I’ve noticed lately the fine columnists here at ComicMix are paying tribute to a lovely woman I wish I could have met. It got my wheels turning. I’ve done plenty of moaning, groaning, hyping and griping up until now… but I’ve never paid tribute to those who helped shape me as I am. The desire to tell you all about my family is tempting, but it might be more apropos to give some love to special someone who directly changed the course of my career (and all of the subsequent creative endeavors). But enough preamble, eh? I want to pay homage to an amazing educator and mentor… Dean Auriemma.

Mr. Auriemma, or just Mr. A, was my high school art teacher for my sophomore and senior year in high school. Unlike your stereotypical art educator you might think of, he taught those willing to learn that art is a scholarly endeavor as much as math or science. A bit of backstory: The “art track” at my high school was a true four year journey, meant to be taken chronologically, ultimately ending with A.P. (that’s Advanced Placement, or college level) Studio Art. Well, the art bug bit me a year late, so I ended up taking both the junior and senior level courses both in my senior year. It wasn’t unheard of (as I recall one other student joined me in this undertaking), but it was certainly challenging. But I digress.

Mr. A made art hard. For me, this was (and still is) the most exhilarating concept I’ve ever wrapped my head around. You see, I was a very good student. Took all honors classes. Graduated in the top 5% of my class (of over 600 students). I’d happily admit that I coasted throughout High School without sweating over tests, and grades, and memorization. Not that I didn’t work hard mind you, but no class outside of Mr. A’s A.P. Studio Art ever put me in my place quicker. Mr. A never pulled a punch.

During critiques, he would tell me that I couldn’t draw my way out of a paper bag. He said my artistic prowess could best be described as “Craposition”… a term so beloved by the class, we used it as the title to our class mix tape. Best of all? His words rang true, because they absolutely were. I sucked. Beyond the harsh words though, came true support. Mr. Auriemma took time with me to show me where my strengths were, how to hone (and hide) my weaknesses, and explore not only technical proficiency but conceptual development at the same time.

One fond memory that sticks in my craw even today were Mr. A’s dreaded Gallery Journal entries. He forced our class to go to galleries every month and truly look (and write about) art. He challenged us to critique accepted “masterpieces” instead of simply enjoying them. He deconstructed a world most simply adhere to accept. In short, he forced each and every one of his students to take an intellectual leap beyond “I like this.” Most important, when I spoke and wrote of my love of comic books, and that art form, Mr. A did not once scoff. He knew that masters like Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko, and the modern artists that inspired me like Alex Ross and Mike Mignola, should be studied as much as Renoir, Titian, or Bacon. All art was equal in his class, so long as you could apply the lessons he taught to them.

The best panels and issues of modern comic books utilize complex composition, juxtaposition of focal points, value balance, and harmony all to visually communicate what only a 1000 words might. Again, I can’t hit on this fact enough; where some art teachers hand you a canvas and a brush and tell you to let your mind go wild… Mr. Auriemma did it too, but forced you to use the skills and tools honed over time to produce more than whimsy and feelings.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Mr. A’s lesson plan. Tough love gave me the drive to do better. His “acceptance” was earned through hard work and dedication. It was a tribute to these abilities that drove so many of us alumni to trek back to the hallowed halls of Homewood-Flossmoor High just so we could show him what we were doing in college. Certainly when Unshaven Comics published its first graphic novel, I raced back to his class room to show that I’d learned to draw out of that paper bag. OK, I won’t lie. Matt drew the first book… I just colored, lettered, and co-wrote it. But like JD looking for that hug from Dr. Cox on Scrubs, I wanted that approving “Good job, buddy” like Courtney Love wants attention.

Not even a few years after I’d been away at college, Mr. Auriemma got his masters in Education, became a top-notch school administrator, and is still to this day (to the best of my knowledge) now a principal. I dare you to find another Art Teacher that took that path. I bet you find a bunch of paint-strained smocks, and some weed.

Suffice to say, Dean Auriemma instilled in me a drive and determination that exists to this day. In fact, I happily admit that my love of A.P. Studio Art was so great, Matt and I still meet every Friday to work on our art projects. We may have grown beards, got wives, had sons, and bought houses… but thanks to Mr. A, we’re still just two kids in class, hoping one day to make it in the business. And if this bit of brown-nosing doesn’t land me that damned ‘A’ I’ve been after… I don’t know what will.

