Category: Columns

John Ostrander says “Continuity Be Damned!”

ostrander-art-1209301-9288143Got The Avengers DVD on the day of its release and watched it all over again. My Mary and I enjoyed ourselves immensely and, from all indications, so did a lot of other people since its big screen release made more money than all but two other films.

Yes, previous Marvel films (Iron Man 1 and 2, Thor, Captain America, and the last Hulk film) all built up to it. It was great how it took the basic stuff we knew about all of them, including the initial Avengers comics, and was true to them but do you know what really made The Avengers such a juggernaut?

It was accessible.

You don’t need to know anything about the comics. You don’t need even to know anything about the other films. Everything you need to know to sit back and enjoy the movie is in the movie. Yes, if you know your Marvel lore it adds to the enjoyment but the fun of the movie and your understanding of the story is not predicated on that lore.

Over at DC, the Silver Age began when the legendary Julius Schwartz (hallowed be his name) took a bunch of character titles and concepts from the Golden Age, re-imagined them for what were more contemporary tastes, and re-ignited the superhero comic. He wasn’t concerned with continuity with the Golden Age, which was itself never too concerned with internal continuity; he wanted to sell comics.

When Marvel started (as Marvel) back in the Sixties, it started with all new characters at first so they didn’t have continuity problems. Even when they worked in Golden Age characters like Captain America and Namor, you didn’t need to have ever read any of the old stories. Everything you needed to know about those characters were in the stories.

Say that you’ve seen the movie The Avengers and you’d like to read a comic based on what you saw. So you go into a comic book shop and find: The Avengers, The Uncanny Avengers, The New Avengers, The Secret Avengers, Avengers Assemble, Avengers Academy, Dark Avengers, and, if you hurry, Avengers Vs. X-Men. This doesn’t include The Ultimates, which might be closest to the movie. Which one do you choose? And, if you do choose one, can you understand the story? Is it accessible or so caught up in past or current continuity as to not make sense to a casual reader?

I’m not excluding DC either. Say that you saw and liked The Dark Knight Rises and would love to know what happened next. So you go to the comic book store and you will not only find nothing that would tell you what happened next but nothing that isn’t tied to a crossover.

Look, I’m well versed in the ways of continuity. I’ve mined it for my own uses. However, when I started my run on Suicide Squad I essentially dropped everything but the title, even redefining the concept. Yes, I made use of continuity but I never assumed that the reader of the new book would know anything about the old series or care about the old characters.

I work in Star Wars and believe me when I say that the continuity there is as dense and complicated as anything at Marvel or DC. I’ve learned how to negotiate those reef filled waters by either creating new characters or going forward or backwards or even sideways in time. I research the continuity where my stories touch upon it but I don’t get tied down to it.

The ones who care about continuity are the fans and the hardcore fans care about it most. I’ve had all sorts of fans who want to tell a story based upon some obscure plot point that doesn’t fit quite snuggly enough into continuity (or how they perceive it) and explains it all. It’s hard to tell stories based on continuity alone. They’re bloodless. Story comes from characters and their desires and interactions.

This summer we’ve seen a load of very successful superhero movies – The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises, The Amazing Spider-Man (itself a reboot from the last Spider-Man movie which was out only about five years ago). So there is a market out there. Yes, yes – comics and movies are two different media but the concepts are the same in both. Do we want to attract even a portion of that audience? For the survival of a medium we love, all of us – fans and pros alike – need to say yes.

The way to do that is with well-told stories that are accessible to all readers. Mary and I know a friend who watched The Avengers with her grandson and both enjoyed it. And they enjoyed watching it together. That’s something we should aim for.

In the end, if continuity gets in the way of a really good, accessible story, then I say – continuity be damned.

MONDAY: Mindy Newell

TUESDAY MORNING: Emily S. Whitten

 

Dennis O’Neil’s Autumnal Time Warp

The sunshine is warm, but the air carries a tiny bite of chill. The trees are still green, except for a pioneering dogwood in the front yard, which is in the process of color changing. And our teacher friends are back at work. So is fall about to glorify the geography? Indeed.

What are we waiting for? Bundle the crowd into the car and let’s go down to he Chevy dealer’s to inspect next year’s models and after that we can go to the Ford dealer and we’ll still have time to visit the Chrysler showroom before supper. Then maybe we can stop at the soda fountain for a malt and wonder if the St. Louis Browns will ever climb out of the American League cellar…

Oooops. Time warp. I’ve been revisiting my childhood. The debut of new cars is no big event, not anymore. Oh, savvy shoppers may be aware that September is a good month to hunt the elusive bargain, but there’s not much hoopla attached to auto shopping, no balloons, no clowns, no big red signs. (The Edsel Is Here!!!) New sleds are just something that happens.

