Peter David's Blog, page 84

1997 Heroes Convention

Originally published July 11, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1234

Some basic random and scattered recollections of the Heroes Aren’t Hard to Find convention:

This is the first time I’ve been to a Heroes con in quite some time. The last time I was there, one of the convention’s centerpieces was the show’s organizer, Shelton Drumm, marrying his girlfriend Cynthia. This was particularly nice considering that, the time before that when I’d been there, he’d just broken up with her. Indeed, I was almost afraid to come down again since I was concerned that my merely setting foot in Charlotte would cause the marriage to blow up. Fortunately enough everything seems intact in the family Drumm, so that’s a relief.

* * *

I was chosen to MC the CBG Awards this year. I informed the audience that last year CBG stood for Carl Barks’ Gift, but that CBG had instituted a new vote-counting method this year that would eliminate the possibility of a recurrance: I claimed that this year, in tallying the responses, CBG had simply thrown out any ballot that was not a vote for Kurt Busiek’s Astro City. This was mildly undercut when Mark Waid won for favorite writer, but boy, did Waid look happy about it. Or at least whoever that svelte individual passing himself off as Mark Waid might actually be. You see, it used to be that Mark Waid More, but he lost a lot of weight, so now Mark Waid Less.

* * *

People brought me a lot of off-beat stuff to sign. Things that I haven’t seen in years, or even completely forgotten about. Stuff like my adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac, for instance, written for First Comics back when they had the Classic Comics label and illustrated by Kyle Baker. Boy, was that thing a pain to produce. We couldn’t use the traditional James Hooker translation because it wasn’t in public domain. So I got a translation of the Edmond Rostand play produced back in the 1890s, except it wasn’t very good. So I produced a new translation/adaptation using the 1890s translation, the Hooker version, a very modern translation written in current vernacular, and the original French with the aid of a French/English dictionary. Genuine labor of love. It was a ton of work, and I think they sold maybe twelve copies of it.

* * *

Finally had a chance to sit down with George Perez and chat about an outstanding question that both of us get asked all the time, namely: Will there be any more adventures of Sachs and Violens, the erotic limited series we produced for the now-defunct Epic Line. We were both happy to learn that both of us were still interested. Personally, I’ve love to see J.J. Sachs become sexually involved with a randy governor who’s got presidential aspirations… and his involvement with J.J. makes him a target, so his handlers decide she’s got to be disposed of. That way we can call the story, “The Governor and J.J.,” a joke that will be gotten by almost no one, but it will amuse us, and that’s what’s important. Now all we need is the time in our schedule and a publisher, and we’re all set.

* * *

There was a great deal of fundraising efforts going on to benefit the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund. Neil Gaiman did signings and a reading to raise money, and I handled the Saturday auction. They were not able to provide me with a microphone, since it was keyed into the public address system throughout the auditorium, which meant my voice would have boomed all through the dealers’ room. But then the folks from the Jersey Rebels table provided me with a megaphone, which saved my voice. I got a laugh by testing the megaphone thus: I switched it on, tilted my head back, and—addressing the upper reaches of the ceiling—called, “Rob! Don’t jump! Don’t jump, Rob! Come down out of the rafters! Things will get better, Rob, I promise!”

One of the auction’s high points came when Paul Smith, who had been on stage during the auction producing a large sketch of characters from Leave it to Chance for another auction the following day (for the Children’s Burn Victim Fund) decided to let us have it instead (with the intention of producing another for the next day’s auction.) Paul watched in amazement as the bidding quickly took off, resulting in a final bid of $875. It was like watching him have an out-of-body experience.

The auction wound up raising $2600 for the CBLDF. And since Those Who Would Protect You from Yourself are becoming no less vigilant in their efforts, the money is sorely needed.

* * *

I met Mike Diana, the beleaguered creator of Boiled Angel, the exile from Florida who was hit with a judgment so onerous that it was mandated he had to keep away from children under the age of 18, as if he were some sort of convicted child molester rather than simply a comics artist who told stories people didn’t like. I looked for signs of horns or perhaps a 666 emblazoned on his person, but none seemed evident. But he was standing behind a table, so maybe he had cloven hooves.

What a great country we live in. Now if only we could live up to the ideals to which we aspire.

* * *

I’m drowning in watches.

You see, there was this guy on Usenet who made the utterly absurd claim that the only way I will go to a convention is if I’m promised all manner of exorbitant perks, such as watches. Ostensibly (he reported) I was at a convention somewhere showing off some fancy watch that convention organizers had given me. I had, and continue to have, zero idea what he was talking about.

He also referred to Comics Buyer’s Guide as my paper, prompting Tony Isabella and Bob Ingersoll to trade messages saying, “Hey, Peter bought the paper! We better be nice to the new boss! Let’s go halfsies on a new watch!” This kidding exchange sent Tony’s mind to working, and he started marshalling forces to give me watches. Why? I dunno. Probably my mildly beleaguered expression every time someone thrust one at me amused him or something. I wound up (literally) with half a dozen watches, the total dollar value probably coming to just under 20 bucks. There were a couple of the Burger King Lost World watches, a Hunchback of Notre Dame watch with Hugo the gargoyle on it, a Gummi watch, etc.

And not a single one of them had the right time.

But at least Tony was entertained. That’s what counts.

* * *

One of the reasons I hadn’t made the convention in a while was that it is always over Father’s Day. But this time around I wound up bringing my daughters with me, so we would be together on Father’s Day (and also so they could visit their cousins who recently moved to Charlotte). Shana and Gwen actually came to the convention on Sunday. You have to understand: they don’t think having me as a father is any particularly big deal. In fact, it’s kind of embarrassing, since most kids get to have a normal parent. Still, they do manage to benefit from it every now and then. At conventions they go around to the dealers, find stuff they want, and say, “Hi, we’re Peter David’s daughters. Can you give us a break on the price?” Usually works.

* * *

This has nothing to do with the Heroes Con at all, but I thought I’d mention that—available in the Disney store—is a new plush line based on George of the Jungle. It ties in with the live action film, but—having learned their lesson from those awful Fred Flintstone toys that looked like John Goodman—Disney execs released a line of stuffed toys based on the animated characters. I’ve gotten three myself: Ape, George, and Shepp the elephant (which George perches on nicely). I’ll tell you, I’m not sure what the point is to making this movie, but any film which features John Cleese as the voice of the Ape has got me there for opening day.

Watch out!

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. At the tone, the time will be exactly 11:45 a.m. … or 1:23 p.m. … or five minutes to 4… or…

 

Movie review: The Lost World: Jurassic Park

Originally published July 4, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1233

Last year’s “yet” film was Independence Day. A “yet” film, for those who missed the column or else simply have more important things on their mind (like, well… anything, I guess) is one wherein you don’t simply ask friends, “Have you seen (fill in the blank)?” Instead you ask, “Have you seen (fill in the blank) yet?” because it’s simply a given. It crosses genre lines and interest lines, cutting a swathe across the American movie-going consciousness and, by the way, sucks up dollars in the same manner that–these days–Rob Liefeld attracts negative press.

This year’s “yet” film is, of course, the movie that you’ve already seen: The Lost World: Jurassic Park, in which the dinosaurs look great.

This is not to be confused with the Arthur Conan Doyle story of the same name, a book I read years ago and which I remember primarily for Doyle’s marvelous hero, Professor Challenger: A hard-bitten scientist who seemed like a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Monk Mayfair.

The good news is, the sequel makes the threadbare, cardboard character story of the first film seem like it was crafted by Tennessee Williams.

And the dinosaurs look great.

The bad news is what I figure you’ve pretty much already glommed to. When it comes to the story, as was once said about Hollywood: There’s no “there” there. And what is there was already done better elsewhere.

Lost World is also a bizarre agglomeration of book and film requirements. The opening sequence, for example, is taken not from the Michael Crichton book of the same name, but rather from the beginning of the original book. And the climax of the film, in which an enraged T-Rex stomps through San Diego (but does not, unfortunately, make it over to the Comic Con, which is a crying shame) was taken not from the book, but from King Kong… and even, if my admittedly spotty memory is serving me, from the original silent movie version of the Doyle book.

