A long time ago – in 1959 – in a galaxy far, far away – well, actually, just over the Bayonne Bridge on Staten Island – I met Kara Zor-El.
I was six. She was 12 years old … in Earth years.
I could walk, run, ride a bike, and ride a horse. She could fly.
I was always getting numerous cuts and scrapes and bruises. She was invulnerable.
I had 20-20 vision. She had X-ray vision, telescopic vision and heat vision.
I would get in trouble for not hearing my mom or dad calling for me to come in and eat supper. She had super-hearing.
I was fast. She could break through the time barrier.
I got kicked out of Girl Scouts (remind me to tell you why – it’s not what you think). She joined the Legion of Super-Heroes.
My mom gave me money to go rent a horse for an hour so I could ride. She had her very own horse. Okay, he was actually a handsome man from another planet, but let’s not get Freudian here, okay?
I didn’t have a dog. I really wanted a dog. My parents said no. Okay, she had a cat. Not a fan of cats. Why couldn’t she have a dog?
I wasn’t Superman’s cousin. She was.
If Superman got in trouble, I couldn’t do a damn thing to help him.
She was his secret weapon. Which meant that he depended on her to pull his green-glowing ass out of the Kryptonite frying pan time and again.
No wonder I loved her.
Kara Thrace.
A long time ago – 150,000 years ago – in another galaxy far, far way, she fulfilled her destiny and led the rag-tag fleet led by the Battlestar Galactica – all that was left of the human race after its destruction by the Cylons – to a new beginning on a new Earth.
Stogie-chomping, card-sharking, Viper-jockeying, Kara Thrace.
Hard-drinking, troubled, two-timing, bitchin’ Kara Thrace.
Killed in action, resurrected, disappearing-into-thin-air Kara Thrace.
Call sign: Starbuck.
Frakkin’ Kara Thrace.
No wonder I loved her.
Buffy Anne Summers.
Not that long ago – 1992 – in still another galaxy far, far away, an apt description of California to some – a fifteen year old girl who lived in Los Angeles met her destiny while sucking on a lollipop on the steps of her high school. Soon after she burned down her high school gym. Her parents divorced and she and her mom moved to Sunnydale to start over.
Only Buffy couldn’t start over.
For “in every generation, there is a chosen one. She alone will stand against the vampires the demons and the forces of darkness. She is the slayer.”
For seven years, Buffy took on the natural and the supernatural, the unworldly and the all-too-real world, took on and stood up to and faced it all.
Vampires. Robots and a cyborg. Witches. Demons. Gods.
High School. College. Relationships. A job she hated.
SPACE: The final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.
We’re a frontier nation. Always have been. If you weren’t happy were you where, if you looked for new possibilities, new challenges, there was always somewhere to go. That concept, that feeling, brought people from other lands to this one, from the pilgrims to the later great European migrations. As late as the Dustbowl and the Great Depression, people uprooted from where they were and went somewhere else, often California. African-Americans, seeking a better life, made an exodus from the Deep South into the Midwest, to Chicago and Detroit and other cities. Someplace else has always held promise to us as a people and, I think, helped define us.
Star Trek also evoked the concept of frontier with its opening narration. It’s the first thing we heard when we first saw Star Trek. Later shows and movies would alter it slightly, changing “five year mission” to “ongoing mission” and “to where no man has gone before” to “to where no one has gone before”; both, to my mind, improvements. By now we know it so well that we hardly ever really listen to that invocation anymore but it’s worth looking at.
Think of hearing those opening words for the first time – ever. There is a promise of adventure, of hope – they define frontier. They reflected an aspect of America at the time – a belief in ourselves and our ability to achieve great things.
I saw Neil deGrasse Tyson, the director of the Hayden Planetarium in NYC, on The Daily Show this last week. I love watching Tyson – he is a terrific cheerleader for the manned exploration of space, not only enthusiastic but able to communicate that enthusiasm. He was selling his new book, Space Chronicles: Facing the Ultimate Frontier, but he was also decrying how we, as a people and a nation, have given up on space. After the moon landings, he noted, we settled back into the space station and the shuttle, boldly going over and over again where lots of people have gone.
Don’t get me wrong – I think the space station is a remarkable achievement and the shuttles were important and the loss of two of them and the lives within were tragic. Neither program, however, really ignited our imagination the way that the race to the moon did or the opening to Star Trek did. There is no reach outward. There is no frontier.
