Author: Marc Alan Fishman

Marc Alan Fishman: Iron Man Invented Ultron!

Did you see it? Did ya did ya did ya? The latest trailer to the future billion-dollar-blockbuster-to-be <a href=”

Avengers 2: Age of Ultron didn’t dance around the revisionist history of the cinematic 616. Ultron, once the product of Dr. Hank Pym – of Ant Man fame, don’t you know – has been shifted to the fatherly arms of one Tony Stark.

Now, the movie isn’t out yet, and I’ve abstained for seeking any real spoilers (that the trailer didn’t spoil itself). For all I know, Tony “invented” it the same way Microsoft invented the Zune. But, let’s just assume that in the world of Joss Whedon’s Marvelverse, Tony Stark did as he said: he attempted to create a solution to the ails of the world… and in doing so, created a would-be destructor instead. Simply put, this is a brilliant move by the boardroom of Mickey Mouse. Old school fans be damned.

An old adage I was taught in screenwriting class was that “you don’t put a gun on the table if you don’t plan on firing it.” The idea being that storytelling in a restricted amount of time (like a 150 minute movie) means sometimes having to consolidate resources. And while I’m sure I could have my ear talked off by someone older than me on the rich history of Pym’s creation of the aforementioned villain, it’d fall on deaf ears. The biggest reason: the story thus far in the Marvel movies has wonderfully built to this outcome.

Take a trip through Iron Man, Iron Man 2, Avengers, and Iron Man 3. The genesis to the Marvel Studios empire was built on the back of Anthony Stark: war-monger, philanthropist, martyr. It makes complete sense coming out of Avengers and Iron Man 3 that Tony would feel compelled to create a machine to solve the world’s problems. And it’d make even more sense he’d imbue it with a bit of his own panache. Any decent scientist will tell you the man who could invent Jarvis as presented is more than capable of creating the AI that wants to end humanity in order to save it. No one builds a monologuing AI better than Tony “Poke the Hulk in the Tuccus” Stark.

What I love even more than the choice to saddle Tony with the idea for Ultron is the potential stories that spin out of it. Akin to Grant Morrison’s astounding Tower of Babel arc in JLA, here the biggest threat to the Avengers (and the world at large) isn’t the rampaging id, alien demi-god, or right-wing cyclops… it’s the narcissist futurist. And given the name drop of Captain America: Civil War and the leaked stories of Tony’s appearance in it, it doesn’t take much brain power to see that Captain America may end up opposite his teammate over something as trivial as potentially almost ending the world. Plus, Tony also sorta created Whiplash and a fire-breathing Guy Pearce. If that’s not enough to go to war, then I don’t know my politics.

Beyond Cap there’s potential steam to be blown off by countless others. And what of Tony’s Science Bro, Dr. Banner? Maybe he’ll be more sympathetic to a man trying to quell the beasts of the world and messing up. And what of Black Widow or Hawkeye? One would imagine they aren’t ones to choose sides quickly. And then there is S.H.I.E.L.D. and all of that potential mess.

Whedon’s recent interviews have all beleaguered the point that with this sequel the story is decidedly more insular than the previous iteration. Avengers pretty much charged out of the gate swinging, and there was hardly time for Earth’s Mightiest Heroes to fraternize. Those critics devoid of our fanboy hearts saw the coming together of the menagerie of complex costume choices as being inherently explosive.

In simpler terms, put that many type-A personalities on one giant flying fortress and you were bound to have an alien invasion and the near destruction of New York City. Of course we’d all beg to differ, but the outsiders have a point. And it all comes back to Tony.

At the end of Iron Man we were introduced to the concept of the superteam – a­­nd the tin man was clearly at the core of it. When Tony stepped on the Triskelion, he treated it as if he owned it. And after he illegally downloaded all the secret files within, in a way he did. And he was quick to reveal to his fellow Avengers how secretive and potentially damning their would-be employers were. Forever the smartest man in the world… doomed to see his biggest ideas twisted into death and destruction. Tony Stark is karma’s bitch.

And Avengers 2 will be amazing because of it.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Gotham Gets Better

gotham-penguin-9564597Back in November I lamented that Gotham was a train-wreck with glimmers of hope peaking out amongst the smoldering boxcars abandoned near Arkham Asylum. Well, here we are, a large smattering of episodes later, and I’m starting to change my outlook on Fox’s proto-Batman dramedy. Hear me out, skeptics.

My turn of opinion first peeked its tepid head out into the light when I came to the realization that the show was not, nor would it ever be, Gotham Central by way of Ed Brubaker. The fact is I’ve circled my wagons around the ideology that business and the boardroom will always help dictate the creative endeavors of the Big Two™’s creations. That means that as critically acclaimed a graphic novel may be, at the end of the day all Warner Bros is going to care about is ratings and the potential syndication of Gotham. Hence, the fact that producers are making a show that by-and-large is built to appeal to the widest audience possible by way of brazen continuity-shattering canon-damning characterizations was bound to happen. Or in lesser terms, we were never ever ever going to not get interpretations of Batman’s rogue gallery. So I got over it.

