Saturday, June 18

Year Another One

So. You hear anything about this new Batman movie...?

But seriously, folks.

Batman Begins has a lot to recommend it, not only to the geeks, all excited at being able to really appreciate the cameo appearance from Zsasz, but even for the everyday moviegoer, interested in little more than an evening's entertainment. If I were a bit more rash, I'd say that it's probably the best Comic Book Movie ever (and by capital-C, capital-B Comics Book Movie, you understand I mean Superman and Spider-Man, not Ghost World and American Splendor). As it is, I feel confident saying that it's at least very good.

Before I start picking nits, I should mention all the good that this movie has going for it, and there's quite a bit of good. This is arguably the most well-rounded Batman to appear in any non-comic media, more nuanced than either the Adam West or animated television versions, more compelling Tim Burton's or, especially, Joel Schumacher's. Director Christopher Nolan and co-writer David Goyer go out of their way to portray a sensible evolution from Bruce Wayne to Batman; contrary to the popular modern concept of Batman as being saddled with some kind of navigable form of insanity, Bruce Wayne's neuroses are more empathetic, more easily visible as having birthed the bat. Despite that explicit mention is made of the idea that Bruce Wayne is the mask, Batman the true identity, Wayne is as important to the story as Batman. Batman isn't an identity Bruce Wayne adopts (or vice versa). The Bat's an ends to a mean, to Bruce Wayne's mean of fighting injustice.

Impressively, this legitimate character development--and while Bruce is the most fully-formed, he's hardly the only character with dimension--is rooted in an exciting, and more impressively, logical, plot. The skeleton of Batman Begins comes from Miller's "Year One"; anyone familiar with that standard will be insucceptiable to at least a few of the movie's surprises. However, the movie manages to be both faithful to that forebear while introducing new elements. For example, while Ra's al Ghul's role in the creation of the Bat has been mentioned before, it's never really been directly inserted into the context of "Year One" (not in my recollection, anyway). And while the addition of the Scarecrow is unnecessary almost to the point of distraction, he's still used effectively and interestingly, in no small part due to the performance of Cillian Murphy.

In fact, the movie owes a great deal of its success to its performers. Liam Neeson, Katie Holmes and Tom Wilkinson all give important performances that both suggest what will be familiar to comic fans while introducing novel elements into this particular legend of the Dark Knight. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman (as Alfred and Lucius Fox, respectively) create a support network for Bruce Wayne that make his transition from playboy to vigilante more plausible, not only practically, but also emotionally. You realize that there's no way Bruce could have become the Bat, let alone remained that way, without support, and you realize likewise what sort of mind would regard this mission as less a fool's errand and more a vocation. (One of my favorite moments in the film, in fact, belongs to Caine's Alfred, when he discusses his devotion to Bruce as an extension of his devotion to the Wayne family. It's been long canonical that Alfred's allegiance to Bruce Wayne is unwavering, but rarely do we remember that this allegiance is born out of the fact that Thomas Wayne trusted the care of his only son to Alfred; in other words, Alfred's devotion is as much to the trust of Thomas Wayne as it is to affection for his son.)

As you might imagine in a film drawn so clearly from "Year One", the story needs to be supported at least as strongly by James Gordon as by Bruce Wayne. Gary Oldman serves the character and the story better than we have any right to expect. Randomly, I found Oldman's performance to be reminiscent of Ewan McGregor's as Obi Wan Kenobi. In Episodes One through Three, McGregor essentially served two masters, one being the need to create a bridge between his performance and Alec Guinness's, the other creating a pocket in the character for his own interpretation, something that I thought he did remarkably well (in fact, I'd point to his performance overall as the high point of the prequels). Although James Gordon's never really had any sort of definitive portrayal onscreen--really, the animated version's is the closest thing we have--Oldman still seems to be channeling some sort of iconic version of the character. There's something intimately familiar about Oldman's Gordon, not just in the way he looks, but even in the way he sounds, even the way he moves. For some reason, the world at large has never seemed to regard Gordon as being as important to Batman as, say, Jimmy Olsen to Superman, or J. Jonah Jameson to Spider-Man (perhaps because Gordon's not a newspaperman?). I wouldn't be surprised of Oldman's flawless performance changes that.