Same with television. Sure, (like a lot of you?) I scan the TV listings and make a mental note of premiers of shows I might want to sample. If we again time warp, we’ll see an era when the three networks (not counting the occasional wannabe) presented their wares pretty much simultaneously in early autumn like the car guys, and it was pretty darn stimulating to meet the folks who would keep is entertained while the snow fell. But with the coming of King Cable, shows pop up throughout the year, and some of our favorites are limited series that run in the summer. (Has anything recent been better than Newsroom?)

In the land of comics, back when comics cost maybe fifteen cents, the big moments tended to be in early summer when the oversize publications known as “annuals” graced the newsstands because, the wisdom went, readers weren’t busy during the warm months and had more time, and maybe more disposable income, for the funny books. At summer’s end, well… we got the things out and expected a slight dip in circulation. Later, when hardcover graphic novels became a factor, we had to have them almost done by September because, again nodding to conventional wisdom, we had to have the in stores by Thanksgiving to catch customers who might want them for Christmas gifts. If they weren’t ready for the printer by October, trouble was looming. In any case, autumn equaled doldrums.

I’d better quit blathering because I’ve got to get this to Mike so I can free the evening for television watching and… wait! What’s this? An unfamiliar vehicle in my driveway? What has that wife of mine been up to?

RECOMMENDED VIEWING: When Mike Gold and I initiated the Recommended Reading feature in The Question, lo those many years ago, most of my good information came from books. That’s less true now. So instead of recommending a book, let me direct you to a movie which you can rent from Netflix: Carbon Nation. Everyone should see this.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases and Living Better in Reality

Dennis O’Neil: Have A Heart

Tomorrow (as I write this) is the big day, a day as important as my birthday and for a similar reason, and yet I don’t know how to celebrate it. I don’t even know what to call it. “Lazarus Day?” That’s certainly appropriate, but it carries some lumpy baggage. “Resurrection Day?” Same problem: “resurrection” has acquired connotations I’d rather avoid.

Why the fuss over a rather undistinguished September Monday? Why do I think it deserves special notice? Well, for you, it probably doesn’t, but for me? Ten years ago, on September 10, 2002, while having lunch with Mia Wolff and her son Virgil at a restaurant in Piermont, New York, I fell off the chair and lay dead on the floor. According to Mia, I’d been talking about the afterlife and my lack of faith in it when I went down. She thought I was trying to be funny. But after a while, she looked at me and knew something was very wrong. Her call for help was answered by the restaurant’s owner, John Ingallinera, whose other job was being a New Jersey fireman. John could identify a corpse when he saw one and he knew that next door there was a portable defibrillator. He ran to get it, and with the help of Lizzie Fagan, Michael O’Shea and Bryan Holihan, put the paddles on my chest and pressed the button – three presses – and then my heart was beating and the paramedics had arrived.

I was laying in an unfamiliar bed and Marifran was leaning over me, asking if I knew what had happened to me. I didn’t and so she told me. The rest went by the book: western medicine is superb at certain tasks, and cardiac surgery is one of them. A short stay in a local hospital, an ambulance ride across the Hudson to another hospital, doctors, tests, a trip to an operating room on a gurney and… some cool looking scars and recovery.

Anything special happened while my cooling self was cluttering up John’s floor (and probably playing hell with his lunch business)? Nope. No bright light at the end of a tunnel, no disembodied entities hovering around, no long deceased relatives welcoming me to the Other Side. Just: sitting in a restaurant/lying in a hospital. Like a splice in a film.

Marifran says that maybe I had to be a believer before I could see what believers see. Okay, so we’re dealing with an economy size Catch 22 here. I can’t get the evidence I require to believe something unless I already believe it?

All right, then did the experience change me? Transform me into some kind of secular saint? Make me cherish every breath I take? I wish. But, no.

But I am grateful for these past ten, good years and I want to celebrate them. I have no memory of being born, but being reborn? A lot of that I remember and I want to cheer, to testify that, although I’m often oblivious to it, each moment is all we have.

We’ll probably think of something.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison, Kyle Baker, Garth Ennis, Paul Pope and… Men’s Fashion?

Mindy Newell: The Sexual Preferences Of Wonder Woman, or The Hero’s Journey Part II

Before continuing, I must say mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.