And when I did, the sky opened up, and the show instantly became more entertaining to me. Jim Gordon – the John Wayne of Gotham – and his trusty drunkish sidekick Harvey Bullock are the lone moral compass amidst a sea of corruption. Hell, Bullock up until the 8th or 9th time Gordon saved his ass was as much a part of the problem as anyone. But as the show settled into itself, there was a slight shift in the dynamic duo’s camaraderie.

After sticking his neck out on the line enough times, Bullock and the police chief both turned from broken records (“You’ll never beat this city, Jim!) into begrudging do-gooders. And it did the series a hell of a favor. Instead of one man against a city, there was a subtle cracking of a window, piercing the muck and mire with rays of hope.

Hope. It’s the biggest concept the show misplaced at the onset. But over time, the cases of the week gave way to those notions that yes, in fact, some people did want to fight against the rampant corruption. And to a degree even those who existed on the other side of the law started to show depth of character. Make no bones about it: Carmine Falcone is an evil and bad man. But he bleeds the same blood as we do, and through the plot line of Fish Moody’s planted girlfriend, we saw shades of grey in what was an otherwise black and white caricature of any gangster we’ve seen a million places elsewhere. OK, and let me not give too much credit here. The shtick of an Italian-American loving his mother is not exactly original storytelling. Again, lowest-common-denominator here. Take the small victories as big ones.

Because Gotham was given more than twenty shows to produce within the first season, the writing team has been very sneaky in utilizing slow-burn storytelling in-between the predictable ratings bait. While we’ve been treated to outright terrible iterations of the Scarecrow and the maybe-Joker to-be, we’ve been privy to the ebb and flow of several well-defined debauchees.

Oswald Cobblepot immediately comes to mind. Robin Lord Taylor steals nearly every scene he’s in. While his recent pyrrhic victory over Fish has left him her club, yes, it’s at the cost of anyone believing him ever again. His playing of Maroni and Falcone has no doubt left him as a pawn to more powerful men – until he figures out yet-another way to squawk out of harm.

Outside of The Penguin, the aforementioned Fish herself has been perhaps the only other critically acclaimed person on the show. And while I had not been fond of her personally, I see the appeal. A strong female lead who plays an elegant sexy versus the traditionally slutty alternative amongst Batty’s libertine ladies does leave a better taste in the mouth. Combine this with her more recent turn as a sympathetic heel and you have the makings of another breakout star. My hope though is when she makes an eventual return to Gotham City she does so to rebuild her empire independently. Let Ozzie keep the club for now. Heck, maybe he should turn it into a casino.

And then there’s Bruce. There was no way around the awkwardness of his origins. We’d seen them done dozens of times before. The pearls. The gun shots. The scream into the night. Followed of course by stoic angst amidst solid oak furniture and priceless bric-a-brac. But once Gotham got past the traditional beats, we’ve been granted a look into Bruce Wayne’s life that otherwise has not been better captured. As Alfred would denote several times since my last writing, the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne have granted their sire an unyielding independent streak. He’s been focused (even when gallivanting as the weakest looking punk ever depicted on TV, with Selina Kyle), keen-eyed, and bright. And he’s been all of this whilst figuring how to cope with the grief. The performance has been stilted now and again, but the storytelling has been solid as a rock. This is a Bruce Wayne about to enter adolescence. And it’s slowly become an enjoyable B story against the cases of the week.

While Gotham is still significantly flawed, it has leapt forward in its ability to put a smile on my face. When the show isn’t confined to redefining known properties, there’s an original mish-moshing of noir, black comedy, and a decent (if dumb) police procedural.

Combine this with an astoundingly nice production budget, and the backing of a major network and you have a show that I once thought would be unsalvageable, and over time has become a minor fleet-of-fancy. It’s not Flash or Arrow mind you… but for the time being it doesn’t have to be. It just needs to ultimately calm down and realize its best adventures are still yet to come.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Selling Out

richie-rich-8523452The other afternoon, whilst sipping on a cool beverage and shooting the breeze with a comic book making cohort, I stumbled upon a most interesting What If scenario. You see, this pal of mine loathes Kevin Smith (of Jay and Silent Bob, and a dozen other ventures). Knowing this, I pressed:

“What would you do if Kevin Smith got a hold of your [Amazing Indie Book I’ve Plugged Before], and decided he just had to turn it into a film. Would you make a deal with him?”

A little bit of hemming and hawing later, the answer was a resounding yes – pending a considerable amount of money was put on the table, as well as some subsidiary rights. It ultimately got me to question myself: Would I put aside my integrity as an artist if it meant a more lucrative life? Well, as much as I’d love to be able to side with the staving artists of the world, I’m a fat dude who loves a good Faberge egg omelet far more than resting on a pile of unsold ideas.