But, of course, as far as this movie's performances go, a dozen of quality can't make it up if one particular performance is found lacking. But--I must admit, a little surprisingly--Christian Bale knocks it out of the park. Every once in a while, you might catch his Bruce Wayne in a shifting of gears, and even though there's no obvious difference in his appearance, you can recognize the moment that Bruce Wayne steps to the back and cedes control to Batman. Even as this happens though, the tether between these two states of mind--and the movie makes it clear that this is not a psychic break; it's two states of mind, not two entirely independent minds--is apparent. And refreshingly--at least for enyone whose been following Batman's adventures in the funny pages for the last decade or so--the "man" is at least as important as the "bat" here. There's a moment when Batman, having been in costume for less than a night, sprints across the rooftops of Gotham, pursued by the cops. He takes a flying leap off the side of one building and slams right into the next, is sent scrambling down its side, clutching at the fire escape. The moment's physical clumsiness was so foreign, predisposed as I am to think of Batman's modern version, the Morrisonian calculator, that I found myself instinctively laughing, despite that for most in the theatre, the moment was of the "will he make it?" dramatic tension variety. Bale's Batman is funny when he's allowed to be, scary when he has to be, and never perfect; whenever he approaches perfection, it's obvious that the approach is only made possible by an incredible amount of training and preparation. He makes this character empathetic--something that, anymore, seems an inherent violation of the character--while still making him undeniably recognizable.

The only identifiable disappointment I could register had to do with the action scenes. When Bruce Wayne enters into the tutelage of Neeson's character, the latter attacks the former, in order to (presumably) demonstrate the extent of his ignorance. As he goes at Wayne with this kick or that punch, he identifies the school of martial arts from which each is derived: "Jujitsu! Karate!" So the film goes out of its way to show that Bruce Wayne has been extensively trained in martial arts, suggesting that his fighting abilities are powered more by grace and speed than by raw force. So when a martial artist of Bruce Wayne's caliber goes up against the man who taught him, you'd expect the fight to be, well, smooth. But the fight scenes are more often than not choppy, blunt, abrupt. They're effective in indicating the role of violence in these goings-on, but not in the particular sort of violence.

If this movie's any good (and obviously, I believe it is), it's because it picks choice elements from the best Batman stories across the various media. Miller's grim-n-gritty Batman--the "Year One" version, not yet as dark as "Dark Knight Returns"--mixes with the pulp fun of the animated series, with dashes of the 60s series's fun, all with the epic scope of Burton's two Batfilms. Overall, this will be familiar territory for anyone with just more than a passing familiarity with the character, but the scenery's been changed just enough to make it worth a second visit.

Friday, June 10

Salesmanship, Sailed

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Bill Jemas.

In the early days of what came to be known as the "Quemas" era, there seemed to be an air of spontaneity to how Marvel was run. It wasn't anarchic, though; it wasn't exactly as though the inmates had taken over. There was a sense of order, it's just that this sense was driven by courage, and matched by a sense of adventure. And that's just what was going on inside the books.

Outside, in terms of how the books were produced, marketed, and discussed inside the company, seemed to be just as exciting--if not as fantastic--as what the X-Men or Spider-Man experienced from month to month. And at the center of it all was Bill Jemas and Joe Quesada. As odd as it seems to consider now, Quesada was actually the more well-behaved of the two, the good cop, if you will. When Jemas called DC out, identifying story elements and even creative personnel, it was Quesada that came out as the PR guy, allowing for the possibility that anyone who bought DC Comics in addition to--or, Heaven forefend, instead of--Marvel Comics might still be respectable.

Now, though, Quesada's a ship without a rudder.

Consider the latest of Quesada's weekly press-releases-as-interviews over at Newsarama, Joe Fridays. At the end of this installment, one reader called Jab invites Quesada to sell him on Marvel's wares. He identifies himself as among the unconverted, even stating that he had recently dropped his only two monthly Marvel purchases, the 616 and Ultimate Fantastic Four books, for unspecified reasons. It's not the most original of questions, nor is it the most difficult, but it's still fair to ask the editor-in-chief of a line of major comic books to be able to convince an average (by all appearances) consumer to try one of his books. Here's Joey da Q's response:
Well, Jab, I don’t know that there is anything I can say? Right now I feel that Marvel books are at an all time high and certainly at the best point they’ve been since I’ve been Editor-in-Chief! There are just so many incredible stories that are just getting rolling and so many amazing creators that are coming on board. With books like New and Young Avengers, Ultimate Iron Man, Runaways, Astonishing X-Men, Supreme Power, Black Panther, Punisher and Wolverine just to name a few, If we can’t grab you at this point, then perhaps we never will. Perhaps Marvel books just aren’t your cup of tea or at least the ones we’re producing currently. But, hey that’s okay, we can dig it.