But the dinosaurs look great.

Even the existence of Jeff Goldblum’s character, chaos theorist Ian Malcolm, owes his existence to movie requirements considering the fact that he (and for that matter, John Hammond) were obliterated in the first book. (Actually, it’s assumed that everyone has seen the original, because Malcolm’s theories and specialty play no factor and aren’t even, I think, mentioned.) But Goldblum’s patented quirky delivery, mildly distracted air, and imposing physical presence (he must be, what? Nine feet tall?) were easily the best character elements of the original film, so not only was he spared in the first script, but he was chosen to headline the sequel. There hasn’t been such a miraculous literature-based film-dictated resurrection since Rambo showed up in the book version of First Blood, Part II, which was a good trick considering that he was killed at the end of the original novel.

It doesn’t help that the film suffers from what’s called an “idiot plot,” namely that for the story to (nominally) work, everyone in it has to be an idiot. The sequence that leaped out at me in particular was when the following elements had been firmly established: (1) the carnivores have moved out of their immediate stomping grounds and are in pursuit of our heroes; (2) the dinos are very possessive about their young; (3) Mrs. And Mrs. T-Rex are cheesed off that our heroes were mucking with their baby; (4) the dinos have a fairly sharp sense of smell. So what ensemble is Sarah the paleontologist wearing? A vest soaked in the blood of the baby T-Rex which isn’t drying in the heat. Just what the well-dressed would-be survivor should be wearing: A Tyrannosaur magnet.

But let’s not lose sight of the fact that the dinosaurs looked great.

The problem with Lost World is that it’s uninvolving on an emotional basis, i.e., caring about what happens to the characters. There is once again an attempt to have some sort of perfunctory character arc. In the first film, it was the Sam Neill character’s being uncomfortable with children; by film’s end, the kids were leaning on his shoulders and we knew that he was past this flaw. The problem is: Big deal. His kid-phobia wasn’t awesomely relevant to the plot; it’s not as if he kept trying to ditch the youngsters, or considered for a moment throwing one of them to a hungry Raptor as a distraction.

This time around, we have an even more half-hearted attempt at character growth involving Malcolm and his (heretofore unmentioned) daughter. He’s busy, and she feels neglected. Ironically there is the germ of an interesting notion here if one contrasts it thematically (as we’re supposed to, I guess) with mom and dad T-Rex and their dedication to their child. It’s almost as if the film is saying that the dinos are more dedicated to their offspring than are humans. Nice thought. But the Malcolm/daughter plot doesn’t really go anywhere, since Malcolm doesn’t come away from the experience having learned all that much as a father except maybe that he should check his RV next time to make sure there’s no stowaways. For that matter, his daughter disappears altogether in the last twenty minutes (as opposed to, say, Tommy Lee Jones saving his daughter in the climax of Volcano, which was hardly Citizen Kane but at least had some sort of payoff to the nominal character arc.)

But the dinosaurs look great.

Is it possible to do an adventure/suspense film with genuine character development, arcs that make sense, and edge of your seat sensibility? Sure. Contrast Lost World with, for example, Aliens, a film that got everything right.

Both Malcolm and Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley are pretty much in the same fix: They must return to a horrific situation against their will. In Malcolm’s case, he goes for the most simple reason possible: His girlfriend, Sarah, is already on the island and he’s decided he must spearhead a “rescue mission.” No muss, no fuss, no imagination.

As opposed to the deeply troubled Ripley. Nominally she’s also returning in a rescue capacity, but it’s established early on that a threat to the colonists is really insufficient to spur her into action. They’re dead or they’re not dead: It’s no never mind to her either way. She makes it clear that under no circumstance is she going to stick her neck out for them. Nothing is more important to her than her own survival. But she is driven to return by her own nightmares that won’t let her rest, and her need to see first hand that the aliens are exterminated down to the last one.

Both Malcolm and Ripley try to convince their cohorts about the danger they’re going to face. Ripley’s attempts are dramatic, heart-felt, and riddled with impending doom. She’s a space-age Cassandra: She knows what’s going to happen to the marines, she tries to warn them, and yet tragically she knows she’s doomed to failure.

Malcolm’s admonitions, by contrast, are lightweight. Either they’re straight-up laugh lines (“I’ll be back in five or six days.” “No, you’ll be back in five or six pieces.”) or they’re flip deconstructions of the film, as if Malcolm is expressing outright disdain for the clichés of the genre (“Oh sure, ooooh, ahhhh, but later comes the running and the screaming.”)

Both films feature parenting as a theme. But in Lost World, the arc with Malcolm father-and-daughter is underdeveloped, unrealized and, in regards to the climax, irrelevant, while the T-Rex stomping around San Diego searching for its offspring was just another reason for the monster to cause damage (like it needed any?)and came across as a pale imitation of Kong searching for Fay Wray.

In Aliens, however, her relationship with Newt is instrumental in her character’s development.

She willingly risks her life to save the child when she could have gotten away easily; as opposed to her character in the film’s first half, she’s discovered that simply surviving with one’s own skin intact isn’t always enough. And her face-offs with the Alien queen are masterful in terms of carrying the theme through: The first time in the egg hatchery, you have one protective mother versus another. And the second time, aboard the Sulaco, the queen wants to exact vengeance for the loss of her children, and Ripley stands ready to go head-to-head in order to defend her child. Ripley’s entrance wearing the power loader “armor” is one of the most rousing in SF filmed history precisely because there’s such heavy emotional investment: Ripley has come so far as a character that she is not only willing to face her fear head on, she’s ready to kick its butt with her immortal rallying cry of, “Get away from her, you bitch!”

In short, script wise, Lost World comes up short in comparison to its immediate predecessor, to other films that had explored the same themes, and even to other works of its director (Spielberg got more emotional punch and tension out of ten minutes of Jaws and its rubber shark than he did out of the entire two hours, ten minutes of Lost World and its incredible CGI dinosaurs.)

And yet Lost World winds up fitting the general audience definition and showbiz definition of a great film: For the former, it’s eye candy, and for the latter, it’s making piles of money.

The bottom line is that–as much as I hate to admit it–you don’t need a great script to make a great movie. You don’t even need a good script. Comic books are similar in that respect: Great artwork can overwhelm a lousy story, and bad artwork can destroy a great story. (Although when a movie turns out great, the director is credited; when a movie turns out lousy, the writer is blamed.)

I’ll never forget when Tom DeFalco dissected the script of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Here’s a movie wherein the hero had some sort of illicit affair with a presumably under-aged young girl. He’s engaged in shady endeavors involving priceless artifacts. Every time he gets his hands on something, he inevitably loses it to his competitors. At the climax of the film, he attempts a bluff, gets called on it, has no back-up plan, is tied to a stake, and God has to save him. And yet Raiders is a fabulous film.

It’s undeniable. I own it on laserdisc; I could watch it again and again.

Films such as Lost World do their job simply by attracting and holding the eye. To some extent, it doesn’t matter that they don’t engage the viewer emotionally. The movie makers know they don’t have to, and so they don’t bother. Which is a crying shame because it means that the current cycle of brainless Hollywood eye-candy will continue, with more cartoon characters, more shallow-to-nonexistent characterization, and more idiot plots.

Did I mention how great the dinosaurs looked…?

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Saw the trailer for the Spawn movie. Looks great.)

 

Eric Holder declared to be in contempt of Congress

Who isn’t?

PAD

The Captain

Originally published June 27, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1232

I remember the first and only time I saw him in person.

It was at the earliest point in my career… indeed, it was before I even had a career. At the time I was still considering the notion of trying to break into news writing. Obviously, it was long before I wound up with a career in fiction (although some reporters produce work which clearly falls into the category of fiction.) And I’d had a job interview at CBS News. The job basically involved sitting and transcribing news broadcast into hard copy. Someone’s got to do it, after all; you didn’t think that those transcriptions they’re always telling you that you can send away for wrote themselves, did you?

