Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Horrible
Who the fuck would trust this guy?

Michael's post-Michael story
"Does any of this really matter?"
Andrew Halcro later remembered that he and Palin once compared notes about their many encounters, and she said, “Andrew, I watch you at these debates with no notes, no papers, and yet when asked questions, you spout off facts, figures, and policies, and I’m amazed. But then I look out into the audience and I ask myself, Does any of this really matter?”
the same classic pattern of categorically denying things that are categorically and patently and verifiably true. This is not, as this blog noted in the campaign, the typical political lie, the Clintonian parsing of truth or lying when the truth cannot easily be discovered. It is the statement that it is night when it is clearly, by universal aggreement, three o'clock in the afternoon.
You got to see it
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Out of it
The two starlets who made an impression on me were Jenny Agutter and Cristina Raines. Neither of them got anywhere. But Raines starred in a miniseries called Loose Change (it was about the 60s) and had the female lead in The Duellists, a Ridley Scott costume picture about two officers in Napoleon's army. She didn't have much to do, just played the sensible girlfriend to a hero who was already sensible. But it was a great-looking film, and she looked great in it.
Google didn't turn up a photo of her from the film, so I settled for this. Soulful cheekbones, though the tip of her nose looks messed with. In the film she was wearing a lace bonnet and dew trembled on a tree branch, or something like that.
The Girl with the Golden Eyes
Friday, June 26, 2009
Cor! Pop Culture Headlines Always the Same
Pop Star Michael Jackson, 50, Reported Undead

