampires would actually feed on should there be no humans to serve as two-legged hot lunches for them is never addressed. Then again, most of the vampires involved have the IQ of squash anyway, so it figures that no one would ponder the long term consequences involved in acing the entire vampire food source.

As incarnated by Wesley Snipes, Blade no longer bandies about wooden knives. Instead he wields a shotgun firing silver nitrate, or silver stakes, or some damned thing like that—I’m not sure, but it certainly was very loud. The duffle coat has been replaced by a long black duster, the ensemble of choice. Protruding from the top of the coat is the conspicuous hilt of his sword—which is probably not the smartest move, since we’re told that the vampires “own the police” and the visible sword virtually paints a target on the back of one of the most conspicuous guys in town anyway. Considering he walks about in broad daylight in that get-up, the police should be able to pick the guy up inside of two days.

But he still has the shades, and the attitude has made the transition intact as well. In fact, his single greatest strength remains his single greatest weakness. Blade cares about killing vampires in general and nailing the one who killed his mom in particular. That’s it. Nothing else. He has no hobbies, no other interests. He doesn’t engage in deep philosophical discussions, he doesn’t stop to smell the roses, he doesn’t take bossa nova or samba lessons. His character definition begins and ends with his name: Blade the vampire hunter. He uses a blade and he hunts vampires. That’s it. There’s nothing else. I mean, Batman is no less obsessive, but at least he’s got the mansion, the other identity, the playboy life, and a kid sidekick to lighten things up.

In short, Blade’s character is that he has no character. Dustin Hoffman’s Rain Man had as much development.

Fortunately enough, the filmmakers (Steve Barrington, who directs the film as a cross between a Universal horror flick and an MTV video) and screenwriter David Goyer do not try to “cute” themselves around Blade’s unswervingly one-note presentation. This would be the ideal vehicle for presenting a hero who mutters annoying one liners that serve as substitute for characterization. You know—like having him decapitate a vampire and say, “Now he’s a head of himself,” or impaling an opponent and saying, “Have some stake for dinner.” Instead, Blade—for the most part—says nothing.

There hasn’t been a lead character with so few lines since Holly Hunter in The Piano (unless you count Godzilla). Even Blade’s nominal love interest serves more as a means to an end (the end being, naturally, hunting vampires) than a source of affection. If Blade has any affection for anyone in the film, it’s Kris Kristofferson’s “Whistler,” (“He makes the weapons… I use them”) and even they are united by their mutual devotion to eliminating bloodsuckers. You don’t get the feeling that these are two guys who ever kick back and discuss the football scores.

At heart, Blade is a tragic character, never capable of having a “normal” moment of life, unlike Batman who can at least pretend to enjoy the sham playboy existence of Bruce Wayne. To be at its most effective, a tragic character should at least have some inkling of the tragedy that is his. Some modicum of self-awareness of what “might have been.”

Blade is wrapped so tightly, speaks so little, is so goal-oriented, that it’s impossible to get any sort of read off him at all. The events that Goyer’s script put Blade squarely into the middle of are sequences that could crack through his exterior, just a little, to get just a peak at the man rather than the killing machine. But it never happens. Blade is exciting, make no mistake. The visuals, the pyrotechnics are all exceedingly well crafted. Dorff makes a gleeful villain, and Snipes puts the “ic” in “stoic”—which is fine, if that’s all you want out of your heroes. It just becomes too one-note—by halfway through, you’re dying for comedy relief, for a bit of humanity within the hero, something to engage the heart as well as the mind. When you leave Blade you feel, appropriately enough, drained. But it’s not a particularly good feeling.

What did feel good was seeing the names of Blade’s creators up front in the credits. Big as life, Marv Wolfman and Gene Colan.

It’s unfortunate, then, to learn that Marv has since had to file suit against the film’s producers. “Blade” and “Deacon Frost” were, after all, created as part of the beloved work-for-hire agreement with Marvel. Called into question is whether Blade, as a character, could be shopped out by Marvel as a movie.

I’ve seen a lot of folks online debating the matter, because naturally this sort of thing always brings up recollections of comic creators going up against large corporations—usually with great futility—going all the way back to Siegel and Schuster. What breaks me up is when some folks proclaim that a deal is a deal, that’s it, graven in stone, no turning back.

It’s a very nice theory, and certainly the law backs that up. The entertainment industry, however, is a business, and in doing that business, renegotiation is routine, particularly when a property takes off beyond anyone’s expectations. (Which only makes sense, I suppose. No one ever wants to go in and renegotiate when a property does poorly.)

We see it all the time, particularly and most visibly when it comes to actors. Contracts which tie them to five figure salaries get tossed aside in favor of six and even seven figures if they’re in a position to make the demands. And the producers will enter into renegotiations because it’s the smart thing for them to do, at least in the short term. The entertainment industry is simply too small to annoy people who—when they’re in a position of strength—could turn around and cut you off when you’re angling for their services again. It’s smart business.

Two recent cases in point:

Parker and Stone, the creators of South Park, signed a fairly lousy deal with Comedy Central when the show was just getting off the ground. Who knew? Who knew that it would take off the way that it has? Who knew that there would be t-shirts with the many deaths of Kenny, or Cartman demanding Cheesy Poofs, or plush toys, video tapes, etc.? All of this largesse was going mostly into the pockets of Comedy Central.

It could be argued that Comedy Central was the one who took the risks, who paid out the money to Parker and Stone in the first place. If the show had tanked, Parker and Stone wouldn’t have felt constrained to give the money back. All quite valid. On the other hand, it was their creation which put all that money into Comedy Central’s coffers. It bugged the hell out of Parker and Stone seeing their creations merchandised, and they were making virtually no money off it. They complained loudly and publicly, and my understanding is that Comedy Central renegotiated their contract. If so, that was good business.

Then there’s James Cameron. With costs running wildly out of control on Titanic, Cameron signed away both his director’s fee and his profit share on the film. In a way, that was indeed an example of someone renegotiating downward when things weren’t going well from a profit point of view. At that point in time, Titanic looked to be a major money loser. Again, who knew? Certainly not Cameron.

However, as the movie receipts flooded in, Cameron steadfastly did not ask to renegotiate, even though the circumstances under which it had been made were hopelessly moot. “A deal is a deal,” said Cameron. The studio was within its rights not to do anything to change that status quo. Again, though, my outsider understanding is that they did, in fact, “do right” by Cameron. It would make sense. After all, this is the writer/director of one of the most successful films in history. It’s smart to make him happy. Good business.

And then there’s Marv Wolfman. Marv, who has no big power in the industry. Marv, who is part of the lowliest, most disposable rung on the Hollywood ladder: the writer. It would be smart for the producers to have made some sort of respectable monetary settlement up front. What would it have cost them, I wonder, if they’d been willing to do right by Marv? The monetary equivalent of one day’s shooting? Two, perhaps? This wasn’t a shoestring art film shot on a budget of fifty grand. This was a major studio, big budget release. The smart thing to do would have been to settle up front and quietly. Unfortunately, too often you deal with corporate arrogance—all the more pathetic when you consider that those same corporations will be more than happy to cut new deals for big-name actors.

Not with writers, though. “Come and get us, sucker,” they’ll say to a Marv Wolfman or an Art Buchwald. “Don’t even think that the art of renegotiation belongs to you. We’ll cut you to pieces, because we can.”

Corporations don’t concern themselves with matters of morality. Okay, to hell with morality, then.

This kind of arrogance—it’s just bad business.

Appropriate that it happens in relation to a film about bloodsuckers.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Support Marv. Buy his new The Curse of Dracula comic book from Dark Horse.)