I made a major error last week. My terrific correspondent in last week’s column is not Bill Hannigan. He is Bill Mulligan. As in – sing along, folks – m-u-double l-i-g-a-n spells Mulligan. I cannot explain it, but can only blame it on my menopausal mind. A hundred thousand apologies to Bill.

•     •     •     •     •

newell-art-1209101-5572729So last week I went to Vector Books, my local comics emporium, and picked up Justice League #12 (by Geoff Johns, Jim Lee, Ivan Reis, Joe Prado, and David Finch, with kudos to those gentlemen and everyone involved for terrific writing and gorgeous artwork).

In case you need reminding, it’s the issue with The Big Kiss.

But it is not a kiss of love.

It is a kiss of longing.

It is a kiss of confusion.

It is a kiss of desire.

The desire to know.

Who am I?

Where do I belong?

Am I capable of love?

Can you love me?

Can I love you?

Do you know?

If you do, tell me.

I need to know.

Longing and confusion.

Straight or gay or bi, these questions are at the heart of our relationships, our selves.

When we are in the womb, we are cocooned in an aquatic nest. Our every need is met. The only sound we hear is a muffled whoosh-whoosh, and it comforts us. We are at peace. We know we are not alone.

Then suddenly we are separated from the waters of life, the warmth and the comfort and the muffled sounds of love, and we are thrust into a harsh world of brightness and cold and noise. We are helpless as we are poked and prodded and laid against cold medal. We want to go back. But somehow we know that we can never go back, and we cry for that world where we were safe, where we were loved. And we are afraid that is gone forever.

But it is not gone forever, for we discover that in this harsh world there will be others who will love us, who will protect us and care for us, who will understand our fears and our confusion and our longing, because we will discover that these others are feel these things, too. And we will look to each other for that comfort and that warmth and love which will banish the fear and the loneliness and the confusion always hovering at the edges of our consciousness.

Loneliness.

Confusion.

Desire.

The desire to know ourselves.

The desire to know another.

The desire to not be alone.

The desire to share.

The desire to love.

Human emotions we don’t normally equate with super-heroes, especially mythic heroes such as Wonder Woman and Superman. But we build our heroes on the frail foundations of our humanity, so we should not be surprised when they reflect these frailties back upon us.

The hero’s journey is our journey.

TUESDAY MORNING: Emily S. Whitten Continues With The Big Con

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis Stands Tall

 

John Ostrander: What is True?

One of the primary rules for writing is “Write what you know.” As I’ve discussed before, the corollary question becomes “what do you know?” I can write characters that, on the surface, are totally unlike me because underlying there are elements that true for both of us. Granted, I need to get the details of those lives correct but the essentials – the feelings, the doubts, everything that makes us human – are the same. I just have to find out where that is in me and what it looks like.

So, for me, the more important rule is “Write what is true.” That will vary from person to person, from character to character. The corollary question then becomes “What is true?” I’m not asking “What is The Truth?” because I don’t think that The Great Objective Truth exists or, if it does, it can be perceived as such by each of us through the lenses of our own existence. What I’m asking is “What is true?” for each person, be they a living and breathing reality or a fictional creation.

Socrates famously said “The unexamined life is not worth living.” I would add: “The unquestioned belief is not worth having.” As kids, we’re all given a set of beliefs, be they about God, country, family, love, values and so on. That’s fine; we all have to start off somewhere. Parents have their beliefs about what is right and wrong, good and bad and it is both their job and their duty to instill those in their children. As the children grow and come to adulthood, it is their job to examine those beliefs and see if they are true for them. Do you believe something because your own experience, your own questioning, has brought you to that place or are you there because someone told you that is true and it’s what you must believe?

That’s my problem with dogma. It tells me that this is the truth and this is what I must believe whether my own experiences agree with it. It may be that my own experiences and my own questioning will bring me to the same place, the same conclusion or belief and that’s fine. I will have then earned that belief; it’s not a hand-me-down. It’s mine.

Dogma, whether religious, political, social or what have you, is easier. Questioning takes time, takes effort and may take you to places that you’re not comfortable to visit. It can shift your foundations. My questions about the existence of God made me feel like I was on a trapeze in the dark. I had just let go of one bar but I couldn’t see if there was another trapeze swinging towards me or if there was a net below. It’s still that way. I’m on a boat in the ocean but I don’t know which port is the destination or how long it will take to get there. The voyage, however, is necessary.

Where I wind up may not be your truth, and that’s fine. I accept that what is true for you is your truth and valid. It just may not be mine. Our truths could be opposite and we both may feel compelled to act on our truths and that may bring us into conflict. That’s also fine. I can oppose you and respect your truth without accepting it for my truth.

