Category: Columns

MINDY NEWELL: To Love, Honor, And Cherish Until Death – Or Editorial Decision – Do Us Part

If you’re a regular reader of this column, you know that my daughter, Alixandra Gould – yes, she’s keeping her name – married the love of her life, Jeffrey Christopher Gonzalez, last week. (A big thank you! to Mike Gold for posting a beautiful column last week that I posted on Facebook, then e-mailed to every single person I’ve ever met just to make sure they read it, and which Alix and Jeff thought was terrifically cool.) So of course I decided to write about superhero marriages this week. Not a big leap, is it?

I just finished googling “superhero marriages.” There were “about” 7,750,000 hits in 0.23 seconds, the most recent being a slide show in the Huffington Post posted only four days ago – well, five days ago since this appears on Monday – on November 9, 2011 titled “Comic Book Weddings: 8 Of Our Favorite Superhero Weddings.” In order, they are (1) Spider-Man, a.k.a. Peter Parker, and Mary Jane Watson in 1987’s The Amazing Spider-Man Giant Annual; (2) 1962’s The Incredible Hulk #319 in which Bruce Banner and Betty Ross’ nuptials are interrupted by a “special guest”; (3) The X-Men’s Scott Summers (Cyclops) and Jean Grey (Phoenix) in 1994; (4) Wonder Woman in her eponymous title married Mr. Monster in 1965 – ‘nuff said!; (5) Aquaman and Mera in Aquaman #18, 1964; (6) “Death Waits to Kiss the Bride” screamed the cover of Lois Lane #128 in 1972 – featuring the now iconic picture of Superman holding somebody’s dead body; (7) The Flash races down the altar to stop Iris West from marrying the wrong Barry Allen in The Flash #165, 1966; and (8) Wonder Girl, a.k.a. Donna Troy, marries Terry Long in Tales Of The Teen Titans #50, 1985.)

How did they miss Reed Richards and Sue Storm Richards, a.k.a. Mr. Fantastic and The Invisible Woman? Im-not-so-ho, Reed and Sue are the most realistically portrayed marriage “pros” in the comics universe.

The couple married in 1965, making this year the 46th anniversary of their being a Mr. and Mrs. (They look pretty damn remarkable, don’t they? Must be all those visits to the Negative Zone.) Down through the years, Reed and Sue “have and held, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,” and have loved and cherished each other through everything the Marvel Universe could and continues to throw at them, including “real life” curves like a miscarriage, potential affairs, political differences, and a brother’s death.

Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson came pretty close in matching the Richards’ record – not in years married, but in a realistic view of marriage – but then Marvel decided to “disappear” their relationship. Clark Kent and Lois Lane had a wonderful thing going, too, but DC recently terminated without prejudice that couple, too.

And what the hell happened to Scott and Jean?

Jean Loring, the wife of Ray Palmer (The Atom) has a “mental breakdown” and goes on a rampage, killing Sue Dibny, the wife of the Elongated Man (Ralph Dibny), in one of the most gruesome scenes I’ve ever seen in any comic.

Betty Banner, wife of Bruce Banner (The Hulk) was abused, suffered miscarriages, was turned into a harpy, and died. She got better and turned red.

Shayera Hall, Hawkwoman, dead.

I’m sure glad Jeff isn’t a superhero.

TUESDAY: Michael Davis

JOHN OSTRANDER: The Joy of Writing

I love writing. Most days.

There are days when it’s a job – and it is my job. It’s how I make my living. It’s how I pay my bills. Most days.

Sometimes it’s a grind. It’s not working for some reason. I stare at the blank screen or the empty page and wonder why I ever thought I could do this. Creative constipation. It’s affected every writer I have ever heard of.

Some days, however, it’s a joy. A lot of days.

I most enjoy it when I’m working in my journal. I have a bound book of lined pages and that’s where I go, black ballpoint in hand, to figure out the story or the characters. My thoughts seem to flow into the pen and the ink flows onto the paper carrying my thoughts and they take a form. It’s a physical, sensual thing.