 

The Wrap Party Convention

Originally published September 18, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1296

Assorted notes on “The Wrap Party,” a convention in the United Kingdom I recently attended:

Hours before I headed for the airport, it was announced that the US had fired tomahawk missiles at Afghanistan and the Sudan. “Americans traveling abroad are warned to be extra careful,” the radio intoned. Great. Just what I needed to hear.

*

“Wrap Party” was originally conceived to be a sort of capper for Babylon 5, a convention that was to be held at the wrap-up of the entire series. Several things happened to undercut somewhat the intention of the con. First, the transmission of the concluding episodes was held up, so the series hasn’t actually ended yet for viewers. And second, rather than being an aspect of the past, B5 remains an ongoing concern since the creation of the series Crusade, which is to continue set in the B5 universe.

The convention went on, however, as originally planned. Unlike most other B5 conventions which feature any number of the actors, this one focused purely on the writing side, with such guests as Joe Straczynski and Harlan Ellison, plus such non-B5 guests as Bryan Talbot. Oh, and me.

*

I have made an interesting discovery: Being laughed at derisively by someone with a British accent is even more annoying than being laughed at by someone who doesn’t have a British accent. The accent makes one feel—I dunno—even more like a dummy than usual.

You see, I had been given a simple assignment by my middle daughter, Gwen. She collects (sigh) Beanie Babies, and I had been told to bring her back a Britannia Bear, a Beanie Baby available exclusively to the UK. There’d been some confusion at first when she told me that it was a little brown bear with a lumber jack on it. I didn’t understand that at all, thinking that perhaps it was some sort of Monty Python reference, before I realized she meant “union jack.”

I had this delusion that the bears would be in abundance, that Beanie Baby fever had passed by the UK, and that the Brits knew better than to be caught up in all this Beanie absurdity. Apparently not. I asked around and was greeted with looks ranging from amused to, in the case of one person at the airport, near contempt.

“You must be joking,” I was told repeatedly, and greeted in a number of instances with the aforementioned condescending laughter. Apparently the bears are nigh impossible to come by in the UK, and those people who are carrying them are asking an average of around $300 for them. That $300 for a toy that retails at six bucks. There was absolutely no way in hell I was going to pay that kind of money for a Beanie Baby. It’s like Mad Cow disease, but with Beanie Babies. Mad Beanie disease.

*

Although the British fans knew of my work, they weren’t sure what to expect in terms of my convention appearance. Harlan volunteered to do my intro, and spent fifteen minutes extolling my virtues with (appropriately) a number of digressions into stuff that had nothing to do with me at all. Which was fine, because as long as the audience was entertained, that was good enough for me. As part of my presentation I did a dramatic reading of “Skippy the Jedi Droid,” the column that ran in these very pages some months ago. The hotel was right by Heathrow Airport, which served me in good stead, because at one point in the reading I got to the following passage:

“For one day the ground rumbled beneath his treads, and he saw coming towards him the giant rolling truck of the Jawas…”

Just as I read that sentence, absolutely on cue, a large jet passed overhead and caused the entire room to rumble. I was suddenly performing in Sensurround.

*

Bryan Talbot and his lovely wife, Mary, were particularly hospitable to me. They wound up inviting me to dinner twice, which is certainly once more than duty requires and twice as many times as anyone should have to. Bryan, known to many for his Tale of One Bad Rat, is working on a follow-up to his Luther Arkwright series, which will be published by Dark Horse. He showed me samples of the issues already in progress, and it looks to be a winner.

One of the nights at dinner we were joined by artist Mike Collins. It is one of the odd realities of the comic industry that you can work with someone and never work with them, which was the case with Mike and myself. Mike was the penciler of the Babylon 5 comic which I wrote and was serialized in a British B5 fan magazine before being released as three individual comics (Joe actually wrote the first issue). The thing is, I wrote my two issues full-script, which meant that as soon as I was done with them, off they went to the artist and I never saw them again. So it’s as if Mike worked with me, but I didn’t work with him. It’s all very strange.

Conversation at dinner turned, of all things, to The Teletubbies. This bizarro series, which is aimed at toddlers, and which actually makes Bananas in Pajamas look like I, Claudius in comparison, is the single creepiest show I have ever seen. Since Mike has three quite young daughters and the series has been on in the UK for a while (having only recently started in the US), he’s rather familiar with it. Joe Straczynski describes it as having a drug experience without the drugs, and Susan Ellison once decided to “torment” a bedridden, ailing Harlan by putting on the show and absconding with the remote control so that he couldn’t make it go away.

In case you haven’t seen it, the show consists of four variously hued—creatures, I guess you’d have to call them—bopping about and having adventures that consist of forty-five seconds of plot plus twenty-four minutes of repetition. Mike described a particularly surreal one where the other three are endeavoring to force the fourth, amidst much squealing delight, to wear a tutu. For me, the most hair-raising aspect of the whole thing is the show’s incarnation of the sun, which consists of a drawing of the sun with the laughing face of an actual baby superimposed over it. For some reason, every time the sun chuckles down on the Teletubbies, it frightens me to the core. In the UK there’s a British narrator who has been redubbed for American broadcast, as if the target audience would have trouble understanding it otherwise.

There have even been odd Teletubby-related stories in the UK, some of which might or might not border on the urban myth. These includes guys dressed as Teletubbies robbing a bank—and one of the actors in the Teletubby outfits being fired over creative differences and getting a gig as a male stripper.

In discussing it with Mike, Bryan and Mary, we hit upon our own version of the Teletubbies. We dubbed them the Tele-Thuggees, a kiddy-version of the murderous cult seen in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. We envisioned them jumping about, laughing and dancing with their little knives, worshipping Kali, ripping out people’s hearts and then giggling, “Again!” Later in the convention, Mike obligingly drew a visualization of the dreaded Tele-Thuggees (which appears with this column).

Y’know, years ago I thought of writing the adventures of Indiana Pooh (“Woozles. Why did it have to be Woozles?”) Well, if I ever do, and I need opponents for him, I’m all set.

*

I attend a midnight panel about Jack the Ripper and the continued hold and fascination he has for people. Several interesting points are made, including one fan who commented on the odd perversity that most people are capable of naming, off the top of their head, half a dozen or so serial killers—but just how many victims of serial killers can you name? It’s something of a truism that the victims simply serve to stack up in numbers, figuring into the equation only in terms of how many bodies they total and, consequently, how formidable that total makes their killer. It’s as if we lose sight of what’s truly important.

We also come to the conclusion that part of what made Jack the Ripper so formidable was his name.

If he’d been called Bob the Ripper, or Nigel the Ripper, it simply wouldn’t have struck as much fear into the hearts of Londoners. Almost makes one want to do a story about Jack’s frustrated kid brother, Bob the Ripper, who keeps trying to follow in big brother’s footsteps and just makes a muddle of it. Hmm. Maybe I will write that. Sounds silly enough to work.

*

I made an interesting discovery. Saying, “Oh, my God! They killed Kenny!” or any variation thereof always got a big laugh. Why? Because South Park has only just started airing in the UK. A few months down the line, of course, it’ll get the mildly amused smile it generates here.

*

So I was sitting around in a hallway at about one in the morning, chatting in a relaxed manner with a group of fans. And suddenly a fan announces to me in a very loud voice (implying over-indulgence in alcohol), “I have a major problem with your entire race.” Naturally I immediately assumed that he was an anti-Semite. I thought, “Well, this is certainly different. Two decades I’ve been doing conventions, and I’ve never had someone start railing against my being Jewish.”

It turned out, however, that he meant “Americans.” He’d served in the Gulf War and apparently was underwhelmed by what he bellicosely proclaimed as incompetent American soldiers. Oddly, I thought that we were a nationality, not a race. He then went on to challenge me on an assortment of American military and policy decisions and apparently expected me to defend them, while the other fans squirmed and writhed in discomfort and repeatedly begged him either to shut up or go away or both.