It’s oftentimes the pipe dream of the indie creator, is it not? Certainly Banky and McNeil of Chasing Amy had courted selling out as means to better ends, and no one looked down on them much. The fact is that we barnacles on the S.S. Comics may enter into the endeavor or making pulp for the masses with nothing more than good intentions to entertain, but there’s only so long that one can sustain the hobby without lucrative backing.

As I’ve detailed time and again: each issue of my Samurnauts series represents roughly 250 work hours from concept to completion. Three guys working full time jobs and maintaining contact with loved ones – like our fiancés, wives, and kids – put in those hours. While there’s no greater feeling in the world than seeing a complete stranger plunk down his hard earned cash for my comic, there’s no bigger dream then being able to sustain a career actually making the next issue.

If there were to be a fly on the wall when Shuster and Siegel were pitching Superman, do you think they were contemplating points on the backend when they signed their names on the dotted line? I doubt it. They sold the rights for $130 and a contract to produce more material, to the tune of $150,000 a year for the pair. Superman, of course, went on to become a radio show, a newspaper strip, a cartoon, a television program, and countless cartons of collectable crap. The creators would end up suing DC and other respective owners for a fairer cut for the rest of their natural lives. The notion was clear from the start: putting food on the table will trump a stiff upper lip every time.

When an artist is given carte blanche to see their truest work come to fruition, I’ve no doubt it will always be better than had it been built by a focus group. But there’s a reason why DC and Marvel hire known names to helm their biggest titles. They’re not in the business to take leaps of faith. In the best cases, one could argue that a collaboration between art and commerce leaves the most people happy. See The Avengers. And when it goes wrong, well, funny enough, no one is exactly blaming Eastman and Laird over Bay’s Ninja Turtles now, are they.

The notion of selling out was always troublesome to me. The thing is, the Million Dollar Man was right: Everyone has a price. But there will always be those creations we hold nearest to our hearts and feel the need to protect. I believe for most of us indie creators, our ideas are always on the table for sale because we pride ourselves in the ability to create more where they came from. The hope is when we’re well off enough we can afford to give life to those new ideas without the slimy hand of an unwanted third party. Left to their own devices, Green Day became Foxboro Hot Tubs and without any focus groups to get in the way… ended up sounding like Green Day (from 1968).

So, I say unto all those amidst the Artist Alleyways! You are free and clear to seek that big payday without fear of repercussion. For you see… the artist that pays his bills, and lives to see another day has plenty of integrity in my book.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: DC’s Newest – A New Hope or Phantom Menace?

section-8-6204625Well, it’s been a while since I’ve been snarky. And I use that italicized denotation to declare to you that my right eyebrow is fully engaged and riding high, whilst its partner is floating low. There is a smirk across my mouth that clearly tells you that I’m excited. These are the announcements Internet op-ed folk dream of reading – and then immediately speculate, rant, and blather about.

The New 52 is dead. Long may you rot, New 52.

Following up from the soon-to-pass “Convergence” epic-to-end-all-epics-except-that-last-epic crossover event, DC will be overhauling its monthly title list to include 25 currently running series, and a newly announced (well, like, a week ago announced) set of 24 new titles that may just be rebrands, or retitled series they still are putting out. So, be prepped for yet-another-batch of #1s to flood your racks and drain your wallet. And I say your wallet because in spite of all the good karma DC is attempting to gain by admitting some present-day faults with this stunt, I have yet to be impressed. If anything, this current PR initiative leaves me even more tepid regarding mainstream comic bookery.

Dan DiDio’s press release declared the shifting sands of the line as “allow[ing] us to publish something for everyone, be more expansive and modern in our approach and tell stories that better reflect the society around us.” All in all, that’s a great sentiment. It clearly rides the line between apology and promise for the future. Something for everyone hits right in the bread basket. As the average comic shop goer continues to diversify – both in who goes to the shop as well as what those in the shop are looking for – declaring that a motif of the line was to expand beyond the norm of capes and cowls is a great thing to strive for.

Of course if you then look at the line being offered, tt’s a big fat lie.

The rest of the quote deals with incorporating a modern approach in telling stories that reflect the society around us. This leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. They said the same thing with the New 52 and all we got were angsty superheroes and an abundance of Nehru collars. Oh, and the death of a ton of worthwhile continuity and legacy. But I digress.

Be that is it may, there’s glints of hope peering out in between the predictable. The Bryan Hitch written and drawn Justice League of America gives me the hope from last time I gave a crap about DC’s biggest team – the Morrison years. We Are Robin takes what appears to be a street-level justice bent, likely set in Gotham. It harkens back perhaps to GCPD, a series that I wish there were more of in any incarnation of the DCU. And for those who like to celebrate the odd, well, Bat-Mite or Bizarro might take typical cape-and-cowl crud and give us something unexpected.