UPDATE: Not entirely an original idea, as it turns out; they even used the same picture. In the Internet age you have to be quick if you want to be a jerk.
UPDAte 2: CNN (for Christ's sake) shows how it's done. Its headline about the various post-death Internet outages:
Jackson Dies, Almost Takes Internet with Him
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I don't think that's true
If you simplify your English, you are freed from the worst follies of orthodoxy. You cannot speak any of the necessary dialects, and when you make a stupid remark its stupidity will be obvious, even to yourself.
From Orwell's "Politics and the English Language." The fact is that a lot of simple, vivid, expressive political language is stupid and dishonest. Sarah Palin on the campaign trail last October:
You’ve heard about some of these pet projects, they don’t really make a whole lot of sense and sometimes dollars go to projects that have little or nothing to do with the public good. Things like fruit fly research in Paris, France. I kid you not.
Could you get any simpler? But apparently genetics research often involves fruit flies. If you want to help humanity, a good thing to do is give some competent scientists the money to play with bugs. Don't ask me any more about the subject, because I don't know. Neither does Gov. Palin, of course. But she didn't have to hide her ignorance from herself by using cloudy language. When you're dealing with technical subjects, ignorance often presents itself as common sense; it needs no language to hide behind. And most public subjects are technical, from global warming to the procedures for drafting and passing a bill. If you assume that you're right, or if you don't care, you can tell far-fetched lies in simple language and never break a sweat.
Orwell's targets were euphemism and latinate obfuscation ("liquidate" for kill, and so on), and there's no doubt they've done harm. But I think he was being a bit intellectual about it all. He was working out a theory about how people could lose their intellectual honesty step by step, until finally they could not even choose their words for themselves; 1984 and newspeak mark the furthest development of his ideas. But people can just refuse to think; they can assume all those facts and figures are a lot of argle-bargle. Or they can figure their principles are good and the main thing is to advance their side, regardless of truthfulness on individual issues. Or they may not care either way and go with whoever gives them the biggest paychecks.
Electrik Red vs. Little Boots
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
About sums it up
... if there's one thing comic-book fans hate, it's comic-book creators. Superhero fans, especially, see their favorite characters as independent entities who exist apart from human interference; the artists and writers are just jerks who try to get between Spider-Man and his fans and mess stuff up.
Shaenon K. Garrity speaks a fundamental truth while dissing the various message boards. Her post is from last Friday, so maybe you know about it.
Her passage about Comicon doesn't mention Larson, who has his faults but is still one of the funnier people you'll find commenting. [update, no it's Lawson, "w" and not "r," but she still doesn't mention him.]
On TCJ's board: "No one ever posts about the content of the magazine itself, proving that not even the most hardcore fans of The Comics Journal read The Comics Journal." No! People complained about my Gerber obit and about the short story where I described meeting a douchebag at a convention even though the douchebag didn't exist.
On fans, once again: "Of course, all comics fans think the comics they read when they were twelve are the greatest comics ever made." No! I much prefer the comics that I read in my late 20s and early 30s.
On John Byrne: "Byrne once posted that using the term 'word bubbles' when you mean 'word balloons' is equivalent to a racial or ethnic slur. Ever since, I've been calling them 'word wops' in his honor." Fuck, that's funny. I'd laugh even harder if I were Italian and could get away with it.
A "hopelessly impossible situation of love"
UPDATE: This is good too. The New Republic flagged it:
Got back an hour ago to civilization and am now in Columbia after what was for me a glorious break from reality down at the farm. ... this morning woke at 4:30, I guess since my body knew it was the last day, and I went out and ran the excavator with lights until the sun came up. To me, and I suspect no one else on earth, there is something wonderful about listening to country music playing in the cab, air conditioner running, the hum of a huge diesel engine in the back ground, the tranquillity that comes with being in a virtual wilderness of trees and marsh, the day breaking and vibrant pink coming alive in the morning clouds ...
Maybe he flamed out because he was tired of being a politician. Can't say I blame him.
UPDATE 2: Keith Olbermann is being snotty about the emails. Well, that's his problem. Did he ever deny that "For this relief much thanks" story?
This just in: The New Yorker says there's a book called Confessions of a Slacker Mom by a person called Muffy Mead-Ferro. Nothing to do with anything, just kind of awful and crazy. Muffy Mead-Ferro. She also wrote Confessions of a Slacker Wife! Good-looking, though.
UPDATE 3: "Yes, but I've had to work extremely hard to find my way back to my humanity." Man, what a clunker, and that's in the second minute. I don't think I'm going to like TrueBlood.
Black-woman character: "Ummm. You smell nasty and nice, all at the same time." Oy.
UPDATE 4: "Don't you try to flirt with me! They told me to pay special attention to the fact there's a drag queen in the basement." I think I misheard that one.
UPDATE 5: "What the hell you think you doin', snappin' the American flag in two like some kind of Muslim Buffy with a dick?" Much to respect there, though the line is a bit context dependent.
UPDATE 6: My confession. I pronounce Buenos Aires "Bway-nos Ah-eer-aze." Very much in the undergraduate would-be world-traveler style.
Sign of the times
Recently Feudal
I've only read the first volume of Kazuo Koike and Kazuo Kamimura's Lady Snowblood, but there's enough honor here to satiate me for quite a while, thank you. The story, set in 19th century Japan, is a rape-revenge narrative. a genre to which I'm by no means opposed. Koike's take on rape-revenge here is, however, different in some important ways from that in exploitation films like "I Spit on Your Grave" "Ms. 45," or "They Call Her One Eye."
— In most American rape-revenge films, the point of the film is the reversal; you get to see a weak, apparently helpless woman turn the tables and castrate/murder her attackers. You can root for her in part because she's so clearly the underdog; she's got to be clever and inventive to turn the tables on her assailants.
In Lady Snowblood, though, the titular protagonist is super-hero tough. She is smart and inventive, sure, but you never actually see her in any particular danger (she does get beaten and tortured in one scene, but her torturer is honorable and its all just a misunderstanding. She never actually gets captured or even touched by any villain, at least not in this first volume.
— In most American rape-revenge films, the revenge is personal. That is, the woman is herself a victim, and then she takes revenge on the person who victimized her, rather than on some random individual. This can be a little complicated; for instance, in Ms. 45, the victimizer is men in general, and that's who the revenge is inflicted on as well; in Death Proof one group of women is murdered and another group takes revenge on the guy who did it. Still, the mechanics work the same; the films are built around a mechanics which, while not always strictly logical, is grounded in a sense of personal justice, individual trauma, and retribution.
Lady Snowblood, though, isn't built around personal justice exactly. It's about a blood feud and familial, rather than personal honor. It's not LS herself, but her mother who was raped years before LS was born. The mother did kill one of her assailants, but she was unable to kill the rest. So she deliberately offered herself to any man who would have her in order to become pregnant and bear a child who would carry out her revenge for her. To which you've got to say...um, yuck.
But that's not the reaction of any of the mother's peers. On the contrary, they aid and abet the project; mom dies before she can pass on the details of the revenge to her daughter, but her friends helpfully convey the information. Thus, mom deliberately and elaborately ruins her daughter's life, and everybody around her is like, oh, yeah, that's awesome.
Moreover, in order to make ends meet and get some cash with which to pursue her revenge, LS hires herself out as an assassin. Most of the people she kills are not especially sympathetic — gamblers, pimps, murderers and so forth. Still, you almost can't help feeling sorry for them as Lady Snowblood impersonally hacks them into little quivering pieces.
And then we come to the last story of the volume, where our heroine ambushes a coach with an upper class mother and daughter. She kills the mother, then forces the coachman to rape the daughter. Then blackmails the coachman with the threat that his sperm will lead the police to believe he murdered and raped the daughter.
This is all part of an elaborate plot to shut down the Rokumeikan, an estate where upper-class, pro-Western Japanese engaged in orgies with Westerners. LS's actions are supposed to be justified, as far as I can tell, because the mother and daughter she brutalizes were (A) sexually promiscuous; (B) overly Westernized; and (C) sexually promiscuous with Westerners.
There are certainly class animosities being played out here as well; the loathing of decadent aristocrats bleeds into the loathing of Westernization and modernity. That was true for the Nazis as well, though, I believe. And indeed, Lady Snowblood really does help to explain why the Nazis and the Japanese were able to find common ground. The loathing of weakness, shot through with racial and national connotations; the fetishization of violence; the belief that a violation of national or familial honor justifies almost anything. Add in the hypocritically decadent exploitation elements here — Lady Snowblood is always battling in the buff, for one reason or another — and the result looks, to me, pretty thoroughly vile. No doubt that makes me a spineless, dishonorable Westerner...but considering the alternatives presented here, I may be okay with that.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tact, gorgeous tact
That's the New York Times headline for the article about the latest batch of released tapes from the Nixon White House. The tact is all on the part of the Times, not Nixon.
Tapes Reveal Nixon's View of Abortion
Nixon:
“There are times when an abortion is necessary. I know that. When you have a black and a white.”Beautiful. He said stuff about Jews too:
“It may be they have a death wish. You know that’s been the problem with our Jewish friends for centuries.”That's in the article's next-to-last paragraph. Context: Billy Graham had been saying that the Jews were chapping his butt about what the NYT calls "efforts to promote evangelical Christianity."
In other revelations, a National Security Council brief discussed Israel's secret nuclear program, and Nixon aides said Reagan was really happy about Nixon's firing of the fellow who was looking into Watergate. Good old Reagan.
UPDATE: The headline The New Republic used: "Nixon: Abort Interracial Babies."
UPDATE 2: I'm listening to the tape (available here) while I type changes into my Alan Moore column. A lot of murk and buzzing, but phrases surface here and there: "a black and a white" and "Stick it to the goddamn Left." Horribly, it's such a pleasure to hear his voice again. I guess that's the power of nostalgia.
UPDATE 3: It turns out there are good Jews and bad Jews. The bad kind put out pornography and are known as the "Synagogue of Satan" (also the name of a biker gang -- it gives Hebrew lessons in the afternoon, after regular school). The good kind are "God's Timepiece" (also the title of a book that attempts to reconcile young Christians to the existence of earth's fossil record).
I missed all that, but it's what Billy Graham had to say when he and the President were talking. He was responding to this thought voiced by Nixon:
... this anti-Semitism is [???] strongly than we think, you know. It's unfortunate, but this has happened to the Jews, it happened in Spain, it happened in Germany, it's happening—now it's going to happen in America if these people don't start behaving.
Start behaving, you people. (Via Atrios at A Tiny Revolution.)
More, More, More
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“How the Grinch Stole Christmas” is the ideal American Yuletide legend. Dr. Suess’ fable is set in a perfect, egalitarian world; the Whos of Whoville are an entire nation of deracinated middle-class nuclear families, with houses identical down to the mouses. Their Christmas rituals are defined in terms of amorphously desirable products: “their presents, their ribbons, their wrappings/Their snoofs and their fuzzles, their tringlers and trappings!” Of course, Seuss rushes to assure us that even though the Whos are robbed of their presents, they still wake up happy and singing. Thus the Grinch decides that Christmas “doesn't come from a store….that it perhaps--means a little bit more!" But what does it mean, anyway? Certainly nothing particularly or specifically Christian — just general good cheer and carols. The evil Grinch who steals all the goodies functions, then, less as an actual villain and more as a catalogue: the whole point is to see him up there on Mount Crumpit, with the gigantic bag full of goodies that shows just how much stuff the Whos have, and how wonderful their Christmas therefore is. Plus, once their aggressive optimism has won over the cranky, cynical Grinch, he brings them all their presents back anyway! The enthusiastic blankness, the aphasiac hypocrisy, the perfect transubstantiation of Christianity into uplift — it couldn’t possibly say any more clearly “Made in U.S.A.” In comparison, the villainous banker and close-knit community of the Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life” fairly reek of imported socialism.
Indeed, the American spirit galumphs and galerks through every one of the Doctor’s works. Like his fellow citizens, Seuss is boisterous, hearty, optimistic, profligate in invention, and not too heavy on the thought. “Yertle the Turtle” a fascistic terrapin, forces all his pond-fellows to stack themselves in a tower so he can climb to the top. The solution? Not collective action, nor courageous resistance, but a single fed-up burp by a turtle named Mack, who just isn’t going to take it anymore. In “The Sneeches,” the sneeches with stars dislike the sneeches without stars. The solution? Not understanding, or non-violent resistance, but simply a machine which removes stars! In Seuss’ universe, there is no problem that cannot be solved by old-fashioned practicality, good will, bizarre new-fangled machines, or some combination of all three.
Perhaps Seuss is most American, though, in his fascination with appetite and production— the two pillars of capitalism. The king in “Bartholemew and the Oobleck” who wants to create a new kind of weather; the nameless narrator in “On Beyond Zebra” who longs for a more extensive alphabet; the titular avian in “Gertrude McFuzz” who dreams of a more feathery tail; Luke Luck in “Fox in Sox” who, along with his duck, ceaselessly licks lakes, the “fine fluffy bird called the Bustard/Who only eats custard with sauce made of mustard” in “If I Ran the Zoo”— who but Seuss could create such a procession of obscure and excessive desires? And who could satisfy them with such a range of bizarre products? “The Cat in the Hat Comes Back” reads like an extended surreal advertisement for Voom!, the miracle product that gets pink spots off snow. “Green Eggs and Ham” reads like an extended advertisement for…well, you know. And, perhaps most tellingly, in “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins,” an absolute monarch is brought to his knees by a miracle of excessively propagating haberdashery. Feudalism falls before the unlimited power of production, and the zombified slobbering sound you hear off-panel is Milton Friedman rising from the grave to eat his own heart out.
Of course, Seuss never actually comes out as an advocate of the free market and unrestrained trade. On the contrary, when he has an explicit moral, it is as likely as not to be anti-greed. The king who insists on creating a new kind of weather ends up buried in gluey green Oobleck; the bird who wants more feathers ends up with such a profusion of plumage that she can’t even move; the Cat in the Hat is repeatedly chastised for allowing his transient desires (for a bath, for juggling, for kite-flying) to upset domestic harmony. Frugality and moralistic self-denial are standard American virtues, and Seuss, here as everywhere, is in sync with his countrymen.
But, it must be asked, self-denial in the name of what? The Grinch, as we noted, takes the presents away only to heighten their value and then return them. Similarly, though the king may regret having ordered up the Oobleck, the reader doesn’t. The whole pleasure of the book is in watching the kingdom drown in disgusting ichor; the joy in mess is leant piquancy by the knowledge that that mess is itself the righteous ooze of justice.
Part of what is so repulsive about the Oobleck is its suggestion of bodily fluids; it clots and sticks and is colored like snot. The story’s narrative is tied to abjection; the outer world is buried in the body’s waste. At the same time, this is a remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed abjection. There is certainly anxiety in Seuss’ Oobleck illustrations, but there is also charm and gusto and enthusiasm. The way the Oobleck obscures barriers and selves is pleasurable — even titillating. It’s polymorphously perverse.
As, for that matter, is most of Seuss’ oeuvre. You can see it in the furry, genderless, insinuatingly bulbous critters; in the oral appetites for indistinct fluids (“Do you choose to chew goo too sir?”); in the way bodies morph and change dependent on desire (so that when an elephant sits on a bird’s egg, the egg hatches an elephant bird); even in the insistent labial pleasures of the rhyme and rhythm. “Happy Birthday to You” stuffs its birthday boy with hot dogs rolling off a gigantic spool; “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” has the Grinch slide down the chimney into the quiet Who home, sneaking about while the whole Who family sleeps together in a single Who bed. It’s all just a little suggestive.
So is Seuss a capitalist or a sensualist — a bourgie Republican small-businessman or a subliminally subversive Democratic free-love guru? The answer, of course, is that he’s both. In the United States different kinds of lust get parceled out to different parts of the political spectrum; appetite for products and wealth to the business right, appetites for bodies and pleasures to the hippie left. In Seuss, though, the two blur together into one seamless whole. The infinite replication of hats is the delight of the narrative, a kind of sensual pleasure. Similarly, the binding together of bodies in Oobleck satisfies a fantasy of capitalist production — the invention of new and superfluous goods. The entrepreneurial satisfaction of every desire and the polymorphous elision of taboo are really just the same side of the same coin. Love of excess is love of excess; that’s the Grinchiness of Christmas, and of the U.S.
Monday, June 22, 2009
John Constantine obliquely described on a sitcom
"How about Hellblazer?" the counter guy said. "It's about a morally ambiguous confidence man who has cancer and traffics with the undead and the supernatural." Or pretty much. He rattled the words off to get the pseudo-offhand effect sitcom characters strive for when voicing the elaborate and outrageous.
The woman, very perky, said something like "Sure, that's bound to make me his favorite aunt."
1) Pretty amazing odds: I'm done with Alan Moore for the day, and there's one of his characters being described on CBS.
2) The joke seems more like it's for the writers than the audience. "Confidence man" and "cancer" don't resonate as absurd, over-the-top comic book qualities that you, as a civilian, will be floored with when you venture into a comic book store. The audience wouldn't be thinking, "Yeah, typical crazy comic-book shit." Whereas people who actually know about John Constantine would find it kind of amusing to think of him as gift material for a 13-year-old when his salient qualities were highlighted that way.
I looked the show up in the listings and it's called The Big Bang Theory.
update But he isn't really a confidence man, is he? More of a ghostbuster dressed like a private detective, or at least that's my memory. It's been a while.
Not bad for a professor
In the entryway to the large, central cube, Vonderwelt finds a letterboard announcing an event hosted by a certain Dr. Glenn Bacca, Ph.D.: "Building Trust, Building Sales: It's Your Move!" On a fold out table to the side there is a cardboard box filled with glossy pamphlets describing Dr. Bacca's many accomplishments. "Dr. Glenn Bacca, Ph.D., is one of the most sought-after motivational speakers in the country," the pamphlet announced. "Known to earn up to $20,000 for a single engagement, Dr. Bacca has made a name for himself wowing crowds and boosting sales from Palm Beach to Palm Springs."
That's from a very bitter short story about conferences and the dregs of the academic life. It's by Justin E. H. Smith, who is a professor of, I think, philosophy at Concordia University in Montreal. The fellow above is posing as Dr. Bacca, the motivational expert.
The protagonist of the story is a poor schmuck who can't find the conference room for the talk he's supposed to give. The reason is that the talk has been canceled, and the reason for that is there was never a good reason to give the talk, as the fellow himself realizes. Reflecting on the sign for his talk:
Dammit! Vonderwelt thinks. Why do they always write 'Ural-Altaic' when it's supposed to be 'Aral-Ultaic'?! And where is that damned circumflex accent over nâk? Nak doesn't even mean anything! Come to think of it, nâk doesn't mean anything either. I thought it did when I did my thesis. I made up this whole big structuralist structure that made it mean something. That went out of fashion, the profession crumbled into a thousand little camps --dear old arrowhead collector here, indigenous advocate there, grating culture-studies clones all around-- and I was left with my meaningless nâk: just a sound, really, just a meaningless sound the fates had conspired to make the center of my career. Nâk means employee benefits is what nâk means. Nâk means braces for the girls. Nâk meant braces for the girls anyway. Now it's just this last meaningless talk of an undistinguished career, advertised with clip-art, to be given in the Minnetonka Annex of the Minneapolis Sheraton.
Ouch! Closer to home, Professor Smith is bitter about life at Concordia and the effects on his toilet of an imaginary Tom Friedman. Who can blame him?
(Via Sullivan, once again.)
Voices of Protest
I don't believe a word of all of this. Berlusconi is a happy married man and loves his family, he would never do such a think. This is a conspiracy of the Comunists Party who wants to bring the governament down. GO HOME YOU COMUNISTS
Boobee, Lachine,
That's a comment left on the Times of London web site under an article about Silvio Berlusconi's alleged adventures as a consumer of paid sex. Boobee is amazingly determined in calling Berlusconi "happily married," given that Berlusconi's wife has told the press how pissed off she is that he's spending time with an 18-year-old model. In fact Berlusconi was at the girl's 18th birthday party, where he gave her an expensive piece of jewelry to honor their already extant friendship. But if you saw Colbert last week, you already know that part.
The latest stage of the scandal centers on women who were paid to attend Berlusconi's parties and who allegedly did the sort of things you would expect. From the Guardian:
Nicolò Ghedini, Berlusconi's chief legal adviser, defended his client over the D'Addario affair by describing his client as a mere "end user" of the women, who was not therefore at risk in the Bari investigation. For good measure, he added that "Berlusconi could have them [women] in large numbers for free".
As an American, I didn't know Italy could have a sex scandal.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I'm Okay, Fuck You
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Self-help is about helping yourself to great whopping heaps of stuff . Money, wives, prestige, adoration, a perfect body to house your pristine ego — it’s all yours for the asking if you’ll just turn your frown inside out, let a smile be your bludgeon, and follow our twelve simple steps!
Or, if twelve steps seem too complicated, you can always go see Yes Man and learn how to do it in one. Carl (Jim Carey) is a sad, sad, and lonely guy; his wife Stephanie (Molly Sims) ditched him after six months, and he has responded by going fetal. He is stuck in a boring dead-end job at a bank, won’t answer his phone, barely leaves his house, and spends most nights at home watching rented DVDs by himself, too bored (we learn) to even masturbate. Finally, he admits he has a problem, and goes to a self-help revival meeting of the “Yes-Men” led by one Terrence Bundley (Terrence Stamp). Terrence claims that “when you say yes…you embrace the possible!” Armed with this singular, and indeed, single, philosophy, Carey heads off determined to say yes every time the opportunity presents itself . Soon he’s giving rides to homeless people, learning Korean, sucking up to his apocalyptically nerdy boss, approving dicey loans, and — most satisfyingly — canoodling with the yummy Alison (Zooey Deschanel) who looks (and indeed, in real life, actually is) about two decades younger than him. Who wouldn’t say yes to that?
Indeed, the whole Yes Man concept is charged with a kind of lobotomized libidinousness. Saying “yes” to everything allows Carl to absolve himself of all personal responsibility. By replacing his conscience with an arbitrary shibboleth, Carl escapes from Adam’s curse. He no longer knows good from evil; he now literally knows only what he says. Liberated from moral choice, he is invested with an irresistible prelapsarian glamour. He charms his immediate supervisor, Norm (Rhys Darby) by attending his Harry Potter costume parties; he charms his best friend’s fiancée by agreeing to host her bridal shower; he charms a jumper back from the ledge by leading the onlookers in a rousing singalong. Moroever, Carl’s newfound charisma has a definite erotic edge. Women in bars and in bridal stores swoon and giggle when he flirts, his toothless septuagenarian landlady neighbor gives him a surprisingly skillful blowjob; Alison falls seamlessly in love with him. Even his ex-wife wants to get back in his bed.
Of course, there are some downsides to the yes-man program. If you never say no, people are going to take advantage of you — and, indeed, Carl’s home is virtually taken over by the parasitic Rooney (Danny Masterton.) More importantly, abdicating personal responsibility isn’t much different than abandoning personhood altogether; Carl sets no boundaries on his self, and therefore, his self basically disappears. His appeal is that he is all things to all people — a nerd to Norm; a daring adventurer to Alison; a drinking buddy to his friend Peter (Bradley Cooper); and so forth. The effect is magical, but it’s neither trustworthy nor exactly human; and when Alison figures out what’s going on, she’s repulsed. “How do I know if anything you did was really true?” she asks him in horror before dumping his bony ass.
It is at this point that the movie really reveals its diabolical genius. Losing Alison makes Carl realize that saying “yes” is not in itself a sufficient philosophy. There’s something else…something missing. But what is it? Confused, he seeks out guru Terence again, who obligingly explains that he must continue to say yes…but only when he actually, really want to! “Yes” is simply a step along the way to the goal of a new, exciting, and fully functional self.
But what kind of functional self is this, anyway? Both Peter and Alison mock the “say yes because you really want to” philosophy as an over-obvious tautology — you need a guru to tell you that? When you start to think about it, though, the philosophy is far from obvious. In fact, it’s the opposite of obvious. It’s flat-out stupid. In the first place, there are some things you simply can’t afford to say yes to, no matter how much you want to — Carl and Alison have mysteriously bottomless reserves of cash with which to indulge their consumer flights of fancy, but that’s hardly true for everyone. And in the second place — well, you don’t have to be a Kantian to realize that even the more complicated Yes Man philosophy presents certain moral problems. Even if you really, really want to do so, there are many things you just shouldn’t say yes to — unprotected sex with a stranger, for example, or murdering your boss, or invading Iraq. It is possible to deeply desire to do things that are harmful to others. Because you’re not the only one in the world, you have an obligation not to fuck your neighbors over just because you feel like it.
Of course, Yes Man pretends that it is about reaching out; helping homeless people, organizing bridal showers for friends, being truthful with your lover. Saying “yes” is supposed to be a way to open yourself to life. In fact, though, the opposite is the case: it is not the universe which fills Carl, but Carl who fills the universe. There he is saving the jumper; there he is match-making; there he is on television at a football game; there he is climbing the corporate ladder, there he is romancing a woman who, by all normal standards, is a good bit out of his league. His inner drama, his healing, is the focus of the narrative, and everyone revolves around it. Carl starts out as a failed narcissist; he ends as a successful one.
This is perhaps most clear in the scene in which Carl’s ex-wife asks him to come to her house. She has just broken up with her lover, and is horribly distraught. Weeping, she comes on to Carl, asking him to stay the night. Trapped by his “yes” pledge, he almost agrees — but then he says “no”. Undoubtedly this is the right thing to do for both of them…but Carl doesn’t explain this, or try to comfort her, or show any especial sympathy for a woman who he claims to have loved. Instead, his voice, when he utters the crucial negative, is both triumphal and somewhat sneering. She made him suffer, and now he doesn’t need her.
Carl’s new self-confidence, his new self-identity, is, in other words, built on the most puerile kind of revenge fantasy. He gets to humiliate the woman who broke his heart. And, of course, the best part is that, once he’s free of her, she ceases to matter. We never see her again — she’s out of his life and now he can concentrate on what’s best for him and him alone. Her pain and sadness aren’t real, because nobody is real; they’re all just small cogs in the blandly improbable wish fulfillment that Carey and company have concocted. In this daydream, all that truly exists is Carl, the self he’s helped, and his own oblivious, ravenous chant — “yes, no, yes, no, yes, no” — spoken not to communicate with others, but to efface them.
This one is great
Who turns out to be Watson!
Yeah, like J.M. DeMatteis tried that one.
Fusty quotes for frightened minds
Is not a Patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help?
That's what Dr. Johnson wrote to Lord Chesterfield after finishing work on his dictionary of the English language. Chesterfield just hadn't been there for him, okay?
As you know, Obama is being careful about what he has to say on Iran, and some conservatives want him to be more splashy. When and if the bad guys lose, Obama will have less reason to be cautious and will say some nice things. At that point the propaganda mills of the right will churn forth columns, blog posts, and TV spiels wrapped around the above quote.
One of the awful things about pithy Europeans of long ago is that their remarks keep getting served up as justifications rather than entertainments. Because an old quote sounds good, and because it has a famous name attached, a certain class of mind will consider the quote to be in itself an argument. In high school I had a teacher who thought that "Lies, damn lies, and statistics" was actually a reasonable counter to the citing of any figure. Thirty years later I thought of a comeback: "Cliches, cliches, and banalities." That wouldn't have done me any good, but neither did "So what? So the guy said that," which is what I said at the time. Of course, that is a reasonable response.
In any case ... Hey, Doc Lawton, this goes out to you.
(I apologize for writing "entertainments," plural, but I'm too lazy to think of something else.)
Annie Hall
This item has been discontinued by the manufacturer.
That's what it says at Amazon next to the dvd of Annie Hall, which apparently was issued in 2000. Go to my local Blockbusters back in Montreal, located near McGill University and on the edge of the fashionable Plateau district, and you'll find that the nice young man behind the counter has never heard of Annie Hall and cannot find it in the computer. Damn. I thought the movie would be on hand forever, for as long as dim people take out middleweight films and tell themselves they're experiencing art.
A haiku:
Time the destroyer.
Woody Allen's "masterpiece"
And my goddamn life.
TCJ 298: Percy Crosby, too
Noah & Tom do not appear, more's the shame, but I've got two pieces on very different manga.
One's an introduction to a sample from Jiro Taniguchi's A Distant Neighborhood, forthcoming from Fanfare/Ponent Mon. The other's a review of the October 2001 volume of the alt-manga anthology AX, the one with the Jim Woodring cover. It's my contribution to the discussion of the Top Shelf's orthcoming AX collection prepared by Mitsuhiro Asakawa & Seán Michael Wilson. My article's half review, half overview, with a look at the scuttlebutt from the end of Garo and the birth of AX.
One of the joys of print, other than shelving, is that I wrote it so long ago that it feels like somebody else wrote it. I'm not saying I read the whole thing nodding and got surprised at the byline, I'm just saying.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Nabokov the avenger
... a scandal had broken in Berlin around a Rumanian violinist named Kosta Spiresco, whose wife was found hanged, covered with the marks of a severe beating. Though Spiresco's regular assaults were the cause of her suicide, he escaped punishment. German newspapers commented that no decent restaurant would hire him after this, but a Russian restaurant defied the prediction and a number of blowsy women began to buzz around the restaurant's new violinist in perverted admiration. ... Nabokov, an individualist in his notion of justice as in everything else, would always dismiss the concept of collective guilt but insist fiercely on collective accountability ... he and his friend Mikhail Kaminka visited the restaurant with their wives, and drew straws to be first to hit the "hirsute, ape-like" Spiresco (Nabokov's description). Nabokov won, slapped him on the cheek, and then, according to the newspaper report, "graphically demonstrated upon him the techniques of English boxing." Kaminka pitched in against the rest of the orchestra, who took Spiresco's side. At the police station where the three principals were taken, Spiresco refused to take charges, hinting instead that he would call them out to a duel. He declined however to take the addresses they proffered, and Nabokov and Kaminka waited at home in vain the next two or three days for Spiresco's promised seconds.
The sources are the contemporary Russian emigre paper Rul' and notes given by Nabokov to Andrew Field in 1973.
From Brian Boyd's Vladimir Nabokov: The Russian Years
Family moment
Talk turned to a local conversation group that her friends had found unsatisfactory.
Friend: "All they do is talk about how their children won't communicate with them."
My mother: "'Communicate'? Tom never shuts up!"
I didn't mind being the butt of her joke, but for some reason it seemed unfair that a mother should be funny.
Cute Literary Anecdote
At his first cocktail party, at producer David Selznick's, Nabokov met a rangy, craggy-looking man sporting a deep suntan. "And what do you do?" he asked. "I'm in pictures," John Wayne modestly replied. At another party Nabokov met an attractive brunette to whom he spoke French, and told her she had a wonderful Paris accent. "Parisian, hell," Gina Lollabrigida replied. "It's Roman French."
Ha!
He did not always put his foot in it -- at one party Marilyn Monroe took quite a liking to him -- but conscious of being out of step, he soon dropped out of the cocktail party circuit.
From Brian Boyd's Vladimir Nabokov: The America Years
Partially Congealed Pundit: Reply to Thoreau
A Reply to Thoreau
Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.
My mind is but the stream I go drowning in
and time is the bank of a stream
where fish eyes stare unmoving at the ravelling motion
of water catching at the banks of the stream.
I know mind is water, for it fills like breath
the body it carries till still.
And mute fish floating thoughtless before the flatness of death
know time from water, for their eyes remain still.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Superherology
My mother: "Who's Spider-Man? He's not Batman, is he?"
Me: "..."
My mother: "Batman's the mentally sick one."
Me: "Spider-Man's more downtrodden. It's hard for him to be a good nephew and husband when he's fighting supervillains."
My mother: "He's Silver Age, isn't he?"
Me: "Wow. How do you know about Silver Age?"
My mother: "That's a bit condescending."
I just won $827,000
The Sum Of £500,000 Pounds has been won by your EMAIL Address in our UK Online Promo. Do get back to this office with your claims requirement such as
1.Name
2.Address
3.Nationality
4.Age
5.Sex
6.Occupation
7.Phone/Fax
8.Present Country
Sincerely
Mrs. Helen Anderson
I like that it says "Do get back." That's the British touch.
K.O.ed
Oliphant Watch: Those damn bloggers
That goddamn Woody Allen
I was going to write about Woody Allen for my Fandom Confessions contribution (the roundtable's last entry is here). But I couldn't. I hate him so much that my engine flooded. It's complicated and has to do with my own life choices and so on, but he is one of the few celebrities I personally hate. It's not the Soon-Yi business -- that came well after I turned against him. More like the Soon-Yi business grew from the same traits that show up in his movies. Skill he's got, he knows how to put together a smart-looking film, but he is so shallow and self-absorbed that he has nothing to say. Yet he keeps talking, and people think he's serious because he takes himself seriously. People think he's funny because he uses that damn hesitation stammer and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. People think ... well, people don't think. The movie's playing at a theater with a little screen, so they figure it must be art. The movie ends before they get bored, so they figure it must be good.
In reviewing J. M. DeMatteis's long-lost Jewish vampire story (h/t Miriam), Kristy Valenti mentions "the stereotype about what is bad in some of Allen's films — a successful neurotic with an attractive mate who is inexorably drawn to a fresh young woman who makes him feel sexy." Her phrasing implies that nothing else is bad about Woody Allen movies. As you may have noticed, I disagree. He has no imagination, no understanding of people, no feel for how they talk and behave. He keeps doing the same tricks over and over, and he trots out his cultural enthusiasms like a kid during freshman orientation week. Wow, Satchell Paige, "The Potatohead Blues," Dostoevsky, Fred Astaire! And what was your SAT score?
His geezer-chick leanings disgust me not because I'm against matchups of that kind -- like most geezers, I find much to recommend them -- but because his geezers are so condescending toward their girls and because Allen doesn't realize the matchups are unlikely. Sure, a young, beautiful girl wants to spend her time with a whiney fart whose neck is falling down, especially if the fart is not a millionaire or a brand-name film director. Allen thinks his stand-ins are entitled, and he thinks the girls are prizes to be awarded. The bigger the age difference, the more shocking the implied vanity. Now we have reached a difference of 40 years, and at least the old guy will keep his hands off the girl. But she still has to listen to him.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Bound to Blog: Sensation Comics #2
Before I talk about that story, though, I wanted to mention another book I just finished: Graham Rawle's Woman's World. This is going to go on for a little bit, but we'll get back to Wonder Woman, I promise.
I've talked about Rawle's collage cartoons before. Woman's World is collagy as well; Rawle wrote the text using words and phrases from women's magazines published in the early 60s. It's an impressive technical achievement in some ways. In other ways, you read it and you say, how could such an innovative process have resulted in such a staid narrative?
The narrative is particularly predictable when it comes to gender and cross-dressing. The story is narrated by Norma, and is mostly about her brother, Roy. Eventually Rawle reveals that Norma and Roy are the same person; the real Norma was killed as a child, the trauma caused her brother, Roy, to freak out, so that he started to wear women's clothing and think that he was Norma part of the time. "Norma" is obsessed with women's magazines and clothes, which gives Rawle the chance to use a lot of the cleaning product descriptions and advertising slogans and superficial cliches he found in all those women's magazines he's using to write his book.
So basically, Rawle presents us with a male-to-female cross-dresser who is (1) incredibly superficial and obsessed with surface femininity (Norma gets into big trouble because she just has to, has to, has to get a photograph of herself all dolled up and beautiful); and (2) completely insane. Sound familiar?
It sounds familiar to me anyway; both tropes are incredibly overused, to the point of rote idiocy, in popular representations of cross-dressers. The "they cross-dress, so they must be insane" schtick is used in just about every other major horror film, it seems — from Psycho, most obviously, down to Silence of the Lambs. The notion seems to be that before a guy would dress like a woman he'd have to have gone completely round the bend, to the extent of actually being a victim of multiple-personality disorder.
The "obsession with surface" thing is also really tired. Trans-activist Julia Serano has a great anecdote in her book "Whipping Girl" about being approached by some television show which wanted her to appear on a segment they were doing about male-to-female trans folks. The television people asked her if they could film Serano getting dressed to go out...putting on her make-up and dresses and that sort of thing. Unfortunately, Serano dresses the way a lot of women dress, which is to say, she doesn't really wear make-up, often wears pants, and generally doesn't get all dolled up to go off to her not especially glamorous job (she's an academic biologist.) All of which she told the television producers, who, of course, decided not to film her, because they wanted yet another story about how obsessed trans people were with surface femininity and appearances and so on and so forth.
In short, when Graham Rawle thought to himself — "who would be obsessed with reading women's magazines and learning how to be a woman and learning how to be feminine...um...I know! A cross-dressing man! And wouldn't it be funny if she was really overblown and campy and not actually all that good at behaving like a real woman!" -- again, when he thought all that, he was thinking just like those television producers. Which is to say, he wasn't exactly thinking at all; he was just trying to be titillating and transgressive in the most banal and unthreatening way possible.
Okay, so...back to Wonder Woman and Sensation Comics #2. This story starts off with Nurse Diana Prince caring for a badly injured Steve Trevor. Steve is quickly kidnapped by a mysterious evil-doer named Dr. Poison. Lots of hijinks ensure, involving a chemical formula that makes soldiers interpret orders backwards and a bevy of courageous sorority girls— but the point is, at the end of the story, it is revealed that Dr. Poison...is a woman!