Naturally, I was never in the Gulf War. I wonder if any American soldiers got themselves loaded and harassed guys who were just sitting, chatting, and minding their own business.

*

Many fans who’d learned that I’d seen the Avengers movie (which either hadn’t opened or just opened over there, I wasn’t sure) wanted to know what I thought. What was particularly interesting was the vote of no-confidence given by the studio which refused to screen the film for reviewers—never a good sign.

I hate to say it, because I know the film was flawed—not as airy as it wanted to be, heavy where it should have been light, ponderous where charm was required, and the chemistry of Steed and Peel not even beginning to approximate the original series. But with all that, I told the fans the same thing I tell you: any film which has Sean Connery dressed in a bright blue teddy bear suit—to say nothing of the best use of Escher-like scenery since Labyrinth—has me as a fan.

*

The convention found itself running significantly in the red, to the tune of almost eight thousand pounds. Harlan and Joe decided to attend to this situation by holding an impromptu auction Saturday night during the convention’s big dance. They offered two groups of four—the two highest bidders—guided tours of the facilities at Babylonian Productions as well as Harlan’s house. Even though the bidders have to provide their own means of getting across the pond, that didn’t prevent spirited bidding which raised over eleven thousand pounds. Basically, Joe and Harlan put the convention into the black in under half an hour. Not bad.

*

Overall, I like British conventions. The audiences tend to be fairly literate and enthusiastic, the panels are well-attended, and the fans (with the occasional exception) polite and friendly. I know I’d consider going to another. Just need airfare, hotel lodgings… and a Britannia Beanie Baby, of course.

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

 

Comics and Ageism

Originally published September 11, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1295

Harlan Ellison told me an interesting anecdote, in relation to the Writers Guild of America’s committee on ageism. The head of the committee, a writer well into middle age, was complaining of rampant ageism in the industry: a very pronounced prejudice against older writers. Another writer, upon hearing this, said, “I know exactly what you’re talking about. I’ve had to deal with that kind of thing, too.” The committee head was skeptical that the relatively young man could have experience with prejudice on the basis of age.

The young writer then related the tale of an appointment he had with the producers of Spin City. He was going to pitch story possibilities, perhaps even be in line for a staff position. He called the day before the meeting to confirm. He was told, yes, by all means, they were looking forward to meeting with him. Then he was asked, “By the way, how old are you?” He was, he told them, thirty-one.

“Oh,” the person on the other end informed him, “Then you don’t have to bother coming in. We’re only looking for people in their twenties.” Keep in mind that the series was created by Gary David Goldberg, who hasn’t seen twenty in several decades.

Talent didn’t matter, experience didn’t matter, knowledge didn’t matter. Old is bad, young is good, and anything which has the slightest taint of “not now” is tossed aside.

In the film Postcards from the Edge, Shirley MacLaine, portraying the mother of Meryl Streep’s character, says, “You kids today only care about instant gratification,” to which Streep’s character sighs, “Instant gratification takes too long.” That more or less nails it.

Now—how does this relate to comics and the discussions of ageism?

When I first started as a comics fan, what I found intriguing was not simply where comics were going, but also where they’d been. By buying into the DC Universes, I had a sense of being part of something that had been around before I was born (less so with Marvel, which was simply around before I was paying attention to it). It was a feeling reinforced by the ready supply of inexpensive reprints and the copious volumes over the succeeding years that broadened and deepened my understanding of, and appreciation for, history.

But history is of little-to-no relevance to many these days. There are any number of reasons that can be cited, I suppose. Perhaps it’s a crumbling educational system. Perhaps it’s the fact that with the advent of computer nets and such, there’s too much instantaneous dissemination of information available. There’s so much pressure to keep up with everything that’s happening right now, that no one cares about what has gone before.

Perhaps history seems to have no relevance since the world of the 1990s is so drastically different from the world of the 1940s (since back in the 1940s we had attempted genocide, crazed dictators, and a Democratic President who conducted a series of affairs, none of which could possibly have any relevance to modern day).

There is, or should be, a grand feeling of being part of something that is bigger than you are. Comic books are our modern mythologies, and it was an incredible notion when one considered that one was reading of characters who are not only alive and vital today, but who have careers that stretch back thirty, forty, fifty, even sixty years. (Why isn’t Time Warner making a big push to celebrate Superman’s 60th anniversary? What’s up with that? Are they so annoyed that the film hasn’t worked out that they’d rather just sweep it under a rug?)

There are steps being taken in the right direction. More involvement of the Justice Society of America, for instance, and the recent publication of an old-style Superman annual. It cost a hell of a lot more than twenty-five cents, but at least it was more accessible to impulse buy than a glitzy hardcover collection would be.

Meantime, over at Marvel, a recent press release proclaims:

“We have identified ways to make Marvel storylines and characters more accessible to the casual readers and young children while maintaining appeal to the die-hard fans,” said Joseph Calamari, President and COO, Marvel Entertainment Group, Inc. “Reestablishing the values and original characterizations of Marvel’s most popular super-heroes bridges the gap between generations of readers.

“What this means for comic book readers is more accessible storylines that recapture the original personalities of Marvel’s super-heroes. This strategy will appeal to the long-time fans as well as to children yet to be introduced to the Marvel Universe.”

A laudable goal. The problem is that Marvel can’t separate its initial success years ago from the environment that spawned it. Thirty years ago, Marvel was—dare we say it—new. New and different. There was nothing else being published that was like it. Marvel had its own creators and sensibilities that made it unique.

But freelancers move freely between Marvel, DC and other companies, and the styles of the books have all tended to blend together. It’s like trying to determine nowadays which automobiles are built in the US and which in Japan. Although simplifying the storylines might placate the current readers, attracting new readers means providing them with something wildly different.

That was what Stan, Jack and Steve did that was so clever. They looked at what had gone before and tweaked it, twisted it, and hammered it into something new. Men with a sense of history were able to build upon it. Let’s see what went before, they said, and send it in a direction that is both unexpected and yet logical. That’s how long-term storytelling is done. That’s how myths are built upon. That’s how people with a sense of history operate. People with a sense of desperation, on the other hand, look at what’s gone before and say, “That worked before. Let’s do it again.”

Marvel presents a curious dichotomy. It seeks to embrace its past—but in the parlance and expectations of today. One the one hand it extols the virtues of its lengthy history, but on the other hand it restarts titles right and left, as if ashamed to admit just how long the titles have been around. Remember when DC cancelled Adventure Comics just short of issue #500, and all the brouhaha that engendered (which resulted in DC’s extending the series to #503)? Well, Marvel just announced that Incredible Hulk will be cancelled in a few months, killing the title just two years shy of its 500th issue. In terms of the stories themselves, like a mother bird chewing her babies’ food in order to make it palatable, Marvel will reprint in easily accessible form the early tales of Spider-Man—except they’ll be pre-chewed by John Byrne.

I was also amused that Marvel intends to make their titles “more accessible to the reader” by means of “shorter story arcs, less panels per page, more intelligent and in-depth background information.” I remember a couple of decades back when Marvel instituted a no-continued-story policy. It proved to be, by my outside perception, a spectacular flop as fans cried out for, and got, the return of the multi-issue adventures that had helped to make Marvel popular. Also telling is the desire for Marvel to return to its glory days while calling for “less panels per page.” I’m looking at two pages from Incredible Hulk #6 hanging on my wall, drawn by Steve Ditko. Two random pages. One page has nine panels. The other has eleven. The action is clear and uncluttered, easily comprehensible even without the dialogue (of which there is an abundance, I should note). It reminds me of the clueless Joseph II, Emperor of Austria. “Too many notes, Mozart.”

“Too many panels, Ditko.”

There are some steps in the right direction. Marvel has an upcoming YA line called Marvel Kids Interactive Adventures, and is planning a “line of collectible reprints of books from 1939 to 1999,” although the word “collectible” would seem to imply that they’re not going to be priced at—oh—ten cents.