I think we need a frontier. I think that we, as a nation, have fallen inwards and are devouring ourselves. A frontier makes us look outward and upward; it demands the best from us if we are to survive. What we currently slog through in our lives is far from our best – and offers damn little hope of reaching something better than what we have.
Reaching outwards, to other planets, to other stars, presents risks and problems but we find ways of solving those problems and overcoming those risks and, in the process, makes us better.
I know there are those who say it is too expensive to explore space with people. Manned probes can get us there cheaper and without the risk to human life. However, I think that risk is what’s important. It’s humanity against the elements and, without that risk of death, is there really an achievement? However sophisticated the Mars’ probes are, they are not humans. They are machines. There is skill but there is no courage.
Some people have said we shouldn’t go back into space until we solves our problems here on Earth. That’s not going to happen; there will always be problems here on Earth. Solve one and another pops up. Many of these problems are hardwired into us as human beings. However, so are the virtues and strengths of us as a people and they are never better on display than we reach outwards – to another planet, to the stars, to one another.
We, as a people, need frontiers and, as Star Trek pointed out, space is the final, the ultimate, frontier. Let’s seek out new lives and create a new civilization. Let’s unwrap our imaginations and explore possibilities.
I don’t own a single Spider-Man comic. Wait, scratch that. I own some painted comic released in the mid-aughts… Secret War. Didn’t care for it.
That being said, I love Spider-Man. I loved his cartoon in the 90s. I loved the Sensational Spider-Man cartoon even more. I owned Maximum Carnage for the Super Nintendo. I played about 8000 hours worth of Spider-Man 2 for the original Xbox. So, with all the love I have for the character, why don’t I subscribe to a single web-headed book? Well, consider it a barrier to entry. Never found the right jumping on point.
Until now. Dan Slott’s upcoming in-book epic “Ends of the Earth” looks to be as good a point as ever to jump on. Given my recent love affair with the Fantastic Four… I figure why not roll the dice on the House of Mouse one more time. You see, deep down my love of the character stems from the fact that he’s generally been written to think his way out of problems – and that’s something I’m finding more and more keeps me reading comics.
“With great power comes great responsibility.” This we know. When I think of other classic (and current) comic book heroes… their books always come down to the best use of a super power. It’s akin to the ‘85 Bears victory in the Super Bowl: it’s all about brute strength. In Blackest Night? It was collection of rainbow raiders and a deus ex machina in the form of “It was Black Hand all along! Now shoot him!” In Fear Itself? Solved by a ton of punching, and Odin getting off his ass. Even in the non-epic books, I see too many stories solving their problems with mindless fighting, and sheer force-of yelling. Hell, Avengers Vs. X-Men is essentially based on that entire 13-year-old wet dream of a concept. And frankly… it’s really old hat.
When I was first getting into comics, no doubt it was all about the fighting, and punching, and super powers. A grand excuse for violence and gratuitous action sequences. And the books at that time gave in to the gluttony. Spawn was belched out of the machine that demanded insane amounts of gore, and detail, and splash pages… And the reason why his stock (and its four-barreled-thigh-pouch kin) sits somewhere a thimble above “wait, that’s still a thing?” is because the book never grasped for more than a climax built on banality.
When a movie, a book, even a song reaches for the middle, our brains turn off. The reason why Karate Kid is better than Sidekicks (aside from the obvious….)? Because Danny Larusso defeats Johnny with his mind more than his body. Yes it was about perseverance, but I contest that it was that moment when he realized the crane kick could win him the match… we as an audience collectively feel like the win is earned. It’s the reason why Batman is always better than Superman. Because nine times out of ten, Batman saves the day because he figures a way out to do so. Superman, nine times out of ten, uses one of his 1,000,000 powers.
I recently reviewed Blue Beetle #6 over on MichaelDavisWorld. In said review I was elated by the book’s choice to have their azure-hued bug boy save the day not by commanding his alien armor to make a bigger-better-bug-zapper… but by out thinking his opponent. The whole reason I’m looking forward to this Sinister Six arc in Spider-Man is because my first thought is “in this modern take on Spidey, how is he going to think his way out of being pummeled by sextet of sinister sleeze-bags?” Don’t get me wrong, I want to see plenty of quips, punches, web-shooty-balls-of-justice, and kicks-to-the-mush – I just want the day to be saved by Peter Parker’s greatest power… his mind.