But more to the point, although the brilliant Mark Waid and just as brilliant Warren Ellis are exiting their respective FF titles, JMS is taking over FF and Mark Millar is taking over Ultimate FF, why not give them a shot again?

Which I thought was just lazy as Hell, not to mention insulting. It seems as though he's basically saying, "Well, if you have to ask, you probably couldn't understand the answer." Quesada's defeatism--"If we can’t grab you at this point, then perhaps we never will"? Are you kidding me?--not to mention his implicit elitism are simply inexcusable. My man Jab is essentially asking Quesada whether or not he should give him his money, to which Quesada warns him not to be too rash. What?

Now, I'll be honest, I'm not the biggest fan of Marvel right now. My regular purchases from the House of Ideas basically now includes only The Incredible Hulk. But if I had to, I bet I could get at least a few titles on your subscription list. I'd stress the pedigree and diversity of the characters, stressing that they're so well-developed that some of them are still supporting stories forty, fifty, sixty--if you count Captain America--years after their creation. I'd identify the breadth of the different creators, naming not only those that will be familiar to any long-time comics reader--Peter David, say, or Kurt Busiek--but those who might be new--maybe Greg Pak, or Allen Heinberg. If I wanted to mention "JMS," I'd refer to him not as "JMS" but by his full name (assuming that, unlike me, Quesada can spell it), and go on about his history working in television. I'd indicate how the different characters can be enjoyed autonomously, in their own titles, as well as in great, big, universe-spanning epics like House of M. I'd name every single creator who has an exclusive contract with Marvel, saying after every name that the only place to see what these writers and artists create is at the House of Ideas. And finally, I'd say that if Jab still hasn't found anything of interest at Marvel, he should check back in a month or two, since Marvel is constantly growing and adapting, and its most useful tool to that end is the input of fans. And furthermore, I'd say all of this with an eye toward grammar.

After all that, I'd have a question for Jab: "What's you address?" 'Cause I'd send him a big ol' box of Marvel comics, every book that I think forwards the creative success of the line and might be able to bring in a new reader. And I'd pay for it out of my own damn pocket if I had to.

But hey, that's just me. I suppose that "Perhaps Marvel books just aren’t your cup of tea" is an equally valid response.

Is Jim Shooter still looking for his job back?

Thursday, June 2

Standing By the Wall

It's finally happened, Weeklings. I've given up.

Superheroes are, needless to say, the bread and butter of our little corner of the world. It's difficult to exist in this subculture without deferring to their popularity, and it's pretty much impossible to consider comics, historically or contemporarily, without at least acknowledging the capes. But I'm gonna try. Basically, this whole neo-90s crossover madness has gotten the best of me. I enjoy the character of Batman, and for the most part have enjoyed the recent comics featuring the character. But not enough to spend money that I hadn't intended to spend, and certainly not enough to spend my time reading stories that I don't enjoy. So I've cut off my leg to save the rest of my body; in short, Batman and I are through.

It was, I realized in retrospect, surprisingly easy to leave the character behind. Despite the fact that I've followed at least one of the Batman-specific books (and usually more) since "No Man's Land" back at the turn of the century, not to mention more than a few of the addendum books, it's become clear that whatever story began with that storyline, and continued through the work of Ed Brubaker, Greg Rucka, and Devin Grayson, is over. There was no clear "The End" that allowed me to leave with a clear conscience, but I left nevertheless. Perhaps someday I'll be back (and, to be honest, I'm still nominally here; Gotham Central remains on my pull list, though with the departures of Brubaker and Michael Lark, as well as an alarming appearance from the Titans upcoming, I'm not sure how long that'll remain the case). The point--eventually--is that I might be done with superhero comics. And I said, I still read GC, and I've recently begun reading The Incredible Hulk again, but that's more out of interest in the writer than affection for the character. It seems as though, despite nearly fifteen years following the events of the Marvel and DC universes, I could no longer care any less.

So I was thinking: Is there any life left in these old characters? To be sure, some are still capable of bearing fruit, but others are a little too obviously still around only to maintain copyrights. But who's who, I wonder. Well, I did wonder. And I determined. And here, I stated. Here's my vote for most exhausted superhero, the most creatively deadened, and that in which I think there's still, inexplicably, some life.