I’m very aware of the financial difficulties of marketing reprint books at anything approaching pocket change. The problem is that, with today’s readership, anything costing more than that might be of no interest to them at all. That, and the fact that no matter what Marvel does, it can’t make itself new.

In the 1960s, Marvel was new, DC was old. Now Marvel is old and DC is older. And if you ask any young person, they will tell you that there is nothing more embarrassing to watch than the spectacle of someone old trying to act as if they’re young. Modern young readers are simply not interested in making the emotional and historical investment in the characters. Rather than being something that intrigues them, that long history serves as a turn-off.

Ageism is an attitude that pervades not only the potential readership, but the creative base as well, at all levels. I was relating to someone who works as an editor (I won’t say whether in or out of comics) how the hilariously titled film Jane Austen’s Mafia had been shortened to the unhumorous Mafia when audience polls indicated they had no idea who Jane Austen was. To which the editor replied, after a moment, “Um, who is Jane Austen?”

Jane Austen. She wrote the book upon which Clueless was based. Clueless, the film which featured the line, “That look is so five-minutes-ago,” a line that would be a lot funnier if it weren’t reality in microcosm.

We live in a culture that not only disdains the old, but devours the new and spits it out, rendering it old in less time than it takes to read this column. We not only have contempt for that which is old, but we wonder why it ever interested us in the first place. For that matter, it is also part of the mindset of youth that parents—and that which their parents enjoyed or celebrated—must be rejected, set aside and forced to make way for that which is new. Movies are aimed at teenagers, television shows are aimed at ages 18 to 35. Never was it more blatant than in the commercial proclaiming, “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile.”

Well, guess what. Superhero comic books are, to many potential young readers, their father’s Oldsmobile. The thing is, I once saw a caw drive past, made in the 1950s, that had a sign on the back proudly proclaiming, “This is your father’s Oldsmobile.” And you know what? It had a lot of style.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. In case you’re wondering, I couldn’t bring myself to read Hulk #468. Out of morbid curiosity, I did flip through #469, but couldn’t get past the fact that Dr. Bruce Banner had been mysteriously transformed into a dead ringer for Dr. Benton Quest, father of Jonny Quest. Which might have been cool if Race or Hadji had been in the issue as well.)

 

Comics Then and Now

Originally published September 4, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1293

The past couple of columns, we’ve discussed aspects of, and moments in, comic history. I rattled off about a dozen or so examples of what I perceive as some of comics’ most “memorable moments,” all of which occurred—as will come as a great shock, it seems, to many modern readers—at a time that pre-existed not only their interest in comics, but their birth.

What we’re seeing, when we witness the sort of shortsighted displays as Wizard‘s 25 most memorable moments in comics history, almost none of which occurred earlier than 1979, is the sort of massive blind spot which is rampant throughout not only comics readership, but throughout much of the country. It is the belief that history doesn’t matter. More—that it’s boring. Irrelevant. That whatever happened before, it can’t possibly compare in quality, style or importance with what’s happening now.

It’s the mindset that is as sweeping in its scope as to allow for the colorizing of black and white films because today’s audience won’t watch them, to allowing for some organizations to try and (in some cases, successfully) sweep the Holocaust under a rug in hopes that people will forget—and many of them will.

Let’s get a disclaimer out of the way: I’m not talking about you, of course. It’s someone else, of course. It’s always someone else. You, naturally, are fully informed. You’re up to date. You know not only where comics are going, but where they’ve been. If I mention the name Hogarth, you can rattle off his accomplishments. You can discern a Raboy illustration at a glance. You know precisely who Bill Finger worked with, you can name all the original members of the Justice Society, you’re aware that there used to be a Daredevil who had kid sidekicks named “The Little Wise Guys,” you’re fully cognizant of who Superman swiped the Fortress of Solitude concept from, you know the difference between Gardner Fox and Fox Mulder—heck, you even know what Stan Lee’s real name is. You da man. I’m not talking to you, you’re in the clear. It’s the other guy. It always is.

When I first started reading comics, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and ran mom-and-pop stores snarling, “You gonna read those or buy ‘em?” I was fully aware that I had come into the game way late. It was the 1960s, and the fact that comics had a long and illustrious heritage was thrust in my face constantly.

The probable origin of this awareness on my part was from the publishers themselves.

As a kid, I knew nothing about the characters’ backstories. I hadn’t been reading comics (or much of anything yet) during the Silver Age rebirth of the DC line, and when I was very young my dad wouldn’t let me read Marvel Comics because he thought the main characters were ugly looking (which, let’s face it, they were). I knew so little about the heroes that when Superman was described in the TV series as a “strange visitor from another planet,” I figured that meant he was here on a temporary basis. He was a visitor, after all. I thought he’d be going home someday. I didn’t know he was here to stay until I saw “Superman on Earth” and said, “Oh. Well, I guess there’s no going back, huh?”

I began reading DC Comics not knowing anything about the origins of the vast majority of the characters. Then I started seeing ads for comics that featured “Secret Origins” of the assorted heroes, and I realized that the characters had not simply sprung full-blown into the comics with no background whatsoever. They had been “normal” at one point, or had undergone some sort of “birthing” of their powers which lead to them doing the strange and wonderful things they did. And the “Secret Origins” comics spelled everything out.

But there was more available than just that. The summertime was a major research time for me, for once upon a time, the summer wasn’t an occasion for a whole bunch of annuals which featured interconnecting or uniformly themed stories which drove fans nuts. Instead, the summer was the time for the 80 Page Giants, one of the great joys of my youth.

Yes, yes, I know that in earlier decades you’d get massive editions for a dime, but I wasn’t lucky to be around for those. Instead I was perfectly happy with the 80 Page Giants. For 25 cents, a mere quarter of a buck, I would get 80 pages worth of stories featuring earlier adventures of Superman, Batman, or Superman and Batman together, or the Superman family, or various other characters. This just fed into my desire to find out more about where everyone had come from. When I was a kid, there were certain exciting “sign posts” of each year. The arrival of the Christmas catalogue from Sears was one, for instance. But another was the first appearance of that year’s crop of 80 Page Giants.

By the time I was a bit older, my dad had relented on his Marvel Comics ban and I started picking up the new titles. But I had little feel or understanding for the characters as they were at that point. Fortunately, Marvel was also publishing its own line of reprint comics, specifically (I can only figure) to address the needs of exactly fans such as myself. There was the unwieldily named Marvel Collector’s Items Classics, later shortened to Marvel’s Greatest Comics, which reprinted early adventures of the Fantastic Four, and Marvel Tales which reprinted Spider-Man stories.

These comics also featured Dr. Strange, the Human Torch, the Mighty Thor, and the Incredible Hulk. The first Hulk story I ever read was a reprint of Incredible Hulk #6, a story so off-beat (the gangsterish, tough-talking Hulk sprouted Bruce Banner’s head, then defeated the Metal Master and said thanks to the Teen Brigade) that it formed my earliest impressions of the character. (Indeed, it breaks me up when Marvel bigwigs speak now of returning the Hulk to his “roots,” defined as the savage and/or mute brainless Hulk—totally oblivious to the fact that the Hulk’s true roots are nothing like that at all.) All the gatefold covers in the world can’t compare to the inexpensive first-hand introductions that I received to the characters’ histories.

These comics fired my further interest in learning what had gone before. As I got older, I began to seek out more and more about the roots of comics. I got my hands on every book I could. A trip to the library got me Jules Feiffer’s The Great Comic Book Heroes. That book gave me my first truly full exposure to the Golden Age of Comics, stories that far predated anything I’d been reading in the 80 Page Giants. Very early stories and origins of the Spectre, Hawkman, etc. It was also, if I recall correctly, my introduction to the Spirit. I found the art style much scratchier than what I was used to, but it didn’t matter. It was where the characters had come from. That gave it weight and made it interesting to me.

