There's a Way

So. That was interesting. My previous post, a whinathon inspired by the announcement of recent Eisner Award nominees, seems to have garnered some modest attention; an increase in hits (hopefully from returning or planning-on-returning Weeklings) and a pair of comments, one from Troy Hickman, whose Common Grounds received a pair of nominations, and one from Jackie Estrada, the self-identified "Eisner Awards Administrator".

It's the latter's comment which gave my eyebrows a raise.

Ms. Estrada takes issue with my finding of, in her words, "this year's nominations pretty much being a repeat of last year's." She sets out to thwart me the way any rational person would, with a statement of comparative fact and an indication, wherever possible, of quantifiable demonstration. Her logical response fails, though, to recognize that she's responding to an argument that is fundamentally and inescapably irrational.

It appears some clarification is in order.

My problem isn't exactly with the Eisners. Not only do I not take issue with the nominations (for the most part; to say that I don't agree with their selections totally, though, is hardly a slight), but many of the stories and creators they've singled out as being worthy are one on which I've spent both my money and time. More than that, they're among what I'd consider the best of the past year. I've already stated my love for Demo; Ex Machina pleasantly surprised, proving enjoyable despite the fact that in the past I've found Brian Vaughn's work not really my cup of tea; Astonishing X-Men is far better and better-looking than any X-Men book deserves to be; and Stray Bullets has been a favorite of mine since its inception a decade ago, so I'm pleased as punch whenever the community at large remembers that it's still around. But these are exceptions, rather than rules, and only the first and last of these four has inspired anything resembling excitement.

I suppose that's the bottom line. I have no problem with the Eisners; they've made what I think, on the whole, are fair selections for the year's top achievements. And the books are, on the whole, good; on average, they're probably about as good as, or slightly less than, other years. My problem is that the individual books aren't too far off from the average. Comics aren't great, and horrible. They're all just okay.

I can remember being excited about comics, both for individual works and for the industry as a whole. The early years of the Quesada-Jemas era had me shitting my pants in anticipation, actually curious about what's going to happen to these characters (that waned, but that's a discussion for another time). Scurvy Dogs had me laughing as loud as probably any comic book I've ever read, and as heartily as the funniest stories I've encountered in any medium. The "Murderer/Fugitive" storyline in the Batbooks had me actually enjoying a crossover, something I might not have ever done, to that extent at least. But what happened this past year? Grant Morrison left the X-Men, completing the best-received run with the characters in more than a decade, only to see his legacy almost immediately eroding. They killed Sue Dibny, and Ted Kord (I suppose that was technically this year), because they were just important enough to pretend that we cared about them, creating this elaborate dance where DC and the readers of their books both pretended that they cared what the other thought.

But I didn't. This is the year I stopped caring.

To some degree, that's why I decided to help start this blog. (When did this little response become the St. Crispin's Day speech...?) I don't really care about comics anymore. I don't know who's fault it is, and I'm perfectly willing to admit that it might be mine, but somehow, someone convinced me that comics aren't worth caring about anymore. I still know they are, but for the first time in fourteen(ish) years, I don't necessarily believe it. So Ms. Estrada, you'll forgive me if I say that the nominees all look the same; I know they're not, literally. But it feels, with a few notable exceptions, as though they all do the same thing: Beat a dead horse.

I think I'm wrong. I certainly hope I'm wrong. Prove me wrong.