That’s something I teach in my classes. Everyone has ideas but it doesn’t mean anything until they write them down. You incarnate the thoughts and feelings. Putting them into words gives the ideas and feelings a form and then you can do something with them.

If you want to do something with it, you have to write the idea down. You can’t just tell it to someone; that releases the energy. It lets the steam out of the engine. You’ve already told the story so you don’t need to write it down. You have nothing.

It doesn’t matter that what you’ve written is imperfect. It’s always going to be imperfect. I know people who can’t write because it’s never as perfect when they write it down as it was in their head. For them it has to be perfect. For me, that gets in the way. Incarnation is messy. I like that. I like that it takes on a life of its own.

The work in my journal especially is going to be imperfect but that’s all right because I’m the only one who is going to see it. Given my handwriting, even if you did see it, odds are you wouldn’t be able to read it. I myself rarely go back and look at what’s written. It’s the act of writing that’s important. It clarifies what’s in my head and then I can proceed.

I was working in the journal a little earlier on a plot for a series I’m doing. As I wrote, the ending of the arc revealed itself to me. Having a resolution is so important when you’re developing the story; it allows you to focus it and the characters towards that end.

It felt right. That’s how I know it’s going to work. I still have to do all the structural stuff and then I have to hope that the editor likes it as well as I do. Right now, the story has a heartbeat. It’s not fully realized yet but there’s something there.

That’s when it’s a joy. Today, tonight, I love being a writer.

MONDAY: Mindy Newell

MARC ALAN FISHMAN: Why are you reading this and not playing Arkham City?

Every week it’s a visceral war for my attention: between using my time to produce articles, write or draw comics, complete freelance design projects, or be a lazy bastard. Not 12 feet from my Hacktintosh work station is my present to myself. A 46” HDTV, a Sega Saturn, my DVD collection, and an XBox 360. When I moved into my house last year, I put all these amazing toys in said man-cave so I would have a space where I could create, and reward myself when I was finished. Here I sit a year later…clickity-clacking away for you, the fine readers of ComicMix, my entertainment center gathering a thick layer of dust. And it strikes me that I’m toiling away nervously hoping that my words will excite and amaze you when I could be doing something much more important.

I could be saving Gotham City.

Earlier this month, Arkham City, the sequel to the hit video game Arkham Asylum, hit the store shelves. Presumably millions of copies found their way to similar basements as my own. When the game debuted, I decided to be an adult. I abstained. You see, I waited almost a year and a half to buy Arkham Asylum. I’d nabbed it in the used bin at a Gamestop over Hannukah last year. Since, I’d played it handful of times. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Never beat it though. And thus I gave myself every reason with which to remain stoic in my stance. I didn’t need a $60 investment in time wasting. I have articles to write! Comics to draw! A pregnant wife to attend to! A nursery to paint and organize! And I still haven’t beaten the first one!

That Friday, at the weekly Unshaven Comic work-night, my will grew weak. Matt entered my basement with a hearty “Dude, why don’t you have Arkham City yet?” I shook my head in a desperate plea. “Duuuuuuude!” My knees felt weak. Kyle descended into our dank pit of creativity next. “Hey guys. Marc, did you get it yet?” Damnit! I turned to a nearby die. I declared to my cohorts if I rolled a five or a six, I would get up straight away and get the damned thing. I chucked the six-sided keeper of fate to the floor. It skitted around the vinyl tile in a red blur. And there, staring back at our hopeful faces… one lowly dot. Fate, as it were, was giving me a message. “Stay strong.” Screw fate. I rolled it again. Two. Four. One again. Matt and Kyle chortled as lay on the cold floor, forever mocked by my lack of fortune.

The following week, the work-night began as it had the last. “Dude?! Now?!” No, Matt. I had to pay the mortgage and bills. I can’t be tossing away my cash all the time. I bought books this week anyways. Kyle came down, a rustle of plastic tucked between his arm and body. “Well, I got it!” Poop. We worked hard for an hour or so. Set some dates for conventions we’ll attend next year. We bitched to one another about our printer problems. And like a beacon light guiding us away from our duties as creators… Bruce Wayne called out. “My Unshaven Lads! The hammers of justice are yearning to strike down the nails of tyranny. Only you three can unleash my vengeance upon the night! C’mon, just watch the introduction story!”