I didn’t stop there. In the comics, I saw ads for a humongous trade paperback about the origins of comics by one Jim Steranko (the man who, it is said, was Jack Kirby’s basis for Mister Miracle). I got it, read it cover to cover, over and over, as well as its follow-up volume. Crammed with tons of information about characters that I had never heard of but wanted to know about, and lavishly illustrated. More were promised, but never delivered. That was okay.

I wasn’t sitting on my hands; I was busy reading and re-reading All in Color For a Dime, edited by Dick Lupoff and Don Thompson, featuring all manner of essays about the heroes of the Golden and Silver Age. In the meantime, there were huge hardcovers available that were celebrations of the history of my main guys, Batman and Superman. Batman from the 30s to the 70s, and Superman from the 30s to the70s. I saved up my allowance and bought them both, and couldn’t get enough of them. In fact, I only just now found out that there was a companion volume, similarly titled, about Captain Marvel. How the hell I missed it, I don’t know.

In short, there was a wealth of material available to me, to all the new fans who wanted to know the Way Things Were.

No more.

A few years ago, before Marvel comics discontinued its last reprint book, Marvel Tales, a retailer told me of how a kid came in, thumbed through the book and made a face. “This artist is just a Ron Frenz clone,” announced the young customer and tossed the Steve Ditko-drawn comic back into the rack.

Reprint volumes still exist, but not in the cheap, easily accessible manner that they did before. For the most part, they’re aimed at the older readers as a nostalgia trip rather than at the new readers as a way of informing them. But why should they be informed? They don’t know, they don’t care, and they don’t care that they don’t know.

The broad and long-term destructive effects of ageism next column.

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

 

So have you seen Iron Man 3 yet?

After all, it’s Sunday. I figure any real comics fan saw it by Friday.

Personally I loved it. SO much better than Iron Man 2 (which I despised). Robert Downey once again makes the argument that no one can play Tony Stark the way he can: he comes across as a combination of arrogant and vulnerable, dealing with a massive case of PTSD after the events in “The Avengers.” Gwyneth Paltrow’s Pepper is more a damsel in distress than ever, but somehow manages to make it work. And the villains are great, especially Ben Kingsley’s Mandarin who will doubtless drive many of the long time fans nuts, but yet somehow totally works.

3D is wholly unnecessary. Save money and see it in 2D.

PAD

Memorable Moments in Comics History, Part 2

Originally published August 28, 1998 in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1293

Before we continue with the thread of last week’s column, I have a bit of business to attend to, so bear with me.

It has come to my attention that there was a guy running around on message boards and DC Comics websites masquerading as me. He has been discussing upcoming events in books of mine (meaning he reads Previews, I suppose) and has also been badmouthing the work of pros such as Grant Morrison. This is not grief I need.

I have enough problems with the opinions I do express, much less now having to deal with opinions I had nothing to do with. I already went on some boards (such as a JLA one) and exposed him as an impostor. But he may be active in other places as well; there are far too many for me to check. So, be warned: if you see message board posts with my name attached, but with an e-mail address other than padguy@aol.com, they are false, and should be reported to me. Thanks.

Okay. Slogging onward:

Picking up from last week, we were discussing truly memorable, shocking, startling, even gut-wrenching moments in “the history of comics” which, according to the staff of Wizard who made these picks, doesn’t really predate 1979. In order to prove that there was life in earlier decades, I’ve been listing memorable moments that happened before then. Picking up where we left off:

7. The death of Richard Sheridan (New Gods #6). Innocent people, civilians, didn’t die in comics. Not ever. I mean, if the Hulk got into a fight with the Abomination and leveled twenty square city blocks, it was always abandoned buildings scheduled for demolition. But Jack Kirby totally squashed that comfort zone with “The Glory Boat,” a devastating tale about a cranky hawk veteran, his pacifist son, and the daughter who was always caught between them in their arguments.

The son, Richard, was held in nothing but contempt by his father who considered his son a coward. A boating accident had stranded the three of them at sea, where despite the desperation of their circumstances, they continued to bicker incessantly. Matters became considerably worse, however, when they wandered into the middle of a battle between the New Gods and the aquatic Apocalypse villains, the Deep Six.

Leaping to his father’s defense, Richard went toe-to-toe with one of the D6, a fight that lasted maybe a panel or two as the villain not only killed the young man, but did so in the most horrific manner of removing his face. Orion showed up a moment later and blasted the bad guy into smithereens, but it was too late to salvage Richard. At the end of the story, with his son dead and gone and his daughter off to safety, the father—his mind shattered—is left adrift to ponder his son who heroically sacrificed himself to save the dad who never had a kind word for him.

8. The petrified bad guy (Adventure Comics #435). Almost any issue of the Spectre under Michael Fleischer’s run was bizarre enough. His work on the title set a new standard for glorious dementia (and I say that with only the greatest respect). There’s any number of shockers to choose from, but probably the most memorable was when the Spectre, the instruments of God’s vengeance and pure annoyance here on earth, disposed of a thug by transforming him into a wood statue and then using a chain saw to carve the guy a new, um, look. The final panel of the sequence had the bad guy sectioned and stacked up like a human Jenga puzzle.

9. The confrontation between the elderly black guy and Green Lantern (Green Lantern/Green Arrow #76). If the creation of Hal Jordan as Green Lantern was one of the defining moments of the Silver Age, this sequence (and retitling of the book) was the redefinition. Green Lantern, who had concentrated his adventures and will-powered ring on matters of mostly cosmic scale, suddenly found himself confronted by a guy who kind of looked like Joe Seneca.

The unnamed elderly black man said that he had heard tell that GL worked for “the blue skins,” and had done considerable things for beings of other assorted hues, but what had he done “for the black skins. Answer me that, Mr. Green Lantern.” A letter writer in a subsequent issue opined that Hal should have replied, “I saved your entire world a half a dozen times, now sod off,” and in real life, he just might have. Maybe even should have.

But the point of the moment was that Hal was becoming so involved with matters of cosmic importance that he had totally lost sight of social difficulties and problems right here on planet earth. Granted, there’s a disturbing side to this logic: It’s exactly the same school of thought that leads short-sighted critics to be opposed to the space program. In this instance, though, it was probably worth it since it lead to a memorable series of stories as GL took a long, hard look at himself, found himself wanting, and wound up going on a road trip with Green Arrow and an incognito Guardian of OA.

You know, they could probably do this comic now as a movie: Make Green Lantern black and cast Danny Glover, have Mel Gibson as Green Arrow, Joe Pesci as the Guardian—you got yourself a film.

10. The cover of Action Comics #1. I know it’s not a story—but it’s a moment nonetheless. Imagine what it must have been like, being a kid and seeing this incredible imagery. A man in a blue and red costume with a cape, lifting a car over his head with no more difficulty than you might lift a baseball, preparing to toss the auto at scattering thieves. Proof that it’s a memorable moment? Not only is it immediately leaping to your mind right now as I describe it, with crystal clarity, but it’s one of the most imitated and “homaged” covers.

It was a comic so memorable that it launched an entire damned genre, for crying out loud: the comic book superhero. (Yes, yes, I know, the Phantom predated him, but even the Ghost Who Walks couldn’t bench-press a Buick.)

Hey, just as an aside, do you realize that the Phantom is the ultimate cross-over hero because you can do stories with him set in any time and place over the past four centuries and have him encounter practically anyone in fiction? Sure, it won’t be Kit Walker, but it’s still the Phantom.