What's interesting about this to me, in comparison to the Rawle story, is how thoroughly anti-climatic it is. There isn't any effort to explain why she's dressing up as a man. There isn't any effort to ridicule her for dressing up as a man. There's barely any effort to suggest that what she was doing was incongruous in any way.
Because Marston provides so little in the way of exegesis, it's hard to know what he thinks, or what we're supposed to think, about the cross-dressing. I can think of a bunch of possible ways to parse the scene -- but, as I'll discuss, none of them seem to fit perfectly.
1. Women who dress as men are ridiculous or incongruous, or going against nature in some way.
There's a little evidence for this; WW makes a crack about Dr. Poison's delicate hands, suggesting that a woman can't perfectly imitate a man. The remark is somewhat undercut, though by Steve's obvious and complete befuddlement. He couldn't tell she was a woman, clearly. Moreover, I don't think the reader can tell she's a woman until WW reveals the truth. There isn't any effort to tip us off; she doesn't do or behave in a womanly manner at any point. It's not even clear whether we're supposed to see the cross-dressing as funny, exactly. It's true that the scene after the unmasking has a farcical air about it...but the one thing that is more or less specifically mocked is Poison's ethnicity, not her drag king status:

There's certainly evidence, here and elsewhere that Marston had unpleasant racial opinions, but he's more circumspect about cross-dressers.
2. Cross-dressing is evil and perverse, and so is the provenance of villains.
Richard Cook suggested this was what Marston was up to in a comment on the Wonder Woman #11 thread.
You say that Marston didn't think that cross-dressing was wrong, but none of the "good" women (Diana, Etta, or the Holiday Girls) ever dressed as a man.* The cross-dressers, like Hypnota or the Blue Snowman, are invariably villainesses. The impression I get is that Marston believed there was something evil (and sexy) with a woman who wanted to be a man.
Vom Marlowe made a similar point in the same thread.
I wonder if the portrayal of cross-dressing is part of the skanky villain sex convention. This happens a lot in modern romance. You can portray non-vanilla stuff quite explicitly, but it has to be done by villains. The goal is titillation, for certain. The non-vanilla sex is not necessarily a way to show that the person is evil but sometimes it is. I wonder if this is something that Marston wanted to include, but didn't think he could get away with doing for a good girl.
Again, this is feasible, but Marston never quite says it...and in other cases, he doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong with women taking on male roles:

That's heroine Etta candy, looking far more butch and tough in this early story than she would later on. The butch-femme dynamic, complete with a barely sublimated oral tease, is awfully hard to miss. And then there's this panel:

Unlike the last example, I don't think this is a joke, per se; Etta is really the hero here, and Marston is, as far as I can tell from other issues, completely fine with women's sports (and indeed, more than fine with them.) The image of Etta dressing up as a football player isn't meant to be either ludicrous or evil, I don't think. Given that, it's hard to see why Poison dressing as a man would necessarily strike him as evil in itself.
3. Men are evil, so women have to dress as men to be evil.
Sort of dovetails with Marston's philosophy, but doesn't seem especially likely given (a) the number of female villains he uses in other instances and (b) this panel:

She seems to remain fairly evil even when femme, as far as I can tell.
4. Women are weak, so they need to pretend to be men to gain power.
This is why MTF cross-dressing is always pretty much seen as odder than FTM; culturally, it makes sense for a woman to want to be a man, because men are higher status in various ways. And you could see a later version of this story having Poison reveal that because of the sexism of Japanese culture, she needed to dress as a man to be taken seriously, and so on and so forth.
Again, though, it's hard to imagine Marston making this argument. Marston thought women were stronger than men in just about every way. In this issue alone, he goes out of his way to make Steve weak and helpless (wheelchair bound), and has not only WW as the superior strong woman, but also Etta, who is (as we've seen) quite tough herself.
Ultimately, I think the fact that it's difficult to pin Marston down here is maybe the most interesting aspect of his use of cross-dressing. I have no doubt (as Richard suggested above) that Marston found role-play and cross-dressing sexy and exciting. But beyond that, he doesn't explicitly stigmatize it, and, moreoever, doesn't even really seem to feel that it needs an explanation.
Rawle's book, on the other hand, is basically nothing but explanation, first, of who would be shallow enough to live their life based on a woman's magazine (answer: a cross-dresser) and second, of why a man would dress as a woman (answer: because he's insane.) Explanations are a big part of how society decides who or what is abnormal. You don't need to explain why men dress as men because that's normal, but if a man dresses as a woman, you have to explain that, because it's weird. Except that Marston doesn't seem to think that it is, particularly.
Steven Grant in commments on one of my recent posts said this about Marston:
As for Marston's proclivities, I haven't seen it mentioned anywhere, but it's hard not to suspect he liked being tied up and restrained, probably responded initially with shame, and egotistically concocted a bondage worldview that obviated any need for shame. So bondage - and the "freedom" that comes with it - becomes not his secret shame but everyone's secret desire, and the path to emotional liberation. (As with the jargon of most cults, we can assume he believed anyone who didn't like being restrained was simply repressed, and even more in need of "therapy." His creation of the lie detector suggests that he had at least some fixation on the notion of secret shame, inventing a (specious. if well-promoted) device that would bring secret shame to light and, from his perspective, begin "correction" of it.
I don't doubt that there's something to this...but on the other hand, I think it's worth noting that Marston's investment and interest in perversions of various sorts doesn't manifest solely as a desire to control or correct or diagnose. On the contrary, it often manifests as something that looks rather like tolerance. There are instances, at least, where Marston's just not especially judgmental about other people's desires — in part because he's fetishizing those desires himself, no doubt. Still, speaking as a boring straight guy, it seems to me overall like it would be better to be obliquely fetishized by Marston than to be condescended to and clinicalized by Rawle.
_____________________
Just a couple other notes about this story formally; it's pretty clear that both Marston and Peter are still kind of finding their feet. Peter's linework is lovely as always: I really like the curves in this broken door, for example:
Still, you can see Peter struggling a bit with layout and panel composition. This image for example:

the dancing is great, and all the action is nice...but the inset panel is just weird, and looks like it was done at the last minute (look how that one girl is cropped off almost at random.) Partially as a result, the big panel looks crowded and messy, rather than formal and frozen in a way Peter would master shortly.
Marston's also not quite where he would end up. The plot here involves sorority girls led by WW using their feminine whiles to trick and capture Poison's guards. Marston, of course, believed that women used their feminine allure to overpower men and force them to submit. Marston never exactly abandons these ideas...but in future issues he tends not to represent them quite so schematically, I think. Certainly, WW does not, as a rule, beat the bad guys by dancing with them. Usually, she slugs them, or outthinks them, or some combination of those. I guess maybe he figured it would strain credulity if she danced her way to victory in every issue.
1959: Year of Little Rationale
He does spend a lot of energy explaining why we should care about this long-ago time of change and portent and breakthroughs. The reason is that it's just like our current time of change, portent, etc. I find it discouraging that he would think the question was necessary, and discouraging that he would answer it the way he did. All in all, he provides a disincentive for checking out his book, especially since some of it appears to be about jazz.
The author's name is Fred Kaplan and he covers defense issues for Slate. He screwed up very badly on Colin Powell's UN speech but wrote some good columns explaining why the occupation of Iraq would probably be very difficult and not a good idea.
Too good to be true
Les sextraordinaires aventures de Zizi et Peter Panpan
That's the title of a '60s bande dessinée erotique created by Gérard Lauzier. Taken all in all, the French are admirably dedicated to giving other nations a laugh. "Panpan" -- huh.
I was looking for something about Petit Con, a movie Lauzier based on one of his cartoon series, but all Wiki could offer was the same New York Times review I read back in 1985. The reviewer didn't like the film, whereas I did. The piece does salvage a very good line: "Not a hint of rebellion in their frozen calf eyes!" That's the thought on the moody young hero's mind as his family eats its dinner.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Invisible Man
Since everything I wrote for them has now vanished into the ether, I thought I might start reprinting it here in order to make it available. So...below is probably my favorite piece for them, an essay on C.S. Lewis' Space Trilogy. I think they altered the end a little bit, but this is my original version.
___________________________
The Invisible Man
“Be comforted,” said Malacandra. “It is no doing of yours. You are not great, though you could have prevented a thing so great that Deep Heaven sees it with amazement. Be comforted, small one, in your smallness. He lays no merit on you. Receive and be glad. Have no fear, lest your shoulders be bearing this world. Look! It is beneath your head and carries you.”
That passage is from Perelandra, the second volume in C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy. I cried when I read it. I’m still not entirely sure why.
To give some context: the speaker in this passage is Malacandra, an extraterrestrial entity and also a Christian angel. He’s talking to Ransom, a human-being who has been summoned to Venus by God. Venus is, as it turns out, a second Eden, and Ransom’s task was to prevent a second fall by a different (and, somewhat improbably, green-skinned) Eve. To do this, he had to literally beat and then slay the Devil, who has incarnated in the form of a middle-aged space-traveling physicist. The passage above occurs just after Ransom realizes that he has been successful, and that, on Venus, there will be no fall. He is overwhelmed…and so Malacandra comforts him by telling him that he needn’t worry, because God doesn’t think he’s done anything particularly special.
It’s an odd moment in a very odd series. Lewis uses many of the standard tropes of sci-fi adventure — a rocket trip to Mars in the 1938 Out of the Silent Planet; mad scientists reanimating the dead in That Hideous Strength from 1946. But these hoary plots are used in the interest, not of adventure narrative, but of Christian apologetic. The rocket flight occurs not through empty space, but through something very like the Christian heaven; raising the dead is specifically diabolic in a way that Frankenstein and Herbert West only hinted at. The knowledge out there — in distance or time — is not better ray guns, or new social structures, or hideously unspeakable Lovecraftian fish-things. It’s simply God.
Lewis has, in other words, created a kind of holy doppelganger; a series which takes the form of sci-fi in order to undo it. Historically, sci-fi has always, especially in its more literate reaches, been studiously materialist. It’s not an accident that the first story of the genre’s first modern practitioner, H. G. Wells, is a vision of Darwinian apocalypse. In The Time Machine, man’s work, his reason, and his soul are first bifurcated and then crushed by the sheer weight of centuries. The future, for Wells and for those who followed him, is a kind of idiot potter, molding mind, gender, and form beneath its blind fingers. We may become one gender, or we may turn into superbabies, or we may devolve into hopping rabbit-like herbivores, or we may all die. The process may be liberating or terrifying or both, but we will change somehow. Time and space are enormous; they make and unmake. Man is small , and is made or unmade.
You might expect Lewis, as a Christian, to reject this view entirely — to deny the importance of time and space, and instead to focus on an eschatology in which human beings play a central role. In fact, Lewis’ intellectual mentor G.K. Chesterton pointed in this direction. In his story “The Blue Cross” in which he declared:
"Reason and justice grip the remotest and the loneliest star. Look at those stars. Don't they look as if they were single diamonds and sapphires? Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please. Think of forests of adamant with leaves of brilliants. Think the moon is a blue moon, a single elephantine sapphire. But don't fancy that all that frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reason and justice of conduct. On plains of opal, under cliffs cut out of pearl, you would still find a notice-board, 'Thou shalt not steal."'
Lewis agrees with Chesterton to a certain extent; lying, for example, is wrong on Earth, is wrong on Mars, and is wrong on Venus…if anything, in fact, it’s more wrong on the last two. But other laws are different, or change with time and space. For instance, on Venus the inhabitants must live on floating islands; God has decreed they cannot spend the night on dry land. Similarly, Lewis suggests that in the past, it was not necessarily wrong to use magic; in modern days it is. And, most significantly, in the past, intelligent creatures could come in all shapes and sizes; on Mars, there are man-sized river otters and elongated giants and weird snouty tapir-frogs. After the incarnation of Jesus, however, all intelligent creatures are created in the form of man.
For Lewis, then, the future does not change man; rather, man has changed the future. Except, of course, it’s not really, or only man; the future is altered not by the human race as a race, but by Christ. It’s not man, but God who is important…and God is everywhere. “Though men or angels rule them,” Lewis says, “the worlds are for themselves.” Man’s individual moral choices are certainly important; God cares whether Eve falls, or whether Ransom beats the devil. But it’s God, not man, who is the measure of all things. “Be comforted, small immortals,” Malacandra says. “You are not the voice all things utter.”
But why is it comforting to be insignificant? Isn’t insignificance at the heart of the fiction of Wells and his heirs? Isn’t man’s nothingness at the base of the horror in Wells or (for example) in Lovecraft? At first it seems..but when you look closer, it’s less clear. In The Time Machine, for example, what terrifies and disgusts the narrator is not the absence of man, but his presence — the hideous hopping creatures which, in more and more degenerate form, populate the far future. Frankenstein’s monster is horrifying not because he isn’t human, but because he is. The gothic tradition on which much of sci-fi rests is about doubling; about recognizing one’s own twisted visage in the face of infinity. The supposed evolutionary ruthlessness, the acknowledgment of the “truth” of man’s insignificance, is, in these books, a kind of ruse. The real emotional power is in man’s proliferation; man is everywhere, inescapable. The future does not create the sci-fi writer; rather it is the sci-fi writer who creates, in his or her own image, the future.
Lewis created The Space Trilogy too, of course. But it’s not a romantic or agonistic creation; it’s an imaginative extension of truths which, for Lewis, apply to man, but don’t originate with him. The future doesn’t have to be about us; we don’t have to be there to make it matter. Science-fiction is just a dream, after all; the twisted gothic face it sees in time’s mirror is just a phantom. “Have no fear, lest your shoulders be bearing this world. Look! It is beneath your head and carries you.”” Lewis waves his hand, and the whole genre dissolves, leaving instead the universe. I’m still not sure why it moved me so much. But I think it was partly the sense of being freed, or saved.
Stupid Internet
Suburban Girl: Love and Work
Despite the fact that it was as thrilling as a warm glass of slightly off milk, I enjoyed Suburban Girl, in a mild sort of way, for the same reasons I dig josei manga . It was about a woman in my general age range, and it focused on her career as much as on her love life. In this case, it's publishing. With Nana, it's rock music, and punk music, and Hachi ping-ponging around, looking for purpose; with Walkin' Butterfly and Paradise Kiss, it's fashion and modeling, with Suppli, advertising, Tramps Like Us, journalism (Hataraki Man, ditto, although I think that's technically seinen--but it's by Moyoco Anno, and content-wise, it's certainly in line with josei), Honey and Clover, the various professional uses of an art degree. With Happy Mania....god knows, but the romance, if it could possibly be so termed, is just as scattershot as the career arc; Happy Mania is an odd duck. Josei manga is all about the love and the sex, but it's all about the career, too.
Historically, I've been all about science fiction and fantasy, so my chick-lit background is lacking, but the stuff I know--okay, here I was going to list all the chick-lit novels and movies I know, but all I could come up with was the movie version of The Devil Wears Prada, which I honestly loved. (I think it was about 50/50 Hathaway and Streep / gorgeous clothing porn, there.) The romance subplot I admit to having snoozed through, but I felt married to a terrible job at the point when I went to see that movie, and I was all over the career dilemma part. So I guess the upshot of all this is that as far as I can tell, I like the parts of chick-lit that deal with jobs, careers, and the vocation/avocation tension.
I think there's a particular kick to the career stuff in josei manga, because the women in manga who go for a career are swimming against the tide. Everything I know about women in the workplace in Japan is depressing and frustrating--sexism thrives in the Japanese workplace; unmarried women over the age of 25 are considered spinsters; working women typically retire from their jobs as soon as they marry or get pregnant. I don't think it's remotely a coincidence that so many of the working women in manga with contemporary Japanese settings are OLs (Office Ladies--menial positions that involve performing minor errands; it is my impression that to call them secretarial in nature would be to give them too much credit); the OLs that frequent the manga landscape are probably an accurate reflection of reality. So the women characters in manga who are pursuing serious careers in anything--including, yes, fashion--are formidable almost by default, and often admirable.
I wonder if there are men's manga in translation that deal with careers the way that so many josei manga do? I went over to my bookshelves to jog my memory, and made a list of the manga that have as major component careers or functional equivalents. Some of my best contenders (Hikaru no Go, Iron Wok Jan, Yakitate Japan) owe a lot to what I always think of as shounen tournament manga. Regardless of the activity (fighting, cooking, playing a sport), the manga will follow certain patterns (someone starts out as a rank beginner, is inspired to improve, matches off against others, experiences personal growth. Lather, rinse, repeat as long as the sales stay good). I couldn't come up with much outside of the shounen titles, though. There's all the manga about creating manga, I suppose, although I always saw that more as generic creative navel-gazing than a mirror of any social struggle. Do men's career manga not exist? Are they not in English? Have I just managed to select against them? I have no idea. I can believe that Japanese men don't have to navigate the same tricky waters that Japanese women do when it comes to following a career path, and that the job-related frustrations for men take a different face in creative work, but I don't really know.
Drifting back towards the subject of romance, some of my favorite romance-themed manga have a major a career focus (the shoujo titles Penguin Revolution and Pearl Pink, both about acting; One Pound Gospel, boxing), or a vocational interest that pleasantly surprised me--Suekichi's improv troupe in Dance Till Tomorrow, Godai's late-blooming career as a daycare center worker in Maison Ikkoku (speaking of Takahashi, Ranma 1/2 was at least as much concerned with personal betterment in martial arts as with romance. I don't know if it's a shounen tournament manga as such, but it shares some qualities). In every case, I was there for the romance, but appreciated the way that the vocational themes deepened the characterizations. Bland as it is, Suburban Girl certainly benefits from Brett's dedication to her job, and from the natural conflict posed in having a romantic entanglement with an older, more experienced person who has already mastered everything she's just encountering. All of the movie's best moments pertain to Archie's role in Brett's career after she meets him--the status and experience he lends to her as she struggles with difficult assignments, and her ambivalence about accepting those things from him.
In the adult-oriented titles, at least, the dual focus on love and work really clicks for me--those are omnipresent concerns for most adults, and important to our sense of identity. What do I do? and Whom do I love? are pretty good questions to ask if you're wondering who you are, and knowing yourself is crucial when pursuing success in either work or love. In fact, a dual love/work theme works better for me than either alone. I don't really care that much about the minutia of publishing, journalism, or the music industry, except as they figure in a character's life, and I rarely attach to a given love interest strongly enough to care if the protagonists ends up with them, or someone else, or no one at all--I care how it unfolds, less so how it ends.
Love and work are also a nice theme pair as they conflict so often, even if only in simple time allocation--and there's a classic modern woman's narrative for you. I think the relationship stress of a time-consuming job specifically comes up in Suppli, Hataraki Man, Tramps Like Us, and Nana. Nana also features a professional rivalry between two of its lovers, both of whom are too emotionally and creatively invested in their musical careers to be able to set it aside. Yazawa explores that one beautifully and with nuance, which is one of the many reasons why we all love Nana.
I wanted to make this all a little neater, tie it up with something, but I've been gnawing on this for a couple of days, and I'm sort of stuck here. Modern women's themes, I dig them. I need to read more chick-lit in English and think about it. Can anybody recommend some to me with good prose? I'll put up with a lot of flaws for good prose.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Nightmares for Sale
Nightmares for Sale #1
Aurora
B&W/226 pages
Softcover/$10.95
978-1934496046
I’ve seen several successful effort to combine horror and shoujo, but *Nightmares for Sale* is not one of them. The series is set around the pawn-shop of a supposedly mysterious, but in reality bland devil/demon/plot device named Shadow. People come into Shadow’s store planning to buy and sell trinkets, but what they purchase instead is darkness, incoherent plots, and tedious melodrama. The staple tropes of the horror anthology (ironic distance, twist endings, gory art) battle with the tropes of shojo (intense attachments, dreamy pacing, girly art) and the result is a big, fat, aesthetic nonentity — supposedly intense emotions attached to nothing, endings that collapse rather than startle, art that is busy but unmemorable.
*Nightmares for Sale*, in other words, lacks conviction, or even a point — and as a result its exploitative elements come across as particularly mean-spirited. Neither writing nor art is distinctive enough to provide a hook, so the only thing left to enjoy (if that’s the word) is the gratuitously banal suffering. In the first story in the volume, for example, we see a girl bullied by her peers into shop-lifting, prostitution, and madness; she’s supposedly redeemed at the end, but only, we are assured, so that she can get hurt again later. Even this description makes the whole sound too interesting by half. The girl as a character doesn’t even exist; we know next to nothing about her except for her unhappiness, and her fall into degradation is choreographed with the wallowing moralism of an after-school special. The story manages to be both uninvolving and sordid — a little like visiting the Las Vegas strip or watching Riki Lake, two other things that, like reading this series, I hope never to do again.
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This review first appeared in The Comics Journal.
Funny line for a movie
He (helpless): "I can't find any red pencils."
She (not looking up): "Red pencils are bad for you."
Monday, June 15, 2009
One of the saddest sentences in show biz
In 1997 Peter Aykroyd and Jim Belushi provided the voices of Elwood Blues and Jake Blues for the cartoon The Blues Brothers Animated Series, reprising the roles made famous by their respective brothers Dan and John.
Free Rein on Fundamentals
Anyway, as I said, Daniels includes a lot of interesting information about Marston. One of the most entertaining revelations is that Marston was a big, fat, duplicitous, self-promoting snake-oil salesman. I sort of knew this was the case already, but I hadn't quite grasped the extent of his shillishness.
For example, in an earlier post I discussed Marston's essay in The American Scholar. In that essay, he argues that WW was more popular than male heroes because boys want to be dominated by a strong woman. In support of his contention, he wrote as follows:
After five months the publishers ran a popularity contest between Wonder Woman and seven rival men heroes with startling results. Wonder Woman proved a forty to one favorite over her nearest male competitor, capturing more than 80 per cent of all the votes cast by thousands of juvenile comics fans....They were saying by their votes, "We love a girl who is stronger than men, who uses her strength to help others and who allures us with the love appeal of a true woman!
This all sounded fairly dubious to me for various reasons (couldn't it have been female readers who swung the vote?) I somehow hadn't considered the possibility, though, that the vote had just been rigged. Les Daniels sets me straight by reprinting what appears to be the poll that Marston was referring to.