In comics, we build up an antagonist – an alien race, a long lost angry god, a crazy man with a gun and a diaper – and pit our titular heroes in combat with them. Whether the Avengers are fighting the Kree, the Skrulls, Ultron, Enron, or the X-Men… only those with a short attention span and a “most-posted” badge on a message board are truly salivating on just the outcome of a fight. As a reader, I genuinely feel like the best stories give us an arc that introduces us to something we didn’t think of in the first place. When the only thing that stands in the way of a happy ending is a well placed punch we end up with Michael Bay’s Transformers… pretty to look at, and not much else.
That being said, I’m going to go look at my script for the Samurnauts. My original page of notes for the climax literally says “use some mega-super move… lots of photoshoppery.” Looks like I better get thinking…
My friend, Goldie, said, “I’m reading the best book. You would love it.”
I was skeptical. My friend, Goldie, usually likes different kinds of books than I do. She likes historical novels with a sense of place. She enjoys literary fiction, with Serious and Important themes. Still, she is my friend, and I was curious. “What is it?” I asked.
“Isn’t that a young adult series?” I asked. Goldie is circling 60.
“It’s so good,” she said.
The next week, I found myself sitting around a lot and I managed to plow through the entire trilogy. At the same time, another friend (also older than me) and a woman whose job required extensive medical training both told me they were reading it.
Why are four reasonably sophisticated urban women, all but me with advanced degrees, reading a science fiction series aimed at tweens? Are there others like us? Are we statistically significant? Will the lines for the upcoming movie look like the Twilight audience, but now with more feminists?
Because The Hunger Games is definitely a work for those of us who have grown up with feminism. The heroine is brave, strong, skilled and smart. There is almost no mention of her beauty, or even if she is attractive. The two men vying for her affections never comment on her appearance. The challenges she faces throughout the books are about politics, the individual’s obligations to the larger society, and the repercussions of personal choices. She does not shop, talk about shoes, or even hang out with other girls. She doesn’t dislike other girls. She simply has no time for friends.
There is no comparison to serial science fiction in comics. Perhaps Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, but only because it’s based on a (deliberately) feminist television series, one in which the producer retains creative control.
The Hunger Games seemed to me most like the Philip Pullman series, [[[His Dark Materials]]], with the same mistrust of authority, the heroine with a mission whose scope is unknown to her when she begins, the complex and dystopian society. Pullman is a better writer, creating a richer world. There is no love triangle, but there are talking bears.
If you like your fictional worlds created for an adult audience, I highly recommend the books of [[[Elizabeth Hand]]]. The early ones especially are dense and humid, cheaper than a trip to Mexico and much longer-lasting.
Hand, along with Paul Witcover, created a series for DC in the 1990s. Anima was also big fun, mythic while also grungy and pulpy, a Rrriott Grrl for the DCU. Naturally, DC cancelled it before it could find its audience.
This is why there may be lines outside the theaters for the opening of The Hunger Games, but there won’t be lines outside the comic book store.
“…and I’d also like to thank the guy who parks my car on Wednesday nights and the waiter at the Chinese restaurant we ate at last month and, oh, I almost forgot – forgive me – the young mom with the wild mane of reddish hair at the deli counter yesterday, oh lordy, she was gorgeous! And who else? Mr. Electricity Man who puts the electricity through the wires so my television set can light up with pictures and stuff and…”
On the subject of the television: the one that’s in the room above my head will, within the hour, be colonized by show-biz elite because this is the magic night when my sweetie and I part video-viewing company. She’ll be watching the Academy Awards and I’ll be…doing something that isn’t watching the Academy Awards. Why? Well… I feel consternated by mountain-size helpings of glitz and besides, no superhero movies are up for any of the prizes. (Those Hollywood philistines! Didn’t they seeThe Green Hornet?)