I suggested Phantom meets Tarzan ages ago. How about the Phantom meets Zorro? The Phantom embroiled in the French Revolution, helping out the Scarlet Pimpernel? “The Case of the Skull Headed Ring,” as described by John Watson, M.D. The Phantom head-to-head with Dracula at an earlier time in the vampire’s unlife. Do a whole line of “Phantom Meets” stories. Anyone listening? Lee Falk? The Estates of Edgar Rice Burroughs? The Zorro folks? King Features? Bueller? Anyone? Anyone? But I digress.

11. The Destroyer slicing Thor’s hammer in half (Journey into Mystery #118). Thor’s hammer, the mystic mallet Mjolnir (say that five times fast), was the perfect weapon. Sure, Cap’s shield was cool, but it didn’t hurl thunderbolts or come when you called it. It was the symbol of Thor’s strength and was capable of demolishing buildings or Storm Giants with one swing. So imagine not only the shock of Thor, but the pure amazement of the reader, when Thor came up against the Destroyer, an unstoppable robot created by none other than Odin.

How tough was the Destroyer, you ask? The Destroyer was so formidable that with one ray zap, he sliced the head of the hammer in half. Thor was (appropriately) thunderstruck. And it was a real kick to the head for the reader as well. If the Destroyer, with absolutely no effort whatsoever, was capable of depriving Thor of his single greatest weapon, then Thor was in for the fight of his life.

12. Ben Grimm annihilates Doc Doom (Fantastic Four #40); Reed Richards nearly shishkabobs the Sub-Mariner (Fantastic Four #27). I’m examining these two moments in tandem because they’re really flipsides of the same concept. In FF #40, the depowered Fantastic Four—their abilities dispatched in an earlier encounter with the Frightful Four—found themselves at the nonexistent mercy of Doc Doom who had commandeered the Baxter Building and turned it into a death trap (as supervillains are wont to do.) In a memorable case of the blind leading the powerless, Daredevil helped the FF survive and get to Reed’s lab, wherein Reed Just So Happened to have a device that restored the FF’s powers.

The downside was that Ben Grimm’s power loss had meant that he was back as a human being. Reed’s restoring his powers meant transforming him back into the Thing. As you might surmise, Ben wasn’t ecstatic about it—and chose to take his ire out upon Doom. The infuriated Thing, madder than we’d ever seen him, bursts in on Doom. Doc Doom promptly starts launching everything he has packed in his armor to stop the Thing. The battle is fascinating for two reasons: One, watching the implacable juggernaut that the Thing has become advancing on Doom step by hard-won step. And two, watching Doom’s slowly eroding confidence as the Thing shakes off the best shots the monarch has to offer and keeps on coming. By the time the Thing gets “his mitts” on Von Doom, Doc is actually reduced to screaming at the Thing that he should keep away.

Not surprisingly, the Thing doesn’t oblige—and in one of the most exhilarating defeats in FF history, proceeds not only to crush Doom’s hands, but shred his armor. Only the intervention of Reed Richards stops Ben from tearing Doom’s head from his shoulders. Doom staggers away, looking not like an imperious villain but rather more like a busted tinker toy. No one had lorded it over the FF higher than had Doom, and no one was brought more low in his career.

Contrast and compare one of the FF’s memorable encounters with the Submariner. Enamored of Sue Storm, Namor absconds with her to the ocean floor for the purpose of making her his consort. This move really hacks off Reed Richards, who develops a means of having the FF breathe underwater and launches a rescue attempt. It comes down to a face-to-face between Reed and Namor. Namor had been convinced until that moment that Mr. Fantastic was simply a passionless egghead. He learns differently, and boy, so do we, as Reed comes at him with everything he’s got. Reed employs his pliable body as we’d never seen before.

Nowadays, with so many lethal “heroes” running around, it’s difficult to remember a time when heroes simply didn’t do that kind of thing. But that’s how it was back in the early 1960s, which is why Reed’s actions were all the more stunning. The Submariner, in a rare moment of humbling, find himself purely on the defensive as Reed hammers at him, even going so far as to transform parts of his body into deadly spikes. Only Namor’s speed prevents him from being turned into a pincushion, and the sea king realizes that he is beset by an infuriated “man in love.”

It’s interesting to think of the two FF moments together because they’re so similar—but at opposite ends of the creative scale. In both instances you have two of the FF’s most regal, and arrogantly self-assured, foes. Von Doom is largely intellect, although he packs serious heat; the Submariner depends mostly upon his incomparable strength. In both instances, they go head-to-head with their opposite numbers: The Thing is the incarnation of unintellectual, brute strength; Mr. Fantastic is, for the most part, cerebral and dispassionate. Yet in both battles, the bad guys are humbled as they discover that they have completely underestimated their opponents and are lucky to come out of the encounters in one piece.

13. The death of Xavier (X-Men #42). I know, I know, nowadays death seems routine. And for that matter, it was later revealed that Xavier wasn’t really dead. But at the time, it was nothing short of stunning. The guide, mentor and teacher of the X-Men… died. Perhaps the thing that made it most effective was that it was the loss of a parent figure. Any kid reading it brought that personal resonance to it: The parent is dead. How do we go on? How do we function? How could he leave us behind like this? It worked on so many levels, and was so shocking for the time (as opposed to now, when fans would promptly be starting betting pools to determine how long before Xavier returned) that it has to take its place in comics history.

History—and the forgetting thereof. We’ll broaden our scope next time around to discuss why lack of interest in the true history of the medium is helping to speed its downfall (although anyone who wants to send in their own memorable moments is welcome to do so).

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

 

Four Months Later

Things continue to improve for Peter slowly.

He can now touch the thumb of his right finger to his pinkie with pretty much normal effort. He has started to type again for limited amount of time. Between that and Dragon Dictate, he is able to get work done. It might not be as fast for him as his pre-stroke speed but he is getting a lot done for various projects.

His gait is returning to normal. He is only using a cane for very long distances. His stamina is returning slowly.

He is bowling again and starting to get his game back in order. He is throwing closer to his average these days.

Each normal activity that he can do is a victory.

And like any recovery we have our good days and our bad days and our OK days.

Next month is a busy one for us. Ariel is graduating from college. We have Phoenix Comic Con at the end of the month and a lot to do the rest of the month.

Caroline is doing fine in school. She is happy to have her ELA and Math tests behind her. She has her math and social studies left. Her flute practice is continuing. She is learning the flute part of the Star Wars theme.

My neck is doing fine, thank you. I am adjusting to things as they happen. I had my annual wellness visit and, after I take some other tests, I will find out if I am “well”.

You, dear reader, can still help us by spreading the word about Peter’s books and other works. We do still have some pretty steep medical bills coming in. The insurance company keeps deciding how much they are going to pay and how much we are going to pay. Just when I think we might be pretty much caught up on things, we get hit with another charge that was sorted out by all the other parties. It does wear one down but with your help I can say that I am not as worn down as I might have been.

Oh, in other forms of excitement, the brakes went on my truck and I managed to get to the service station before they were totally gone but it was pretty scary there. I was the only one in the truck at the time.

I am going to open this up to questions. So ask and I shall answer the best I can. If I can’t answer, I will tell you that I can’t and I ask that you respect that. Yes, you can post again.

Thank you to everyone who has helped us. We would not be here if it weren’t for your help and know that we are very grateful.

Memorable Moments in Comics History, Part 1

Originally published August 21, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1292

Okay, sit back. This is going to take a couple of columns. We’ll start out relatively small, discussing the immediate lack of any sense of history, and expand into a general discussion about ageism—a belief that anything not young or recent is useless—and end with explaining why, as a result, the comic industry is in a downward spiral from which it may never recover.

But let’s make the beginning fun, at least. Fun and personal. An entertaining second-guessing game; everybody loves those. Let us begin with the magazine that has become the flagship of modern thought—emphasis on modern—for comic readers: Wizard.