As for us, so with the characters we write. The best stories challenge the characters on a deep level, on what they regard as true. The situation challenges or shatters the character’s beliefs. They must find out what is true. If you as the writer have never done that yourself, how can you write it? First you must live it and understand the process and then it becomes useful to you as writer. Aside from talent, aside from skill, all you have to offer as a writer is who you are as a person and your own strengths and weaknesses as that person will become your strengths and weaknesses as a writer.

MONDAY: Mindy Newell

 

Dennis O’Neil: Modern Times

oneil-art-120816-4855880Don’t believe the trash talk. I am really a religious guy. Let me elucidate.

It began with long phone conversations. Very, very long. Several of them. How many technical support people did I talk to over the last three days? Five? Six? I lost track. And then there were the trips to the computer store in the mall. Two of those. The first had us at the “genius bar” for two hours-plus. The second – today’s – went much quicker. Home again, home again, lickety split.

The weekend shot. Maybe I’ll get this column to Mike Gold reasonably promptly (and maybe not) but the book proposal I’d hoped to finish? Forget about it.

What was wrong? Good question nobody seems able to answer. A virus? Could be. Something else? Wouldn’t rule it out. Anything I can do to prevent recurrences? Well, if I don’t know exactly what the problem was…

I wish there was such a thing as an anxiety-o-meter and I wish I could buy one. At the mall, maybe. (Doesn’t the mall have everything?) Because I’m curious; I’d like to calibrate the amount of angst dealing with this, ahem, labor saving technological miracle has produced since Friday the way the MD calibrates my blood pressure. (And while we’re at it, can we have measurements for frustration, anger, and feelings of helpless inadequacy, too?) Bet the reading would be off the chart – depending, f course, on the chart

I used to write my comic book scripts on portable typewriters and once in a while, one of them would break down. Plenty annoying, let me tell you. But I don’t recall these mishaps causing much anxiety, maybe because I could understand them. I could wrap my primitive brain around the problem. I could see it. The little thingy that attached to the other thingy’s come loose. Or: my gosh, the letters on the page are blurred because the keys are so dirty… The dirty keys I could, me, myself, fix, with a toothpick. The other stuff would probably require a trip to the typewriter shop. But I knew what the problem was and I knew there was an algorithm that would right the wrong. (Step 1: Take the machine to the repairman. Step 2: Come back in a day or two and give the nice man some money. Et cetera.)

I spent much of the past weekend doing…I don’t know what. Phone pressed to (slightly defective) ear, or looking at a pleasant young man across a counter, I obeyed instructions. I had no idea why I was doing what I was doing, or what it was, or what to expect from it, or if it would solve anything. Finally, the pleasant young man did a cyberversion of Sherman’s march to the sea: offloaded, uploaded, reinstalled and home again, home again…

And back, when I couldn’t download the app the pleasant young man suggested I use. Stand. Wait. Another pleasant young man who seemed eager to help, and did. And now, having just watched a brilliant episode of Newsroom on HBO, I’m at the keyboard trying to honor a commitment.

Am I angry/bitter/frustrated? Do I feel I didn’t deserve this grief and that maybe, just maybe, we were all better off back in the day when electronic brains were the stuff of pulp sci-fi?

Or how about going back further, to when hunters and gatherers offered sacrifices to the beings – call them gods – that they knew must be out there because their lives were constantly disrupted by things they couldn’t understand, much less control and somebody had to be responsible. So they gave the gods livestock or grains or maybe cousin Matilda, the one who smelled bad. The calamities didn’t stop happening, but at least the sacrifices gave the tribesman a feeling of doing something.

Okay. So what I’ve been up to, recently, is offering sacrifices. There’s not a lot of livestock or plant food lying around the house, and heaven only knows where Matilda has got to, so I’ve sacrificed commodities I do have: patience and time.

Told you I’m religious.

(Editor’s Note: As usual, Mr. O’Neil delivered this column right on time, despite the technological distractions.)

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases Talks Dirty

 

Emily S. Whitten: The Construction of a Convention Costume

whitten-art-2-120814-6025445Dragon*Con is right around the corner, and if you’re going and you like to costume at cons, that means you’re probably scrambling to finish up your costume(s). Well, okay, that’s true if you’re me, at least. See, I’d like to plan really far ahead, but Life just doesn’t make that possible sometimes, which is how I often find myself finishing a costume’s jewelry the same morning I’m putting on the costume; attempting to dye corsets to their “authentic movie costume color” at 3 a.m. in hotel bathtubs (in a leak proof plastic bag; don’t worry, hotels); begging people to lend me last minute bits and pieces; and occasionally even enlisting roommates to help me make things when really they should be downstairs eating the complimentary hotel breakfast (bless you, Erica).