SUNDAY: John Ostrander and Humphrey Bogart

This is not the biggest problem in the world. It’s not the biggest problem in the world of entertainment. It’s not even the worst problem in comics.

But it bugs me. And I have this space every week, and I plan to use it to raise your ire as well.

The new issue of Supergirl out this week (#7) features a new team of adversaries for the Maid of Steel. They are the Worldkillers, four creatures taken as embryos from different worlds, then grown on Krypton, enhanced with terrible, world killing abilities.

They are shown to be four very different species. One is humans, one catlike, one like a dog or bear, and one that appears to be some kind of lizard. All are female.

Because they are all female, when they are grown and fight Supergirl they wear scanty little costumes. These costumes show off their breasts. Even the dog’s, who, rather refreshingly, doesn’t seem to have any.

The lizard, however, does. Her name is Perrilus (which confused me, since the -us ending in Latin means the noun is masculine) and she wears some kind of corset which pushes up her breasts.

Breasts are used by mammals to feed their young, who are born live. Lizards are reptiles, cold-blooded creatures who lay eggs and don’t nurse their offspring. There is no reason for Perrilus to have breasts.

I suppose that the Kryptonians could have given her breasts as part of her enhancements, along with her ability to “generate viruses,” but if that’s the case, we are never shown their use in combat.

And maybe she is flat-chested and, like so many high-fashion models and drag queens, has learned how to use the plastic pads, affectionately known as “chicken cutlets,” to push up the tissue in her chestal area to resemble breasts. Again, if this is the case, we are offered no explanation,

Perhaps these breasts are to distract the enemy. They certainly distracted the letterer, who, on page 10, twice refers to the gang as “Wordkillers.”

As Mindy Newell said a few weeks ago, a lot of women got into comics as girls because we enjoyed the Supergirl stories. She was powerful but not threatening, someone we could want to be like. Someone we could believe would like us. DC wastes a real opportunity when they don’t use a title like this to attract a new generation of young girls to superhero comics.

I’m not saying that tits on a lizard is a deal-killer for girl readers. I’m not sure anybody but me (and now, I hope, you) would notice. But in a week when Katniss Everdean flexes her smarts and her abilities with a bow and arrow in The Hunger Games, it seems like even DC Comics would realize they have to be a little bit smarter to attract that kind of audience.

SATURDAY: Marc Alan Fishman

Doggone that Martha Thomases, anyway! I was all set to use this week’s column to dissertate on Garry Trudeau’s Doonesbury comic strip, but Martha stole my idea before I even had it and wrote a piece on the same subject. Probably did a more thorough job, too, but now we’ll never know, will we?

Happy, Martha?

For those of you who have spent the whole of the last week in your local theater watching and rewatching John Carter and so have missed the news cycles, what that scamp Trudeau did this time was to use the platform his strip affords him as a venue for bleak humor about the indignities forced by Texas poobahs – those are male poobahs – on women seeking abortion. Trudeau wasn’t attacking the right-to-lifers per se, but only an unnecessary and humiliating “medical” procedure done down where the stars at night are big and bright.

Trudeau isn’t new at this kind of activity. He’s been doing it for the past 42 years, ever since his work began gracing the nation’s funnysides. He was once called an “investigative cartoonist” and he is that, often calling attention to stories local newsfolk might have neglected. (There’s additional detail in Martha’s piece so go on, read it! I certainly don’t care!)

Trudeau is more than a cartoonist, though – he’s something very valuable; he’s one of our national jesters. I’d nominate him, Jon Stewart, Bill Maher, and Stephen Colbert for jesterhood and I bow to them all and aver that this quartet is worth a long ton of conventional pundits. They use humor to help us swallow some pretty bitter pills. We laugh, but we also swallow.

One example: From Stewart’s Daily Show, I learned that GOP presidential hopeful Rick Santorum claimed, publicly, that in the Netherlands, the elderly were being euthanized against their will – a lie so egregious that it should have immediately disqualified Santorum from elected office. I didn’t see it anywhere else (though surely Stewart wasn’t the only source of the item. But it wasn’t splashed big in my local paper – the one that’s banished Doonesbury to a website – and it should have been).