It was described to me as “entry level,” but as I asked around it seemed to me that a more appropriate description was “dead end.” It simply wasn’t something I could see going anywhere. I’d pretty much made up my mind that I wasn’t interested in it…which worked out fine, because as it happened, they didn’t offer it to me.

But I remember standing in the lobby, looking at some picture on the wall. My back was to the receptionist. And I heard her say, “Good night, Mr. Keeshan.”

And a voice as familiar to me as that of my own parents said, “Good night.”

I turned and there he was: the Captain. The Captain.

When Bob Keeshan was twenty eight years old, back in October of 1955 and just embarking on a series that would run nearly three decades, he had to wear make-up and a wig to put across the character of an avuncular, slightly befuddled, out-of-the-loop caretaker by the name of Captain Kangaroo.

Not anymore. He stood not three feet away from me and he looked exactly as he always had. Life imitated art.

I couldn’t say anything. My jaw was frozen. I just stared with what was no doubt an extremely doofy expression. What could I say? “Pleasure to meet you?” “I watched you every day when I was a kid?” “Thanks for reading me all those great stories?” “What’s Mr. Moose really like?” “What was the deal with Mr. Greenjeans, anyway, and was there a Mrs. Greenjeans?”

None of it. Just the tongue-tied, doofy expression.

And he looked at me and smiled gently, as he always did when he looked straight at me through the TV screen, and I had a feeling that he knew everything that was going through my head. He probably got it all the time.

He said, “Hi there.”

I nodded slightly and managed to articulate, “Hi.”

And then he was gone.

And now he’s gone again. Because Saban Entertainment, a soulless, gutless corporation… an outfit which fired three actors from the Power Rangers (whose likenesses were showing up on toys and dolls generating millions in revenue) because the actors asked to be paid–get this–scale (as opposed to the below-scale wages they were earning)… Saban Entertainment is producing 26 half-hour episodes of the show. One that will “contemporize the show and give it the sense and the look of a kids’ show in the ’90s,” according to spokesman Barry Stagg.

Gee, Barry, which kid’s show would that be? Reboot? Or Barney? The Real Adventures of Jonny Quest? Or The Magic School Bus? Wow, how about those hip, contemporary shows like Bananas in Pajamas or Shining Time Station? No, no, “It will be interactive, computer-related, high-tech with an MTV-style approach,” says Stagg.

No, Stagg. We have computers for that. We have MTV for that. What we had the Captain for was an oasis of quiet, of silliness, of… well… doofiness.

Saban blew off Bob Keeshan. Keeshan told the New York Daily News, “I didn’t think, and I still don’t think, they understand what this property is. They’re finding a Captain for the ’90s, but the Captain was cool because he wasn’t hip. They don’t know that. They can’t grasp that,” and went on to say, “The Captain made it because he talked to the minds and hearts of children. This is what made it great. This is what 200 million Americans remember of the Captain… I really think they believe that kids are different today than they were in the ’60s or ’70s. That’s nonsense. They’re still the same, still asking the same questions: ‘Who am I? Am I loved? What does the future hold for me?’”

Oh, they offered him a title of “Executive Producer,” but they balked when Keeshan said he was going to want to have the power of… well… executive producer. He wanted creative veto, the ability to say, “This piece of material is not appropriate to this audience and we’ll have to do it another way.” And Saban told him to forget it. Of course forget it. After all, what would Bob Keeshan know about children? About kid’s programming? About the character.

Stagg claimed, “We are making every effort to produce a quality series for kids which embodies the spirit, the tone and the respect for kids of the original.”

But why call it Captain Kangaroo, Barry? It ain’t him. No matter how sweet a guy the new “Captain” may be, or talented, or charming, he ain’t Captain Kangaroo. The name will have no meaning to kids today, and the parents to whom it does have meaning will just look at him and say, “But… that’s not the Captain.”

What’s next, I wonder? Is Diver Dan going to make it with the mermaid?

One could argue that that is simply the way of corporations. The way of heartlessness. The tendency to consider everyone and everything eminently disposable.

I think it comes from the fundamental arrogance of youth and the refusal to believe that anyone who is old can be vital or contributive. That and simple lack of gratitude. Keeshan’s character helped put children’s programming on the map. He created the franchise exploited by Saban now and CBS in the past, and neither of them gives a damn. I mean, October 23, 1995, was the forty year anniversary of the Captain’s first broadcast. Where was CBS? Where was the retrospective? Where was one lousy prime time special? A week of special programming? Something? Anything?

Nope. Dead silence from CBS. Why should they care? What’s Bob Keeshan done for them lately? What have they asked him to do?

It’s similar to the recent abomination perpetrated by the Village Voice. Jules Feiffer made his debut in the Voice nearly a year after Captain Kangaroo first showed up, jingling the keys to the Treasure House. For forty years, Jules Feiffer defined the Voice. He was the Voice, the single most identifiable aspect of the paper, and the years have done nothing to diminish his skill or bite.

And what did the Voice do to show their appreciation? How did they handle their mainstay? They offered him a seventy-five percent pay cut.

Let me say that again.

They offered him a seventy-five percent pay cut.

One more time, just in case you still can’t quite believe it: Forty year veteran. Pulitzer Prize winner in 1986. The voice of the Voice. Hey Jules: That dollar we gave you last week? Twenty five cents now. Take it or leave it.

He left it. That is not a shock.

What is shocking is that such an insult was offered in the first place. What is shocking is that the management of the Voice held Feiffer in such contempt that they dared to suggest it and act as if it was something other than a slap in the face.

The obvious question becomes, of course, what were they going to do with the money they wanted to take away from Feiffer? Well, according to Don Forst, editor of the Voice, they’re planning to use the salary to hire new cartoonists. Read: Young cartoonists. After all, if you guys at the Voice want someone with a track record, with a name, with clout, with experience, why… there’s always Jules Feiffer, you clods! So it’s not too much of a stretch to suppose that they’re going to go for young, new, hot talent at the expense of the old.

It is a pernicious world that we live in. An insane world. How in God’s name can people be biased against their seniors? Prejudice comes from one group despising another group, but old age is across the board. White man hates Black Man, Jewish Man hates Arab Man, and vice versa, but they’re all going to be old men (grumpy or not). The baseless stupidity of prejudice is bad enough, but this is stupidity squared.

I think of comic book conventions where people who are the true pioneers of the industry sit at tables, ignored by the vast majority of the fans. No interest in them whatsoever. While fans lionize the writers and artists who have done the latest rehashing and rethinking of characters (which will likely be tossed onto the scrap heap within a few years anyway when the new flavor-of-the-month comes along with his definitive version), those who actually created or shaped those characters and made them into the icons that fire the imagination to this day… those creators, well, you can hear crickets chirping in front of their tables.

It could be argued that fans of today don’t care about creators of yesterday. Fair enough. But they should care. They should make it a point of caring. When I was first getting into comics, I read everything I could about the history of the medium. I read Steranko’s History of Comics, two humongous volumes (humongous more in the physical dimensions than anything; they were oversized tabloids) with more promised that never materialized. I read The Great Comic Book Heroes by—guess who—Jules Feiffer.

But instead, in our society, it’s out with the old, in with the new. “This isn’t your father’s Oldsmobile,” proclaim the ads. Very likely. And I’ll never forget when I saw a car made in the 1950s go tooling past me one day on Northern Boulevard in Queens, and it had a sign in the back window that proudly claimed, “This is your father’s Oldsmobile!” And you know what? It was still running fine forty years after its manufacture, and it looked a damned sight cooler than the latest models.

New is not necessarily better. Old is not necessarily evil. What is it about our society that automatically assumes that lack of experience is a good thing? Can we forget Ron Perelman and his cronies, marching into Marvel and stirring the same feelings in the industry that the residents of Pompeii must have felt when they noticed that Vesuvias didn’t look right that morning. And Perelman boasted in interviews that his greatest strength was his ignorance of the way things had been done before. He knew nothing and therefore couldn’t be bound by loyalties or the “old” way of doing things.