In the September 1998 issue, now on sale (with three different covers, yet), the Wizard staff “picks the 25 most memorable moments in comics history.” If the article were titled “25 most memorable moments to us” or “25 most memorable moments in comics that came out since we were born,” there would be no problem. But the article purports to cover “comics history.” The Wizard staff “set about picking and choosing the 25 most memorable comics moments,” which is defined as moments that are “so vivid, so surprising, so shocking that they are forever etched in your memory.”

A laudable goal. Could be interesting. Since we’re discussing “in comics history,” that’s a lot to consider.

Except apparently—it’s not.

Because of the 25 moments selected by the Wizard staff, only two occurred before 1979.

Let me say that again:

Of the 25 most memorable moments in comics history, according to the Wizard staff, only two occurred before 1979. In case you’re interested, one of them was the death of Gwen Stacy, and the other was the death of Uncle Ben, both in Amazing Spider-Man.

To summarize this article in a way that can quickly and cleanly be considered, in order to put it into its proper perspective: Judging by the staff’s picks, we must conclude that, apparently, Jack Kirby never drew a single incredibly memorable moment in all of comics history.

Let me get something straight up front: I’m not here to rag on the Wizard staff. The problem that we’re seeing here is hardly unique to Wizard. It is both symptomatic of, and emblematic of, a staggering number of people involved in comics today. The Wizard article simply provides the convenient launching point that enables us to bring a specific problem into relief.

The question that comes to mind is the following: Were the Wizard staffers simply ignorant of material that was published before they were born (if we go on the assumption that the average age of the group is late 20s, judging by the spread of comics chosen)? Or was it that they believed that no one in their target reading group would be remotely interested in stories that were published at a time when there was a Democrat in the White House other than Bill Clinton?

Indulge me, if you will. You see, I strongly suspect that if you asked, say, the CBG staff about the most memorable moments in comics history, you would get a significantly different response. Here are some of mine, in no particular order (and I’m doing these from memory, so if I get a detail wrong here and there, cut me some slack):

1. Spider-Man lifting the machinery off himself at the climax of the Master Planner story (Amazing Spider-Man #33). One of the defining moments of Spider-Man’s history. With a needed cure for ailing Aunt May sitting only a few feet away, Spider-Man is trapped beneath a ton of unmovable debris after a battle with Doctor Octopus. Giving it everything he’s got, Spider-Man dives deeper into his personal resolve than he’s ever gone, gives himself a memorable pep talk while he’s doing it, and—in the single greatest full-page shot Steve Ditko ever drew—frees himself. From a creative standpoint, Marvel never needed to publish another issue of Spider-Man again. His story and character arc were essentially complete.

2. The first meeting between the Barry Allen Flash and the Golden Age Flash (Flash #123). With the exception of the later, and logical, meeting between the JLA and JSA, crossovers simply didn’t get better than this. The Flash, demonstrating his vibrational skills, accidentally slides himself over into the alternate world of Earth-2, home of Jay Garrick. In one stroke, DC fulfilled the wishes of the older fans who were overjoyed to see their hero back in action, acknowledged their own history rather than trying to reboot it or wish it away, intrigued the younger fans who might never have seen the Golden Age Flash and wanted to know more, and lay the groundwork for the eventual return of all the great original characters. All this with nary a multiple cover in sight.

3. The young junkie overdoses (Green Lantern/Green Arrow #86). Marvel Comics beat DC to the punch in exploring the dangers of drugs, even laudably going mano a mano with the Comics Code and dropping the CCA symbol for the issues of Amazing Spider-Man when Harry Osborn had his drug problem. But for pure stunning shock, Denny O’Neil and Neal Adams topped it. Far more graphic (and by this time, Code-approved), GL/GA depicted a scene in which a couple of druggie friends of Roy Harper (Speedy. Figures) are shooting up. To say that one of them has a bad trip is to understate it. He overdoses on panel. Adams’ full-page shot of the dead druggie, beatific expression frozen on his face, discovered dead by his pal complete with wavery shock lines radiating in all directions, was ripped right out of a nightmare.

4. The sacrifice of Al B. Harper (Silver Surfer #5). One of the recurring themes—perhaps the recurring theme—of the Stan Lee/John Buscema Surfer series was the exploration of prejudice. People hated and feared the Surfer for his alienness and outsider status, even though he had turned against Galactus and sacrificed his freedom to save the earth. It was not surprising that an educated, middle aged black man named Al Harper befriended the Surfer, since Harper knew a little something about prejudice.

A confrontation with the Stranger, however, took an unexpected turn. While the Surfer battled the Stranger, Harper discovered a bomb that would wipe out life on earth. In attempting to defuse it, he discovered the bomb was booby trapped. Gases from the bomb essentially ate away at Harper’s skin as, wracked with agony, he kept on going. By the time the Surfer got there, the bomb was defused, the earth was saved, Al was dead—and no one would ever know of his heroic sacrifice. An incredible study of gut-wrenching tragedy and sacrifice.

A very, very close second would be the climax of Mephisto’s first appearance in issue #3 during which the Surfer almost reunites with his beloved Shalla Bal—before Mephisto, having failed to corrupt the Surfer’s soul, sends Shalla Bal hurtling back to the Surfer’s native Zenn La. The panel with the Surfer and Shalla Bal reaching towards each other, coming within inches of touching hands while affirming their love, before she disappears, comes across like something torn from a Wagnerian opera. Actually, so does the whole issue, now that I think about it.

 5. Thor reveals his identity to Jane Foster (Journey into Mystery #113). The Thor series had, as its cornerstone, one of the most curious love triangles/rectangles in all of comics. Jane Foster was in love with lame (of leg, not, y’know, lame) doctor Don Blake. Blake, unbeknownst to her, was the mortal identity of the Mighty Thor. And their love was, to put it mildly, frowned upon by the only person who probably surpasses Endora as someone you wouldn’t want as your in-law, namely Thor’s dad, Odin.

Never did a relationship seem more set in stone than this one. But matters came to a head when an injured and hospitalized Jane spiraled deep into depression. She knew Blake was keeping something from her, didn’t know what it was, was convinced that he didn’t love her, and never wanted to see him again. Faced with a crossroads, Don Blake took the single most heroic action in his life that didn’t require hitting someone. “Look at me, Jane Foster… I command you to look,” he ordered. This was back when such a line would actually get the woman to look, rather than a quick retort of “Up yours.”

As he slams his cane he says, “Forgive me, father… this is the only way.” A flabbergasted Jane Foster finds herself gaping at the son of Odin who informs her, “‘Tis an immortal of Asgard whom you love, Jane Foster… and who truly loves you as well.” It’s a stunning moment, because not only has it tossed away the standard comic book girlfriend-in-ignorance convention, but you just know that Odin is gonna be reeeeeeeaally hacked off. Any kid who has ever done anything specifically forbidden by a parent, knowing that the parent is going to go ballistic, can not only relate, but be relieved that, hey, at least his dad isn’t the king of the gods.

6. The Death of Joe Chill (Batman #47). Everyone knows that Thomas and Martha Wayne were gunned down by a thief, leading to young Bruce either going nuts or becoming incredibly focused (depending what theory you subscribe to). Either way, it resulted in his becoming Batman.

But nailing the guy who killed his folks was a dangling loose end in Batman’s life—until he caught up with him in this, one of the greatest of the Golden Age Batman stories. No, the gunman wasn’t Jack Napier; it was a thug named Joe Chill. The story is notable for two incredible sequences, so much so that it’s hard to choose.

The first stunner is when Batman confronts Chill, rips off his mask, reveals his identity and makes it clear to Chill that—unlike the other occasions where he’s nailed bad guys—this time, it’s personal. As a reader, despite all reasonable assumptions to the contrary, it’s enough to make you think you’re reading the final Batman story.