Peering further down the list though, we get series that seem to be dusting off concepts the modern reader isn’t going to know. Prez, Omega Men, and Section Eight: I’m looking at you. Seeing these titles amongst the noobs has me scratching my head. Pair those What the-? titles with lame ducks like Black Canary, Martian Manhunter, and Cyborg and I’m no longer scratching… I’m shaking it in sadness.

Not because I don’t want these series to succeed, mind you. But the truth of the matter is none of these books are on the tips of the tongues of those seeking new books or concepts. And while DC may hope some jazzy art, or a modern concept will instantly enamor the geeks at large with the new books… someone somewhere should denote that one simply can’t “Batgirl” their way to victory. It will take heavy lifting by the respective creative teams to lure the initiated into the fold – and then it will take near perfection of execution to keep those books alive. If they want a hint, they should go back to New York and ask Marvel about Hawkeye.

The truth of the matter is that it will take an amazing leap of faith for any of the new series to be more than just another attempt at making buzz. While putting great talent on a book (like Ennis and McCrea on Section Eight – a series tied to their old hit, Hitman) is never a bad thing… putting out this many number one issues in succession makes it infinitely harder to see the kind of success DiDio is hoping for. It’s not enough to hack and slash your way through the catalog and dump a ton of new books on the public under the guise of the shifting tides.

The announcement on the whole reeks to me of boardroom politics and analytic-based commodity profiteering. Simply put, the powers-that-be figured out that #1s spike sales. So, fuck all… flood the market again, wrap it up in some nice PR about diversity, and save the line for another two years.

Mark my words: if half of the newly announced series are still being published at issue #13, feel free to shave my face.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: I’m Now A Who From Whoville!

Well, it took me a while to make my way through it, but I’m pleased as punch to report I watched an entire season of Doctor Who. And no need to bury the lead: I’m a fan. Peter Capaldi made me a fan. As for the rest of the Whoniverse, not so much.

For those loosely following my journey to TARDIStowne, this has been a long and bumpy road. When I’d noted my friends had started to watch (somewhere between the 9th and 10th Doctors) I gave the show a tepid try. Because I’d not been privy to any Who lore – be it actual storylines, or knowledge of the production itself – I initially found the show to be too low-budget, and too in-jokey for me to care. As the world around me anointed their arms with tally marks, whispered “Don’t Blink,” or went on and on about something called Bad Wolf, I remained ever-snarky. And then, when a weekend left me with nothing to do but catch The Day of the Doctor with my wife and son, I’d openly declared my desire to jump on the bandwagon. And thus I programmed the Capaldi Who to Season Record. Cue the theme music.

It’s not that surprising – to me, at least – that Capaldi was the hook that grabbed me. My love of Gregory House would be the telltale heart there. At their cores, Greg and Twelve (can I call him Twelve?) are problem-solvers. And they are both likely to use their tongues as the tool to save the day. Unlike House though, Capaldi’s Who was never outright rude for rudeness sake. He was curt, yes, but always when danger or a mystery seemed to be afoot. Tie this into the season’s overarching question – Is the Doctor a good man? – and you have the conflicted lead taking charge each week as the universe finds new ways to unravel.

And whether Capaldi was debating a dying Dalek, scoffing at Robin Hood, or giving dimension to flat foes, he presented it all with a nuanced performance that I believed was deep. Unlike the current James Gordon on Gotham, the gravitas of the Doctor felt lived in. And given I personally knew nothing of the decades-long history of the character? Well, that sums up Capaldi’s talent and my fandom pretty easily.

As with the original Star Trek, Firefly, or any number of other science-fiction shows I would eventually find an affinity for, the key to my kindness has always been strong characterization. Beyond Capaldi, I must give credit where it’s due. In spite of being plucky to the point of annoyance, Jenna Coleman’s Clara did eventually win me over. And her beau for the season, Danny Pink (“P.E.”!), while being a bit too much of a nondescript archetype when action was required, did eventually find his place. Funny then right as I was enjoying his grounded nature… that he (SPOILER ALERT) got smashed by a random plot device… err… car. In any event, the companions of this season were built to show us sides of the Doctor that were necessary in an introductory season. Now, a dozen or so episodes later… we know Twelve is not a leader of men, a lover of the ladies (though he creepily sorta dug kissing his arch, no?), or anything beyond an admitted “idiot with a box and a screwdriver, passing through, helping out.”

Long before I enjoyed the show, I’d considered Doctor Who to be as much (if not more) about the universe the he inhabited versus himself. But Capaldi’s season proved to me that to be untrue. While the episodes throughout the season were chocked in references that scooted way over my head, the most potent moments were never about anyone or anything more important than the Doctor himself.

Obviously tied to the aforementioned Good Man motif, it was clear even in the more lackluster or frustrating episodes (Earth taken over by trees, I’m looking at you…) that the definition of this iteration of the Doctor was at the heart of the show. And even in the face of his newly reformed nemesis, with the entire Earth under the threat of annihilation, Capaldi’s grimaces and line delivery sucked every scene into his orbit.