And boy, Ron showed us exactly how to get the job done, didn’t he.

Let me quote Voice publisher Don Schneiderman who, when presented with the notion of offering Feiffer a seventy-five percent cut, offered the following assessment to the press: “I said I had no problem with it.”

Don Forst and Don Schneiderman: A couple of Dons making an offer that had to be refused. It’s like a Bizarro Mafia.

Well, you know what, Don? I have a problem with it. I have a problem with Jules Feiffer being shunted aside as if his contributions meant nothing. And Saban and CBS–I have a problem with Bob Keeshan being shunted aside as if his contributions meant nothing. And I have a problem with comics greats being treated as if they were invisible.

It’s as if what is truly important is completely out of whack. Loyalty is non-existent. Appreciation is a joke. And the fact that to grow older is to become wiser in the ways of the world rather than more oblivious of them is a truth so simple that, like other obvious things such as “common sense,” it cannot be taken for granted.

It’s as if we’re animals, really. The old are assessed not on the basis of their intellect, but instead as if they were being judged on their ability to hunt. To provide food for the pack. And if they cannot do so anymore… if they cannot keep up with the pack… then the youngsters of the pack challenge them, knock them aside, banish them. Or predators catch up with them and tear them to shreds because that’s nature’s way. They have nothing more to offer.

Well, these days the predators wear fancy suits and expensive watches. They pronounce judgments based on dollars rather than sense, and snicker and smile confidently to themselves, shunting aside those who can help them in favor of those who will do as they’re told. And they are oblivious of the fact that, sooner or later, it’s going to be their turn. Secure and unaware of their own mortality, they live in a fool’s paradise. If their minds were open, the gentle captain might tell them a story about how such attitudes don’t pan out. Or the acerbic Feiffer could produce a cartoon that would cut to the bone.

But only their mouths were open, while their minds are closed. And those who are older, and wiser, and more talented than they will ever be, shake their heads in disbelief at how they’re not appreciated. And secure, at least, in the knowledge that–sooner or later–time gets us all.

Even the suits.

They’ll learn. They’ll learn. And they’ll try to tell the generation following them… and the irony is that no one will listen to them because, of course…

…the new guys know better.

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

Sorry, Mets Fans. I tried.

I was sorely tempted to take my family to CitiField for father’s day. The weather was gorgeous and I sorely wanted a Keith Hernandez bobble head which was being given away. Plus there seemed to be plenty of tickets available.

But I knew if I went, they’d lose. Wy ruin everyone else’s day?

So we stayed in the area.

And they lost anyway.

Sorry, guys.

PAD

BID mailbag: Movie reviews

Originally published June 20, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1231

Haven’t checked the mail in some time, so I thought we’d give it a look. This week’s missive comes from Michael G. in Paramus, New Jersey. Michael writes:

Dear Mr. David:

In CBG#1223 you declared that one of the things that drives you nuts is when bad movies become tolerable on TV. You cited examples Judge Dredd and Down Periscope–both movies you trashed in your column–you found them wanting on the big screen yet somehow watchable when transferred to cable. How can this be?

Could it simply be that you were wrong about them the first time you saw them?

Perhaps you spent too much time looking at your watch in an effort to ascertain the elapsed time before the first appearance of a Coke can. Maybe you were distracted in while in search of nits to pick; seeming incongruities to which you could apply your acerbic wit. Is it possible that when you watch a movie for the second time on television, you are simply less obsessed with finding fault? Under such circumstances, you just might sit back, watch and enjoy. I suspect that you feel that you get a more entertaining column out of trashing a movie–something I’ve found disconcerting when it’s a movie I’ve seen and enjoyed. In fact, I can remember only one movie that you actually enjoyed although I believe you lamented its obvious failure at the box office.

Dare I suggest that you are overly critical of any piece of writing that is not your own?

I don’t think that a script needs to be technically perfect to be entertaining, an opinion you don’t seem to share; and I think it sad that you spend so much time fining fault that you can’t really let yourself enjoy any movie the first time you view it.

Lest you misconstrue, I don’t begrudge you your opinion. I only wish that you didn’t imply that those who do not share your view possess the intelligence of a gnat. Although you’ve chosen to blame some imagined mind numbing effect produced by cable television, it would appear to me that you’ve experienced a lessening of your strength of conviction and an obvious inability to admit you might have been wrong…

You know, I can feel a lot of love in this room.

It should be noted that, after accusing me of being so out-of-control jealous that I was incapable of providing a critically neutral eye to anything I see, Michael at least signed the letter “respectfully.”

I responded to Michael individually (as I do these days to all letters sent to this column) but, with the hot movie season coming up, I figured I’d toss the matter open for discussion and incorporate some of my reply to into the body of this column.

I tried to approach Michael’s comments with an open mind and, in that spirit, have checked the handiest reference source I could think of in terms of my track record regarding movies. I pulled out the trade paperback collection of But I Digress and turned to the movie section to see how my views on various movies tracked. In reviewing my commentary on films, I discovered that I wrote about Return to Oz and raved about it; wrote about Darkman and, although I had problems with the basic silliness of the film, found it tremendously entertaining; raved about Edward Scissorhands; knocked Alien 3, although I think I had a good deal of company within the community of film critics; and gave tremendous support to a movie called Hero which was uniformly reviled by critics… unfairly, I think.

Not only that, but I double-checked recent movie reviews I’ve written as well. I’d love to tell you that I’m so organized that I referenced them via subject, but the fact is that I simply eyeballed my computer files to–as they say–see what I could see.

Well, I did find Independence Day derivative and hole-laden. However I wrote very positively about Star Trek: First Contact, complained that critics had been unfair and nasty to the harmless and enjoyable Schwarzenegger vehicle Jingle All the Way, and gave an unqualified rave to The Phantom.

Wow. I’m the butcher of Krause.

I am hardly the only person to notice that some films which do not seem “worthy” of the big screen somehow are more tolerable when they appear on television. “How can this be?” you ask. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure. That was, to a certain degree, the point of the column. My suspicion is that, as a country, we have simply come to be less demanding of what we see on the small screen (which we see in the privacy of our living rooms for nothing…and can walk out on during the boring bits, or chat with someone, etc.), and are more demanding of what we see in the movie theater, where

we pay admission, sit down, and say to the silver screen, “Entertain us!”

By the same token, there are some films that work spectacularly on the big screen that are utterly inadequate when transferred to the small screen. These range, in my opinion, from Gone with the Wind to Lawrence of Arabia to A Hunt for Red October. It is simply, to my mind, the nature of the beast rather than a failure on my part to recognize previously unseen greatness in films. Need I point out in the cases of Judge Dredd and Down Periscope I had plenty of company among critics who felt that the movies were either inadequate or just flat out poor.

I do not cite this in order to try and belittle anyone’s perceptions: If you enjoyed the films in the theaters, more power to you. I pay admission, same as you. I would have loved to enjoy the films.

Like anyone else, my single overall desire is to feel that, at the very least, I’ve gotten my money’s worth.

There are so many writers in this country whose talents far outstrip mine that it would be the height of insanity (if not folly) to be overwhelmingly jealous of the talents of others. I appreciate their talents, enjoy their work, and look forward to being entertained.

In point of fact, no one is harder to entertain than a writer. Why? Because, like a roomful of magicians watching a David Copperfield performance, we already know how the trick is done, or we’re busy trying to figure it out. Seeing a magician requires the audience to suspend disbelief.

“Look! The woman is floating in the air!” No, she’s not. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s impossible. People just can’t float unaided. But you marvel at the illusion. Same thing with telling a story, and the storyteller has to work that much hard to bamboozle a fellow writer, just as the magician does to snow his peers.

Meaning that if a writer producers a screenplay that can entertain me, I applaud his talent and eagerly look forward to what else he has to produce.