First, of course, it's only WW against 5 other heroes, not 7...which could have been an honest enough mistake. The point though, is that this is a survey page which was printed in Sensation Comics...where WW was the star feature. The other heroes featured were the back up stories in the book, I believe. WW is even shown bigger than all the other characters -- and she's drawn twice. Moreover, anyone taking this survey is likely to be a Wonder Woman fan already. Plus, the heroes she's going up against are all second stringer, or fourth stringers (the Gay Ghost indeed.) Thus, the survey shows us that people who buy Sensation Comics liked WW, which doesn't seem like much of a news flash.
Of course, this doesn't mean that WW wasn't popular with boys; her books sold a lot of copies, and Daniels thinks the majority of that audience was male. But using the survey to suggest that she was categorically more popular than major male heroes is, it seems to me, deliberately deceitful. Moulton's building his pseudo-scientific theories on premeditated blarney.
Furthermore, from Daniels account at least, this balderdash appears to have been extremely effective. Marston's professional standing as a psychiatrist, and his sheer willingness to deploy that standing in all sorts of ridiculous way, gave him leverage that it seems like virtually no other comic writer of his day had. Moulton's editors treated him with kid gloves. He had final say on scripts. He had final say on artistic choices — in fact, he hired Harry Peter himself and paid Peter himself, a situation which I imagine was virtually unprecedented. Marston apparently was very involved in the artwork as well; his scripts supposedly included detailed directions for panel content and layout. I doubt he was quite Alan Moore, but it sounds like he was closer to that model than he was to Stan Lee.
Marston did have various tussles with censors and with editorial. I was first inspired to start blogging about WW when I heard about one of those tussles: Marston's editors wanted to tone down the series by having him tie WW up with things other than chains. What the account I read didn't quite say, though, is that Marston won that fight. The editor suggested less chains, Marston said no way, and so the chains stayed.
And this seems to have been repeated whenever there was a battle over content. For instance, Josette Frank of the Child Study Association was employed to make sure that the comics weren't too...well, just too. She pointed out, quite logically, that Wonder Woman "does lay you open to considerable criticism...partly on the basis of the woman's costumes (or lack of it) and partly on the basis of sadistic bits showing women chained, tortured, etc." Marston responded by calling Frank "an avowed enemy of the Wonder Woman strip" and by claiming that the strip was not sadistic because "binding and chaining are the one harmless, painless way of subjecting the heroine to menace and making drama of it." He went on:
confinement to WW and the Amazons is just a sporting game, an actual enjoyment of being subdued. This, my dear friend, is the one truly great contribution of my Wonder Woman strip to moral education of the young. The only hope for peace is to teach people who are full of pep and unbound force to enjoy being bound....Women are exciting for this one reason — it is the secret of women's allure — women enjoy submission, being bound...because all this is a universal truth, a fundamentla subconscious feeling of normal humans, the children love it....I have devoted my entire life to working out psychological principles...[and should have] free rein on fundamentals.
And free rein is what he got. The combination of professional credentials, high sales, and a very friendly relationship with his editor meant that Frank (in a decidedly unfeminist outcome) was essentially dismissed as a repressed harridan who was seeing evil where there was none.
I've compared Marston to artists like Henry Darger and R. Crumb in the past; creators who elaborated their fetishes into individual visions. Reading Daniels, it becomes clear that, in many ways, Marston was a lot closer to artists like Darger and Crumb than he was to the hired hands who surrounded him in the comics industry. Not because he had more genius (though I think in most cases he did), but rather because he was really in control of his creation in a way that most of his peers probably didn't even bother to dream about. Marston did get script ideas and input from others (especially family members), but he -- not an editor, not a censor board — had the last word on what went into his comics. In fact, when (I think) Gardner Fox wrote a solo WW story for Justic Society, Marston rejected it and rewrote it himself.
As this suggests, Marston was devoted to his character. In 1945, he contracted polio and was confined to a wheelchair. He did take an assistant, Joyce Murchison, who became a co-writer on the title...but Marston continued to write, to plot, to approve art, and to maintain control of the series. in 1947 he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But he just kept on. According to his wife he "wrote a script the week before he died. Two days before the end he was editing pencils, in writing so faint we could scarcely read it, but catching errors we had passed up."
In short, Marston had a level of control over Wonder Woman, and a level of devotion to her, that none of his successors on the title could hope to match. Robert Kannigher, as editor and writer on the title for years, certainly had great control over the character — but he didn't hire the artists out of his own pocket, and he couldn't prevent her from being used by other creators on other titles, the way Marston could. George Perez obviously had a lot of affection for the character, but he certainly wasn't going to work on her on his death bed; on the contrary he quit of his own volition to work on more popular titles elsewhere.
Marston was impassioned. He wasn't a corporate drone doing a 9 to 5; this was his dream, which he controlled, and to which he was willing to devote the last days of his life. Everybody else who has worked on Wonder Woman, on the other hand, has been doing work-for-hire, subject to a string of corporate whims, in the full knowledge that at some point they'll get a better offer (more money, more creative freedom) and they'll jump ship.
Work-for-hire isn't necessarily everywhere and always worse than creator-controlled work, of course. Still, looking at Marston's WW and comparing him to others' work , it's hard not to agree with Marston's editor, Sheldon Mayer. When it came to writing Wonder Woman, Mayer said, "there was just one right guy, and he had the nerve to die. And he shouldn't have done it. "
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This post is part of a series discussing Wonder Woman, Marston, and other WW creative teams. You can read the rest of the series here.
Very skeptical about the Comedian
Of course Veidt's body count is higher, but the Comedian doesn't mind shooting a woman pregnant with his own child if she gets in his face. If the ordinary person is, at most, regretful and occasionally troubled by politically motivated aerial slaughter, then I would expect the Comedian could keep his soul together in the face of even an extra-size jumbo slaying like that engineered by Veidt. At least I don't see any reason to assume otherwise unless you feel like doing Alan Moore and his script a favor. It's quite a big gimme at the heart of a classic.
UPDATE: Another note of disgruntlement about the Comedian. His keynote line goes as follows:
"What happened to the American dream? You're looking at it -- it came true."
I guess the idea is that America's all about kicking ass when the other guy can't kick back, and a case could be made highlighting that particular strain of the American experience. But I've always seen the phrase itself, "American dream," used this way: In America you can work in a factory and earn enough to raise your kids in a house and then send them to college so they can become middle class. The idea managed to be true for a couple of decades but has since hit the wobbles. Still, nothing to do with shooting protesters.
Inadequate instructions from an omnipresent authority
EMERGENCY EXIT
LIFT this bar, PUSH window OPEN
But what bar? If you looked, there was a lever a couple of inches to the right of the little message. But that's not a bar, and I would think you pulled it up instead of pushing it.
This kind of thing used to drive me crazy when I was a kid.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Mystery of Mark Waid
And I got my wish...barely. Operation:Rebirth — the trade collection of Waid's first few issues on Captain America — isn't quite as thoroughly godawful as Waid's Midsummer Night's Dream storyline for JLA. The art by Ron Garney is marginally better than the JLA art, for one thing. And with only one hero, there's less self-congratulatory puffery about how we're all just the greatest heroes ever, aren't we so cool?
I mean, don't get me wrong; there's still plenty of that. Tthe comic opens with a by-the-numbers eulogy about how Cap is the best in all of us, how will we survive without him, and on and on and on. Because everyone thought Cap was dead. But he's not. And then he wakes up and Sharon what's her name is there back from the dead too, except now she's all cynical and hardened and has a frizzier hairstyle. And then the Red Skull pops up and has to stand in line to kiss Art Spiegelman's ass, after which he travels back in time to take Noah's place on the ark — but Captain America and Sharon dress up as warthogs (Cap in red, white, and blue, of course) and then they....
Okay, right, none of that happens, no matter how much I would have liked it to. Instead Cap and the Red Skull team up to find the cosmic cube inside of which Hitler may or may not be trapped and then Cap goes inside it and lives his perfect dream life until he self-actualizes and comes back to face reality. And then he and Sharon whatshername banter a little. Along the way, Cap hits a soldier or two and tightens his jaw like Tom Cruise to show us that it pains him. Sharon makes some cracks about what a goody-two-shoes Cap is. And there's the obligatory panel where we see her dim-lit, perhaps nude ass and she makes some vague comment about how she was degraded because intimations of prostitution are always welcome.
I do think, having read this, that Waid is at some sort of extreme of what super-hero comics can be. It's not that he's the worst writer in the world. Steve Gerber's Man Thing is worse. The original Power Man is worse. But they manage to be worse by actually making some sort of effort. Gerber and the folks who worked on Power Man had pretentions to social and moral relevance that were tediously presented and hideously executed, and which made them very bad comics indeed.
But those same pretentions gave you at least some sense of why the comics existed in the first place. They were hackwork, no question...but you felt like the creators had put something of themselves into the creation. Gerber had a whiny, existentialist persecution complex; the guys who did Power Man had some sort of ax to grind about racial and social justice. Stupid, sure, and poorly handled, but the stuff from which actual artists who don't suck have created actual art.
Whereas with Waid, there's just nothing. Oh, sure, there's the usual mouthings about truth, justice, and the American way, and there's the fight against the Nazis. But there isn't even a token effort to pretend that Waid or the readers give a crap. The Nazis are just central casting heavies; there's no ideology involved. The best Waid can do is burble on about how Cap was born or reborn or rereborn or manufactured to defeat HItler...which, what does that even mean? Cap is Hitler's natural arch-enemy? I mean, what about Winston Churchill? If anybody was going to go into a cosmic nether-space and self-actualize about trouncing Adolf, why not Winston Churchill? Oh, sure, he doesn't wear his underthings on the outside, but he looks kind of like a bulldog. Surely that counts for something?
Anyway, the point is...Waid wrote this thing with his brain on call-waiting and his heart in the other room snoozing to infomercials. Really, it could have been composed by a computer or a monkey -- except then there'd be absurdist touches. But here...you finish this and you figure, Mark Waid must be the absolute dullest man on earth. Cliché after cliché flows effortlessly across the page (teaming up with the villain; spiritual reunion with lost partner; saving enemy from certain death, and on and on) without any spark of life or even interest. The bland grey surface is unmarred by either skill or incompetence. There are no ideas, either bad or good. The book just sits there, like a lump on a bump, but without that much personality.
So I'm baffled. I know Waid does have a personality; that he can be witty and arch and goofy and mean-spirited. Maybe he feels it's just not appropriate to bring that stuff to his mainstream bread-and-butter series? But, good lord, if you have a brain and heart, not to mention a sense of humor, as he appears to, how could you sit down and write this without slitting your throat? Even if it's just hackwork for a paycheck...how could you resist doing something, anything, to show that it was you, and not some faceless drone, who put this book together?
In my review of JLA, I said that Waid made me despair of super-hero comics, and that kind of holds true here as well. When I read Man-Thing, I just hated Man-Thing and Steve Gerber and wanted it to stop. But you can't really hate Waid when you read Captain America, because there's no sense that he even exists. You're left with just absence; with characters who move and speak and pretend to be human, but who are really just empty masks perched upon a void. The super-heroes seem like hollowed out tropes, dead but somehow upright. It's uncanny and depressing. Management missed a trick, I think, when they didn't have Waid write Marvel Zombies.
Stepbrothers
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Partially Concealed Pundit: Picture for Edra