If I were to be critical, it’d revolve mostly around the specific adventures themselves. I found the show to be at its best when the plots were small and specific. When the Doctor had to handle a murder mystery on the space-faring Orient Express, or dealing with an unknown flat threat targeting a small town, there was a wonderful balance between the threat and the solution. When the show went big, with Earth-swallowing fairy tale forests, or the season finale’s masterful plot, things tended to get out of hand. Heady concepts are the bread and butter of the science fiction serial… but in a season that is built around a introspection, these few-too-many universe-shattering melodramas felt like loose Star Trek plottos, not quirky BBC fare.

With a dozen adventures now under his belt, I’m excited for the future. With the prospect of a new companion to roam all of space and time with pending, as well as litany of returning alien allies and foes, I expect a second season of Capaldi to move outside of the reactionary into something more proactive. Let’s see where this Doctor really wants to travel.

That is of course, unless his new companion Bogarts the TARDIS for their own agenda. Either way, I’m on for the ride…

Eyebrows and all.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Just Live Your Dream

I recently passed the one-year mark at my day job – in-house graphic designer for a software company in the higher education sector – and in having my performance review I reached an odd catharsis. I realized that I’d been a graphic designer professionally for over a decade, and had finally crossed the bridge beyond what I deemed pixel pushing. With that in mind, my desire for more was evident. Without a professional filter, I let my boss know exactly what I’d had in mind. In a flash of a few minutes, I’d all but admitted that I was being wasted as an asset… and for the first time, it wasn’t just a load of bull-squat. Just so you know: The first ten years on the job is really you learning to become a productive member of society.

My coworker lamented to me (post review-rant) that I was “so talented” (I swear I didn’t pay her to say it), that it baffled her I wasn’t “actually doing what I love.” That stung, but not for the reasons you might think. She was specifically speaking to my desire to work in comics, professional wrestling, the movies, TV, or just about any medium where scantily clad men and women fight for reasons that make little to no sense. While some might sigh that they’ve not attained their dreamed station in life, my ire was raised more because those aforementioned media are all veritable pipe dreams to me because of the systems built around them.

From the outside looking in, becoming an entity worthy of a title page (or credit roll, etc.) is akin perhaps to getting a city job in Chicago. As my Uncle Howard once lamented on his position: “It’s more about who you know than what you know.” For every year as an indie creator attending comic cons, those ladies and gents working at Marvel and DC (and Boom!, IDW, Dark Horse, etc.) all seemed to carry a collected air amongst them. An unspoken bond, I assume, built through late-night editor notes, insane deadlines, and the knowledge that at the end of the day your name appeared next to Batman, Deadpool, or G.I. Joe. And when pressed for how these lucky ducks got into their positions? Well, it’s been said in my column enough for you to know the joke by now: Getting into comics is like getting out of prison. As soon as you find a way to do it, they seal it up on your way out.

And what of the great and powerful WWE? Well, according to their careers page, you must have 5-10 years experience writing for TV before you can even come knocking on the front gate. So how might one get into writing for TV? Well, step one would be not living in Chicago. The simple truth is tinsel town isn’t looking beyond its borders for the next big thing. Why? Because they don’t have to. The next big thing is serving them a latte, parking their car, or telling them jokes in a dive-bar on a Thursday night.

There’s often that illusion that one might be able to make it in their own town – grow a brand, and fan base, and then let the big boys find you – but that in and of itself is a house of cards. Take it from the indie guy whose been doing it long enough to know; there’s plenty of other great talents working shoulder to shoulder with you right where you are, sharing the exact same hopes and dreams. In short, it’s not always going to be the sweat on your brow, or the meticulously crafted prose you spout that will find you your meal ticket. “It’s more about who you know than what you know.”

You can see the rabbit hole now a bit better, can’t you? The fact is that life gets in the way of our dreams. And even those living the dream might be the first to tell you that it’s not all sunshine and roses. As far as I can tell, even those who are making those DC and Marvel comics aren’t exactly raking in fat salaries with benefits. Aside from what is likely the top 5-10% of the industry (my best guess that could easily be fixed by Mike Gold, or others here on this site), the freelance work-for-hire creators are working in a revolving door system that is built to chew them up and spit them out. Unless you’re topping the charts with that issue of Voodoo this month, you’re likely back in artist alley with that copy of Idiosyncratic Youth you’re hocking next to the Voodoo sketch cover variants. And over in the WWE… well, let’s just say that I actually knew a writer who worked for them, and he was pretty clear that it was a quaint stop for any aspiring writer who wanted to be told “no” from old guard at every corner.

Top that with the fact that I have a wife, an adorable three year-old, a mortgage, and a need for health insurance. Natch.