Nor do I think that a film need to be technically perfect to be entertaining. For example, I found problems with First Contact: But my bottom line recommendation was that these minuses were worth overlooking in exchange for the many pluses the film brought with it. For that matter, I enjoy a good dumb movie just as much as anyone else. I blush to disclose that the utterly brainless Anaconda was a real fun way to spend an hour and forty five minutes (good date movie, if for no other reason.) I thought Volcano tripped easily from the preposterous to the ludicrous. That still didn’t stop me from watching the lava flow and saying, “Cool!” (A contradiction, I readily admit.) I didn’t write reviews of the latter two, however, simply because the material wasn’t really comic book or science fiction related.

So when Michael says, “I think; it is sad that you spend so much time finding fault; you can’t really let yourself enjoy any movie the first time you view it,” I humbly submit that it is his interpretation… to say nothing of being a sweeping and wholly inaccurate conclusion.

I appreciate that Michael doesn’t begrudge me my opinion. To be honest, it seems that he does. I have criticized movies that he likes, and that upsets him. He certainly has that right.

But I don’t think he, or anyone, should lose sight of the fact that I am simply espousing my opinion. An opinion that carries no more weight or accuracy or gravity than the opinions spouted by people hanging out around a water cooler at an office or around a dealer’s table at a comic book convention. It carries as much or as little weight as one chooses to attribute to it.

Now if Michael wants to get upset about it, as noted, that is certainly his right. But I don’t feel that it is especially constructive to ascribe all sorts of pernicious or jealous motives.

Unfortunately, for the purpose of my column, all too often these are comic book related movies. I suppose that comic-related movies are as subject to Sturgeon’s Law as any other form of entertainment: Namely that ninety percent of all comic book movies are going to be crap. Sorry. Not my fault. Sturgeon’s law is as immutable as that of gravy or action/reaction.

Indeed, I’m always fascinated by the school of thought or criticism which takes me to task simply because of the existence of the column. People who attack me by stating that I’ve presenting myself as some sort of know-it-all, or tried to elevate myself to some degree of authority, simply by dint of producing a weekly column.

I hope I don’t sound disingenuous or self-effacing or just flat out full of it when I say that I just don’t see it that way. I’ve never claimed to be tremendously wise or an endless expert in a variety of things. I’ve never claimed, in short, to be anything other than what I am: A Writer of Stuff. I write stuff. A variety of stuff. Some days I’m on my game more than others, just like anyone else who has a daily job. The difference is, you can have an off-day at work and start fresh the next day, the previous day forgotten. Me, my off-day at work hits the stands several months later and I get thousands of people yelling at me about it. Being a writer is, to me, an endlessly humbling experience. I can get words of praise from a thousand people, but it’s number one thousand and one who hates my work or attacks me personally for whatever reason that sticks with me while the others roll away.

That’s human nature, I guess.

In other words, despite what Michael or others may espouse, I see myself as nothing else than just one guy dancing as fast as he can, trying to keep people happy and entertained and maybe view the world in a slightly different manner than they usually do.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go watch The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, presently airing on cable. It’s one of my favorite films of all time. I loved it in the movie theaters and I love it on the small screen. Critics, for the most part, hated it.

I guess I can’t be imperfect all the time.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. By the way: The power of trailers. My assessment of Batman and Robin, based on the first trailer, was guarded-to-negative. Now there’s a new trailer out, and it looks really sharp.  Interesting. By the way, just saw Addicted to Love, a movie that endeavors to make comedy out of stalkers. It succeeds largely on the strength of leads Matthew Broderick and Meg Ryan, who could play serial killers and still be adorable. And, just to keep Michael happy: We see a can of Coke and Diet Coke thirty minutes into the film.)

 

Comics review: A Touch of Silver

Originally published June 13, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1230

Back when Image Comics first started up, I expressed the opinion in these pages that I felt, personally, a little disappointed over the choice of superheroes for the subject matter of the line. My point (and, as Ellen DeGeneres says, I do have one) was that other comic creators had broken away from Marvel and DC to produce comics that were wildly away from the norm of “the Big Two.” And that I felt an opportunity was being missed to expand the horizons of comic book readers who thought that guys in tights were the be-all/end-all of what comics could provide.

This sentiment was attributed all sorts of misinterpretations and (naturally) evil ulterior motives, when all it was was one dope with a column saying, in essence, “Gee, I’d just liked to have seen something different, that’s all.”

One of the first Image creators to butt heads with me over my opinions was Jim Valentino, creator of Shadowhawk. This, combined with my disembowelling of Rob Liefeld a year or so later over the concept of credit, led to some ill feelings. But time has passed. Feelings have cooled. Image continues. Obviously critical comments of mine caused such creations as Spawn to vanish into obscurity, and the attendant creators to spiral into bankruptcy and oblivion.

And in the meantime, Image is now producing stuff that’s different from the superhero norm… which is all I was asking for in the first place. In the forefront of that movement is the same Valentino with whom I butted heads years ago (well, not exactly the same: He’s lost some weight, gotten a haircut, and looks pretty sharp, ladies.) And I figure I owe it to him to take a look at his marvelous series, A Touch of Silver, of which Jim has sent me the first three complete issues plus photocopies of issues four and five which are in various stages of completion. I don’t usually do comic book reviews in this column, leaving that in the realm of Maggie Thompson or Tony Isabella. But I reason that I owe it for two reasons:

First, since I was the one opening my big yap about Image creators doing something other than guys in tights, I feel some obligation to play it up since it’s actually being done.

And second, I tortured Jim’s assistant.

Not whips and chains or racks or thumbscrews or anything like that. Just… harassed the poor woman. Just a little. Just for fun.

The unfortunate female called me in my sanctum one day, endeavoring to get my address so that she could send me the package of material. I answered the phone and she said, “Hello, I’m calling from Shadowline Studios. I’m calling for Jim Valentino.”

And without hesitation, I said, “I’m sorry. Jim Valentino’s not here.”

She paused a moment. I think she was trying to determine whether I was kidding, or just stupid (keep in mind that one doesn’t preclude the other.) Then she said, “I know he’s not there.”

And adopting my best paranoid tone–which is not all that far removed from my normal speech pattern—“Well, if you know he’s not here, why did you call?” She laughed at that, and I knew we were on the same wavelength, so I ratcheted up the performance level and started shrieking, “You’re one of them, aren’t you! Calling me day and night, harassing me, asking for other people! What kind of sick, twisted game is this? Why won’t you leave me alone?!?”

At which point she was laughing louder, in a manner that indicated that either she really thought I was funny, or she was figuring that she’d better play along, else I might turn violent and show up on their doorstep with an Uzi and an attitude. So I dropped the act, we chatted, and she sent me the stuff.

And I’m glad she did, because it’s tres nifty. (Use that for a pull quote, Jim, I dare you. “Tres nifty!” says Peter David of But I Digress.)

(Actually, I do this kind of thing to phone solicitors all the time. And they never get that I’m joking. Citibank reps in particular are good targets for this. They call me up, say, “Hello, I’m calling for Citibank,” and I’ll reply, “I’m sorry, Citibank isn’t here.” They don’t laugh. They just switch emphasis. “No, I’m calling for Citibank.” And I’ll say, “Look, I already told you, Citibank isn’t here.” At which point they’ll usually say, “I’ll call back,” and hang up. Which is fine by me. But I digress…)

A Touch of Silver chronicles the life of a young boy by the name of Tim Silver, beginning with the slow disintegration of his life in October of 1962. “Tim” of course rhymes with “Jim,” making one wonder how much, if any, autobiographical viewpoint we’re getting here (a problem that never arises when your name is Peter.) Set in Westminster, California, we experience Tim’s life with a sense of very real identification. Consequently, Tim’s story, his environment, has resonance for us because many of us have been in the same mindset as he.

For Tim is a comic book fan, you see. Moreover, he is the classic comic book fan. Small, uncertain, unpopular, seeing the world as a place where parents and bullies hold all the power. The only place where Tim can find escape is the realm of comic books, where virtue guarantees eventual triumph. Where heroes can leave unpleasant circumstances simply by vaulting skyward, and nobody messes with them except supervillains, who invariably get trashed anyway.