These entertainers have a long and honorable provenance. Remember King Lear’s jester, all you English majors? He was a teller of truth in clown’s clothing. And Shakespeare didn’t pull the character from thin air: In Renaissance times, jesters were given license to both jest and criticize their masters. It’s said that Queen Elizabeth the First once chastised a jester for not being critical enough.

You think Rollickin’ Rick got on the horn with Stewart and said something like, “Hey, Jonny, what’s the haps? You should’ve reamed my ass”)?

No, I don’t either.

RECOMMENDED READING: As I’ve mentioned in an earlier column, I try not to recommend books I haven’t read. I don’t know if there’s a Doonesbury collection somewhere in this house, but since I’ve been reading the strip on and off for about 40 years, and a lot more on than off for the past decade, I feel confident in urging you to hurry to your local bookstore and get anything with Garry Trudeau’s name on it. If you really scamper, you might get there before Martha Thomases…

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases (go figure!)

While guys like Steven Spielberg, Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas spent the 1970s reinventing live action moviemaking, animation had just one lone figure toiling away. Ralph Bakshi, trained on Terrytoons and involved in 1960s television animation, began exploring the possibilities of animated features in the shadow of Walt Disney’s death. His Fritz the Cat made people sit up and take notice, followed by Heavy Traffic, and Coonskin – urban, funky, raw tales set in a familiar world.

After that, he set his sights on something fantastic and gave us, in 1976, Wizards. I’ve been waiting for this film to be restored, cleaned up, and released on Blu-ray given its visual artistry and fun story. Finally, 20^th Century Home Entertainment has released it for the film’s 35^th Anniversary and they’ve given it a handsome treatment. Encased in a hardcover case with a 24-page booklet, the Blu-ray is striking to watch. (more…)

Well, I suppose it was inevitable.

After all, the American Nazis objected to Heimdall being played by a black man in last year’s Thor movie. To swing 180 degrees in the opposite direction, many Asian groups objected to the casting of a European in the role of a Eurasian in the play Miss Saigon. They felt that the part should have gone to an Asian and not to a Eur.

There are numerous examples of this, and some attracted justifiable outrage. I’m not too certain about the Miss Saigon thing: the character is Eurasian but Asians are woefully underrepresented on western stages. The Thor thing is just completely stupid: Heimdall is Asgardian and not Teutonic, and the American Nazis are assholes.

Several thousand white actors have been cast as American Indians in several hundred (at least) motion pictures, and that’s simply wrong. We should have grown out of that, yet for the past several years I’ve been involved in a comics project that stars an American Indian lead but has been “unsellable” to Hollywood because they “can’t find” an acceptable American Indian actor. Besides, there are none who could carry a movie.

So I’m not surprised to see the beginnings of … let’s say discomfort … at the casting of a British actor in the lead role of this summer’s Man of Steel. Truth, Justice, and the American Way, right? Superman lives in Metropolis, which is in or near Kansas, and you can’t get more American than that, right? Hollywood is pushing its internationalist agenda down our throats again, right?

Well, no. That’s not right. Superman is not American, he’s Kryptonian. Clark Kent is American, but he’s not the guy referred to in the title Man of Steel. Clark Kent is a disguise. Kal-El is Superman, and he wasn’t born here.

In fact, he’s an illegal immigrant.

I don’t get bent out of shape over characters not being portrayed by actors of the same nationality or race. It’s called “acting.” Look it up in the dictionary. Should only white people be cast as characters originally conceived as white people? Tell that to Jeffrey Wright. James Bond wasn’t born in Scotland, but Sean Connery was. Johnny Depp is playing Tonto, and that’s just too weird to be right or wrong.

And Kabuki? Hello – men playing all the female roles? Orson Welles cast himself in the lead role in Othello and then he cast black actors in all the other roles in Shakespeare’s ditty, and then they performed Othello in Harlem!

Acting!

The fault of extremist thinking on both sides is that people jump at the symptoms and ignore the issues. The real issue is the underrepresentation of minorities in our media, and that’s an issue that is slowly being addressed. Should we never make a Charlie Chan movie ever again because white actors had played the Hawaiian detective, most notably a performer from Sweden. But nobody complains about the current incarnation of Hawaii 5-O even though the two Hawaiian detectives in that show are played by actors of Korean descent.

Grow up and let actors act. And let’s level the casting stage. Right now.

THURSDAY: Dennis O’Neil