In June I wrote a column on women and costuming, in which I made the point that there are numerous reasons women costume (as opposed to the often-posited-by-men-reason of costuming to attract a man’s attention). For me, the actual making or putting together of the costume, as complicated and time-consuming as it can sometimes be, is a main reason why I costume. I like the challenge of making something coherent and recognizable and as authentic or creative as possible out of bits and pieces of craft supplies and found items and regular store-bought items that I can adapt.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, recently there’s been a great deal of talk about women and costuming from other quarters, including from people in the fandom who honestly ought to know better than to attack women about how they choose to celebrate their geekdom at a con, and whether they have the right to dress as they please without checking in with menfolk first (hint: the answer is yes). I don’t know why some geek men think they have some sort of prerogative to dictate these things, as if they were somehow “there” first, planting a flag on top of Geek Mountain and thus earning the right to lay out the rules and whine about people who don’t meet their “standards” of who should be allowed at a con or accepted as a geek; but it’s patently ridiculous.

Regardless, that kerfuffle was far from the first time the suggestion that women costume only to attract male geeks and get sexual attention reared its silly head. And both to further illustrate that suggesting this is pretty silly (because putting together a costume is a lot of work, and most women undoubtedly have to enjoy actually doing it, or they wouldn’t bother just for the minimal (supposed) payout of some random dude hitting on them at a con) and because I like talking about making things, let’s explore the process of producing a convention costume, and how I go about it.

I’ve talked about putting together costumes before, but for this column, we’re going to look at my biggest challenge for Dragon*Con: Arkham City Harley Quinn, and the steps involved in developing that costume.

Step 1: Accuracy

The first thing I do with any costume is decide exactly how I want it to look. In some cases, some of the look is up to my imagination, because I’m going as a literary character who has a basic description but no picture (see: the young Duchess of Quirm), or a mythical character who’s already been interpreted in umpteen different ways (see: the Absinthe Fairy); but when I work from a character who’s been visualized, I like to try to stick to the image and get the details right. Therefore, for Harley Quinn, I spent, oh, countless hours on Google searching for every picture I’d need to get an accurate costume supply list. In Harley’s case, this turned out to be seventeen pictures from all angles and with close-ups for detail; and about thirty pictures of how other people were interpreting the outfit as a costume, to give me construction ideas. Then I study the collection and list out the individual costume pieces needed and each detail of how they are made, including for accessories and make-up. For the Harley costume, this list totaled approximately twenty-seven items, several of which are very unique – a fairly complicated costume.

Step 2: The Hunt

Once I have my list, I need to make or find every item. Sometimes it’s easy – like buying white make-up, which is in every costume store. Sometimes it’s super-hard – like Harley Quinn’s complicated corset, which is hard to make and not similar to something you’d find anywhere else. Here’s how my quest for Harley’s bits and bobs is going:

whitten-art-1-120814-1181871The make-up is easy, and I’m about 2/3 finished with acquiring it. Since you can get all of it in places like Sephora or costume stores, I usually don’t worry about it first. The hair color and tattoos on the costume are harder; I’ve had to special-order colored hair spray, and am going to attempt to recreate the tattoos with a combination of rose temporary tattoos and face paint (since I couldn’t find any Joker temp tattoos that would work).

Harley’s clothes are pretty complicated. I knew from the start that the corset was beyond my skill to master in the time I had to try making it, so as soon as I settled on the costume, I searched around and found someone to custom make it – though I try to avoid that generally, because it can be pricey. As time went on I searched online for boots that matched the general cut of Harley’s and acquired them in black; to be adapted. I found a bra with the proper eyelet lace at yet another online store and speedily acquired it as well. For her pants and cropped top, I first thought to make them from whole cloth; then decided it would be easier to adapt ready-made clothes, and headed over to my favorite basic costuming bits store, American Apparel. There I acquired red and black tank tops and black leggings; to be adapted. I needed to get both shirt and pants from one store so the reds would be the same shade. Tragically, my local shop was out of the correct red pants. “No worries!” I thought. “I’ll just order them from the online store. Tragically again, though, the online store only had XS; which would be a pretty tight fit for me. Therefore it was back to the internets! until I managed to find what was apparently the one remaining pair in the proper size that would ship in time. Whew!