What’s particularly attractive is the subjective manner in which Valentino as writer and artist–ably abetted by the lettering of Tami Doll (a name which cries out for a 1950s doo-wop song all its own)–puts across the subjective manner in which Tim views the world. Or, if you want to take it a step beyond that, how an adult Tim recalling his childhood might give emphasis to certain aspects of his life.

Adults, for example, when getting particularly strident, switch from standard word balloons to big open block lettering. His mother and father, when getting particularly irate, go from Valentino’s stylistic norm to wild-eyed, slavering caricatures that look like something that wandered in from a Peter Bagge comic. It makes sense from a child’s perspective: Who among us doesn’t remember being screamed at by a parent whose open and shouting mouth seemed suddenly to constitute about three quarters of the face?

His time in school is depicted in panels that have ziptones, scratch marks and such that obscure them… indicating either that one day of blah school experience tends to blend into the next and the next, shapeless and indistinguishable… or, equally possible (particularly since the same motif occurs during a birthday party for Tim to which virtually no one comes), it’s as if Tim is there in body, but not in mind. Tim, whose interest in writing and drawing his own comics quickly becomes one of the series’ focal points, withdraws from situations which he finds tedious or unpleasant, his mind awhirl with various half-formed images that will eventually coalesce into stories of–naturally–superheros. Stories that will help him escape from the tedium and unpleasantness of his life.

Artistic touches and subjective riffs aside, the first three issues of Silver stick safely to territory that’s been covered by everyone from Leave it to Beaver to Jean Shepherd. There are hints dropped that all is not well in Silver land: His parents’ marriage is troubled, his father is shown in a dalliance with another woman and later making efforts to placate Tim’s mother by spending more, quality time with his kids.

But most of the tale stays safely within Tim’s immediate sphere of influence, and touches on all the childhood fears and difficulties which lend a commonality to growing up–particularly growing up a comics fans. Issue #1 focuses on the aforementioned disastrous birthday party. Issue #2 has Tim’s first, tentative experience with the opposite sex (doesn’t get easier, kid.) And #3 puts Tim in conflict with the school bully. This one had particular identification value for me, because Tim uses stunts he picked up from reading comic books to take down the bully, as did I when I faced off against the school thug back in fifth grade.

In short, the stories are nicely constructed, well told, and emotionally appealing. Hardly groundbreaking, though. With an adult voice-over narration and a bit more whimsy, you’d have credible episodes of The Wonder Years.

But beginning with issue #4, we see Valentino’s true vision for the series. Having laid the groundwork for Tim Silver’s life in the first three issues, Valentino then tears the kid’s life completely apart. The previously established cracks suddenly rip apart—almost without warning—into full-blown crevices, as the Silver parents’ marriage turns into a domestic Vesuvius.

The first rule of a splintering marriage is: Keep the kids out of it whenever possible. In the early parts of the issue, we see the devastating effect that parental bickering has upon children. Tim, old enough to understand, tries to find solace within his comics, penciling a fight scene in which assorted heroes slug it out with the hideous Daddy monster. Tim’s younger sister, meantime, is in quiet denial, playing tea party with her doll and complaining about the “rude and uncouth” neighbors. You just know this kid’s got “therapy” writ large in her future. Like kids growing up in a home with smokers, they choke on the poisonous exhaust given off by a marriage in flames.

But that’s nothing compared to what happens next. Pardon the phrasing of the following since I don’t want to give away everything: The argument reaching a crisis point, one of the parents decides that he or she is leaving, and they explode into the boy’s room, demanding that Tim choose between them.

It’s a hideous sequence—hideous in that you have a feeling that, if little sister is destined for a psychiatrist’s couch, big brother might end up on top of an office building rearranging people’s chest cavities with a high-powered rifle. What we’re seeing here is nothing less than a child being scarred for life. “Who do you love more?!” is the explosive question with which Tim is hammered. He stammers out a name, and you get the sense that it’s hardly the name of the parent he feels a closer bond to, but rather the parent who he’s more afraid of upsetting. Or perhaps Tim was simply trying get out a sentence that would be a plea to his folks not to put him in this ghastly predicament, and he never managed to get beyond the first word of the sentence before being snatched away.

Issue #5 gives us something of a respite from the emotional shellacking that Valentino puts us and his protagonist through, as Tim tries to adapt to a new life, bereft of one of his parents. It’s by far the most involved comic book tie-in, as Tim projects his wish-fulfillment self into a story that beautifully evokes the style and substance of typical 1963 comics (DC-style, Marvel-style, and Alan Moore-style.) Tim, feeling isolated and unwanted, conjures up a daydream in which his alter-ego, Silverboy, is sought after by teams evocative of the Legion, the Fantastic Four, and the Justice League (right down to the classic JLA-style shot that has them running towards camera with their names in captions.) Symbolically recreating his parents’ struggle for his affections, the three teams go at each other in a physical battle to capture Silverboy’s loyalties. And Silverboy–in the mindset of a child who just wishes his life could be normal–desperately wants all the teams to just get be friends with each other instead of battling. Fighting over him is anathema. Deep down, we sense that Tim–like most kids who are victims of divorce–believes that he is responsible for the break-up of his parents’ marriage, and that he and he alone can somehow bring them together.

Would that life were as simple as a 1963-era comic book.

Displaying inventiveness and a deep-seated love for the genre that I haven’t seen from Valentino since normalman, A Touch of Silver goes light-years beyond that in terms of being a personal and important piece of work. Comics parody is one thing. Silver gives us the life of a young boy wherein comic books become not only his hobby and then his love, but also his link to sanity. Like Howard the Duck, Tim Silver is trapped in a world he never made, and comics are his means of survival. In the comics world, he can work out the difficulties in his life that he otherwise would not have the emotional tools to express. Tim is about as far removed from the view of a fan with a bloodless collector’s mentality as one can get.

The characters are multidimensional, the situations achingly real, and the emotional palpable in every pen stroke on the black and white page.

I would highly recommend this series even if I hadn’t tortured Jim Valentino’s assistant. (There. That’s an even better pull quote.)

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. You could write to Jim Valentino there as well, but that would be silly, because he’s not there.)

 

 

The Inevitable GOP Response to “Prometheus”

Based upon an event about 3/4 of the way into the film, I predict the following (spoiler related) reaction from the GOP:

“Prometheus” is just more liberal abortion propaganda, advocating the notion that a woman should go to any lengths to terminate an unwanted pregnancy because the fetus is not a person, but just an unwanted thing.

PAD

Miscellaneous Thoughts

Originally published June 6, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1229

Miscellany…

It’s trailer season, and the two major comic book-related entries could not be more different. While the Batman and Robin trailer makes me wince at the clunky costumes and dialogue, the Men in Black trailer absolutely kicks butt.

Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith look like they’re having a ball, the visuals are sharp, the dialogue snaps, and Jones ultra-deadpan versus Smith’s street-smart persona set off sparks in just the two minutes that I saw. As they face off against some unseen foe while brandishing massive weaponry, Smith asks in relation to their hardware, “Any clue how to work this?” To which Jones responds in a dazzling combination of ignorance and self-confidence, “No idea at all.”

The frustrating thing is, most audiences don’t know–and probably won’t know–that MIB is derived from a comic book. Unless, of course, it bombs. Then people will be sure to say, “Well, what did you expect, it’s a comic book.”

* * *

Bill Mumy, long-time TV actor (Babylon 5, Lost in Space), series co-creator (Space Cases), and–most relevant to this moment, recording artists (as one half of Barnes and Barnes, the artists of “Fishheads” fame) has a new solo album out. Entitled Dying to be Heard, it has an assortment of nifty tunes written in Bill’s appropriately “spacey” style. Standouts, in my opinion, are “My Sweet Saleena” and, most memorably, “The Ballad of William Robinson.” (“My name is William Robinson, I’m forty two years old, I’ve seen the hot side of the sun I’ve seen blue icy cold, I’ve shot the one-eyed giant down with laser in my hand, But I’ll never see my home again or walk on Earth’s green land”) Basically, “William Robinson” is a filk song, and I fully expect to see it showing up during filk sessions at various SF conventions.