Now, let me make it clear: beyond any specific employer I may covet a position with, I’m doing what I love. I draw a salary for being creative. It’s something I do not take for granted given that my two studio mates have not shared in that luxury. The fact is that with Unshaven Comics, I’m not banking a living wage (or really enough money to do more than print more books and attend more cons), but I’m still tangentially living the dream. Even if pixel pushing keeps my lights on, I’ve accepted that my creative endeavors outside of 9-5 can remain my forever lotto ticket. Whether my number gets called is really up to chance. But if it does, at least I’ll be ready for it. And when that jackpot runs out, well, I’ll still be well employed elsewhere. And security to me is just as dreamy as those scantily clad heroes and babes.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Into the Great Digital Marketplace!

When Unshaven Comics released its first publication, The March: Crossing Bridges in America, digital comic bookery was still mostly magic. The next year, when we released Disposable Razors #1, a glut of apps flooded the market promising the future for the indies, and ComicMix was knee-deep in online readers. Our books remained ink and paper. Our sales climbed.

The next year, a few of the apps went the way of Star Trek Voyager and Deep Space Nine. Disposable Razors #2 remained a glossy non-app. By the third issue, fewer apps remained commercially viable. Front-runners were forming, and Unshaven met every fan questioning when we’d offer our wares online met with the same confounded faces. Three more years passed, and we remained stubborn. And finally today, I’m happy to say we’ve joined the digital age.

You still can’t get our books digitally as of this posting… but it’s happening none-the-less.

In our defense, Unshaven Comics largely refused to take ourselves into digital comics because we were skeptical of a glut of things. Amongst them: how ubiquitous a platform and file-type might be, how payments would be processed, and how we could connect with fans if they downloaded our books (legally or otherwise) leaving us to sign napkins at the con for nickels.

Suffice to say, that glut is mostly dust now. ComiXology has arisen as the most adopted platform for digital books. Purchases on their app exist as licenses to read and enjoy for life. Of course if they go belly up, who knows. But I guess that’s part of the fun. Payments for indie guys like Unshaven Comics come once a quarter. And you get 50% of what comes in for your books. And as far as con-goers… well, it took long enough to grasp, but we finally get it. The world can exist with both a collectible market and a commodity market.

You can’t get Scott Snyder to sign Batman #75 on your iPad. Well, you could, but that might be awkward if you go back to read the issue. That, and people might think you stole your iPad from Scott, since he wrote his name on it, and that won’t end well for anyone. The digital comic marketplace is built for those looking to consume more than collect. Convention tables sell items for those looking for the opposite. I’ve long read e-mail chains from ComicMix’s Mike Gold over his continually growing digital pile of books he’s currently plowing through.

Quite frankly, who could blame him. The next time I know I’ll be leaving on a jet plane with hours to spend sitting, waiting, flying, and then sitting and waiting more… knowing that I could load up my iPad with a few volumes of all those books I’ve been meaning to absorb could be the difference between memorizing a SkyMall, or actually consuming something amazing. (Sadly, yesterday SkyMall filed for bankruptcy. I totally wanted one of those hot dog toasters because why not. But I digress.)

So, Unshaven Comics will soon be on ComiXology, via their “Submit” program. Off the cuff, it’s a great idea that is being crushed under its own weight. We Unshaven lads submitted our first issue of Curse of the Dreadnuts back in July of 2014. A few days ago, we were accepted in. Now, there was little to no explanation as to whether an initial submission takes longer than subsequent offerings, or if the program is simply that backlogged. And when I say “little to no” I mean “none.”

Beggars can’t be choosers, and I assume that the length of time it takes to get from submitted to being in-app is in direct correlation to the sheer number of indie creators attempting to push their way through. And given the likelihood of the mountainous sales one assumes come with e-publishing a book from the kids down the street, it’s not a surprise if ComiXology doesn’t place more emphasis on expedience with the program.

But let’s get back to the bigger point. After years of fighting it, Unshaven Comics has given in to the digital devil. The fact that with a little promotion, a little luck, and maybe just a lot more luck, we might move a few issues. And perhaps in another five months another issue will hit that digital rack, ready for hungry fans.

The system can only improve with time. Technology will continue to be adopted at incredible rates. Media will continue to exist in the shifting sands of ownership versus permanent rentals. And comic book creators will have a new avenue in which to compete with the big boys. And while our place within the app will be akin to our meager alley tables at the big conventions…

A spot on the floor is all it takes to earn a fan. Digital or otherwise.

 

Marc Alan Fishman’s Toy Story

In front of me stands Kyle Rayner, Saint Walker, and Guy Gardner, each behind their impenetrable clamshell wall. Next to them, Alan Scott’s power battery. It doesn’t grant me the power of the Starheart, but when we lost power last week it provided enough ambient light to get me to the staircase. Beside that, a 6” Orion and a 10” Sandman.