Edra's face is under there somewhere, truly.
Anyway, you can go to the MCA at the moment and see the original drawing, with many other more competent drawings of Edra as a gorilla and an amazing stage set constructed by Edra's husband Dan if you happen to be in Chicago. Here's Edra's description of her show, open through June 28.
Soto's installation, The Chacon-Soto Show, focuses on Iris Chacon, the charismatic Puerto Rican performer who starred in the 1970s variety television show El Show de Iris Chacon. Despite sexually provocative costumes and performances, the legendary diva became a popular family entertainer. Flamboyantly dressed and flanked by male backup singers and dancers, Chacon became a symbol of the liberated Puerto Rican woman. For this work, the artist analyzes issues of sexuality specific to Puerto Rican culture through the double filter of her adult understanding of US feminist issues and childhood memories of Chacon on television.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Soul Code
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Bert: In the context of the Terminator franchise, the immortal second movie and the regrettable third, and the maudlin but epic television series, cyborgs buiilt and programmed to destroy humans ("Terminators") can, with important side effects and caveats, be re-oriented toward assisting humans and protecting human life. In this pretty explicitly Biblical narrative ("Judgment Day" is one of many frequently invoked sound bites) these reprogrammed Terminators echo the redemptive New-Testament-style narrative of defklecting the impending apocalypse through time-travel-- a memorable line from the sequel, Terminator 2: "No fate but what we make."
Katie: Terminators don't kill all humans, that is not what they are programmed to do, they are programmed to follow out (mostly killing) assignments. (Remember Quib - the submarine captain - on SCC?) They kill with discretion, they kill only their targets, and whatever gets in their way, which sometimes very sadly includes dogs. Their ability to carry out an assignment is what sometimes may be seen as a sign of a "soul" or a sense of morality. (" I love you, John") Though that is destroyed whenever a Terminator kills quickly and without remorse.
B: A little background- SCC stands for the Terminator TV series, Sarah Connor Chronicles. "Quib" (I think "Queeg," like Melville) was a submarine officer on SCC, in the future narrative, is a reprogrammed Terminator, who was given a secret mission, but I don't believe killed anyone? Cameron, reprogrammed protector Terminator of show hero John Connor in 2009, said "I love you, John" when he was about to crush her, after she had gone haywire and killed people.
Anyway-- being a robot assassin does not by itself mean the robot has no soul. The question is, what gives a human assassin a soul? The SCC show makes clear that Terminators have "urges" to kill even after reprogramming, just as humans have primal and problematic, some would say sinful, urges, and these cyborgs can, in some sense, choose to favor their socialization over their deep programming. In the context of the show, and I would say in general, the ability to make moral choices and value life are meaningful (though perhaps not the only) criteria for having a soul.
K: Queeg did kill someone. He killed the insubordinate soldier that released the liquid terminator, that is what caused the big upset with the aussie, her losing her baby, the reason why she has such a problem with metal etc, etc.....
A human assassin has chosen their profession, they can stop being an assassin if they chose and become a plumber. They are human and can use their free will to decide their life decisions. Metal can't. Metal is whatever their duties dictate. They have urges because they are programed to. This makes them a better killing machine. The terminator is interested in killing - it's an obsession. In the future, metal kills all humans because that is their constant task since they're at war with the humans, but when metal gets sent back in time to kill Sarah Connor, they only try to kill her and John. That doesn't mean that they are the only ones that get killed. A lot of people get killed in the crossfire, but those people aren't given a second thought by the Terminator, because the Terminator sees them as being superfluous, non existent because the only thing that exists for the Terminator is their mission. Human life is not important to them because their lives mean nothing to them because they are a machine.
B: Right, he did kill that guy. But I think death for mutiny is quite possibly a standard sentence, especially in a non-democratic situation. Does that makes him (Queeg) an extension of the "state" in a way that is different than a human officer would be? Maybe, but perhaps not. One reason the Terminator franchise is compelling is that the killing robots are almost always depicted side-by-side with desperate humans, who are often soldiers, in a formal or an informal capacity. The death sentence for insurrection underscores the reality that soldiers have very few choices, especially when the fate of the entire species is at stake. Can we really say that the Connors chose their fate, as potential saviors if humanity?
Free will is extremely meaningful as a component of the soul (it makes the argument for the souls of animals a little less tricky than the morality criterion), But Terminators do make choices and calculate tactics-- recall the immortal "fuck you" chosen from the list of responses that reads out on Schwartzenegger's retinas in the first Terminator film-- and, while methodical, their complex grasp of the world is a pretty strong argument for intelligence. As far as their emotional inner life is concerned, I don't think we know really what it is. Arnie saying "I know now why you cry" before being melted down in Terminator 2 is a cheese line, but it doesn't seem inconsistent with what kind of beings these are. What they might lack in empathy I would say they make up for in loyalty and bravery. If those don't apply to robots, is it only because humans have fear?
K: To me what is compelling about Terminator is that they illuminate the choices that we do have. Sarah and John Connor often show this in their strict no body count rule, and every time that a Terminator violates this rule it only adds to their hatred of them. It's true that soldiers are working with very few choices, but what is different between a Terminator and a human soldier is that humans are accountable for their actions. All humans feel an emotion in reaction to taking a life, it is not always a feeling of regret, but there is always a response. You need to have emotions in order to react to them.
B: There is highly circumstantial evidence that the reprogrammed Terminators experience emotions, but that's enough for me to not dismiss them as expendable. Cameron (the 2009 protector Terminatrix on the TV series), John Henry (the Terminator we saw being reprogrammed in the series), and Arnie Schwartzenegger's character in T2 all reported having feelings. Cameron certainly had a motive to lie, but the other two didn't, and Cameron did later give John a.device to end her life if she ever threatened him again (not that we know if it works, but Terminators don't seem to go around lying all that much).
Sooner or later we have to deal with Darwin-- the fact that most of what humans are inclined by nature to do, including nurturing one another, may very well contribute to our survival as individuals and as a species. The mechanical nature of our mental experience of reality, including a certain way of experiencing emotions, is not enough to justify our souls. Our souls are the essence of life viewed from another perspective, an outside and transcendent view, that values our subjectivity. There is plenty of evidence to not simply dismiss the possibility, given the shows and movies as "evidence," that Terminators might experience themselves as subjects..
K: John Henry and Cameron cannot be compared. John Henry has been reprogrammed entirely and from all indications is not a killer, rather he is trained to be curious and that curiosity plus his capacity to obtain and disseminate information is what it seems is going to make him a powerful asset to whatever army he is apart of. I don't think that curiosity and highly sophisticated coding can be mistaken for having emotions. We see examples of such curiosity in our everyday travels on the internet. For instance, Google's "did you mean" tool and gmail's sidebar advertisement based on algorithm's that it picks up from your e-mails (ones that are currently being advertised are based on our e-mail exchanges are "Artery Clearing Secret" and "Human Resource Job Open"...huh. (not to be included in the blog)) except John Henry has these capabilities times a bagillion. He can override elaborate computer systems (like ones in prison - he was able to hack into their system and get all of the locks in the prison to unlock in a matter of seconds to help Sarah escape).
I don't know if Cameron's explosive device is real and guessing from the "season" finale of SCC we won't find out because the show is obviously canceled. Cameron has lied several times to John regarding her "health" and has gone through many attempts to try to fix herself without John knowing. And thanks to the magic of television...surprise...John found out! Then Cameron presents John with her self-destruct button. It may be more for John's peace of mind more than anything, but bottom line is I trust Cameron to protect John, she in some ways knows him better than he does because she knows what he is like in the future.
B: Curiosity implies an experience of pleasure in learning (and power), but I guess that doesn't qualify as emotion. Even economists can experience that. Har. But John Henry had an extremely difficult time when he was shut down (experiencing death), and Cameron's sexual-allure programming and her protect-John programming have overlapped in numerous weird situations that have made her behavior seem irrational-- or, more precisely, justified based on her psychological state. I think the possibility of Cameron fighting her urges and loving John Connor, and John Henry fearing death and keeping secrets, cannot be dismissed as mere non-subjective output on the basis of the evidence in the show.
Graham Rawle and Ernesto Caivano
fandom confession: piers anthony
It’s not even shame I feel about having been into Piers Anthony, and reading almost all of the Xanth books and most of the Incarnations of Immortality books (it was during this series that my enjoyment turned to disgust). I'm not ashamed because, as I've found out, almost everyone who’s into fantasy was into those books at one time. So if I don’t judge them, how can I judge me?
What I am, is regretful of the time I spent on those damn books, and of the awful ideas about sex and gender they were allowed to plant in my head. As I recall (I haven’t picked up an Anthony book in fifteen years or so, and I wouldn’t without a substantial cash advance), it was mostly your run of the mill virgin-whore women-have-no-sexual-desire-except-the-desire-to-be-looked-at-by-men (sometimes in a nice, sex-as-reward way, sometimes in an evil-temptress way, of course) blah blah. It was a lot of what you get from the rest of the culture anyhow, but something made it worse in Anthony. Maybe it was because he was a fantasy writer who, if he wasn’t technically Young Adult, certainly had lots of books with adolescent protagonists. And most people who read YA and a good percentage of people who read fantasy are young girls.
Maybe it’s something I'm still repressing that made Anthony worse. Noah here mentions rapey bits, which I don’t recall, except one notable one, and it’s the event which finally pulled me out of the books and made me question who this Anthony guy was and what he was trying to tell me. Early on in the first Incarnations of Immortality book, our hero saves an undead woman from being gang-raped, and she promptly offers to have sex with him, in order to show her gratitude (he declines, being a nice guy and having heard that undead women were trouble).
I was like, um. I have never been nearly-gang-raped myself, but I am pretty sure that, having just emerged from such a trauma, I would probably not want to immediately have sex, with a random stranger no less. What kind of person thinks your average woman would? (curiously enough, this scene was repeated exactly, except for the undead business, in the contemporary Batman and Robin film. Pretty much the only thing I still remember about those two pieces of… art).
Thinking about it, that scene is the NiceGuy fallacy in a nutshell. Men who act with basic human decency toward women deserve sex as a reward and an incentive, and any woman who accepts any sort of help from a man better pay up in sexual favours, or it’s her own fault when NiceGuys are forced to go bad in order to get any.
This is sample bias, but I get the feeling that nerd/geek culture is especially susceptible to the NiceGuy fallacy (because girls who consume western nerd/geek culture are presented with more opportunities to empathize with fictional and actual nebbishes, at the expense of empathizing with, you know, themselves). Presenting it again (and I doubt my remembered example was the only time, and the "polemics on rape" Noah mentioned are probably even worse), in fun, slightly risqué YA-ish adventures, makes Piers Anthony an evil bad man, and makes me want to smack that book right out of my poor twelve-year-old hands.
Which I can’t really say about Billy Joel, no matter how many trees he crashes into.
*my totally straight, currently ultra-Orthodox brother. His gay-ass taste in music is one of his saving graces.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Golden Age Gallery: Wally Wood Thursday
Gluey Tart's Rock Your World Fandom Confessions
I didn't have to stop for a moment to think about what I should write about; it was so, so obvious. Joe Perry. God, how I loved Joe Perry. I got started on my guitar god hero worship in the late '70s, so Joe Perry was not an embarrassing choice, in and of itself. I still contend that '70s Joe Perry was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. The degree and depth of my adulation, though, are – awkward.
To say I admired Joe Perry is a laughable understatement, akin to saying I had some issues with George W. Bush's policies or that I have been known to occasionally look at manporn. I spent hours listening to Aerosmith through enormous Pioneer headphones, or on the floor with my head stuck between my enormous Pioneer speakers, teasing out every nuance of the guitar parts, figuring out what was Joe and what was Brad Whitford, listening for key changes, waiting for Joe to sing on the chorus. My room was covered with pictures and posters of Joe, and when that wasn't enough, I drew a life-sized, full-body portrait. I studied every nuance of his sneer. I learned to play guitar because of him. I tried drugs and casual sex because of him. On some level, I cursed being a girl because it kept me from identifying more completely with him.
Joe Perry was the major component of my belief system. I ran my choices through the WWJPD filter – what would Joe Perry do? What Joe Perry actually did was take a stupendous amount of drugs, crash cars, and generally not look like he was having a hell of a lot of fun with any of it. And as you might expect, WWJPD was really a very poor decision-making mechanism. No one will be surprised to learn that it led me to do a lot of stupid things.
Jean Claude, for instance. That wasn't his real name. His real name was Joe, but I didn't feel like he lived up to it, so I called him Jean Claude. Jean Claude was irritable and sneering, unpredictable and antisocial, all of which I liked. We were once banned from a pizza place because he pissed on the salad bar. He was annoyed after having been asked to leave because he'd carved a picture of a spread-eagle naked woman into the wall with a fork. It was pretty good, too. Jean Claude broke into cars to steal cassette tapes so he could record over them. Unfortunately, I have chosen this example at random. This is the company I kept.
Eventually I grew the fuck up, sort of, and got over it – mostly. Although I do still automatically pick up scarves I could see Joe Perry wearing. '70s Joe Perry. I never exactly forgot, but the disappointments added up, and even I had to stop listening to Aerosmith. Joe became less of a mental presence. When his solo album came out a few years ago, I bought it for old times sake, knowing I would hate it. Which I did. Listening to it not quite once, I became curious about where Joe Perry was, now. Who he was, now that he'd gone from "Draw the Line" to the theme song from "Spiderman."
Google is not always your friend. Sometimes a moment's curiosity turns into years of angst. Because I was so much happier, not knowing about Joe Perry's Rock Your World Mango Peach Tango sauce. According to the marketing copy, "Joe Perry has been creating bone rattling licks with Aerosmith for 30 + years. Now his Mango Peach Tango sauce will rattle your palette with its high voltage flavor and taste. Keep your taste buds a rockin’ & a rollin' all night long." (I just checked the site for the URL and, oh dear God, there's also mac'n'cheese.) I just – don't have words. Every time I think about Joe Perry's Rock Your World barbecue sauce, I die a little.
I gave him a pass on the whole performing with Britney Spears at the Super Bowl thing. She was a hot mess, and what's more Aerosmith than that? But then, the sauce. The TV appearance with Rachael Ray. Rachael fucking Ray, people. Last year, he said he was a life-long Republican and endorsed John McCain for president. I'm still reeling from that one. I mean, nobody could live up to the image I'd built up for Joe Perry, but holy shit. Mango barbecue sauce? John McCain? I could forgive him for the God-damned sauce – well, no, I couldn't, but I could resolutely pretend I didn't know – because, you know, he's pushing 60, and presumably he needs to retire at some point. But a lifelong Republican?
Sigh. The anti-hero of my youth is truly gone. Good bye and good luck, Joe Perry. I hope you sell a lot of sauce.
Kyle Baker's Nat Turner
Nat Turner
Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
207 pages, $12.95
B&W, softcover
9780810972278
I have a great respect for Kyle Baker, and I'm very interested in the history of slavery. So I really wanted to like this biography of slave revolutionary Nat Turner.
Unfortunately, I can't say that I did. A lot of this has to do with Baker's decision to rely mostly on images rather than text. There are long stretches of wordlessness; what exposition there is consists almost entirely of long quotes from Nat Turner's pre-execution confession. There's no real dialogue as such. Baker's black and white art is meant to be expressionistically grim and evocative, but while it's certainly competent, it's not really distinctive or powerful enough to carry as much of the narrative weight as he places on it. For a mainstream comics artist, he's very good, but to do what he's trying for he needs to be Bill Sienkiewicz, and he just isn't quite there.
Dispensing with any explanatory text is intended, I think, to focus on the dramatic and mythic qualities of the story. But it also makes it difficult for Baker to elaborate the story's specifics. Sometimes when he tries, the result is just confusing — I'm still not entirely sure, for example, whether the protagonist of the beginning chapter is or is not supposed to be Turner's mother. In other places, the lack of historical context leads straight to cliché. The book ends, for example, with a slave sneaking off with a copy of Nat Turner's confessions, by which we are supposed to understand that the inspiration lives on. Okay as far as it goes — but this obscures the fact that one of the main effects of Turner's quixotic rebellion was to confirm Southern white fears and significantly harden resistance to change. If you want to make the case that Turner's good outweighed the bad, I'm ready to listen, but to be effective you need to engage the other side, not merely ignore it. And just as Baker's sentiment often seems unearned, so too does his gore have a second-hand, horror comic inevitability. Babies are tossed to sharks, a drummer gets his hands chopped off, there are multiple whippings. And, in the inevitable denoument, we get to see a hulking, axe-wielding, superhuman, almost slavering black murderer, stomping right out of America's collective unconscious to take his place as Turner's right-hand man.
If that last image sounds like borderline racist caricature — well, yeah. Baker avoids most of the real questions raised by Turner's story — is hopeless rebellion heroic or immoral? Is murder of one's oppressors justified? — and as a result he's at the mercy of his own genre conventions. Those conventions dictate blood, revenge, inspiration, and exoticized others. Worthy pulp tropes, perhaps, but I don't think they're the best lens through which to view a complicated and controversial figure like Nat Turner.
_____________
This review first appeared in the Comics Journal.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Fandom Confessions: I'm lousy at feeling shame about fandom
By way of introduction: I've been hanging in or around a succession of internet-based fandoms since I was 15 years old, and I'm 27 now, and do most of my internet hanging out on LiveJournal. As an undergrad, I majored in communications and cultural studies, which I loved, and I briefly but seriously considered pursuing a doctorate in it. I didn't, and now I'm in library school. I read Henry Jenkins, and wrote my senior thesis on fandom, after which I was so sick to death it that I have never since been more than a fandom dilettante. I used to sell books, which was mostly awful. I've been reading comics since early childhood, and have been reading manga in ever greater quantities since my dire teen years. Last summer, I decided to give myself a crash course in non-superhero, non-manga comics and graphic novels, by way of reading through the graphic novel shelves of my local libraries. It's been a learning experience: mainly, I have learned how little I know about comics.
Regarding this Fandom Confessions roundtable, I had the damndest time finding something to write about, which surprised me. I have a long and checkered fandom history, so I thought I’d easily be able to find some former obsession that would serve; I’ve spent so much time reading questionable books. And yet for every questionable book, over-eager fandom plunge, or weird aesthetic preference that I dredged up, I found myself contemplating its merits, awash in nostalgia for it. So I excuse my (sometimes still enduring) youthful love for various of the science fiction and fantasy staple authors popular in my teen years: David Eddings? Hellishly clever, in a commercially appealing way. Mercedes Lackey? …she’s utterly shameless (if I praise Anne Rice for that, and I have, I have to praise Lackey for it). Piers Anthony? Well, if nothing else, I’ll always remember even Anthony’s lamer books as being surprisingly fertile grounds for ideas--many’s the thought experiment I read encountered in a Xanth book, and only later, in more sophisticated form, in a better book. I can’t be sorry about that.
I thought I’d come up with a winner when I remembered my long-time enthusiasm for Dragonlance--it kicked off for me when I was in high school, for God’s sake; I read it at the same time I read The Oedipus Cycle and Huckleberry Finn, and I loved it just as much. It seemed like a perfect candidate! Dragonlance is a hack fantasy franchise of the RPG flavor; it’s not the worst of the lot, and Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman--the original creators--are not the worst writers in the world. But was hardly good, and for the depth and length of my fixation on it (I devoured the original series in a week, and scoured the shelves of the local used bookstore for the sequels and the sequels of the sequels. I've read all of the core stuff, most of it more than once), I figured I could drum up some shame on its behalf. Still, when I hit the three hundred-word mark just explaining my enduring crush on Raistlin Majere, I realized I might not have enough distance from that particular love to rake myself over the coals for it.
I feel a little hampered, here. As a matter of principle, I don’t feel shame, at least not with regards to my reading (and viewing) matter, even when my tastes change. I emerged from all of my reading on high culture/low culture studiously neutral and with my ass planted squarely on the fence; I read what I like, and what interests me, and those are grounds enough to read anything. I know I’ve read (and watched) some shit even I couldn’t be bothered to justify, but that’s the kind of thing I tend to forget; everything I still remember is something that, in some manner, still interests me, even if all that interests me is the flaws.
If I move away from the thing I read to things I’ve written, I get closer. I was never very prolific, or very talented, but I used to write fanfiction. I’ve written my Mary Sues, and I’m happy they aren’t still around to haunt me. But I’m not ashamed of having written them (to paraphrase Abby Bartlett on The West Wing, it’s my history. My history is my history). The best fanfiction I ever wrote was probably during college, when I was very, very, very into the mecha anime Gundam Wing; that period happens to overlap with the period when I first began to really read poetry, and to write it. My best fandom shame? I wrote a fair bit of Gundam Wing-themed poetry. In the same era, I also went through a long stretch during which every story I tried to write had to incorporate some Yeats. Every damned story. I leave it up to you to decide whether there’s enough of a natural overlap in subjects there not to be totally embarrassing.
Still, thinking back on that weird little mesh reminds me that it was hanging around the Gundam Wing fandom that spurred me into reading poetry to begin with. One of the more talented writers who frequented my favorite Gundam Wing forum was an academic, and her signature quote was the last line of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Dirge Without Music: “I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”
That line haunted me for years (lacking context, I mistook Millay’s disapproval of death for a comment on the disappointing nature of life. I was in college and in the social sciences. These things happen), and when I eventually tracked it down, I fell in love with Millay in a big way. I’ve gradually pushed out to other poets as well, and learned from them, but there has never been anybody quite like Millay for me--no other poet, no other writer, no other marriage of language and meaning that resonates with me quite like hers. I’ve ruthlessly recited Millay at family, at friends, at crowds; gone to her in tears, or intoxicated, woken up at night to read her. Some of this story is silly. But how can I mock myself? I found an aesthetic soulmate. That’s a confession, but there’s no shame in it.
I leave you with a little bit of dirt, though: also during college, and probably as a direct result of really digging Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I watched an inexcusable number of lousy WB shows, including Popular and Grosse Pointe. Never missed an episode or either. I have no idea why.
Proving Once Again That I Hate Everything....
Bound to Blog: Wonder Woman #11
Anyway, at one point (page 34) Daniels talks a bit about WW's villains:
It seems that Wonder Woman's foes should have been male (and certainly many were), yet a surprising number of her most interesting and energetic opponents were female. Some of Wonder Woman's comments indicate that men were just too feeble to be worthy antagonists. Marston was apparently intrigued by the dramatic possibilities of depicting Princess Diana battling various vivacious vixens (they were invariably gorgeous), or perhaps he had calculated that such encounters would be most appealing to male readers.
I'm sure Marston did enjoy the woman-on-woman action just fine. But at the same time, I'm not sure there's any sense in which Wonder Woman's opponents "should have been male." It's true, as Daniels discusses, that Marston wanted women to rule over men. But that's not quite the same thing as saying that all women are good and all men are evil. On the contrary, Marston has plenty of good men (Steve Trevor, most noticeably, who is certainly noble, if often kind of dumb) and plenty of evil women.
Moreover, the use of women villains can't just be chalked up to prurience. In several cases, as Daniels notes, male villains are revealed to actually be cross-dressing women at the last moment. If you're going for the sex element, surely it would be more effective to have your villainous hotty wear a bikini or a diaphanous gown (as, of course, Marston frequently does) rather than deck them out in drag-king attire.
For example, as these things go, this just isn't a very prurient cover:

The fellow decked out in the pseudo-orientalist get-up (very nicely rendered by Peter, I might add -- love those art-nouveau curlicue patterns) is, we learn at the end of the book, actually a girl. Because Marston's decided to dress the she as a he, we lose the opportunity for two sexy girls on the cover instead of one. Which is not the way to go for marketing purposes.
So if women-as-villain isn't strictly for cheesecake purposes, what's the deal? Daniels doesn't really have an explanatory framework, because he's stuck on Marston's utopian claims about the goodness of women and the loving matriarchy. But if you actually read the Wonder Woman comics, it's clear enough that, while Marston likes kind mistresses well enough, he also has a thing for cruel ones:

"Hussy" has definite sexual connotations; Diana sounds jealous that someone other than WW is forcing Steve to obey.
And similarly, this girl-on-girl hypnotism, with the kneeling veiled slave, surely has sexual connotations.

In short, Marston is fascinated by female power -- as a force for good, sure, but also just in itself. The sexual payoff isn't just in the opportunities for cheesecake (though certainly those are fun), but also in the enforced submission.
Which is to say, the fetish here is not attractive female bodies in disarray, but the hypnotism itself.