Moreover there’s some nifty photos in it, the best one being a shot directly under the CD itself that B5 fans will just love.

By the way, Dying To Be Heard is not to be confused with another CD, Dying to be Herd– recordings of people screaming while being trampled underfoot by stampedes of assorted jungle beasts–available through Rhino Records.

(Bill’s gonna love that.)

* * *

Although the mercurial nature of Marvel Comics’ current ownership allows that matters might well have changed yet again before this sees print, as of this writing it seems as if Ron Perelman’s latest gambit–namely to have Toy Biz buy Marvel–is doomed to failure. I think that’s a shame. Why? Because once upon a time, Marvel was about publishing comics, and licensing was a fairly minor ancillary sideline. But if Toy Biz, maker of Marvel toys, had taken over Marvel, then it would have finally been official: The tail would have been wagging the dog.

By the way, I also think it’s appropriate that all the major players in the embroglio have names that are easily translatable into comic book costumed identity names. You know:

“They think they have defeated Ron Perelman. But now let the world tremble at the wrath of: Man-Pearl!”

“Little to the bondholders know that Carl Ichan, champion of business, is actually Icon, champion of justice!” (Which will come as news to Milestone.)

“Hah! I, Joe Calamari, am heading up the transition team! Look out, world, here comes: The Squid!”

* * *

I watched the Rugrats Mother’s Day Special twice, which is kind of inevitable considering it’s Ariel’s favorite series and it was the first new one in ages. The middle dragged just a bit, but I got completely choked up I got choked up both times at the end. You will not come away from it dry-eyed. I think it should win a Peabody award.

* * *

I’m sure that there’s some folks out there who would say, “Peter David is the last person we’d want to interview.” But one fanzine took that literally: Centaurian Sentinel, a Babylon 5 fanzine, had a big cover feature that was an interview with me. And the editors announced in that selfsame issue that it was their last one. Which made me officially the last person they’d interview.

* * *

You know, you’ve got the cast of Seinfeld now earning $600,000 per episode. Why? Because the networks earn billions off the show, and the cast felt that they were “being screwed” by the mere $100,000 per episode they were being offered before. They felt that they should be sharing in the wealth generated by the show’s success.

In the meantime, networks are wringing their hands over the fact that their viewership is eroding. They keep coming up with gimmicks to get people to watch, including crossovers and 3D stunts (which is the TV equivalent of fancy covers.)

In the meantime, they’ve lost sight of the answer to one simple question: Who made Seinfeld a hit?

The cast? Creator Larry David (no relation, darn it). The writers? No. No, they made a quality show. But there are tons of quality shows that aren’t hits. The TV landscape is littered with them.

Who made it a hit? I did. And you. And you. And you over there, and yes, you too. You watch it. You watch it when it’s good. You watch it when it’s bad. You tune it in and enable NBC to charge tons of money to advertisers, and even more for syndie rights.

The viewers make hits. The viewers make and break shows. It is the viewers, and the viewers alone, who are responsible for a show taking off or sinking like a stone. Critics don’t do it… otherwise EZ Streets or Murder One would have been smash hits. Writers, creators, actors, don’t do it. You do. You and me.

And, my friends… we’re being screwed.

Here’s NBC making all this money off Seinfeld. Here’s the creators and cast making money. And how much money are we making off Seinfeld?

Bupkus. Zero. Goose-egg, ladies and gentlemen.

This is not right. This is not fair.

Where’s our share? Where’s our cut? Jerry’s making a million per, plus his cut of the series. The rest of the cast is making over half a million. They were ready to walk off the show if they didn’t get what they wanted, just like the cast of Friends was ready to do last year, before they were given $100,000 an episode and new contracts guaranteeing them the right to make a series of really bad movies.

In the meantime, there are people in this country who are trying to find two nickels to rub together and eyeing, with a mixture of hunger and dread, that last can of Alpo by the kitchen cabinet.

There’s an obvious answer here, one that I think will satisfy everyone concerned.

I want to be paid for watching Seinfeld.

And you do, too. And you over there. And you too, over in the corner. But not you over near the water cooler, because you’re funny looking.

Think about it. We’re all being screwed. We are the hit makers, but we receive no compensation, no share, no recognition of the efforts we go to. We’re just expected either to do it for nothing or, even worse, to pay for cable. We have to pay good money to participate in a viewing experience where everyone is making money except us?

What makes the cast, the writers, the network, better than us? And the sponsors, feeding off of us, lining their pockets at our expense. Paying the network for the privilege of advertising, making money off us.

And what do we get? Cable bills. Charge bills. Debt. Stuff we don’t really want or need.

It’s time to put an end to it. Time to let the truly deserving get their fair share.

I intend to boycott both Seinfeld and Friends until such time that NBC pays me to watch them. I’m not even looking for a hundred grand. Ten bucks would do. “Must See TV?” I don’t think so. From now on, it’s “Must $ee TV,” babe. You’re on notice, NBC. Ten bucks a week, cash, check or money order. And I encourage everyone out there to join me.

Ten bucks, NBC. Unlike the cast of Seinfeld, which tried for a million but settled for a little over half that, this offer is non-negotiable.

I’m not bluffing, NBC. And I suspect that, as word of this new campaign gets out, other people won’t be bluffing either. If the cast of Seinfeld could be screwed at $100,000, we can be respected for $10.

The clock’s ticking. Decide quickly. Because my cable bill is due.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Cash, check or money order from NBC can likewise be sent there.)  

 

Revisionist History

Originally published May 30, 1997, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1228

Essayists and political analysts with far more political savvy than I (which, frankly, isn’t all that much of a trick) have been commenting that President Bill Clinton has his eye on the history books. That his current policies and actions are being taken, not only with a consideration towards how they will affect his constituency (namely everyone) but also how he will be perceived by future voters and generations.

It’s evocative, to a certain degree, of some of former-president Nixon’s actions, which were allegedly taken–not out self-preservation or an eagerness to cover up the potentially criminal activities of himself or others–but rather out of obligation to future generations of presidents (to say nothing of future burglars and cover-up artists) and how he himself would be portrayed by historians.

And it’s been interesting to see how both historians and politicians have viewed, or even manipulated, the track records of past presidents. During recent presidential campaigns, both GOP and Democrats endeavored to portray themselves as heir apparents to Harry Truman, the humble haberdasher who stepped into the massive shoes of FDR and authorized the ushering in of the atomic age. There are those who would focus on the monumental achievement of the former, while others who would condemn him for all time for the latter.

When Richard Nixon passed away, there seemed to be a battle between varied schools of thought as those who remembered Nixon the (I am not a) crook went toe to toe with those who wished only to focus on his achievements other than being the first sitting president to resign. Should Nixon have been canonized? Or should he have been shunned?

Well, interestingly, the world of Captain America has weighed in on the topic, and the results are–to say the least–surprising.

Apparently, according to Cap lore, Harry Truman was a villain who would destroy the life of one of America’s premiere heroes, while Richard Nixon heroically threw himself on his figurative sword–allowing the world to think that he was covering up personal misdeeds–rather than risk the history of Captain America becoming public.

Boy, and I thought historians could be severe.

In Captain America #3, we find ourselves in 1945, with Captain America in a face-to-face with Harry Truman. We watch, impressed, as two of the great figures of World War II discuss matters of great importance.

Admittedly, we’re even more impressed as we watch furniture in the Oval office rearrange itself over the four page sequence: A large easy chair disappears between page 2 and 3; an area of window sill which had been empty is suddenly filled with photographs; a manila folder and bookends presents on page 2 and 3 disappear on page 4, and a globe turns around by itself–which is something of a blessing, I guess, in that we don’t have to look at South America practically touching Europe anymore. If that’s what Truman was using as a guide, we’re damned lucky he didn’t accidentally nuke Brisbane instead of Hiroshima.