A hour later we forced the game off. We pried it from my disk tray. We sealed it back inside its plastic Pandora’s box. With the night ending, Kyle whisked the game from my house, and my life. I could always borrow it when he’s finished, I told myself. I’m plenty busy anyways.

That Sunday, Kyle and Matt returned to record our podcast. Kyle entered with a knowing smirk. “Gas pellets, Marc. Gas. Pellets.” No. “Seriously. You get them like right after the part when we turned the game off. You get the gas pellets.” And you can throw them to the ground, and then fire off your grappling gun, and zip away in a puff of smoke? “Oh yeah. And the game is an open world this time, so you could just go around doing that, and beating up thugs for hours.”

Kyle didn’t even get a chance to finish that sentence before the wisps of my Brut aftershave left a Marc-sized silhouette where I was sitting.

And here I am, finishing up this little tale of woe for you. The game sits on the desk next to me, unopened. It’s been sitting there since I brought it home last Sunday. Between interviews for ComicMix, my day job, drawing the next installment of The Samurnauts and finding time to sleep, I’ve yet to crack it open. The anticipation at this point is unsettling. I’ve considered hugging people with the flu in hopes of having a legitimate reason to call in sick.

But who am I kidding? Even when I’m sick I log on to do my day job out of guilt and fear I’ll be missed. And I love drawing and writing comics. And interviewing Will Meungiot this week? It was like a 60 minute conversation with the friend I wish I’d had years ago. Maybe I’m just a masochist. Like Bruce Wayne. Bruce. … What’s that Bruce? Gotham City is overrun with gangsters, psychopaths, and malevolent psychologists hells bent on overtaking the city and exposing your secret to the world? Only I can help you?

And you have those exploding gas pellets? Poop.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

MARTHA THOMASES: Are Interns Slaves?

In Great Britain, they’re trying to change the law to prevent businesses from exploiting students by way of unpaid internships. This is not just good news for a democratic society, but for comics fans as well.

How is it good for society? Unpaid internships are a scam, a way for businesses to get free labor while giving affluent students an unfair advantage over other students. The students with the best connections get the best gigs, and they’re the only ones who can get the subsidy from Mom and Dad so they can afford to work for free. After graduation, it’s the well-connected kids who have better resumes. It’s another example of affirmative action for the rich.

Unpaid internships also rob the community of taxable income. The kids working for free, even those with trust funds, are most likely not paying taxes on those unpaid salaries. They accrue the benefits of being part of our workforce without contributing their fair share. The corporations are certainly not paying taxes on the profits they make from the kids’ work.

How is it good for comics? I just spent a pleasant few days at New York Comic-Con. The show is run by Reed Pop!, and they do a decent job. However (and this is a big “However”), I am always surprised to see people working at the show as volunteers. Reed is a for-profit company. Why do they need volunteers?

I don’t mean to malign the people doing these jobs. Far from it. The deal, as I understand it, allows them to get into the show for free in exchange for doing a few hours work.

This might be a lovely way to run a local show, something put together by fans for fans. It’s no way to run a major exhibition in a major city. It’s scabbing. It’s exploitive. It’s an insult to every person who struggles to make a living in entertainment, marketing and hospitality.

It’s also a liability nightmare. If a volunteer has an accident, or somehow harms a guest, who is responsible? Again, it’s one thing if it happens in somebody’s garage, and quite another when it happens at the Javits Center.

I understand that this is a tradition of fans pitching in to help at shows. I love volunteers, and I welcome all efforts that get us more involved with our various and respective communities. However, I don’t understand why we’re volunteering to make money for corporations, instead of for more worthy causes.

Unlike the New York show, the San Diego Comic-Con is a not-for-profit corporation, a 501(c)(3). They are dedicated to promoting an appreciation of comics. Fae Desmond and David Glanzer are among my favorite people. However, it is my opinion that the show has been completely co-opted by other industries – specifically movies, television, and gaming – and to volunteer for that show is to make a non-cash donation to the likes of Disney, Fox, Warner Bros. and Universal.