Though the red-carpet trodders do have things in common with superheroes. For openers: costumes. Listen, I’ve been to Hollywood – I’ve even been to three movie studios – and people don’t wear stuff like that on the street. Just as Batman only dons his cape and cowl on certain occasions – often involving dark rooftops and maniacs – these performers apparently wear their special finery on ceremonial occasions – maybe only this ceremonial occasion – and then shed it and put on, you know, clothes. And the wearing of it doesn’t even please everyone: expect the snarkfest to begin late tonight and continue through tomorrow’s cable news cycle: eyebrow archers who probably have AFTRA union cards commenting uncharitably on couture, coiffure, décolletage, footwear, anklewear, wristwear, neckwear and, if someone is just a tiny bit daring, even underwear, providing all the glorious entertainment of hearing a couple of preadolescents discussing the best looking child in the seventh grade who, of course, isn’t them.
Costumes not enough? Then add masks. Oh, not the kind of masks you wear on Halloween, nor the kind that Catwoman and Spider-Man wear to work (unless one of the trodders decides to make a Fashion Statement and harvest really major snarkery.) The masks I refer to are not donned, they’re applied with brushes and pencils and powder puffs and fingertips and…I don’t know…trowels?
Like our superheroes, these actors have something to hide – insecurity? pimples? – and I don’t think we see them at their best on Oscar night. Weirdly enough, we do see them at their best when they’re most hidden – when they’re saying others’ words and, in some cases, even mimicking others’ gestures. When they’re doing their jobs. That’s how I like to enjoy them, how I like to remember them, as wonder workers who can, however briefly, transform my world and maybe and brighten my existence for the two hours I sit in darkness.
My pick? I thought you’d never ask. I gotta go with The Artist. By the time you read this, we’ll know if I’m right. And you can do me the favor of not giving a damn.
Hardly a day goes by without my asking myself “How did all this crappy art get published?”
Now, before all you upstarts get bent out of shape, please appreciate the fact that I’ve been asking this question since about the time Freedom 7 was launched. (Note to self: After gawking at Brian Bolland’s Blog, please don’t look at anybody’s comics art for at least three hours. You’re not giving them a chance.) The difference is, there are a hell of a lot more comic books being published these days. Whereas I think the comics medium beats out Sturgeon’s Law, there’s a hell of a lot of crappy art out there, and much of it is below what I consider to be professional standards.
Over my career I’ve spent a great deal of time evaluating newbie portfolios, and while I feel doing this at the larger, crowded conventions generally gives the young wannabe short shrift, like most geriatric editors I’ve developed a mental go-to list of comments that, if followed, will likely give direction to the newcomer. Since I’ve grown anti-social of late, I’ll share some of these points with you.
Stare at something other than the comics you grew up with. And don’t spend all that much time staring at comic books published before your birth – yeah, study the classics like Toth, Kubert, Kirby, Kane, Maneely, Wood, Adams, Barks and Toth, but learn from the great newspaper strip creators like Milton Caniff, Frank Robbins, Floyd Gottfriedson, Alex Raymond, and Frank Godwin. Spend some time gawking at the great illustrators like J.C. Leyendecker, Maxfield Parrish, Norman Rockwell, Howard Pyle, and NC Wyeth. Go to a few art museums. There is no more enjoyable way to pay your dues.
Get a large jar and label it “Photoshop Copy Machine.” Every time you use Photoshop or any other graphics program to copy your art so that you can use it later in lieu of drawing something new, put $20.00 in the jar. When you fill it up, donate the money to The Hero Alliance or CBLDF. The eye tires of the same old stuff, particularly when you repeat the same image within a few pages. Sometimes there is a solid storytelling reason to rerun your work within the same story, but like all dramatic effects these are few and far between and should only be used sparingly.
Get a smaller jar and label it “Son Of Photoshop Copy Machine.” Every time you use Photoshop or any other graphics program to copy somebody else’s art, put $10,000 in the jar. Then find some other fulfilling way to make a living. I suggest procuring a domino mask, a striped shirt, and a gun.
There’s an old adage that proclaims “color will save it.” More often than not, this statement is attributed to the late DC Comics production whiz Sol Harrison, who got his start as an engraver on Superman #1 and in his spare time did watercolors. Unfortunately, Sol was wrong. Color will not save bad art. Not even the most heavy-handed computer color. Bad art is bad art. Or, to be less subtle, shit stinks.
Go buy a copy of [[[Gray’s Anatomy]]]. Not the teevee show, silly, the book written and drawn by Henry Gray first published 154 years ago. Whereas the book has been updated frequently, the human body has not. I am not concerned with your religious predilection, but no matter which hoary thunderer or cosmic muffin you might worship, if you intend to draw the human figure for a living this is your new bible. I cannot stress this more highly.