The first three are clear enough; hot girl in short skirt being controlled, hot girl in negligee being controlled, hot nurse being controlled (everyone likes nurses.) But — as someone with a bit of a button for eroticized mind-control I think I can say with some certainty that Marston got a thrill from that last one as well. The control and submission aren't an excuse for the cheesecake; they're the point in and of themselves. (Incidentally, WW comes onto the ice and saves the game (which was against a men's team) for the Holiday college women.)
In other words, this is one place where Marston's fetish and his feminism arguably part company; the use of control for evil purposes (or even for silly ones, as with Etta in the image above) is exciting. But this kind of control, thrilling as it may be, can't really be described in terms of loving submission. The tension is most clear in those instances where it's Wonder Woman who is placed in hypnotic thrall. As the Amazonian hope for a new tomorrow, WW generally makes others obey her with the use of her magic lasso (though that gets turned around a fair bit, too...but not to digress). But there's obviously some payoff to be had by showing her will bent to the power of Hypnota. So how does Marston resolve things? Well, he vacillates:
On the one hand, we get to see WW all wide-eyed and receptive.....

But then she's stronger than Hypnota....

But then she gets tied up in the golden lasso and has to submit; though only reluctantly (does that make it less or more appealing?)

She breaks out of that and gets free...but later, we do finally see her being taken over by Hypnota:

Though soon she's back to being immune...and only pretending to be hypnotized....

Marston, in short, goes to some trouble to have it both ways. WW is both too heroic to be a thrall to the evil hypnotist...and yet, we also get to see her being a thrall to the evil hypnotist. Everybody's happy!
It's also worth asking...what's the deal with all cross-dressing? Again, I think Marston is probably just fascinated with the possibilities of gender switching and dress-up in themselves.

It's a little hard to follow what exactly the trick here is supposed to be...but basically Hypnota and her identical twin are switching places back and forth. I can't really see any reason to devote this much space to it, other than Marston's enthusiasm for the surreptitious swapping of clothes and bodies and genders.
In some versions of masochism, gender swapping is used to as a way to undermine or invalidate patriarchy. For instance, in Jack Hill's women in prison movie "The Big Doll House," we find out at the end that the sadistic torturer is actually a woman...which essentially makes it possible to rape her. (I talk about this at much greater length in this essay. Turning a man into a woman, in that case, seems like a way to sneer at, and get back at, authority; the mother invalidates the father.
There's maybe a touch of this in Marston's story as well. Hypnota binds WW hands...which should rob WW of her strength, if Hypnota was a man. But, of course, Hypnota isn't a man...so WW retains her strength, and (after some confusion) to break free.
Overall, though...I don't know. In Marston, femininity isn't ridiculed...quite the contrary. In some ways, Hypnota's power, influencing others, seems like actually like a corruption of feminine influence -- the dark side of WW's magic lasso. From that perspective, you might see Hypnota's cross-dressing as a sign that she's using female power for evil male ends.
Again, though, I'm not quite sure that's right. If cross-dressing were a sign of evil, then cross-dressing should itself be evil or wrong -- and I don't know that Marston thinks it is. Hypnota seems quite natural; as a man, she's slender and boyish looking, perhaps, but not noticeably unattractive.
The truth is that, Marston can tend to see masculinity as wrong or deformed; men like Hercules and Dr. Psycho are caricatured and even ludicrous in their maleness. In some sense, Hypnota — who isn't caricatured at all — is a better man than either of those real men. Women, for Marston, can and should do anything...and that includes being men.
Or being super-villains. After all, had Marston decided to make all his villains men, he would have robbed women of some of the best roles in the comic. It's not necessarily especially feminist to paint all women as pure and virtuous and good. Why should men get to be the only ones who are powerful and bad? Marston seems to think it's more fun for everyone, male and female alike, if women get to be villainesses, and villains too.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Fandom Confessions: Ultra Klutz
My Younger Self (not drawn by Kate Beaton, sadly) had the first sin of reading lots of comics without reading the words. When you're indiscriminate in the 80s with a forest out back, you cut to the chase. So I never suffered through John Byrne's captions. My dutiful brother actually read all the words and some Hardy Boys to boot, so he could fill me in if the plot got confusing. I don't remember if I made up the plots or inferred them, though I spent hours copying the drawings. I still have vivid memories of certain pages and panels, like silent cinema dreams.
I did, however, read both the words and pictures for a few choice comics. Most were newspaper strips, like Bloom County and those B.C. paperbacks. Others I got at the store, in particular a Canadian parody of network TV called To Be Announced. And the one I remember best: Ultra Klutz by Jeff Nicholson.
This comic, a black-and-white slapstick parody of Ultraman that quickly became a sprawling epic, is my second confession. I don't know that I can recommend it. I do know that it is one of my favorite works from childhood. While other kids read Tintin and Raymond Briggs, I read Ultra Klutz over and over. I'm sure UK is no Tintin in Tibet, but for me it was a perfect substitute for the Godzilla movies our UHF antenna could only pick up on a clear day.
Even though I read all the words, I didn't get the drunk jokes. It didn't matter. The buoyant art transfixed me with clear, easy to copy forms. The story I liked as well: a fast food worker from planet Klutzoid ends up on earth, basically becomes Ultraman, and starts fighting the monsters popping up in Japan. He's not very good at it. The monsters get odder, going from a Godzilla clone to a giant tin can and the Devious Yuffle Worm, looking smart with a handlebar moustache and Mickey Mouse gloves. The plot gets odder too, with parodies of whatever was current in the Comics Buyers' Guide. There's a continuity agent, some off-DC heroes, and plenty of metafiction. I think the plot's tangle didn't offend my younger self because the main characters were still pretty dumb. Nicholson has a gift for drawing boneheads, which I mean as a compliment and hope he would take as one.
I'm sure there are a dozen ways to criticize Ultra Klutz. Its art shows Nicholson learning when he switched from pen to brush. It might have had a Cerebus infection. And its ideas are so messy, so bursting and scattered, that it needs a lot of generosity from its readers. I can't even call it representative of its time. I don't care. If I pull it off the shelf I end up reading the whole thing. I don't do that with any other comic from that time, and only a few from my first few years of getting back into the form.
I stopped reading comics for almost ten years when adolescence hit, trading CBG for CBGB's. Coming back, I found Jeff Nicholson starting to come into his own. I enjoyed his psychological horror series Through the Habitrails, originally in the anthology Taboo. I also enjoyed his solo issue of The Dreaming, with the pumpkin-head guy. But tastes change. By the time he started Colonia, a pirate fantasy, he seemed to have found a stride that would finally bring him a wider audience. I had to labor to read fantasy at all, so I wished him well in my head and dug into something more convoluted which I've since forgotten.
Nicholson wasn't working that whole time, though. He'd actually quit comics more than once because of how its market punishes artists who fall between its mainstream and counterculture. He's been nominated for Eisner Awards and Colonia had positive reviews. Now a trip to his Colonia Press website finds nothing but that girl with a backpack and a clutch of ads. It's done.
He's moved on to a new site for a cartoon based on his Father & Son comic. However, on his "Chronology" page, you'll find a page and some covers from Ultra Klutz, as well a very personal overview of his career. At the least, read the last section, "Leaving Comics," which starts with:
Facing the fact that I had invested my entire life in a dying medium was a very painful thing to do...He breaks down the numbers that show why he never finished Colonia. It seems like a good decision. He also explains how he realized he was done with the form, which feels like a confession itself. It's strange to read with a child's affection lingering in me. I'm not particularly nostalgic, so I think I'll just stop.
Hideo Azuma: Disappearance Diary
Disappearance Diary
Fanfare
softcover/$22.99
B&W/194 pages
9788496427426
The Lady and the Tramp
I probably tend to idealize manga a bit — Japanese comics often seem to me to be less insular, less exclusively male-oriented, and overall better than their American counterparts. Hideo Azuma's Disappearance Diary is, in this context, a nice corrective, for it is as monotonous, as self-absorbed, and as relentlessly guy-fixated as the work of any interchangeable American autobio wunderkind who ever snapped his arm in half while trying to simultaneously lay out a grid and pat himself on the back.
Admittedly, Azuma's style is more polished and expressive, and his boxy layouts more inventive, than you'd find in the work of most of his American peers. His cartooning chops are impeccable, and many of the small moments are great: he learns how to tie his boots like a laborer in a flurry of expressive motion lines, for example, and his dts summon up a host of adorably blobby hallucinatory critters. Alas, these bright spots are methodically buried under the steady drip-drip of the tiny panels and the mundanity of their content. I'm willing to look at one drawing of Azuma vomiting; three or four seems a bit excessive; twelve and I'm wondering why in hell I offered to review this book.
If the art is repetitive, it's got nothing on the writing. Reading Disappearance Diary is like being locked in a room with that boring guy (you know the one) who can't tell the difference between an interesting detail and his own belly-button lint, and who is constantly telling the punch line in the middle and then going back to it three or four times to explain why it's funny. The pages drag on and on — Azuma gets up, Azuma does random uninteresting thing, Azuma does other random uninteresting thing, Azuma goes back to tell you about the uninteresting thing he did yesterday, Azuma goes to sleep, Azuma wakes up.....
What's most frustrating is that it seems like there really is a worthwhile plot buried here somewhere under the soporific storytelling skills. The narrative focuses on a decade long period of crisis in Azuma's life during which the successful manga-ka quit his job to become homeless, returned to work and quit again to become a gas pipe-layer, returned again and then descended into alcoholism. Obviously, something worth hearing about was going on in his head — and just as obviously, he doesn't want to discuss it. Azuma avoids introspection with an intensity and vigor that is positively incriminating. Instead, of explaining himself, he focuses on the details of daily life, apparently under the assumption that there is something intrinsically funny or interesting about the life of a homeless man, or that of a pipe-layer, or that of a hospitalized alcoholic. In other words, the lumpen proletariat is supposed to have innate anthropological interest, a theory which is both offensive and, as it turns out, false. It's no more revealing to see Azuma search for cigarette butts every day than it is to watch him dig a hole every day than it is to watch him trying to meet his deadline as a manga artist every day. Whether you're a big-game hunter, an international spy, or a garbage man, without emotional context the routines of daily life are just routines.
So what is the emotional context or background? What would give this drab plod some meaning? There's not a ton to go on, but it seems to me that the big, unanswered question in the manga is about Azuma's relationship with his wife. We hear very little about her. In the opening sequence, when he talks about quitting it all and running away to live in the woods, he mentions his editors and friends, but never his wife. Over the course of the whole book, though, a few details come out. We learn that she puts out a missing persons report on him both times he disappears. We learn that she acts as his assistant on his comics, and that she makes some effort to get him to handle his assignments in a responsible fashion. In the last chapter, we see her committing him to an institution for alcoholism. While he's there, he mentions briefly that he is afraid she will divorce him, though she apparently never does.
In a couple of bonus interviews, we find out a bit more. Azuma's wife apparently thought he was dead at one point during his first disappearance, and during his second she remodeled the house, eliminating his studio. Also he has kids, and they didn't recognize him when he came back the second time. Oh, and his wife was apparently kind of pissed at the way she was so thoroughly excised from the manga.
The most telling moment though, comes in the comic itself, towards the end of his second stint away from home, when he's working as a pipe-layer. The police pick him up for having a stolen bicycle, and discover his identity. Azuma relates:
"After that they took my fingerprints, gave me a stern talking to, and my wife came to get me and took me home (abbreviated because none of this was funny.)"
Of course, if Azuma was going to cut everything unfunny, he'd be in big trouble. Virtually nothing in the book elicits a laugh; on the contrary, it's all deadly dull. The suspicion, then, is that he cut the discussion about his wife not because it was serious, but because it might have been interesting. Indeed, once he and his wife are reunited, he continues working his blue-collar job, commuting from home. Surely there would have been some revealing conversations there. They might even, one would think, have had comic potential.
Azuma's reticence here also casts light on the first words of the comic: "This manga has a positive outlook on life, and so it has been made with as much realism removed as possible." In this context, "realism" would seem to indicate grit, misery, and so forth. But, in fact, Azuma is perfectly willing, and even eager to retail the sordid facts of his existence — scrounging through garbage cans, vomiting all day every day, etc. What he isn't willing to talk about in the manga is his wife, or his kids, or, for that matter, any of the important relationships in his life. Instead, we see him interacting with a series of men for whom he expresses insistent disdain. As a pipe-layer, for example, he works with a guy named Yanai. Yanai is bossy and disgusting and most of his partners drop him after only a week. Azuma, though, sticks around much longer. He attributes this to the fact that "whatever nasty things [Yanai[] said to me, I had my own pride." That's one interpretation, I guess.
As it happens, Azuma is best known, not for autobiography, but as one of the creators of Lolicon, a manga genre which depicts young girls in sexualized situations. The fascination with unavailable girls, the apparent preference for relationships with emotionally stunted men, and the refusal to discuss his own marriage — all these form a rather suggestive triangle. No doubt it's impolite to psychoanalyze... but then, it's also bad manners to relate endless strings of wearisome anecdotes. As far as I'm concerned, anyone who wades all the way through this deliberately tedious volume is owed a little payback.
_____________
This piece first ran in The Comics Journal.
Abstract Comics Interview
Monday, June 8, 2009
Love Wonder Woman Right Now
I was going to say something more, but I don't know that I have the heart for it. I'll limit myself to noting, maybe, that Megan Fox comes off as perfectly reasonable and articulate, while Brian Michael Bendis, who is, supposedly, a writer, sounds like a barely sentient chimp, gibbering triumphantly because he's just befouled himself.
Fandom Confessions: Books I didn't understand
The storm passed quickly. The rain, which had been a mass of violently descending water wherein the trees writhed and rolled, was reduced all at once to oblique lines of silent gold breaking into short and long dashes against a background of subsiding vegetable agitation. Gulfs of voluptuous blue were expanding between great clouds -- heap upon heap of pure white and purplish gray, lepota (Old Russian for "stately beauty"), moving myths, gouache and guano, among the curves of which one could distinguish a mammary allusion or the death mask of a poet.
I am the shadow of the waxwing slainBy the false azure of the window pane
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Fandom Confessions: Jack L. Chalker
Anyway, we're doing a roundtable on Fandom Confessions -- embarrassing things we liked back when. Other folks will be posting through the week.
________________________________
For a while there, Jack L. Chalker was probably my favorite sci-fi writer — maybe even my favorite writer, in some sense. I probably had...oh, lord, maybe 20 of his novels? Maybe more? I had the Four Lords of the Diamond series (4 books); the Well of Souls series (5 or 6 books); the River of the Dancing Gods series (3 books); the Changewinds Series (2); the Soul Rider series (5 or 6 books)...and there was another 4 book series I can't remember the name of. Oh, yeah, and the two-book Shadow Dancer series. And a bunch of stand alone novels. So, yeah, more like 30 novels plus. I read most of them multiple times, too.
So what was the appeal, you ask? Chalker was a decent enough writer and plotter, with a fertile imagination. The Four Lords of the Diamond, series, for example, featured a single assassin whose mind was placed into four different bodies (one per novel) to kill the rulers of four different planets. The Well of Souls was about a single world divided into a bunch of individual (and I think for some reason hexagon shaped) territories, each of which was controlled by a different species, and often had different climates, different natural laws, etc. So, you know. It was kind of clever. Sort of. Right?
Whether or no, that was hardly the point. The point was...how to put this? Kink. The point was kink. Chalker was obsessed — literally — with sexualized mind-control, body-alteration, body-swapping, gender-swapping; pretty much the works. In the Four Lords of the Diamond series I mentioned above, for example, there's an entire planet where people can swap bodies just by sleeping near each other for the night. The Well of Souls series features a computer that can alter reality, giving some of the characters tails, turning others into perfect sex slaves -- that sort of thing. That's nothing to the Soul Rider series, though, which includes bushels of magicians all transforming each other in spectacularly perverse fashion. In the first volume, one guy has his penis cut off; sometime later it's magically grafted onto the privates of his girlfriend. Later, several women have male members magically placed in their throats (they poke out of the mouth when aroused. This makes conversation difficult, as you'd imagine, so the women are fitted with magic voice-boxes to allow them to speak.) And, yeah, there's plenty of semi-explicit sex as well. Much of it involving mind-control of some sort.
So... I don't know that I can very convincingly disavow my investment in these novels. Certainly, these are kinks I'm still interested in, in various senses. In writing about fecund horror or about women in prison movies or about Marston's Wonder Woman, I'm still thinking about the kind of relationship between fetish, gender, control, and perversion which fascinated me in Chalker's writing.
On the other hand, I'd have to say that I do think, at this point, that Chalker has a lot less to offer than Marston, or than Jack Hill, or than horror creators like David Cronenberg or online erotic horror writer Tabico. All of those folks, in various ways, acknowledge their personal stake in their fetish, while at the same time connecting the fetish to politics, to utopias, or to gender and feminism. The fetishes, in other words, open in and out at the same time; self and society mirror, conceal, or reveal each other. For Marston, submission is both a personal turn-on and the key to a more loving, more peaceful, female-ruled world; for Tabico, the annihilation of personality is both a kink and a vision of an apocalyptic annihilation of social taboos and (effectively) of gender; for Jack Hll, women in prison is both a feminist metaphor and an exploitation fantasy.
All of these artists are able to move back and forth between metaphor and kink, self and universal, in part through their use (more or less deliberate) of Freud, or of a milieu that accepts part of what Freud did. I have pretty mixed feelings about Freud myself...certainly, were I ever to see a therapist, I would not seek out a Freudian. I think overall that Freud was more an artist than a physician -- which is why he tends to be a useful thinker for artists. For Freud, individual drives and desires were transposed onto more universal narratives. Freud had a belief -- perhaps a faith -- that one person's obsessions had meaning. For Freud, narrative and character matter. It is narrative and character which link isolated dreams to universal myth. And when you read Marston, or Tabico, or watch Cronenberg or HIll, you do get the sense of both dream and myth; of narratives and characters that shimmer between personal fantasy and archetype. I guess this is most obvious in Marston's Wonder Woman, with its gestures towards the same body of Greek myths that fascinated Freud.
Chalker very deliberately rejects all that, though. He's not a Freudian; he's a behaviorist. His books insist, over and over, on the maleability of human nature, and on the primacy of body over mind. The Four Lords of the Diamonds series, where the assassin's mind gets placed in four different bodies — the ultimate point of that series is that the bodies win. The assassin, separated from his original body, subject to a different set of hormones, a different balance of brain chemicals, and a different set of experiences, becomes a different person. Chalker's novels feel less like dreams, and more like experiments...or the hectoring arguments of some know-it-all pseudo-expert. Desire, personality, identity...for Chalker they don't exist. It's all just chemical reactions and deteministic happenstance. His own fetishization of control is just....
Well, that's the thing. What is it? It's clear why this kind of obsessive behaviorism would appeal to someone with a control fetish. You can make anyone do anything with a few chemicals and a little conditioning? Awesome! But when you start pushing a little, and wondering what's so exciting about the control in the first place -- well, Chalker doesn't have much of anything to offer except a facile cynicism. "People suck, everyone wants to be a dictator" seems to be his philosophy, more or less...which, of course, elides the fact that it's not everyone, or not just everyone, but him in particular who is obsessed with control.
Chalker's books, in short, come across as deeply duplicitous. As a hard-core (ahem) materialist, his philosophy doesn't really have a space for fantasy. But what he's doing, obsessively, is fantasizing. The contradiction closes the novels off. Instead of weird, apocalyptic/utopian dream visions which open onto the mind of the author and the dreams of the reader, the books just sort of sit there in a self-satisfied oblivion of irrelevant crankery. The characters have philosophical and political debates ("is it okay to make someone a sex slave as long as they're happy about it?" is a favorite theme) but they seem to mostly miss the main point (like, perhaps, "why are we, writer and reader, so eager to talk about sex slaves in the first place?") There's something of the neo-con about him; he's always claiming to be facing up to the grim realities no one else will acknowledge, while simultaneously spinning out the most preposterous and transparent delusions.
Perhaps that explains, in part, my own relationship with Chalker's novels. As I said, I read book after book, and I certainly knew why I was reading them...and yet, at the same time, I didn't. I am, and was, a very verbal person, but I don't think I ever, quite, articulated Chalker's appeal, either to myself or to anybody else. With Chalker, I never had the exhilarated desire to explicate that I did after, say, seeing Cronenberg's "Shivers", or reading Tabico's "Adaptation," or reading Marston's "Wonder Woman." Part of that was no doubt being younger and generally less comfortable with sexuality. But part of it was that while Chalker's books certainly had kink, they didn't have any context for that kink, or any language in which to talk about it. As a result, he didn't really point anywhere. When I saw "Shivers" I didn't think — "hey, this is what Jack L. Chalker was talking about!" — and indeed, I don't know that my reaction to Shivers, or Marston, or anything would have been especially different if I'd never read Chalker at all. I continue to have affection for his work, but considering how much of his prose I consumed, it's amazing how little I seem to have gotten from it.
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Just in case that wasn't sufficiently humiliating, I should add that my all-time most dubious aesthetic faux pas was probably Billy Joel, with whom I was obsessed through much of high school and college. I had all the albums memorized; and even went to see him in concert. And yes, I was moved by the heartfelt rendition of Piano Man.
We shall not speak of it again.
Fandoom
What Am I Reading This Week?
Justice League: Flat
Explain Spider-Man To Me
It occurs to me that I've never seen anyone complaining that the 40th volume of Naruto should be accessible. Why is it only for Marvel and DC that people complain about the material being inaccessible? I mean, being generous here, the big Marvel and DC characters have been around for at least 30 years, often a lot more, and most have been in constant publication during that time as well. How do you tell continuously "accessible" stories with those kinds of characters without devolving into some sort of Archie status quo where nothing ever really happens?
Obviously, you need jumping on points, but lets take two examples from Marvel - the Ultimate Universe and Brand New Day. Sure, at the start, they were probably both good places to start, but, after a while, they do develop in title continuity and become "inaccessible" to new readers. It's something that you are never going to be able to "fix" and still tell stories worth reading. I think Marvel did find something of a good solution though with their "Saga" free issues (ex. War of Kings Saga), but they are still only available in comic stores or on their websites, which only really preaches to the choir instead of making the comics accessible to new people.
Well, since Rupe is confused, let me explain.
Naruto #40 isn't accessible...but anyone who can count can look at the cover, and say, "oh, right...I should start reading this series....at number 1. Simple, easy, based on the Arabic numeral system which is familiar to most likely readers. That is what you call "accessible."
On the other hand, let's take those two examples from Marvel. The Ultimate Universe and Brand New Day, you say. And I, as a new potential reader of Spider-Man, respond, "What the fucking fuck?" Ultimate Universe? Regular Universe? New Day? Old Day? Are these Spider-Man comics? What's the difference between these Spider-Man comics? Where's the real Spider-Man comic...the one that's, you know, about Spider-Man?
Naruto has one single, simple, clear point of entry. Spider-Man has fifteen gazillion points of entry, none of which are actually a beginning. Therefore, Naruto is accessible and Spider-Man is a lot less so. Except for the Marvel Adventures all-ages Spider-Man, which has individual stand-alone adventures. Like Archie. And which is actually pretty good.
Update: Matt Maxwell weighs in.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Revolving Utilitarians. In Hoods.
We're doing a roundtable this week on Fandom Confessions — things we liked when we were younger that we now think maybe we shouldn't have. Both Bill and Cerusee will be contributing, so give him a nice (temporary) farewell, and her a nice welcome, ya hear?
Sorry, I just find this funny
Shelley, the writer of some infidel poetry, has been drowned, now he knows whether there is a God or not.
Keith Richards on a boat crossing the English Channel
Friday, June 5, 2009
Partially Congealed Pundit: Evolution
I was also reading Darwin at the time, and also (embarrassingly enough) Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Putting all those things together into this dinky little poem took me over a year and probably an entire notebook's worth of paper; I wrote and rewrote it like a hundred times. And I really liked it when it was done, and some other people liked it...but not any editors, unfortunately. So finally 16 years later I'm just publishing it myself. Here ya go.
Evolution
Animals turn into roaches --
landscape determines shape!
Ceilings close to clutch forests and fields,
and dodo and bison, raccoon, deer and sea gull
creep out of their shriveling skin
and creep into cracks in the walls.
And though they have lost the horizon's broad touch,
they have no regrets. Narrowness, too, is a boon,
and landscape and shape both fit as before! Immune, now,
to waste and constriction of space and the bomb
they thank the city for half-eaten food
and accept without fear the descent of a shoe.
Beneath kitchen floors and inside sinks and toilets
they are cupped in the cradle of each evening breath,
and wait with the patience of shadows and corners
for the curve of dark to eclipse all room borders,
and for the wide dawn when the wise insect kiss
of antenna brushed against tongue and lips,
will wake sleepers to roaches on windows and eyes --
to sunlight shining through a landscape the shape
of boneless amber backs and boneless silver legs;
the movement of bodies pressed close together
as if to become one rustling creature
stretching to cover the world.
Canon in Z
One more half: they might use their can-do spirit to cut down trees with their chins, not knowing it can't be done. That's how he draws them, the football blocks in his Kramers spread, the '37 flood's boatman, or the actors in his painting on the cover of the new Cinefamily brochure (detail):