Nor does Captain America seem to know what to do with his feet. Sometimes he’s standing there with his feet next to each other, at attention, as would be appropriate for a soldier facing his commander in chief. Then later his legs are spread wide, perhaps anticipating a gynecological exam. And for some bizarre reason, in one panel he’s standing only on his left leg, with his right leg cocked, as if a grand jete were imminent, or perhaps he’s scratching his left calf with his right foot like an uneasy four-year-old, or perhaps he’s symbolically trying to knee Truman in the crotch. And yes, in case you’re wondering, yes, his knee is pointy, although it should be noted that one-eyed Nick Fury is safely out of the room, having learned his lesson.

In any event, we witness President Truman giving Cap a severe ego stroking, telling Cap that “I’d like to think we couldn’t have won the war in Europe without you.” But then Truman informs Cap that, thirteen hours previously, an atomic bomb has been dropped on Hiroshima (interesting that it’s been half a day and that’s still not public knowledge.) Cap is outraged at the decision. Apparently deciding that it’s not the best time to let ol’ winghead know that real estate prices in Nagasaki are going to be taking a serious dip in a day or so, Truman instead tells Cap, “I want you to stand by my side when I tell the Congress and the American people on radio that you support this decision.”

Cap doesn’t bother to point out that, vis a vis the American people, it’s not going to matter whether he’s by Truman’s side or in Bumblefudge, Nebraska: No one’s gonna see him because, y’know, it’s radio. Truman could have stood there going, “Right, Cap?” and had a sock puppet saying, “Right, Mr. President,” and Aunt Louise and Uncle Mortimer will just nod and listen.

Never mind that, though. Cap respectfully declines. Turning the page, we see Cap standing with his legs wide again, hand outstretched, in a manner that suggests he’s stopping traffic so that kindergartners can cross the street and get to school. Cap informs Truman, “I cannot and will not, in good conscience, support this decision. One of the founding principles upon which this great country was based is the Freedom of Speech. You did what you thought was necessary to bring this horrible war to an end. I disagree with you. And we can stand here until tomorrow morning and I will still disagree with you. I won’t have any part of it. And if that means the people in this room are going to suffer the consequences for their actions, then it’s time you learned: If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen!” And then Cap storms out.

This leaves Truman somewhat teed off. He proclaims, “We can’t have someone as popular as Captain American raising Cain with our policies.”

And then Nick Fury, looking a lot like Cable with an eyepatch, informs the President that they can basically take Captain America, wipe his memory, and put him out of commission until they feel like bringing him back.

And Truman okays it.

That’s pretty amazing.

Let’s get this straight: We are asked to believe that “Give ’em Hell Harry” Truman stands there and lets Captain America disobey his commander in chief. Last I checked, Cap–at least as Steve Rogers–was a soldier. Last I checked, that’s called–to put it mildly–insubordination. Last I checked, they can slap you in jail for that, for a real long time.

Truman doesn’t shout back. Doesn’t order Cap to get his red, white and blue butt back in there. Doesn’t pull rank. Doesn’t say, “Okay, fine. You’re fired. Turn in your costume and shield immediately, and by the way, you’re going to military prison. See ya, Steve.”

For that matter, he doesn’t even say, “I’m the President. You’re not. Take your best shot.” It’s not as if Presidents haven’t had high-profile and popular figures engage in major and very public disagreements. They’ve survived it.

But no. Truman, the man who wasn’t afraid to make the tough decisions and never backed down–the man who had the buck stopping at his desk–crumbles beneath the mere thought that Captain America was going to voice his sentiments publicly.

“Ya didn’t give me or the blasted president of the United States any kinda choice on the matter,” Nick Fury tells him. That’s right, kids. Harry Truman was so intimidated by Cap that he rode roughshod over Cap’s rights, authorizing his being mindwiped and being made a perpetual toy of the government, rather than risk a public face off. And Fury goes on to say, “You taking a stand against the president would’ve broken this country inta pieces.”

So: According to Cap’s revised lore, Truman was gutless, duplicitous, something of a frightened sheep, and willing to destroy the life of a man who disagreed with him, rather than try to seek a legal (albeit tacky) way of shutting Steve Rogers up, or else just live with Cap’s disapproval and say to the American people, “If Captain America was willing to put American lives at risk, that is naturally his call to make. I, however, was not. So if you care about your son’s lives, listen to me, and if you don’t care about their lives, listen to Cap. Thank you and good night.”

Broken the country into pieces? Highly doubtful. Steve Rogers archly informs Fury, “I happen to have a little more faith in the American people than you do, Fury,” and in this instance, he’s right. What’s unbelievable is that Truman didn’t. It’s as if the 1990s need to see cover-ups and clayfeet in every aspect of government has been layered onto one of the truly dynamic personalities of the 20th century, diminishing him just to serve the needs of a comic book.

But a mere four issues later, we’re back in the Oval Office, and Nick Fury is still there, but this time it’s Bill Clinton who’s being brought up to speed. The office has maintained its metamorphic powers: The objects on his desk change from one page to the next; a chair next to his desk disappears; his swivel chair suddenly grows legs, and then curved legs; a chest of drawers is replaced by a potted plant and then reappears; wall paintings disappear and return;, the number and nature of flags keeps changing; and the famed seal of the President of the United States on the carpet is nowhere to be seen… except on one page where the star border is plainly there; the number and arrangement of books on a wall shelf keep changing. To say nothing of the fact that the stripes on Clinton’s necktie go from diagonal slanting up to the right, to horizontal, to diagonal slanting down to the right, all in the course of two pages.

But at least the office remains oval. Maybe we should send in Scully and Mulder to investigate.

So there’s Clinton on the splash page, standing behind his desk, with his necktie tucked into his pants And Clinton says, “I think it’s time I knew everything,” thankfully clarifying in the next balloon, “Everything about Captain America.” As opposed to, say, everything about Dutch cabinet making. Or everything about walking down a couple of steps. Or even everything about everything.

And Nick Fury warns him–in a voice sounding more like an Oxford graduate than the street-scrapper word choice we usually associate with Nick (substituting the word “you” for the more colorful “ya,” for example)–“I’m not sure you want to know all the details, sir. Your predecessors chose to allow the government its secrets. You know? I mean, the last president who knew everything resigned. Those that followed him learned from his mistake.” (Or, if you’d prefer classic Nick speak: “I’m not sure ya want all the details, sir. Yer predecessors let the government keep its secrets, y’know? I mean, the last president who knew everythin’ resigned. So the guys after him knew better.”)

An astonished Clinton, with an oddly posed hand gesture that looks as if he’s offering Fury a chair, says, “Nixon? Nixon knew?”

“You think those missing minutes of the Watergate tapes were about something as mundane as a break in?” (“Ya didn’t think those missin’ minutes from the Watergate tapes were about something as dull as a break in, did’ja?”) And Val de la Fontaine confirms, “Nixon knew about Captain America, sir. And he chose to vacate his seat of office, rather than reveal what he knew to the world.”

Pretty damned noble.

It’s not that revelations of his misdeeds, from cover-ups to secret bombings to obstruction of justice, were sending him heading straight for impeachment, putting him into a position wherein he had to resign in disgrace. No, no. Richard M. Nixon took one in the chest to avoid tarnishing the legend of Captain America.

Geez louise. Even Oliver Stone would have turned up his nose at that.

I know that those who would censor comics express the same sentiments as I am about to express, but I’m gonna say it anyway: C’mon, guys. Kids read this stuff.

Did Truman really have to be portrayed as a weak-kneed coward who ruined a man’s life rather than face off against him in a public tussle? Did Nixon’s resignation in disgrace really have to be attributed to some noble act of patriotism rather than a realization that he’d dug himself a hole he could never escape from?

Sure, these are just comics. Sure, it’s all just made-up. Sure, it’s just in fun.

But Truman the sinner? Nixon the Saint?

Just doesn’t seem right somehow.

I don’t think even Captain America would approve.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He wishes to thank Pat O’Neill for pointing out this odd revisionist history, and eagerly awaits an upcoming Cap storyline wherein it’s revealed that Marilyn Monroe had a baby with Thomas Jefferson.)