Maybe, as comics fans, we hate ourselves so much that we feel we need to pay major corporations for the privilege of their attention.

Let’s make them pay us instead. We can use the money for therapy.

SATURDAY: Marc Alan Fishman

DENNIS O’NEIL: “I Am An Artist”

Percy looked up from the newspaper he had liberated from his neighbor’s welcome mat and had an epiphany. He knew what had been missing. He knew what he needed. About time.

The story, in the paper’s arts and leisure section – the only section Percy ever bothered with – concerned a major comic book publisher’s revision of its product line. It was a straightforward news piece, with no snarky asides, and it was the third or fourth such piece the paper had run in the last month or so – further proof that comics were an accepted and respected part of the arts community. Which, since Percy was a comic book penciler and inker, made him an Artist. In his imagination, he saw that word – Artist – in neon letters as big as a Times Square Billboard, with a brass band playing beneath them, and Mom and Dad there too, beaming, and also the little hottie from across the alley who had always ignored him, fluttering her eyelashes.

“I’m an Artist,” he said to the empty apartment. Not too convincing. The problem was, Percy had gotten a lot of attention with a self-published comic that he’s written, penciled and inked and then made copies of on the machine in his dad’s office after everyone had gone home.

“That’s nice, dear,” Mom had said when he’d given her a copy.

“Uh huh,” Dad said, nicely disguising his enthusiasm.

His buddies told him the book was cool.

“Yer a frickin’ artist, guy,” an uncle said.

And he was, no doubt about it. But he’d been in New York for six months and hadn’t gotten past any publisher’s reception desk and he’d taken his samples to all the comics publishers and a lot of other kinds of publishers because, well, you never know.

Okay, he was an artist. But, given his lack of success, he must be missing something. What? Then he remembered the art history class he’d taken during his one semester at the community college…what had the instructor said? Artists had…influxes? No – influences!

Epiphany, Part Two: Percy needed influences.

He wouldn’t find them in his apartment, unless they came in the form of roaches, so he put on his Yankees baseball cap – bill aimed behind him, of course – and emerged from his building into a sunny August afternoon. He turned left – south – and began walking. Would he recognize an Influence when he found one? He had to assume that he would.

He turned east on Chambers – no particular reason – and continued to the river. Turned south and soon found himself at the South Street Seaport. On a fine summer afternoon like this, the area was crowded with tourists ogling the Nineteenth Century sailing ship and drifting in and out of the restaurants and shops and glancing up at the steel-and-glass skyscrapers to the west and buying mystery meat from the food carts. Percy joined the few people who were watching a mime doing the usual mime stuff – being inside a box, walking against the wind and some other action Percy couldn’t decipher.

Suddenly the mime stopped whatever he was doing, stared directly at Percy and asked, “Looking for an influence, numb nuts?”

To be continued

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

MIKE GOLD: Comics Envy

At the very end of 1973 I was lurking about in a Woolworth’s in downtown Montreal. I was suffering from my worst case of comics envy ever.

I was seduced by the graphic novels rack. That’s not what it was called, but that’s what it was. Dozens of titles by Jean Giraud (a.k.a. Moebius), Phillipe Druillet, and all kinds of master comics creators the likes of which we had not seen in the States. Beautiful stuff. I could follow much of the storytelling but little of the story itself.

I was also seduced by the wide range of subject material, with nary a cape in sight. Western, science fiction, private eye, romance, ennui-ridden existentialism, and stuff that seemed as though it was influenced by lysergic acid diethylamide the likes of which we never had on St. Mark’s Place. In short order I stumbled upon equally awesome material from Japan and Italy and, possibly, Mars. I experienced a beautiful work covering the widest range of subject matter imaginable. But in comics, such a range was not imaginable, not in the United States.

A couple years later the National Lampoon folks started up Heavy Metal, and while it wasn’t as interesting as it could have been, the new magazine got this material out there. At worst, it was a gallon of water brought to the desert. At best, Heavy Metal was a door opener.