To be honest, I sit here, in my man cave a veritable kid in a toy store. The entire Ultraforce sits to my right. Behind me, a cache of Nerf weaponry that would be illegal in ten out of ten office wars. And sitting over my TV, in front of my faux mantle, is my prized possession: the mini replica of Kyle Rayner’s power battery. How coveted is it? It’s out of box and totally played with.

It seemingly goes hand-in-hand with our shared brand of nerditry, does it not? This compulsion to collect. As a child, it started simply enough. He-Man begat the Transformers, the Transformers begat the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the Turtles begat Exo-Squad and a deluge of Legos. When I reached junior high and began my love affair with comic books, soon the toys of my youth gave way to the collectables attained at the comic shop. They were, of course, the same damned toys. But it mattered not. For a toy in the hands of a comic book aficionado (carefully kept in the packaging that held it) became an investment. Or so the counter-jockeys told us.

What is it about our love affair with pulp and ink that leads us to waste our disposable income on trinkets, props, and replicas? Why do we need to surround ourselves with the relics of our favorite heroes and villains? When we were children – and we all still are in one way or another – action figures and their ilk were there to coax our imagination. Perhaps I’ve grown up too much, but the figures that stand on the chair rail in front of me offer no inspiration. They were purchases on the compulsion to own one example of each of the DC cosmic color spectrum. And when I nabbed that coveted Atrocitus and Larfleeze… did I feel like a more complete human being? Did some icon appear over my head declare “Achievement Unlocked: Poorer Nerd +5”? No. The figures were purchased, put on display, and left for dead.

I admit in between bouts of writers block, or a bad-art-making day I might be tempted to slice open every last one of their plastic prisons and pose them in epic battle. But that thought is stamped out at the siren’s song of Netflix, my DVR, or my Xbox as they pull me away like a cartoon cat lured by window-sill pie.

Some might stick to their guns and cite the collector’s market, eBay, and the like as reason to surround themselves in the mélange of rare molded plastic. But to what end? It’s rare to hear of a collector living a life of leisure through the simple resale of mint-in-box bric-a-brac. Is it because so few of us can really avoid the temptation to create lavish dioramas? I doubt it. If I were to feign a more realistic guess, it would be that the mass manufactured toys released to Wal-Mart alongside the chase figures sold at twice the cost to your local comic shop are only specifically special to a segment of people that already own them in the first place. A snake eating its own tail is never really full, kiddos.

It leads me back to beginning. Why do we buy these hollow treasures? Is it any better, say, then those who buy NASCAR models, commemorative plates, or sports memorabilia? Ahh, that’s the ticket! The golden calves we fill our tombs with are simply extensions of self. I am Marc Alan Fishman, and within that name there are many footnotes. Aside from a loving father, a dedicated husband, a comic book creator, a graphic designer, and Diet Coke consumer, there is also a collection of aforementioned action figures, Nerf guns, and more DVDs than one needs to own – particularly in this day and age of streaming media. These are the items of my id. These are the tactile representations of my singularly unique fandom. As a whole, these relics resolve who I am, if only to myself.

And when I leave this mortal coil, I have complete faith that those I leave behind will take my mountain of useless crap, and donate it to the nearest nerd that will take it. In a perfect world, some snot-nosed punk will use his lightsaber to unearth my Batman: Brave and the Bold Green Arrow (with unusable bow) and place him at odds with a Stealth Mode Iron Man missing most of his extra snap-on armor. Perhaps he’ll have a few fleeting moments of glee before he’s booting up the Playstation X-5000. Maybe later in his life, he’ll remember those toys and seek out a digital copy of The Longbow Hunters or Demon in a Bottle. And when he does, I can only hope he’s old enough to afford that boxing glove arrow replica prop set awaiting him on Amazon.

 

Toolbox: Robot Justice Is Efficient Justice

  • News
  • January 12, 2015

I’m Kyle Gnepper, writer for Unshaven Comics on the books Disposable Razors and The Samurnauts since 2008. I’ve recently launched a Kickstarter to raise funds for the production of the all-ages graphic novel Toolbox: Robot Justice is Efficient Justice.

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Toolbox is the story of an inventor on an off-world human settlement who reprograms a construction robot to protect them from the planet’s dangerous wildlife and the ruthless bandits that terrorize the area. Equal parts Science Fiction and Western Adventure, Toolbox is a story about technology, sisterhood, character, and what it means to be a family.

We see the story unfold through the eyes of Sem and Merry, two orphaned sisters whose village is constantly under threat of roving gangs, led by the sinister Crim. Their only hope for salvation rests in the mind of genius but eccentric inventor Willy, whose fantastical ideas could be the key to wresting control of the town away from Crim and his men.

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Changing technology and its daily impact have been a pervasive part of my life. I grew up loving stories like Caves of Steel and Bladerunner for their use of robots as something other than mindless machines. In recent years, we’ve seen fewer stories showing mankind’s mechanical creations as something other than bringers of doom. I wanted to develop a story in which robots could be trusted and even loved.