Harley’s accessories are a mix and match of easy and hard to gather. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find leather cuffs with the correct pyramid studs; so I had to acquire the cuffs and studs separately. The gloves would be impossible to find ready-made, so instead I made a pilgrimage to JoAnn Fabrics, where I acquired bolts of the red and black pleather material from which the corset was made. The hair-ties will also be made from that. The buckled choker was found after much searching on Amazon, and had to be ordered twice after they ran out the first time. The belt chain was acquired at the craft store; and as I was writing this column I realized I hadn’t yet ordered the belt (oops!) and so went on over to get that (costume-making in real time!). Glad I’m writing this, or I might have left that bit until too late!

Step 3: Crafting

As you might guess, much of the above needs to be worked with or adapted to match Harley’s look. The pants and shirt are going to be hacked, slashed, and Frankensteined via experimentation into black/red combos; buttons from JoAnn’s will be added to the shirt, and the pants need diamonds, and have an additional weird brown belt-sort-of-thing that needs to be sewn on as well. The bra needs to be covered with the red and black pleather and stitched to match the image. The boots will be painted with fabric paint to match the color and design of Harley’s boots. Extra holes need to be added to the choker for proper fit. The pyramid-stud cuffs need to be assembled; and the gloves and hair-ties will be made entirely from scratch using the red and black pleather and elastic. In short – it’s a lot of work (but it will get done in time. I hope).

Step 4: Troubleshooting

It’s always a good idea to try on the whole shebang before a con. Inevitably, something will not fit right, or won’t look right, or the make-up won’t be the right color after all, or something will fall off, or…who-even-knows what. I always try on the whole costume when I’m done, and things still sometimes go screwy on the morning of a con. So it’s really good to try to prevent what you can with a pre-con trial run.

Step 5: VICTORY!

I shall wear my awesome costume to a con and be so proud. Woo-hoo!

whitten-art-3-120814-4881700Well! As can be seen from the above, costume-making can be fun, but is also time-consuming and complicated. The more I do it, the more I realize there are things I can still learn about how to do it better. I hope some of you other costume-y folks out there liked hearing about my process, and I’m always interested in learning how other people make their costumes, or any tips and tricks they may have. Feel free to share in the comments.

And as for those (frequently men) who’ve raised the argument about women costuming for sexual attention in the past, or still believe that it’s a single motivator for women who costume; read the above again, think about how much time and effort people put into making their costumes, and instead of assuming you know everything about everything or it’s All About You, have a little respect for their hard work, skills, and creativity.

Until next time: Servo Lectio!

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: Michael Davis’s Milestones

WEDNESDAY MORNING: Mike Gold – Joe Kubert, Personally

Mike Gold: Joe Kubert, Personally

gold-art-120815-8105636One of the hardest questions for me to answer begins with the phrase “What is your favorite…?”

My Top 10 movie list has over 100 movies on it. My Top 10 television shows list must first be categorized: is it fair to compare Rocky and Bullwinkle to The Prisoner? Well, maybe that’s a bad example, but I think you get my point. If you were to ask me to name my favorite musician, I’d go into a fugue state and you’d get scared and leave.

There is one exception. If you were to ask me who my favorite comics creator is – and you were to ask me this question at any time in the past half-century – I would immediately and firmly respond “Joe Kubert.”

As we reported, Joe died Sunday evening. It was one of those moments when time… simply… stopped. For the past decade I’ve been in amazement that Joe was still giving us a graphic novel and a mini-series or special or something every year. Jeez, if I make it to 85 (and I’m nowhere in as good a shape as Joe was) I’m planning on lying there bitching until somebody changes my Depends. Joe was still at it, producing great stuff.

I was fortunate to know both Joe and his wife Muriel (predeceased by four years); Muriel knew the depths of my affection for her husband’s work, Joe knew it as well and was quite gracious but, as to be expected from an artist of his caliber, I could tell he wasn’t connecting with my praise for something he had finished months ago. He already was on to the next thing. Or maybe the one after that.

When I first started working at DC Comics back in 1976, my office was two doors down from Julius Schwartz. Denny O’Neil had the office next to me. Joe Orlando – Joe Orlando! – was a few doors down from that. And, three days a week, there was Joe Kubert. The best of the best.

I was a 26 year-old fanboy and if I wasn’t breathing I would have thought I had gone to heaven.