Study storytelling. As the artist, you carry the burden of telling the story. You are not an illustrator illuminating somebody else’s story: you’re the person putting it across the plate. Your friend over there should be able to get a good sense of the story by looking at your unlettered original art. Go get Will Eisner’s Graphic Storytelling and Visual Narrative, and Will Eisner’s Comics and Sequential Art: Principles and Practices from the Legendary Cartoonist and Scott McCloud’s Understanding Comics. Take these three books, add the aforementioned Gray’s Anatomy, and don’t pick up the pencil or the Wacom tablet until you have studied and thought about each and every word in these four books.
Do not stop drawing. Question your alleged need to watch television, play video games, associate with people, eat, and bathe. Each of these activities takes valuable time away from your perfecting your craft. Trust me; once you get an assignment with a deadline, you won’t have time to watch television, play video games, associate with people, eat, or bathe.
Don’t give up. A newbie comic book artist who had just blown a couple deadlines once told me “If I can’t do this, I might as well flip burgers.” Well, today this guy is not flipping burgers. He became a comic book writer.
Drawing comics is no different than any other vocation: you’ve got to learn your stuff. Don’t look at the worst people being published and say “I can do better than that.” We’ve got enough crap. Aim high and don’t jump into the water until you know you can swim to the other side.
Every year for almost 20 years (since I was 5, Jean) like clockwork I give a party at Comic Con.
Every year like clockwork I host a dinner at Comic Con.
Every year like clockwork I host The Black Panel at Comic Con.
Every year like clockwork I hear from people I have not heard from since last year looking for an invite to my party.
Every year like clockwork I hear from people I have not heard from since last year looking for an invite to my dinner.
Every year like clockwork I hear from people I have not heard from since last year looking for me to put them on The Black Panel.
Every year like clockwork I hear from people I have not heard from since last year looking for me to get them a hotel room or a pass to Comic Con.
Comic Con is in July. It’s only February. The requests don’t usually start until a couple of weeks before Comic Con so I’m a few months ahead of the game.
Well, this year I’m nipping all that bullshit in the bud.
No.
The answer is no.
No.
No. No. No.
NONONONONONONON0NONONONNONONONO.
Hell, no.
No, if I don’t know you, you cannot come to my party or my dinner and you certainty cannot not be on the Black Panel.
Regarding the party and dinner, I don’t care who told you they could get you in. You can’t.
They lied.
Let me explain something to those who are among the many who ask of me the above. Like I said in last week’s article, the Comic book industry is a business. It’s part of the entertainment business. Comic Con is not a place where those who are serious about business come just to hang out.
Comic Con is where deals get done, relationships are cemented, partnerships are explored, opportunities are exploited and money is made.
When you operate at a certain level Comic Con is not a place where you hang out with friends and look for that copy of Spider-Man you had as a kid.
No, Comic Con is a place where you come to solidify and grow your business.
So, no, you cannot come to my annual party, person I don’t know, because it’s business.
Do you think the club my party is at is free?
No, no it’s not. So why, person I don’t know, should I grant you admittance when you don’t even know what I do? What possible reason is there for me to do that?
Do you think the dinner I have is free?
No, it’s not. That dinner costs thousands of freakin’ dollars.
Do you think that the ash can book you drew makes you worthy to sit on The Black Panel?
Really?
Go to www.theblackpanel.com and check out the alumni. Once you do, ask yourself if you really think you belong in that group.
I’ll help you out with that one, no.
Like I said last week, comics are a business. Yes, I have fun at Comic Con. That fun is usually at around midnight while sitting at the bar at the top of the Hyatt with 30 or so other hard working comic professionals getting blazed on shots of tequila.
But before I can have that fun I have to spend months setting up the party, the dinner and the panel and that is not fun.
That’s business.
So the answer is no.
However, if Mark Turner (Yes you, Mark) is at Comic Con this year he is invited to anything I’m doing because he gets it.
It’s spring training for baseball, a time when even Cubs fans can be hopeful despite knowing that, sooner or later, this year’s team will break our hearts as every Cubs team has done for over a century. Truth is, if the Cubs ever won the World Series, their mystique would be gone. Their legend is based on being losers.
As baseball season is upon us, and tonight is the Academy Awards, I want to look back not only at the game but at my favorite baseball movies. For my taste, there is something better about baseball films than there is in films for any other sport. There’s a duality to it; baseball is played by teams but it comes down to individuals – batter versus pitcher.