But it winds up being topped by the climax as a panicked Joe Chill runs to a bunch of his gangster pals and informs them that he was responsible for the creation of Batman. Outraged over Chill’s having given birth, however inadvertently, to their greatest nemesis, they promptly deliver a barrage of .45 caliber thank-you notes. Chill goes down, and only then do these spiritual ancestors of Homer Simpson essentially say, “D’oh!” Why? Because they neglected to ask Chill who the Caped Crusader actually is. The knowledge dies with Chill—and in one respect, at least, the Waynes rest a little easier.

We’ll continue with our exploration of history, and lack of knowledge thereof, next week.

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

 

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Phyllida Archer-Dowd on Disney’s Mulan

Originally published August 14, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1291

And now we bring you the musings of Phyllida Archer-Dowd, co-founder of the Children’s Protectorate Council:

It is my sad duty to report that the Disney organization has spiraled even further into the depths of degradation, shattered family values, and outright poor messages that have epitomized the organization’s animated features over the past years. One cannot help but have low expectations for a company that endorses sodomy, after all. (How else to explain the appalling company policies which have led to the quite-proper boycotts organized by our Baptist friends?) Certainly Disney’s recent animation outings have underscored the continued erosion of the once-family-friendly foundations that once epitomized the company. The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with its intense perversion of religious imagery and relentlessly dark tone, was absolutely horrid. Hercules was a film focusing on the adventures of ancient and discounted deities who have no relevance to today’s Christian society and certainly can only cause confusion in young children who are presented with the story-book Olympians as “gods.” It is left to the parents to try and clean up after Disney’s mess, and the company’s disregard for the difficulties of modern-day parenting is nothing short of horrendous.

But with the advent of Mulan, I’m afraid that we must truly take exception.

Mulan sets new standards of violence, disrespect, and mixed messages. I, for one, am astounded that this would be considered by anyone to be a children’s film. Any parents who take their impressionable children—particularly their daughters—to this tripe should have their parenting credentials seriously questioned, if not revoked entirely. Granted, the godless heathens in the film—set in ancient China—are not expected to have any comprehension of the Bible or the One True God, but the movie makers are presumably contemporary Americans. I’m certain that they must be versed in the sort of Christian messages we want our children to take home with them from movies. Would it have been so difficult to impart a few of them to America’s youth, rather than stampeding over them?

You can even make a sort of game of it. Name the commandment and see where the film disregards it.

“Honor thy father and thy mother.” Mulan is a girl in China who finds herself faced with a crisis of conscience  when her father is conscripted into the army. It is the clear, stated wish of her father to be able to serve the will of the emperor. But Mulan will have none of it. Even though she is merely a teenage, she is naturally convinced that her view of the situation should be the prevailing one. The film is set at a time when all women—but particularly young ones—had their duties and responsibilities carefully circumscribed. Everyone knew their place in relation to each other, and to their family.

But not Mulan, the nominal and titular heroine of the film. She argues with her parents. She publicly embarrasses her father by challenging the emperor’s orders right in the street. Even though he states that her actions are bringing shame to the family, she continues her arrogant behavior at the dinner table. “Honor” is an alien concept to her, whether it be the honor of her family or the Biblical mandate calling for honoring of a parent’s wishes.

“Thou shalt not steal.” Mulan, after a short time’s soul-searching, steals her father’s armor, weaponry, and horse. Ostensibly, she does it in order to save her father, but remember, he did not ask for, want, or need her help. That this child would defy both the word of God and her parents’ wishes is bad enough. But the film presents it as being a positive, even heroic, step.

“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.” Never has a commandment been more clear than that. There is no room for maneuvering; no confusion can possibly be drawn. It means that no prayers can be offered except to the Lord God, the divine being, the holy of holies.

Such, however, is not the case in Mulan, as I’m sure you can have surmised by now. Oh, they pray, all right. We see both Mulan and, more often, her father, praying. But they pray to no deity, no supreme being. Not even a heathen god. No, they pray to—get this—their ancestors. When matters are difficult, when Mulan’s father realizes the danger to which his daughter is exposed, he does not seek the help of God—any God—through prayer. Instead he presents his supplications to the shades, the ghosts, of deceased mortals. Something as unnatural as begging ghosts for help borders on the Satanic. Yet not only does Mulan present this as a good and proper course of action, but the gambit actually works. The ghosts of the ancestors hold a sort of reverse séance and put their heads together. (Except for the one ancestor whose head is severed from his body; incredible that Disney actually endeavors to portray something as ghastly as decapitation as if it’s a joke. Perhaps its next film should focus on the French revolution and feature a 10-minute knee-slapping guillotine sequence.) Their conclusion: A dragon, a red, fire-breathing (more Satanic imagery) dragon, is sent to retrieve Mulan. With no sense of irony, Disney casts—in a movie about a cross-dressing heroine—Eddie Murphy, noted friend of transvestite perverts, as the dragon. How did Disney miss employing Pee Wee Herman, we wonder?

And let us not forget the single most impressive, most hideous, achievement of this Disney film. It is so horrific, so appalling, that I can barely convey it to you. There is an aspect of Disney heroines that has remained immutable ever since Snow White first warbled her way into the hearts of 1930s audiences. A grand tradition that is now forever violated, forever lost.

Consider, if you will, “Thou shalt not kill.”

I will grant you that exceptions must be made for war. No one likes to kill, no one embraces the concept, but even the Lord Himself supported it in certain cases. When the Lord restored Samson his strength, it enabled him to wipe out the Philistines.

Likewise, there has been killing in Disney films before. For the most part, it has been extremely limited (one per film), of a storybook nature (evil witches, sorceresses, and such), adhering to the nature of ultimate good triumphing over ultimate evil (a message one really cannot dispute), and—most importantly—has been the province of male characters (and princes, more often than not).

Call me old-fashioned, if you wish, but I very much appreciated the Disney organization for keeping the hands of its young ladies clean. It was sweet and in keeping with the storybook texture of the films. The women were there to be saved by the men. It is bad enough that, in the real world, it is now acceptable to take women into the army, train them, and let them fight beside men. Women are the bearers of life, the providers of children. Theirs should not be the province of death of disorder. Men start the wars. Let men fight the wars. In these turbulent times, one could count on Disney to maintain the proper order of things.

Not any more.

Mulan is the first female in Disney animated history I can think of who has taken a life. And that is an understatement. She doesn’t simply take a life. She sets a new Disney record for carnage as, in her drag disguise, she strategically wipes out virtually the entire Hun army. There were thousands of soldiers by the look of it (not even ultimate evil, mind you—just soldiers, perhaps even conscripts, doing their jobs, probably with wives and children waiting for them at home). Never have so many died in a Disney animated film, and the hand at the rocket which caused this record-setting annihilation was the tapered and gentle hand of a woman. A woman.

As the screening I went to, there was only one genuinely entertaining moment, and it came from someone in the audience before the film even started. Comic book writer Marv Wolfman was there. Now, I have not been speaking to him ever since his vomitous and sacrilegious Tomb of Dracula (and there’s another one coming from Dark Horse, heaven help us), but he is still capable of being a witty fellow. Wolfman was describing the film’s premise to the gentleman sitting next to him, whereupon the individual said, “So it’s like Yentl.”

To which Wolfman archly replied, “It’s not Yentl. It’s Ori-Yentl.” Behind my hand, I laughed at that. Would that I had been laughing still by the film’s end.

And here is the most insane part: Mulan is being hailed as, not only the best Disney film in years, but one in which the heroine is regarded as a positive role model for young girls. By all means, parents, take your children to a film which tells young girls the following message: Hey, kids! If you’re willing to lie, to cheat, to steal, and to disobey your parents and leave them begging for Satanic intervention, you, too, can cause unprecedented carnage.

As for my children, I’ll be popping Snow White in the VCR for them. I consider it far less of a—pardon the expression—drag.

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