That it's of Jerry Lewis, the seminal infantile American comic now widely loathed and painful to watch because he's so damn naked, even better. His sketches are all angles and elbows, the final version softer, with Lewis' wound-up energy below the surface.
(I like his Sanford & Son drawings even better, since that's my middle name.)
Phallus Dei: Tucker Wimps Out
Put it on 45 so we can shamble to it.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Monkey, dig your grave
Having grown accustomed to his freedom in The Jungle, the "humanized" chimp needed too much supervision and went berserk when he was put in his cage. ... When Jerry became more and more impossible, Dutton took Jerry into a nearby orange grove and gave him a shovel. "I had him dig a deep hole," Dutton said. "When he was finished, I told him to jump inside. Then a policeman friend shot him in the head."
Bound to Blog: Wonder Woman #10
Here's the cover:

That's a pretty great drawing. In general, Peter's best moment in this issue involve those trippy, computer-graphics-looking pathways made out of circles. The Saturnians have decided that the best way to invade earth is to build a giant bridge out of space debris stretching all the way between the two planets. I"m pretty sure that you'd have to run into some structural problems there...but of course, I don't wear skintight green jumpsuits either. Just goes to show whose an advanced interplanetary genius and who isn't I guess....



You've got to love that in that second one they appear to be moving those space-rocks with a toy crane.
Anyway, as I said, the intricacies of the plot aren't especially revelatory this go round. There were a bunch of moments that made me laugh, though. First is this:

That cracked me up. Diana is worried about going swimming with the Holiday girls because if she's wearing a swimsuit, they'll recognize her as Wonder Woman! Obviously, that's a pretty logical concern...but that's just why it's funny. I mean, she's only wearing glasses; how hard would it be to recognize her anyway?
This got me too:

His name is Mephisto Saturno. Gee, I wonder if he's a bad guy from the planet Saturn? I guess no one will recognize him as long as he doesn't dress in a bathing suit though.
Looking at this panel, I was reminded of Man-Thing (if you can believe that). Me and Tucker Stone have been blogging our way through the first Man-Thing essential volume. Writer Steve Gerber names his villainous evil developer F.A. Schist, which I think is both dumb and irritating. Yet, I find Mephisto Saturno charming. I was trying to figure out why that would be; why does one goofy, over-determined name make me groan, while the other makes me giggle?
I think part of it has to do with the language itself; F.A. Schist is awkward; it's actually even difficult to pronounce. Whereas Mephisto Saturno bounces right off the tongue; it's almost like something out of a children's book. Come to think of it, Marston has a real affinity for nonsense language in general. Wonder Woman #9 had goofy cave man speak, and this issue has a bunch of gibberish nonsense code (in the upper right panel)

I was going to say that this is one of the few Marston ticks that I can't really link up to any of his fetishes...but now that I think about it, I wonder. I've just started Les Daniels book about WW, and it talked about some of Marston's experiments with sorority girls. Apparently, he attended a sorority ritual known as the:
"baby party", a strange sorority ritual in which freshman initiates "were required to dress like babies." They were also bound, blindfoded and prodded with sticks, when they resisted, wrestling ensued. Four pages of charts documented the responses of the young scholars to these activities, with Marston concluding that "the strongest and most pleasant captivation emotions were experienced during a struggle with girls who were trying to escape from their captivity."
Who experienced those pleasant emotions again? Anyway, the point is that baby talk as a prelude to some bondage play may well have pushed some of Marston's buttons.
Back to F.A. Schist vs. Mephisto Saturno, though. Besides the fact that the second name is more fun to say than the first, it's also just less heavy-handed. Calling a developer a fascist is the dumbest kind of knee-jerk clichéd liberal insult. It’s bone-headed and obvious. Whereas Mephisto Saturno is just silly. Marston does have a lot of political axes to grind, and he grinds them assiduously and openly…but not oppressively. Part of it is that his ideas are nutty enough that when he lays them out there, you (or at least I) tend to laugh rather than groan. Also, I think he’s actually just more subtle than Gerber is:

Steve’s thinking how great it would be if WW stayed homed and cooked for him…but I don’t think the reader is supposed to think that’s great. In fact, later in the comic, Steve gets punished for wanting to make WW his domestic by being turned into a (sexualized) domestic himself —and significantly, he’s prattling on about food here, too:

I’m not sure the point here is exactly that Steve shouldn’t have wished servility on WW, incidentally; rather, it seems more like Marston is asying that it’s sexy to have everyone, man or woman, in a position of servility.
Along those lines, I thought this page was interesting:

Despite the claims of someas we see here, Steve doesn’t always get rescued. On the contrary, in this scene, he and WW rescue each other. It’s true that overall, WW is more likely to rescue Steve throughout the series than vice versa…but he’s hardly entirely helpless.
In fact, the more I read WW, the more the Steve-WW relationship comes across as…I don’t know if subtle is the word exactly. Vaguely viable, maybe? I was just thinking about it in relation to the Wonder Woman animated film, which also has Steve mouth obnoxious misogynist canards at points, and treats him as a somewhat equal partner in kicking ass. But the animated film is shot through with anxiety; Steve and WW have lots of dramatic tension around Steve's issues with letting WW go into danger and his need to in general force WW to admit that men are really okay too. Whereas, in this version, when Steve talks about keeping WW out of danger, it's more an exasperated aside than a real argument. And then there's this:

I guess that could be seen as a misogynist diss in some sense. But it really comes across more as friendly flirtation than as an actual effort to run WW down. Especially given this:

I think he's bragging about her there; he's saying. The point isn't that she did all this amazing stuff, but she's still a silly little woman, but that despite all of this amazing stuff she did and all the danger she was in, she wasn't perturbed...and also wasn't unfeminine. I think that's really the point; Marston likes femininity, so pointing out WW's femininity can be teasingly affectionate; it's banter, not an insult. Whereas the animated DVD was a lot less comfortable with femininity, and so many of Steve's chauvinistic comments came across not as teasing or as friendly banter, but as anxious and mean-spirited -- if I remember correctly, there's a moment of borderline workplace harassment.
It's also worth pointing out this sequence:

That's from WW #2, and it's almost an exact reversal of the scenes we just looked at; in this case, WW is teasing Steve for behaving just like a man even though he's been captured and endangered on another planet (Mars in this case.)
All right, to finish up with the boots:

Nobody's going to notice her running around in a gaudy swimsuit...but not wearing boots! Everybody will point and stare at her then!
_______________
I just looked ahead, and after this mild downturn, #11 features a cross-dressing hypnotist. So I'm looking forward to that.
Golden Age Gallery: Schomburg Thursday
Gluey Tart: Is Disgruntled

Manhattan Love Story, by Momoko Tenzen
March 2009, Digital Manga Publishing

God of Dogs, by Satoru Ishihara
September 2008, Digital Manga Publishing

Romantic Illusions, by Reiichi Hiiro
September 2008, Digital Manga Publishing

Love Knot, by Hiroko Ishimaru
February 2009, Digital Manga Publishing
I don't necessarily want to write about manga I dislike. This isn't my naturally sunny disposition rearing its ugly head; I just don't want to spend any more time with it than necessary. I read it, I failed to enjoy it, and the last thing I want to do is think about it for another thirty minutes. I've been on an unlucky streak, though, and decided I should share the pain – I mean, discuss what makes these yaoi titles the varying shades of bad that they are.
That reminds me of one of my favorite Edgar Allen Poe stories, "Berenice":
"Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch – as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness? – from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been."
So true, yes? "Berenice" kicks ass, by the way, because the protagonist (whose name is Egaeus, for heaven's sake) disinters his lost love to remove her teeth. She might not have been dead when she was buried, either, but of course that's a given.
I am obviously not holding any of these poor books up to the standard of "Berenice," because in that context, most things come off pretty badly. The thing is, every time I pick up a yaoi manga, I'm hoping to fall in love. I'm hoping something will work for me and leave me with a happy, stupid-looking smile on my face. And I'm really pretty easy, too. I'm usually happy enough if the art is pretty, even if the story isn't great. Conversely, if the story is nice, but the art isn't ideal, that's still OK. And even if the art and the story are both a bust, sometimes the mangaka will hit one of my kinks, and that's enough for me, too. So a title really needs to succeed on only one of three levels for me to feel like I got something out of it.
Sadly, despite my low standards, I am still disappointed more often than not. Manhattan Love Story, for instance, just pissed me off. I've read worse, but that's the only positive thing I'm prepared to say about it. Well, that, and I like the cover design. That's what suckered me into this mess in the first place. Too bad I ordered in from Amazon and couldn't turn it over to see the illustration on the back.

That would have sobered me right up. I intensely dislike gay stories in which one of the pretty boys looks and acts like a girl. The whole point of reading romance stories about men is that they're about men. In the first story, the main character, Diamond, is having a discreet affair with his boss, Rock. I kid you not. Diamond and Rock. That could probably be funny, under other circumstances, but trust me when I tell you that these are not them. Diamond is a tiny, timid, uncertain little florist with ridiculous amounts of hair. Rock is a hugely successful captain of industry who appears regularly in magazines and, for reasons that are unclear to me, his important business ventures include the little flower shop where Diamond works. I could overlook all of this, I think, if a) there were anything to the story, and b) if Diamond didn't look and act like a big bundle of annoying feminine stereotypes. He's flushed, he's flustered, he has some bizarre physical condition that causes him to become very ill if he works too hard. To which I roll my eyes and mutter profanity. Perhaps his condition is caused by the strain of growing all that hair.

There are a couple of other stories in this book, and poofy-haired, overly feminine uke syndrome does turn up again. (Uke = bottom; in yaoi, the bottom is often drawn smaller than the top, or seme.) In one particularly creepy instance, the syndrome manifests in the form of an angelic little cherub, who is named Raphael, for Christ's sake, and also has too much hair and is drawn to look about 7 but is said to be 13 or so (I don't remember, and I refuse to look it up).

Raphael sees his teacher having sex with one of his fellow students, and later, the teacher confesses his love for Raphael. To clarify, this is presented as cause for celebration rather than a call to the Department of Children and Family Services. This kind of thing is not unheard of in yaoi, but it's a couple of bridges too far for me. There are other problems, too, but I've had enough. No mas. Let us never speak of this manga again.
God of Dogs is a disaster, but not a fluffy, weepy, eighth-grade-idea-of-romance disaster. A completely different kind of cock-up, as it were. I blame the cover for this one, too, but not just the cover. The description, which promised brutal Chinese mafia action and a mysterious stranger, pushed some buttons for me. Nice art, favored kink – as the big man said, two out of three? Ain't bad. I thought I couldn't loose.
The art is in fact pretty good. That isn't always a given – the cover art is not necessarily representative of what's inside the book. In this case, there's no subtlety to the lines, and the faces look overly Neanderthal (I realize they're supposed to be gangsters, but geez). But overall, it's fine. I can appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the pretty boys, tough as they are. And as a bonus, there's a body dissolving in lye or something in a bathtub, which is always a pleasant surprise.

You're sensing a "but" in here somewhere, aren't you? To paraphrase a personal hero of mine, "Everybody I know has a big but. What's yours?" (That's from Pee Wee's Big Adventure. It's a classic.) Well, yes. The manga looks pretty good, and it's about gangsters, BUT it doesn't make any damned sense. There is sort of a plot, and yes, you can pick out some of the salient points thereof, but my brow was furrowed in the WTF position pretty much the whole time I read this book. Maybe I was trying to think too much about the details, but God of Dogs felt like a three-hour movie cut down to 90 minutes, and like maybe they went too deep and excised a certain amount of connective tissue along with extraneous dog reaction shots.
The back cover says:
"The notoriously vicious Chinese Mafia has lost its next rightful heir… to sudden suicide! Now, the esteemed "God of Dogs" Tsai family must race against the ticking clock and hunt down the child of the deceased eldest son in order to preserve their ancient, sacred legacy. Meanwhile, the mysterious Archer has been convicted of killing his father and is on his way to jail. What will fate reveal for the powerful Tsai clan's criminal dynasty AND this strange young man?"
Your guess is as good as mine.
Next! Romantic Illusions is a cheerful screwball comedy-ish title that explores the humorous and, yes, romantic possibilities inherent in multiple personality disorder. How could you go wrong with that? Right? Yu, the main personality, is a mild-mannered florist. (There were florists in the first book, too. What's the deal with all the florists?) His other two personalities are a rockin' tattooed playboy and a brilliant young lawyer (who has brown hair, when the other two are blond, which is a pretty impressive trick, when you think about it). (The less dominant personality is drawn shorter in some panels, as well, which I also found disconcerting.) Yu created the other two personalities so someone would love him, and yes, Hiiro does, er, touch on the possibilities for, um, physical humor inherent in this situation. Not very well, but at least she reaches for it. (Ahem.)