The artwork is provided by Kristen Gudsnuk, the New York City-based creator of the webcomic Henchgirl. You can see her amazing work online at www.henchgirlcomic.com

Pledges as low as $15 will get a physical copy of the graphic novel sent to you. We also have an array of awesome packages for those who love getting swag and personal interaction with creators.

I’d love it if you’d give the kickstarter a look:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1615697080/toolbox-robot-justice-is-efficient-justice

Marc Alan Fishman: New Star Wars? Meh…

Blow out the torches and put the pitchforks back in the barn, kiddos. Any longtime fan of ole’ Marc Alan Fishman knows well that he isn’t much for the lightsabers and midichlorians. I’m not here necessarily to slight a multi-billion dollar franchise that helped spawn a legion of fanboys that in-turn became the heroes of my youth. Instead, I’m here to explain calmly and coolly why I’m skittish that the hype machine that will churn out the next Star Wars will not be the second coming all the wookies and rogues are awaiting with baited breath.

  1. J.J. Isn’t the Messiah

J.J. Abrams is a talented director and writer. But he’s not a miracle worker. While his track record and profit margins have never been snickered at, I look over his IMDb resume and nothing strikes me. Yes, he created cult (and successfully syndicated) hits like Alias, Lost, and Fringe. Yes, he helmed Cloverfield – lauded for its original take on a typically tropey concept. And yes, he successfully brought the Enterprise into our modern cineplexes.

But I specifically look to his Star Trek movies when I attempt to envision an Abrams’ Star Wars joint. And it has me fretting for the future set a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. Abrams’ Trek was clean to the point of stringency. His lens-flared Apple-esque vision held with it no lasting memories beyond the tepid jokes. While he crammed every spare inch of celluloid with today’s troop of tasteful thespians, can anyone here denote a single performance that was anything more than brilliant pastiche? I love Simon Pegg. I tolerate Karl Urban. Hell, I’ve pined for Chris Pine. But cast as living ret-cons, they all floated on the “close by not quite” vibe for their namesake roles.

“You incredulous Dewback!”, you chortle, “J.J.’s Star Wars is using the original cast and veritable no-names for the new roles!” Too true. And if it’s one small saving grace as to why I think the new movie will be reasonably entertaining and not the new testament, it’s largely because I think Mark Hamill, Harrison Ford, and Carrie Fisher have plenty more to pump into their historic roles. But I digress.

J.J. Abrams has the chops to make a palatable port of the seminal series. But, to date, he’s done nothing that screams to me that he was/is/will be the end-all be-all director that will remove the taste of the prequels from my memory. Which leads me to reason two:

  1. Episodes I, II, and III happened.

Preach to me all you want. Rebels, countless in-canon comics penned by incomparable scribes such as our very own John Ostrander, and a litany of extended universe novels may all showcase how amazing the Star Wars universe can be. But in all those aforementioned examples, the target market clearly was always the hardcore Star Wars fan. Not John Q. Averageguy.

The fact is this: Episodes I, II, and III did make it to movie theaters. And sure, they banked considerable cash. But find me someone who walked out of any of those flicks, declaring that they trumped the original trilogy in any way (and “CGI” sure as a Sarlacc don’t count) and you’ve found the village idiot. The prequels were bloated, underwritten, over-produced crap-fests that proved to an entire generation that George Lucas’s original vision had forever been tarnished by the very commercialization that originally made him his fortune. And I’m being nice – we know there’s plenty of people who didn’t walk out of Return of the Jedi singing ole’ Georgie’s praises. The fact remains: the prequels happened, and they’re not going away. Episode VII may end up amazing… but it’s still sitting on a foundation of midichlorians… and of wooden acting.

  1. Hype is a dish best served virally.

I’m wracking my brain to find the last thing in this world that lived up the hype built up over countless marketing ploys. The Dark Knight comes to mind. That’s about it. The fact is Star Wars is a globally recognized juggernaut franchise. When it comes to hitting the multiplex, Lucas and Disney will spare no expense ensuring the world at large knows of the impending Episode VII. Count the coverage of the teaser trailer alone, and then multiply it exponentially as we march closer and closer to the midnight premiere.

Do you remember Episode I? The tent cities that dotted the movie theaters, coated in cosplayers? Do you remember the aisles of every toy store choked with every non-chaser action figure of every background character that would be in the upcoming film? Or how about the happy meal tie-ins. Or the Hostess snack-cake collectible mini-comics. Or the 7-11 collector cups. Or the Pizza Hut Jabba the Hut slice-n-dicer. OK, I made up a few of them, but don’t deny the past (and the inevitable): nothing will stop Mickey and George’s empire from marketing en masse come this December. Santa doesn’t stand a chance.

And if you think Episode VII will be that good enough to forget the sins of the past, and the sins to come… well, I’ll see you at the North Pole.

 

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