One might think that a logical way of dealing with my comics envy would be to learn a foreign language – certainly French or Japanese. No such luck. Like most Americans I’m lacking in the foreign language learning gene: I took five years of Spanish and lived (and now live) in neighborhoods with or near a significant Latino population and I can barely mumble a few phrases, “perdóname” being my most heavily used.

38 years later a lot of wonderful material has been translated – but that’s not the best part. The best part is, the American comics medium has grown to the point where we now create stories that cover many of the genres that we see overseas. Not anywhere near all, but many. We still don’t have comics for senior citizen grandmothers the way they do in Japan, but we’ve gone a lot further than the 1973 diet of capes, muscles, some horror, a few klutzy teenagers, and a smattering of “children’s comics.” For one thing, we are finally seeing something of a return of children’s comics, thanks to outfits like Boom! and Ape.

Sadly, we’re not seeing a lot of sales in these categories. Most comics shops really can’t afford to risk stocking them in any depth and then promoting them to the appropriate audiences, and most publishers – maybe all of them, now that the tide has changed at DC and Marvel – really can’t afford to help them in any dramatic and useful way.

Maybe electronic distribution will change all that. Clearly, it’s the best way right now to attract new readers, but the promotion budget has to be there and that ain’t easy.

Still, it’s a start. A good start.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil

MICHAEL DAVIS: The Art of the Deal

MICHAEL DAVIS: The Art of the Deal

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

That line has nothing to do with this column. I just love starting a piece with “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” I mean how cool is that?

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

I started to look at comics differently. Up until that moment, comics were just a great vice in my life. Sure, I wanted to work in comics. Sure I loved comics but until that moment, comics to me were a simple, can’t do without, pleasure.

But… One day I was sitting in my study…what? yes, I had a study! That’s where I went to… study. So, one day I was sitting in my study when a bat smashed through my floor to ceiling window. At that moment I knew my path. My path was clear… That freakin’ bat must die!

Have you any idea how much a floor to ceiling window costs? A lot!

The bat was bouncing off my very expensive walls! Hey! When you see this shit in the movies and by this shit I mean people chasing a bat, rat, bird or whatever around their house, it’s all bullshit. In the movies the point is to get rid of the nuisance and provide comedy relief. The reality? It’s about killing the nuisance and avoiding bat blood on the walls of your Manhattan loft. After securing the bat, I started to…

Oh, you want to know what happened to the bat? Look, PeTA would be up my ass if I wrote what happened to that bat. I really don’t need to hear from those people so I’ll just say this, my .38 is missing a bullet and replacing a door is not that hard.

However, none of that is important. What is important is, at the very moment when my bat problem was over I realized that comics were not just a way to spend another lonely night after masturbating.

What? Oh, like you don’t!

At that moment I stuck upon an idea.

That idea?

The Art Of The Deal.

To put it another way, a step-by-step overview of a comic book deal.

So… starting next week I’m going to share with you in detail the inner working of one of my comic book deals. From idea to printed graphic novel.

I’ll use an existing but not yet finished deal from start to finish so if it goes south you will know why.

So fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a realistic ride.

WEDNESDAY: Mike Gold

NOT QUITE MINDY NEWELL: Happy Times In New Jersey

Nope, this is not Mindy writing. Mindy’s a bit tied up right now. This weekend, her daughter Alixandra Gould married Jeffrey Gonzalez at the Newark New Jersey Art Museum.

Yes, Newark New Jersey has an art museum. Grow up.

People with Y-chromosomes who have never studied the process aren’t as appreciative as we should be about this process and its impact upon the mother of the bride. It’s far easier for us guys to simply do as we’re told (weddings aren’t really about us anyway) and stay away from the battlefield until it’s time to do the transformative I Do voodoo. For the mother of the bride, however, and in another fashion for the bride herself the experience consists of long periods of intense work separated by somewhat briefer periods of frantic behavior and occasional military acts, followed by an undefined period of complete collapse. It even takes its toll on those who do not have a day job; lucky for Mindy, I strongly suspect her years of service to humanity as an operating room nurse prepared her for this endeavor.