So here, in no particular order, are my favorite baseball films. I’m not saying they’re the best but they are my faves and I think every one of them is watchable. These aren’t the only baseball films I like and the list may not include your faves but there’s only so much space.
Moneyball stars Bard Pitt in his Oscar nominated role; the nomination is well deserved although his pal, George Clooney, will probably beat him out for the award. The movie does not deal with the game per se but with the business behind the game, focusing on Oakland A’s manager Billy Beane as he attempted in 2002 to win the World Series despite having very little money to work with. At the same time, it has most of a baseball film’s tropes – a team that has little chance, a maverick at the center of the story, a shot of redemption and so on. It comes at everything from a different angle but very worthwhile.
The Natural. Okay, it’s pretentious, it’s overwrought in places, heavy on the symbolism, Robert Redford at the start of the film is too old to be playing a rookie phenom and maybe even the score is over the top. For me, it works. When Roy Cobb hits the light-shattering home run at the climax and the Randy Newman score comes to its symphonic heights, I get chills. I stumble on it on the tube, I watch it all the way through. Great cast, too.
Bull Durham. Great comedy, great romance, sexy as hell, and terrific performances. Focusing on a minor league team is a great idea – players on their way up, players on their way down, players who aren’t going to get any better than this. Human, humble, great baseball scenes, loopy as hell. Costner, whatever else you may think of him, is almost always good playing an athlete and especially a baseball player. He does another great job playing a baseball player in a supporting role in The Other Side Of Anger. This is my second fave baseball movie.
A League of Their Own. “There’s no crying in baseball!” Tom Hanks, that line, and that scene alone merits the film’s inclusion here. Incredible cast overall – Geena Davis, Hanks, David Strathairn (almost always a MVP no matter what movie he is in), Madonna, Rosie O’Donnell and Jon Lovitz in what may be the film role I most enjoy him in. Or enjoy him in at all. The movie also covers a story I didn’t know about – a women’s professional baseball league in the 1940s while World War II was on. A little sentimental here and there, but first class. Makes you wonder why there isn’t a womens’ professional baseball league today. Maybe we haven’t come a long ways, baby.
The Comrades of Summer. I’d be surprised if most of you knew this one. It was a made for TV movie in 1992. Personal bias – it stars Joe Mantegna who I knew back in my theater days in Chicago. Great guy and a wonderful actor. In this movie, he plays Sparky Smith, a resentful and recently fired baseball manager in the States who gets hired by the Soviet Union that wants to field a team for the upcoming Olympics where baseball will be a competitive sport for the first time. He’s resentful, the players are largely untrained and well nigh hopeless and the odds are long. Classic baseball film material. Aside: there’s a Russian street hustler, Voronov, in the movie who contributed more than a little to my creation of Vilmahr Grahrk in some of my Star Wars stories for Dark Horse.
Field of Dreams. My favorite, hands down. I came at it sideways. When it was first released, I had no interest in it. Then I heard the soundtrack playing in a friend’s car. I didn’t klnow what it was and my friend identified it for me. James Horners’ score for this film is one of my top five favorite scores of all times. Beautiful and haunting. The film hit one of the rerun movies houses in Chicago (the old Three Penny Cinema of fond memory; it’s now a rock joint called Lincoln Hall) and I wanted to see how the music worked with whatever the film was about. So Kim and I went.
Knocked. Me. Out. It has the element of mysticism that The Natural strived for but not so heavy handed. It has James Earl Jones playing a J.D. Salinger type character (in the book by W.P. Kinsella – it was called Shoeless Joe – from which the film was adapted, the character is J.D. Salinger) and Burt Lancaster in a warm and wise small part. Once again, Kevin Costner is the main character, Joe Kinsella, which he handles with humor and heart.
The film is about baseball, yes, and James Earl Jones has a terrific speech towards the end about the importance of baseball and the dreams it has. It’s about redemption and long odds and, most importantly, fathers and sons. The ending is perfect. “Want to have a catch?” I think every father-son relationship is imperfect (yes, probably every father-daughter one, too) and I tear up every time when that final scene plays out. It ends in hope and beauty – just as every baseball season begins in hope and perhaps some beauty.