Kubert had been my favorite comics creator since the day my mother bought me Brave and the Bold #34, cover-dated February-March 1961. It featured the debut of the silver age Hawkman. We were getting on Chicago’s L, headed towards the Loop for my first visit to the eye doctor. I was anxious to read the comic; it looked really cool. Exciting. Different. And new superheroes were few and far between in those days of buggy whips and gas lamps.

Of course, my eye doctor did what eye doctors do: she put those serious drops in my eyes and everything got all blurry and then she exiled me to the outer office while my pupils dilated to the size of manhole covers. I was told to sit there quietly for an hour. I was ten years old; the concept of “sitting quietly” was well beyond my understanding. Certainly, not with that awesome-looking comic book on my lap.

I tried to read it. My mother started to scream about how I’d permanently ruin my eyes. She was supportive of my reading comics, she just had odd theories about how I’d go blind. Being me, I continued to try to read the Hawkman debut but now more defiantly, with purpose and determination – despite the fact that each panel was more blurry than the previous. I went through that book several times, trying my damnedest to understand it. To see it.

The book was astonishingly great – a tribute to writer Gardner Fox and editor Julie Schwartz as well as to Joe. After I finally read the comic in focus, it was clear to me that it was worth all the effort. That’s probably what made me a Joe Kubert fan.

By 1976 I had learned first-hand that a lot of the public figures I admired weren’t really worthy of such tribute on a personal level; if you were going to meet a lot of celebrities, you had to learn how to divorce yourself from the person and remain married to that person’s work. This is a lot less the case in the comics field, I’m happy to report.

And it most certainly was not the case with Joe Kubert. We could be diametrically opposed on certain political and social issues, and we were, but it didn’t matter one bit. Part of that came from Joe’s upbringing in the Talmudic arts where discussion and debate is encouraged and honored. But most of that came from Joe’s simply being a great, great guy.

That’s what I have to say about Joe Kubert. He was a great, great guy.

Here’s what I have to say to Joe Kubert.

Thank you.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

 

Mindy Newell: A World Of Pure Imagination

Charlie Bucket lived with his mom and his grandparents in a dirty, downtrodden industrial city that used to be a thriving center of commerce, with factories making cars and furniture and steel and zippers and paper clips. The citizens of the city were happy to work in the factories, because they were well-paid and had wonderful benefits thanks to their unions, and all their kids were able to go to college because of the money they were able to save and the national student loan program. But then all the factories moved to China and Vietnam and India and Malaysia because the CEOs of the companies who owned the factories needed more money for more corporate jets and limousines and private islands and new mansions with elevators for their cars, and the people in China and Vietnam and India and Malaysia didn’t have unions that forced the CEOs to give wonderful wages and pesky pensions and hardy health insurance to their slaves…uh, I mean, employees.

So all the factories in Charlie’s city closed – except for one, Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Charlie’s father died because he didn’t have health insurance, and Charlie and his mom got kicked out of their 3 BR, 2 BATH, RMS W/VU apartment overlooking the harbor because the Social Security money which they depended on had been privatized, and when the market crashed, there went the monthly checks for Mrs. Bucket and Charlie. They had to move to a little, tiny house that was really too small for the two of them, and then Mr. and Mrs. Bucket’s parents came to live with them because their homes were foreclosed after the mortgage securities crisis, so things were really crowded in the little house.

Charlie tried to help out by delivering newspapers, which is how the family found out that Mr. Willy Wonka, sole owner and proprietor of the one factory left in town, had hidden five Golden Tickets in the wrappings of his Wonka Bars. The five people who found the Golden Tickets would not only win a lifetime supply of Willy Wonka chocolate, but also be taken on a private tour of the factory.

Four of the tickets are bought and found by Klaus Rave, a man who looks just like the chief pig in Animal Farm; twin brothers named Donny and Cain Coke, who are very rich and give money to philanthropic organizations like Success For All Amerikans and The Birthright Society; Alice Coltrane, a girl with a sassy, big mouth known for making hilarious barbs; and a boy named Pablo Rico, who saved up all his Social Security money after his father died and used it to go to college. But he doesn’t like women too much.

There’s only one ticket left, and Charlie is sure he is going to find it. But then it is announced that an eccentric millionaire who claims to wear magic underwear bought the final ticket. His name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary.

So Charlie is among all the other onlookers as Klaus and Donny and Cain and Alice and Pablo are greeted by Willy Wonka and led inside the magical, wonderful, chocolate factory.

Inside Willy Wonka has them all sign a contract before the tour can begin. There is lots of small print on it, and everybody grumbles, but they all sign it, because Klaus and Donny and Cain and Alice and Pablo and the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary really want to get inside and look around.