We-all at ComicMix congratulate Alixandra and Jeffrey and wish them a long, healthy and fun life together.

– Venerable Boy Editor

(photo by Adam Haley)

TUESDAY: Michael Davis, unless he’s getting married or something

JOHN OSTRANDER: Comics Lied To Me!

I’ve had some medical tests recently. Seems I have heart palpitations; lordy me, Ah do seem to be a swoon and mint julep away from being a Southern belle. (Hm. Wonder if they make chocolate mint juleps?) It means that my heart skips a beat every so often.

So I went to a cardiologist and he set up a battery of tests to see what this all means. In the first one, they injected a radioactive tracer so they could then do X-rays of my heart from different angles and see what’s going on.

I was ready. I knew the score. If comic books have taught me anything, it’s that radioactivity triggers a DNA change and gives you super-powers. Prime example is Spider-Man – got his powers from a radioactive spider, right? The Hulk got his from gamma radiation, which is a type of nuclear radiation, right? And it was a stress test, okay? What happens when you combine radiation and stress? The Hulk.

So I figured the radioactive stuff would combine maybe with X-rays and I’d get X-ray vision whenever I stressed out. Or maybe a bug might creep into the machine and I’d get X-ray and bug like powers. Spider-Hulk.

All I got was a bill. Not a duck bill. Or a goose bill. I received a financial statement saying I owed them money. What a rip off!

They also did what is called an “Echo Test” a couple of days later. It’s like when they do a sonogram for pregnant women using ultrasound only they do it for the heart. Ultrasound, eh? Okay, that could become something. Something ultra. I know the Ultra line was a failed bunch of comics for Malibu that Marvel bought up and forgot they had until recently… but it could maybe work, right? Combine ultrasound with the radioactive particle and the stress test and maybe I wind up with ultra hearing and X-ray vision. Add in any Hulk-like side effects and now we’re getting somewhere!

Zap. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. That’s what I’ve gotten. So far.

When they did the second part of the stress test, I had a choice. I could climb on a treadmill and get my heart rate up to a certain point or they could do it via an injection of chemicals that would also make my heart beat faster. Of course, some of the shots of the naked Scarlett Johansson – soon to return as the Black Widow in The Avengers flick – that popped up on the web would also probably do the trick but I wasn’t offered that option.

It was a hard choice. We all know about the treadmill in The Flash and how he uses it combined with his superspeed for time travel. Maybe being on the treadmill would combine with an increased heartbeat and would trigger the change. Seemed reasonable.

I opted, however, for the chemical version for three reasons. One – that seemed more likely to interact with the other events and convert my DNA to complete the change. Two – if I got superspeed and went back in time, I might change a little something that would induce a reboot of reality and DC just did that and it resulted in a skinny Amanda Waller. Third – I could do the test lying down. At my age, if you can do something lying down, that’s the option you take.

So I got the chemicals injected, waited forty minutes for them to travel through my system, and went back for more x-rays. I had high hopes for this one. I’d seen Captain America – The First Avenger and that’s more or less what they did with Steve Rogers: injected him with chemicals and bathed him in rays. That turned out pretty spiffy, right? Not only did he get turned into Captain America but it was a pretty darn good superhero film to boot.

SPOILER WARNING: There are no spoilers. You already can guess the outcome. I just got test results is all. They said I was normal. Normal. Since when?

I go in to see the cardiologist next week to get the findings. Friends have suggested that all I’ll get told is that I have an overheated imagination.

If there’s a cure for that, I’m out of a job.

MONDAY: Mindy Newell

MARC ALAN FISHMAN: Crisis on Infinite Indie Earths

I was going to write an article about The Boys this week. I like The Boys. It’s violent. It’s intriguing. It’s full of rich character moments, surprising plot twists, and gritty and emotionally charged artwork. It’s also very close to finishing. So, I digress. I’ll cover it after it’s over. Spoiler alert. I love the series.