There’s a few more I’ll mention in passing – the TV version of Bleacher Bums (not the movie version), performed by the original Organic Theater cast including the aforementioned Joe Mantegna. This is the definition of what it means to be a Cub’s fan. “No one ever went broke betting against the Cubs after the Fourth of July.” Soul of the Game about the Negro Leagues just as Jackie Robinson was about to break the color line. Delroy Lindo, Mykelti Williamson (currently seen in this season’s Justified) and Blair Underwood as the young Jackie Robinson. Great stuff. Dennis Quaid in The Rookie. Sort of The Natural without all the mystical hoohah. And the musical Damn Yankees for Gwen Verdon, Ray Walston, and the song (You Gotta Have) Heart. That’s baseball right there.
I think what unites all these films is a sense of redemption and of hope. You need hope to get through life, even if you know better, even if you know that, in the end, your heart will get broken. Again. That’s what you have at the start of spring training, that this might be the year. Miracles happen. The Cubs might do it. I like myself better when I hope.
As the fabled Cub Ernie Banks used to say, “Let’s play two!” Batter up!
* OK, here’s the deal. You can’t. You can’t succeed in comics without blood, sweat, and tears. Or, better to say, if you can, I don’t know how. I know that once you break into comics and have enough dirt on editors and top brass… you can rest on those laurels for years. Ask Jeph Loeb. I also know if you can meet deadlines, even if no one would ever say your work did more than move things from point A to point B, you can still get a steady paycheck. Ask Scott McDaniel.
I was torn here on where to go. From that lead paragraph, I had two genuine directions. One would be an uplifting tale of how Unshaven Comics is succeeding in our goals through the triumph of hard work, and slow but substantial growth via winning over one fan at a time. The other article I could write is a shallow, mean, absurdly hateful piece directed at Scott McDaniel over something he posted on his website. Given that I’ve had a pretty brutal day, I’m inclined to get petty and stupid.
Since my M.O. in these columns is to provide a little Wikipedia’ing, allow me do as such. Scott McDaniel has been a working comic book artist for many years now. Titles include Daredevil, Nightwing, Batman, The Outsiders, and most recently Static Shock. A cursory glance over those titles should tell you that no matter how much I rant and rave here, Scott has the high ground; He’s worked at DC and Marvel. I’m still years away from getting my denial letters from either of them. That being said, I have a bone to pick with the good God-fearing fellow.
For those not following along, Milestone creator John Rozum was given the reigns of Static when it debuted in DC’s big reboot. After much ballyhoo, he was shown the door (or showed himself to it, in a sense), and McDaniel took the writing gig over. John let people know (here) (and here) (and here) his thoughts on it. Scott then issued a response of his own on his site, to clarify his take on the whole issue. His response was a 41-page letter issued to the interwebs detailing literally every conversation and his opinion on the matter. 4-pages. Single spaced. 12 point font. 20,000 words. To respond to John, and the industry in general on why he still worked on the now-canceled book. And as God as my witness? It makes me want to rub my feet on the carpet for a solid day, and then give Scott a static shock to the man-globes.
The basic argument came down to editorial. Rozum’s script was obviously not the direction DC wanted Static to go in. I would think many comic creators have been in this situation too. Hell, in Unshaven Comics we’ve had knock-out fights over single panels. What it comes down to though is what line a creator is willing to cross to make ends meet. The best comics being published today (many by DC, I would attest) work well only when all parties involved are on the same page (pun intended). Even four pages into McDaniel’s magnum dope-us I could figure out where all the hullabaloo was. Rozum wanted a grim and gritty take on Static that balanced the hero stuff with real-kid problem stuff. DC wanted a family-friendly-ish romp that went “all out” to draw attention to itself. Faced with an editor asking for something he really didn’t want… he all but “phoned-it-in” to make a few paychecks, before deciding to leave the title.
Some of the best comics work on a slow-burn concept. Where it takes five or six issues to really hit home. And truth be told, I tend to love those comics. Scott Snyder employs this process immeasurably well. But is Static right for such a treatment? In a perfect world, maybe. But let’s be honest. Static is most well known to be a “fun” character. His animated show was amazingly well done (until Shaq made a guest appearance, and they made Ritchie have super-powers). I have no doubt in my mind DC wanted to tap into that energy (pun doubly intended) for the relaunch. But I digress, no need to rehash all the details. I’ll let you read through them if you want. Suffice to say, Rozum zigged when he was asked to zag. His editor (a.k.a. The Boss), pulled McDaniel into the conversation early to swing things away from Rozum’s treatment. At the end of the day, no one saw eye-to-eye, and the book was sloppy because of it.