Ultimately, each of the personalities ends up with a boyfriend of his own, one of them another person with multiple personality disorder. That should be pretty good – funny, sweet, kinky, perhaps slightly disturbing, but potentially in a good way – but it isn't. It just kind of falls short. How is that even possible? I don't know.
Which leads us nicely into Love Knot, which is made of meh. The art doesn't thrill me, but it isn't bad enough to actively annoy me, either. The story sounded like a good bet – Keigo, a detective by day/assassin by night (and I do love me an undercover assassin), takes in overly effeminate, on-the-run psychic Emiya and discovers that Emiya had been held against his will as part of a secret government project. Keigo falls in love with Emiya and vows to protect him always. Complications ensue, but they wind up in a happily-ever-after situation that includes Keigo discovering that Emiya's long-lost mother is dead, yes, but always loved him. Aw.
There's a little bit of heat between Keigo and Emiya, so I was moderately happy with that. And there's a hint of darkness due to the assassin and repressive secret government project angles, but it isn't played out, so no payoff there. I put the book down and said, "Well. That was deeply mediocre." In retrospect, it was probably sub-mediocre.
I blame myself, really. It's not like I didn't have adequate warning. Upon reflection, I remember that Momoko Tenzen also wrote Paradise on the Hill. Oh, yeah. I didn't like that, either. Satoru Ishihara wrote Dost Thou Know? and Hiroko Ishimaru wrote Total Surrender. Nope, didn't like those, either. Too bad I can't reliably access my vast database of disappointing manga. It all blurs together. (I wasn't familiar with Reiichi Hiiro, so I'm giving myself a pass on that one.) I have to admit that I'm a bit worried about what I'm going to read next. Because this has just been disheartening. Still and all, you have to get right back up on the horse that threw you, right? Take the huge, towering stack of unread manga by the horns and all that. Or maybe I should reread a classic, just to restore my faith in manporn.
Grizzly Bear — Veckatimist
Review of Ariel Schrag's Likewise
To me, Fun Home's sole shortcoming was it's almost complete lack of comics magic. There are so many storytelling devices unique to comics, it seemed a waste of the artform for Bechdel to stick to a basic picture-describes-words/words-describe-picture template. You can open up to any page in Fun Home and see what I mean. In its 240 pages, I can count only a handful of instances where the illustrations actually add anything to the narration (or visa-versa). While Bechdel's words do an amazing job of expressing her emotions and experiences, I can't help but feel that Fun Home would've been just as effective as a 50 page prose story. Contrasting this, Likewise could've only been a comic book.
I had the opposite problem with Bottomless Belly Button. Shaw clearly has a mastery of/fascination with the many possibilities of a comics page. Open up BBB to almost any page and you're sure to be wowed by his technical trickery. But the story itself? Pretty predictable. Part of it, I think, is the fact that Shaw was attempting to tell a highly emotional story while having never experienced any of those emotions himself. That's not to say that a writer needs to have lived everything they write about, but if you're making up a story from scratch, you'd better have one helluva an empathetic imagination. Shaw, at least in BBB, does not. The tale he tells contains zero surprise details or up-til-then unidentified emotional nuances. It's almost as though he was attempting to re-tell a divorce-themed family drama he'd seen on TV or heard from a friend of a friend. It never feels authentic. Likewise, on the other hand, is so much weirder, so much messier, so much more full of insightful observation and -- I don't know -- realness?
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
If I Had a Canon
Phew.
So, starting from the bottom then: I don't really know Gloeckner's work, but I'd pretty much pick a stale dog turd over Art Spiegelman, so replacing him with whoever is fine with me. I love Feininger's work, and I have little if any interest in Lynda Barry's. So if I were curating that show, that isn't the substitution I'd make.
However, if I were curating the show, there wouldn't be a need to make one for one substitutions anyway. And that's because the canon presented in that show just isn't one I care about. Pretty much at all. The artists in the show were:
Will Eisner
Jack Kirby
Harvey Kurtzman
R. Crumb
Gary Panter
Chris Ware
Winsor McCay
Lionel Feininger
George Herriman
E. C. Segar
Frank King
Chester Gould
Milton Caniff
Charles M. Schulz
The artists on that list that I would absolutely keep are Schulz and McCay. I'd probably chuck everybody else. I like Feininger and Kirby and (with reservations) Crumb and Panter and Eisner and Ware well enough, but if I were choosing my best of the best, they wouldn't be there.
A lot of this is just because I'm not that interested in early newspaper strips, which form the center of curator John Carlin's vision of what comics are. Segar, King, Gould, Caniff...eh, whatever. It's true that, because of my lack of interest, I haven't really studied their work all that closely...but then, I'd wager Carlin hasn't closely studied (or probably even heard of) the work of Edie Fake or Dewayned Slightweight, two genderqueer artists I would quite possibly include if I were going to be made king for a day. (Who else? Um...Dame Darcy, definitely. Art Young. Marston/Peter. Berni Wrightson. Bob Haney possibly. Ariel Schrag. Dugald Stewart Walker, perhaps. Maybe Calef Brown; that man is a genius.)
So I'd have more women than Carlin's line-up anyway. But...that's not really the point. And I don't think the debate about whether cage matches are worthwhile or about whether you need specificity in these kinds of arguments are really the point either
Tom was irritated because Sturm didn't say who, in particular, he would replace. But Sturm didn't say who he would replace in particular because he was making the argument that the criteria were altogether flawed in the first place. At the end of his retrospective he says:
But it's increasingly clear to me, as I watch my students struggle to bring nuance to a medium that has historically lacked it, that they have as much (if not more) in common with children's book artists like Burton as with the men who worked in the sweatshops in the early years of comic books. It is time to stop looking at the history of comics as the history of the comic industry. We need to make room for more masters, Burton among them.
I mean, I guess he could be more pugnacious about it, but I think it's pretty clear that he's saying that children's book artists like Burton are a superior model for comics creators today. The comic strip creators in the sweatshops weren't as good. We should chuck them as models and go with folks like Burton instead. So he's not saying, take this one out or the other one out. He's saying, rethink how this canon works from the bottom up. In particular, let's replace the comic-strip guys with children's book artists, many of whom, as it happens, were women.
The point here is that canons aren't actually just a list of who's the best or most important. They're a list of who's the best and most important to somebody in particular using particular criteria. Carlin's into old newspaper strips and into folks who take those strips as a model or an inspiration (Eisner, Ware, Spiegelman, Kurtzman) with a few other folks tossed into the mix as well for balance. That's a particular view of the industry. It's an especially well-established view of the industry (in part because it gets institutional support like the Masters of Comics show, which is why that show matters, yes, even two years down the road.) But you could have other views of the industry, which are, say...more open to certain kinds of craftsmanship, or certain kinds of storytelling, or certain kinds of ideas about what comics are, or certain kinds of creators. Like women.
Articulate
Bush was so taken aback with the public criticism of Biden that he called in his African American secretary of state Condoleezza Rice. "I don't get it," he said. "Condi, what's going on?" Rice told him what everyone else had said: that white people don't call each other articulate.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Phallus Dei Part 7: Don't Show Us That
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So Tucker is definitely liking these more than me, which is to say, he is liking them at all. In Man Thing 9 and 10 he provides a really reasonable defense of Mike Ploog, whose work nonetheless continues to leave me almost entirely indifferent. Tucker even has affection for the geezers in the swamp and their thwarted love affair and their hillbilly hi-jinks and the improbable and yet nonetheless totally predictable tale of jealousy and stupidity and....
Aw, fuck it. I just want it to be over. I begged Tucker...please, man, let's stop. It's not worth it. But he was like, no, no we can't admit defeat. So I'm trudging on...but everyone will suffer for it, damn it.
Anyway, for this round I waded my way through Giant Sized Man-Thing #2 and Man-Thing 11, 12, and 13.
For some time now I've been hoping that Steve Gerber would stop writing like a putz and suddenly show me why he's so well-beloved. It hasn't happened though. I have come to the end of my portion of the blogging, and, if anything, Gerber has only gotten worse. Giant-Sized Man-Thing #2 is at least blessed with some nice pulp art by John Buscema; his obligatory hot female actually looks cuter than his Man-Thing, which is, as Tucker points out, something that is not really in Mike Ploog's skill set. As far as the scripting on these issues goes though....you got your tortured scientist with a conscience; you got your wounded Vietnam vets trying to draw attention to their plight; you got your monster who behaves like a big friendly puppy dog. I guess somebody could go through and point out all the moments of egregious idiocy (A museum is going to expose its patrons to a giant monster with unknown attributes as a money-raising gimmick? Really? Their insurance company is cool with that, huh?) But it's hardly worth the effort. Sneering at this book doesn't even rise to the level of shooting fish in a barrel. It's more like dropping dynamite into a fishbowl. And the lone fish was already dead to begin with.
Still, I suppore Man-Thing 12, entitled "Song-Cry...," merits special mention. This is probably the worst effort of the book so far. Indeed, even amidst the many egregious, shambling mounds of slime that make up mainstream comics, this issue is a noticeably repulsive specimen. I know Gerber is only 25 or something here, and many commenters have promised that he gets better. But I think I'm more or less determined never to find out. You write something like this, your audience is entitled to leave and never come back.
We start off, inevitably enough, with Man Thing mooning around, a helpless slave to the contrivances of plot and the ominous, low-hanging blocks of narration. He empathically feels someone in pain and discovers a poor schlub (named Brian) writing portentous prose at a table. "The time was coming," writes Brian, "when I'd just stop functioning like a burned-out machine...a dead computer, which was, I think, what I'd become." Wow, man. Heavy. But Brian can't finish his blindingly poetic effusion because he's being attacked by ghostly bill collectors! Man-Thing is sympathetic...when he was a man, bill collectors came after him too, and he still remembers the pain, the horror, which was, after all, comparable in many ways to being betrayed by your fiance, injecting an experimental formula, being transformed into a shambling mockery of a man, and then being forced to serve as a dripping nanny to a series of self-pitying baby-men who, for reasons best known to themselves, insist on doing their whining in the middle of your swamp.
Anyway, as I said, Man-Thing feels bad for the guy, and saves him, and there's a more or less pointless confrontation where Brian yammers on about how he needs to get down the words to stop the hurt and Man-Thing just sort of stands there, flagrantly refusing to disembowel him. Fucking Man-Thing. What good are you anyway? Jason would have killed him for me, god damn it.
So, having not been disemboweled, Brian wanders off and...
Oh, holy crap. I just realized that his name is "Brian Lazarus." Because he's going to be rejuvenated and rise from his "dead computerness". That's just peachy. Way to go Steve. No wonder everyone thinks you're a genius.
So we cut now to loose ends from last issue. There's this hot dancer named Sybil who you can tell is a dancer because she's wearing leotards in the swamp. You can tell she's hot because she's wearing leotards in the swamp. Otherwise you wouldn't know; all the hideous things that I'd hoped would happen to Brian seem to have spared him, and been inflicted instead upon the unsuspecting and defenseless art. Poor, sad art. Klaus Janson took John Buscema's layouts, then hit himself in the head with a large heavy hammer, spun himself around three times, and then drew the entire issue using a pencil shoved far enough up his nose to cause brain injury.
All right, it's not that bad. But it's not good, either.
Where was I? Oh, right, Sybil. Unfortunate things happened to her last issue; her brother kidnapped her because the plot said so, but he seemed sorry. Still, she was stung...or maybe she had other problems. Anyway, she says, "I make it a practice not to involve myself too deeply with anyone...ever." Ooooo. That's so, so sad. Pretty girl like that (well, wearing leotards anyway)...that's a darn shame. What happened to her to harden her heart like that? Thank God we'll never know, because she's a girl, and only guys rate extended explorations of their tragic backstories. Sexist? Sure. But if my choice is between sexism and twice as many tragic backstories, I know which way I'm going to vote.
As fate would have it, the hard-hearted Sybil and the too, too tender-hearted Brian run into each other. Sybil takes Brian in and Brian repays her by telling her about the deep meaningfulness of Beatles albums. No, he really does. Then he shows her his poetry. "Song-Cry of the Living Dead Man" is the title, so you can see it's sure to wow the chicks. Here's just a taste: "I work for a living. I live to work. Every morn at six a.m. the grating clangor of the orange clockwork drives a spike into my ear, and I rise from not-sleep and prepare to confront a new demon-day."
This is perhaps a good time to mention that Steve Gerber, like Brian Lazarus, was an advertising writer. And Brian's song-cry is, of course, Gerber's song-cry, inasmuch as Gerber wrote it. So when Gerber has Sybil's hard heart just melt right through her leotards upon hearing this drivel, it is difficult to see it as anything but the most self-indulgent of adolescent wish-fulfillment fantasies. "Th-there's such terrible pain in these words..." Sybil stammers. "I never dreamed anyone could feel so...so..." and then she babbles on "You touched something in me...that I wasn't even sure was there. I think...I care about you." Yep, Steve, your poetry is so true, so powerful, so raw, that random babes will fall in love with you after a single recitation. Your pain is so deep, so fascinating, that all the shallow people ("I've always been a pretty happy person myself" Sybil gushes) would have to acknowledge your genius if only they would listen to you...I mean, really listen. You're beautiful Steve Gerber; you've seen the true underbelly of capitalism, and you've risen above all that. Money? Hah! All you desire in return for your utterly pedestrian creative effusions and grinding self-pity is the abject adulation of some boring fantasy honey. Who could possibly begrudge you that?
Not the mindless Man-Thing. Oh sure, he takes a swipe at Brian at the end, but only so Sybil can interpose herself and make Brian see that someone cares about him. "It took something as unhumans as that monster...to show us both our humanity." Sybil earnestly declares. And so Man-Thing wanders off, to touch other worthy, poorly-drawn souls with his sodden transcendence.
Tucker will have to deal with that, though. I'm done.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Another Day, Another Future Past
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Alan Moore/Travis Charest et. al.
Complete WILDC.A.T.S.
Wildstorm
color/softcover
392 pages/$29.99
ISBN: 13-978-1-4012-1545-3
Alan Moore/et. al.
Wild Worlds
Wildstorm
color/softcover
320 pages/$24.99
ISBN-13: 978-1-4012-1379-4
In Watchmen, Alan Moore answered the question, “What if super-heroes were real?” In his work on WildC.A.T.S., he asks instead, “What if Chris Claremont were real?” Like Claremont’s X-Men and its many imitators, Moore’s WildC.A.T.S. is basically a soap-opera with tights, complete with love triangles, amnesia, false deaths, and gobs of interpersonal angst. The difference is that Claremont’s characters always behaved like a twelve-year-old’s melodramatic fantasy of adulthood. Moore’s tend to act like an adult’s melodramatic fantasy of adulthood. This is perhaps most apparent in the approach the two series take towards evil. In Claremont’s world, good guys can be egotistical and abrasive, but they’re still essentially good— which is why much of the bickering in the classic X-Men series seems peculiarly unmotivated. The characters tend to argue simply because its good drama, not because they actually have different goals or even perspectives. When Jean Grey goes over to the dark side, it’s a result of mystical Jungian gobbledygook, not because she’s prone to recognizable human impulses like greed or hate.
Moore’s characters, on the other hand, are, in fact, greedy and petty and cruel and even bigoted. You can see why they dislike each other, because they do in fact have unlikable traits. This isn’t quite the same thing as saying that they are true-to-life. This is pulp adventure, and the merciless grinding of the plot is a lot more important than the coherence of any individual caught up in it. Would Zealot really repudiate her teammates and friends after a few days of flattery? Is Majestic really dumb enough to fall for Tao’s elementary reverse psychology? Probably not — but the way the corruption works is true-to-life, even if the characters themselves aren’t.
As with the philosophy, so with the plotting — where Claremont relies almost exclusively on a handful of gimmicks (how many times do the X-Men get captured and then break free, anyway?), Moore is actually able to come up with intelligent, surprising twists on a regular basis. The two central arcs of the WildC.A.T.S. series (Tao’s machinations and the fact that the war with the daemonites is not at all what it seems) are both infinitely more coherent, surprising, and affecting than anything Claremont ever came up with.
In other words, and to no one’s surprise, Moore is a vastly better writer than Claremont. And yet, despite its limitations, I think Claremont’s run on X-Men actually holds up better than Moore’s stint on WildC.A.T.S. In part, it’s the art. Many illustrators worked on Moore’s stories, but there’s little point in separating them. The pages are a jumble of cluttered panels, garish colors, and improbable poses. In comparison, John Byrne’s X-Men work looks startlingly good — the layouts are clear, the faces pleasant, the bodies stylized in a consistent and professional way. It’s not Jack Kirby, but it’s not embarrassing either.
Indeed, Byrne’s open, even innocent art fits easily into Claremont’s story-telling. Yes, Claremont’s moral sense and plotting skills are, to put it kindly, not of the best. But that’s part of what gave the X-Men its directness and freshness. Though it’s obviously genre hack-work in some sense, you get the feeling that Claremont really believes in his tropes. It would be churlish to sneer at him for telling us, for the fiftieth time, that Colossus is just a Russian farm boy, just as it would be churlish to roll one’s eyes at the cookie-cutter descriptions of Nancy Drew’s friends placed at the beginning of each book in the series. The formula is the formula; its simple-mindedness is also its simplicity, which is to say, its charm.
Moore really believes in these tropes too, but in a way that’s a good bit more abstract and circuitous. When he tackles straight-forward genre hackwork he’s always performing a kind of intricate shell-game, moving back and forth between irony, nostalgia, and a complicated sense of wonder. When it works, it’s a marvel. For instance, my favorite character in the series (and Moore’s as well, I think) is a murderous, foul-mouthed killer cyborg named Maxine. It’s only at the end of the run that it becomes clear to both readers and WildC.A.T.S. that Maxine is less Wolverine than Kitty Pryde — and that moment of revelation is probably the most moving sequence in the comic.
At least in part Moore’s hand is so sure here because Maxine is his character. He’s interested in her, and so he’s paying attention to what he’s doing. When his concentration slips, though, the results are ugly. The Voodoo mini-series in the Wild Worlds volume can be seen as a bland desecration of Moore’s Swamp Thing zombie story from the mid-80s, replacing that tale’s subtle take on race and time with a dull serial killer yarn tricked out with exoticized voodoo touches. The Majestic spotlight, with the hero the lone survivor at the end of eternity, is more entertaining, though it too feels second-hand — Neil Gaiman, for example, did much the same thing, and did it better, in his Books of Magic mini-series.
As always, though, everybody saves their worst efforts for the crossovers. Moore participates in two, and they both do indeed suck. The first is a generic company-wide crisis event, filled with meaningless battles and lots of stentorian bellowing about self-actualization. The second — a WildC.A.T.S./Spawn crossover included in the Wild Worlds volume — is even worse. In a riff on Claremont’s “Days of Future Past,” we are treated to a time travel story in which we see the coming apocalypse and our heroes’ hideous fates. As an emblematic moment of crappiness, I give you... The Harem of Super-Heroines! Yes, Moore has gone there. Former heroes are forced to put aside their degrading, revealing costumes and put on degrading, not-quite-as-revealing bikinis. Then they are raped by evil guards and ogled by evil fanboys who, I guess, have never seen actual women and so aren’t put off by the glaring anatomical inconsistencies in the illustrations.
Claremont’s classic X-Men was for kids. It never quite tipped over into adult themes and as a result, it never managed to produce anything as stupidly, ineffectually tasteless as this. Moore’s Watchmen was basically for adults, and its handling of sexuality was sensitive and thoughtful. Moore’s WildC.A.T.S., on the other hand, is, like most super-hero comics these days, intended for adults who want to pretend they’re kids. And while I appreciate the man’s craftsmanship and genius, nostalgic self-aggrandizement is a lousy foundation for art.
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For more recent Alan Moore blogging, check out Tom on Miracleman.
Oliphant Watch: Careful There, Obama!
I would vote for something like this, if you want recent inscrutability. I have no idea what he's trying to say here (bigots live in New Hampshire, even if they do legalize gay marriage?); the point seems to be a funny drawing of a grizzled hillbilly type in a wedding dress. And I agree, that's funny, but there's little point. ...
But the drawings are as good as ever ... look at Obama running some guys over with a steamroller, or these hideous human-headed vultures, or the big ass on the banks. And I can even follow what he's trying to say with those. It's when he tries to do some actual humor that he usually loses me. This one (which does have some charmingly simple depictions of its characters) seems to be saying that Rush Limbaugh is a hypocrite because he won't gay-marry Dick Cheney. That's silly. And here's another bit of slang that recalls the "Texas tea" thing from a few weeks ago; apparently Oliphant isn't aware of the term "rugmuncher", but that's what I thought of when I saw that one.