With that off my plate, what to write about? I could rant about why I think it’s a silly idea to bring back the Phoenix Force. I could rant about why I think it’s sillier to bring back Johnny Storm. I could rant about why I think it’s silly that DC rebooted its universe, and it’s already suffering from continuity errors. Nah. How about I just take a big fat crap on The War of the Independents. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So, there I was, looking over the rack a couple weeks back. See, I was a little light that week on books in hand. I gave myself an excuse to nab one more book before I checked out. And there it was at the tail end of the indie racks… War of the Independents. Why not? The cover boasts a bevy of characters from just about every nameable indie cape book you can think of. Bone. Cerebus. The Tick. Scud: The Disposable Assassin. Cassy Hack. Captain Action. Hell, even the Flaming Carrot and Gumby are on the cover. Based on that, and a name that boasts a potential war with them all? There’s no way that could not be awesome, right? It’s like communism. It works on paper. But this here rag, written and occasionally drawn by Dave Ryan, doesn’t work. In fact, if this comic were a person, it would be the drum-beating hippie downing free pints of Ben and Jerry’s at Occupy: Branson.

Disclaimer: I like the Occupy movement in theory. But standing around demanding change isn’t exactly what I’d do to change the world. But I digress.

War of the Independents should be amazing. Getting the permission to work with scads of semi-known characters in a crisis-like setting just makes my mouth water. Who here amongst you would not want to see The Tick and Scud fight alongside Too-Much-Coffee-Man and Milk and Cheese? And then you open the book. Dave Ryan, utilizing every cliché known to comics, pens a tale we’ve already read a million times over… and fails to do anything original with it.

An age-old evil is going across the multiverse killing things. It’s up to a ragtag group of no-names to assemble and save us all. When Captain Action and Madman are on the same page, it’s not the time for prophecies and posturing. When Toyboy and Pokey share page space, it’s not enough to simply have them say “I’ll fight!” and call it a day.

The issue wastes six or seven pages filling us in on a villain as bland as mayo on white. Then Cerebus shows up with a team of people I’ve never heard or seen to fight a muscular super demon… for seven more pages. That’s a little shy of half the book wasted on the kind of crap we’ve read and reread! The other half of the book is just the putting together of the team. You’ve seen this all before. Ryan just hands the reigns over to various authors to pen a panel or two featuring their own creations. And before you know it, the book is over.

Next issue? It’s the all black-hero spectacular. Michael Davis should fire up the death ray. It’s simply not enough to get permission from this pantheon of partial fame, and just plop their character into a panel or two, and hope showing them will be enough. Any fans of the parent books from whence these people came from are hoping to see more than just a silent panel. Comic characters are more than just pretty drawings. War of the Independents thinks it’s simply enough to have them assembled. It’s not.

What I was truly hoping from this book was what the cover itself promised. Page after page of crazy Pérez-packed panels with wave after wave of indie heroes knocking heads with wave after wave of… something. Anything. Zombies. Other villains. Each other. Kids. Puppies. But we never get that far. 31 pages of content yield nothing more than a single fight scene (starring nary a single recognizable hero) and page after page of singularly unimpressive moments. War of the Independents? My Jewish Ass. I’m a firm believer of under-promising and over-delivering. This book should have been called 1 Great Double Page Splash, and Then Some Nonsense. (And the Tick Yells SPOON!)

It’s not a secret that I’m an indie comic creator. Given permission to assemble even a quarter of these creations, I would do more than simply waste time showing them join together. The fun of this idea is all in the fighting. If you’ve got The Badger, The Opossum, and the Unbelievable Laundry Detergent Man coming together, forget the subtext. And for the love of God, spend some time honing the art. No offense (because I know how hard it is to make a comic), but Dave Ryan’s panels are just terrible looking. Front to back, page after page… this was a waste of paper, talent, resources, and my money. And nothing gets my ire up more than wasting my money. To steal a contrived writers trick Dave Ryan likes to use… here’s a nice quote to make me sound fancy:

It is well that war is so terrible. We should grow too fond of it.

Robert E. Lee

SUNDAY: John Ostrander

Categories

Archives

Everything you need to make great comics!

comicmix-pro-300x69-2

Nucleus X

Bookshop Zaks