The factor is full of mind-blowing, mouth-watering, stomach-rumbling marvels like a real chocolate river, tasty flowers and mushrooms, and even delicious wallpaper. Wonka’s workers – considered the luckiest people in town, not only because they have a good job with benefits and a guaranteed pension, but also because they work for Willy Wonka – are all hard at worker. Willie Wonka warns his guests not to touch anything unless he says it’s okay, but Klaus and Donny and Cain and Alice and Pablo and the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary ignore him, and one by one, they disappear.

Klaus gets sucked into the chocolate works, after falling into the chocolate river from which he was trying to drink. Donny turns into a giant blueberry after chewing on a piece of Three-Course Dinner Gum, which was still in the experimental stages. Cain falls down a garbage chute that is for the “bad eggs” in the Chocolate Golden Egg Sorting room. Alice opens her big mouth and makes some sassy barbs about Wonkavision television, and finds herself stuck in a TV land where there are no commercial breaks and she can’t go to the bathroom.

The eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary sneaks into the Bubble Room and tastes the Fizzy Lifting Drinks. He starts to float up, up, up, and is nearly whisked into an exhaust fan on the ceiling. But he starts burping to let out the fizz and floats back down to the floor.

The tour is over. Willy Wonka says goodbye to the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary, but before he can leave, the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary demands his lifetime supply of chocolate. But Willy Wonka tells him he has violated the terms of the contract by tasting the Fizzy Lifting Drinks, and snaps out the signed contract to emphasize this.

But suddenly the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary pulled his own contract out of his magic underwear and flaunts it in Willy Wonka’s face. He revealed that Klaus, Donny, Cain, and Alice are all actually employees of the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary, and they have actually worked together, through the lawyers of the Success For Amerikans Organization and The Birthright Society, to have become the primary shareholders of the Chocolate Factory, with the eccentric millionaire whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary as Chairman, President, and CEO.

“We are moving the Chocolate Factory to China, Vietnam, India, and Malaysia,” said the eccentric Chairman, President, and CEO of the Chocolate Factory whose name is Mingus Wilbur Rosary.

“You can’t do this!” said Willie Wonka.

“I can, and it’s already done. Look around, Mr. Wonka.

Willy Wonka looked around. All his workers were gone, and men in black suits and dark sunglasses were supervising other men in overalls as they took down and broke apart the Chocolate Factory.

“And you, Mr. Willy Wonka, are out of a job.”

Artwork courtesy of The Daily Share.

TUESDAY MORNING: Emily S. Whitten

 

Martha Thomases: Fanboys In Congress

Because it is an election year and I’ve given money to candidates in the past (and foolishly included my phone number with the donations, because I’m an idiot and also it’s required by law), I get phone calls from people looking for more money. Most often, these calls are from organizations or PACs, but sometimes the actual candidate picks up the phone to call me.

Mostly I dismiss the calls from organizations because they are annoying and I don’t want to encourage them to keep calling me. However, ever since my pal, Ed Sedarbaum, ran for office and told me how difficult it is to make those calls, and how great it is when someone will listen, I cut the individual candidates some slack. I listen. I engage. And, when I can, I make a pledge.

What does this have to do with comics? I recently got a call from Nate Shinagawa who is running for the U.S. Congressional seat for the 23rd district in New York. I’m sure he got my name from Eric Massa’s list, because Massa is from the same aea and I liked him a lot before his shenanigans got him into trouble.

Anyway, he introduced himself, and then we started to talk about Superman.

It turns out that Nate is a big old fanboy. He started reading comics around the time the Death of Superman story was playing out. He explained this to me in case I didn’t feel old enough.

We chatted for a far longer time than I suspect he allotted for me. We talked about comics, and I explained to him my theory that Superman is, at heart, a New Deal Democrat. To put it in a perspective more appropriate to the 21st century, he’s a superhero, sure, but he also demonstrates that the things that make us different from each other are what make us valuable, and we should use those things to make the world a better place.

So I’m not surprised that people who like superhero comics are occasionally inspired to live a life of public service. Most famously, Vermont Senator Patrick Leahy is a Batman fan. I’m sure there are Marvel fans in politics, and conservative candidates who are comic book fans, but its unlikely I would come across them. I hope they found something equally valuable in the stories they love.

My point is that, like all art forms, graphic storytelling can inspire people. And the more commercially successful it is, the more people it reaches, and the more it can inspire.

Sometimes, a candidate will even set himself on a campaign against a super-villain.

Saturday: The Return of Marc Alan Fishman?