I forced myself to read through all 41-pages of Scott’s manifesto. I simply find it to be so amazingly crass that I couldn’t help but be bothered by it. At the end of the day, McDaniel didn’t do anything wrong. He followed orders, made his editor happy, and when it was obvious DC was gonna flush the series down the toilet with the rest of the poop, they saved a few dollars by letting Scott write it. Granted, I didn’t read Static, but if McDaniel writes as well as he draws… I’ll safely assume Static got into a ton of fights, stuff blew up, and then the moved on to the next plot point. I’ve read (and own) a few books by Scott. I’ve never loved any of them. I find his work to “feel” rushed. Whether it takes him any more or less time to complete than any other working artist today… simply put, I’m not a fan. And seeing him with more credits to his name on a book exponentially makes me steer clear. Remember when I wrote about the double-edged sword of artist-writers?
But, I digress once more. The point is simple. Scott McDaniel’s retort was unneeded, uncalled for, and ultimately a waste of pixels and bandwidth. Rozum had a reason to let the world know why he left the book, and what issues he faced at DC. Scott was (and perhaps still is?) drawing a paycheck from DC. To write 20,000 words on how Rozum made it hard to make the book successful (and reading Rozum’s own words, he all but admits his heart wasn’t in it in the first place)… is needlessly rubbing salt on a self-inflicted wound. I started this piece out discussing how one can succeed in comics. I can assure you one way not to do that, is spend 41-pages lambasting a fellow creator. If you read Michael Davis’ article this week, no doubt you know why it’s things like this, that make people think we’re all backstabbers and petty grudge-holders. Scott should have taken his paycheck to the bank, cashed it, and let people think whatever they wanted to think.
As Jesus would say: Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.
As we gird our collective loins for another presidential election season, we become accustomed to another iteration of praise for “family values.” It is a phrase that has different meanings to people of different political persuasions. To Democrats, it means a living wage and a financial safety net for the poor, the old and the infirm. To Republicans, it means no gay marriage, no sex outside marriage, and no abortion.
For me, neither viewpoint is adequate. I strive for Superman Family values.
As a woman of a certain age, I remember a comic book series dedicated solely to the Superman family. It had stories about Superman, of course, but also Supergirl, my favorite character, and Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane and Krypto. At 60¢ (not the standard 15¢ or 20¢), this was a big, fat comic book, good for a whole afternoon.
I learned a lot about family from those books, and not just how to get some extra change from my parents.
Superman grew up with loving, principled parents in the Kents. He lived on a farm where everyone had chores that contributed to the family fortunes. He knew he was adopted, so he knew his parents really wanted him. However, since he was Kryptonian, he had powers and abilities far beyond those of his friends and classmates. His parents taught him to value his differences, but not use them to draw attention to himself for personal gain. His gifts were best appreciated when he used then to help his community.
Years later, Superman discovered he had a teenage cousin, Supergirl. He didn’t know anything about her, yet he immediately accepted her and loved her.
When he grew up and moved on to his adult life, Superman, like the rest of us, assembled a family of sorts, of people he chose. Most of this family came from the people with whom he worked, Perry White a surrogate father, Jimmy Olsen like a little brother. Bruce Wayne was his best friend, a peer who understood what it meant to live life with secrets.
I have to believe that Superman would favor the rights of immigrants, since he is one. I have to believe that a man who has roamed the various universes and seen thousands of different societies would develop respect for people with different beliefs than his, and different ways of defining family.
As a member of the Legion of Super-Heroes, Superman had good friends who were in romantic relationships that were not only not conventionally heterosexual, but often between two different species. If this bothered him, we never saw his discomfort in the comics. He accepted his friends as they presented themselves.
Is Superman political? I have always imagined him to be a New Deal Democrat, or what the GOP today calls a “socialist.” At the same time, I don’t see him as an activist, nor even all that partisan. As Clark Kent, he votes, he serves jury duty when summoned, and he pays his taxes.
To him, family is a joy and a refuge. It isn’t something for politicians to use to bludgeon each other and score points.
…with thanks to Martha Thomases!