Perhaps predictably, I'm most offended (if that's the right word) by the ongoing story of Superman. That DC thinks there's enough life in this character to support four ongoing books, to say nothing of the unrelenting onslaught of specials, miniseries, and guest appearances, is mind-boggling. Now, I should admit, I've given the character a chance. I've followed his monthly books during three periods--starting with "The Death of Superman" and continuing quite a while thereafter, during the first year-and-a-half or so of the Loeb/Kelly era, and most recently, a good portion of Azzarello & Lee's and Rucka's stories--so I've given Big Blue a chance. I've read most of the classic Supes stories: "Whatever Happened...?", Byrne's Man of Steel, Kingdom Come. While I've occasionally enjoyed stories featuring Superman, I've rarely enjoyed the character himself. So, I decided he wasn't for me. But now I realize, he's not for anyone. At least not anyone introduced to comics created after the firmamentation of Superman.

In his "Basement Tapes" column with Matt Fraction, Joe Casey said it a lot better than I could have. To sumarize, Casey suggests that Superman's is an origin story, beginning when an infant Kal El leaves a dying Krypton for planet Earth, and ending when Clark Kent first acts as the public's "Superman". Everything thereafter is gravy, almost beside the point. I think it's an interesting angle to take on the Man of Steel, and while some might see that angle as defeatist--especially coming from a writer whose own dalliance with the character failed to set the world on fire--I think it's just realistic enough, and in fact it might take a writer with that type of experience to arrive at such a conclusion.

The bottom line is that characters need conflict. Every character arc runs desire to pursuit to either realization or failure. I couldn't even really say for sure what Superman wants, overall. You could say, simply, that he's a crimefighter, that he wants to eradicate crime. But natural disasters, which Superman prevents and/or contains all the time, are hardly criminal. More accurate is the idea that Superman fights for "truth, justice and the American way," but that last part of the ideal is troublesome, especially during this particular era in our nation's history. The least problematic motivation for Superman has to, by definition, be as broad as possible. So, you could say that Superman wants to make the world a better place. But that's too broad to find within its boundaries a definable goal. (Curiously, and perhaps somewhat appropriately, I think that while this particular aspect is a liability for Superman, it's actually a benefit for Batman. While another of Superman's mottos concerns "the Never-Ending Battle," Batman's purpose is just as open-ended as his brighter colleague's; Rucka once described it as "the Fool's Errand." The difference is that futility and, to an extent, hopelessness, work for Batman, where they're concepts untranslatable into Superman's language. While the two heroes are ostensibly working towards the same nebulous goal, it's possible to Superman retiring happy, taking advantage of the world he's created, whereas it's impossible to see Batman voluntarily laying down arms for good.)

It's not that I think it's impossible to tell a good Superman story. It's just that I think that these stories need more to have Superman in them rather than be about Superman. Superman isn't an object with real dimensions and textures, at least not in the same sense that Batman is. He's an ideal, and so his size and shape vary from one observer to another. Every month and every story of his that gets told is an attempt to better define that size and shape, which attempt not only undermines the character's nature, but in fact violates it.

So who's still got room to grow? Believe it or not, I'm inclined to say that the greatest untapped potential amongst the major superheroes (I'm not talking about the Power Pack here) can be found in the pages of X-Men. It's arguable that the definitive X-Men story has been told. Some might point to Claremont and Byrne's "Dark Phoenix Saga" as such (though I'd say it's more the best storyline than the most definitive). Others might move down a couple months in the merry mutants' history, pointing to "Days of Future Past" (what I'd choose, if made to do so). Others still, perhaps the more rash among our ranks, might consider Morrison's run to be the stuff that X is made of. And to be sure, these are all good stories, indicating what's best about this particular corner of the Marvel universe. However, I think it'd be a bit too limiting to say that they preclude the possibility of more good stories, or even of more truly original stories.

There are two factors which I think work in the X-Men's favor (and bear in mind that when I say "X-Men" I mean neither The Uncanny X-Men nor any particular team that's come together under that moniker, but rather the entire expasive world that's brached out from Claremont's vision, everything from Louise Simonson's New Mutants to to Warren Ellis's Excalibur to Frank Tieri's Weapon X and everything in between and on the side). The first factor is, simply, that's there's so damn many members of this subgroup, it seems more mathematically accurate to call them a group. This is a technique that's worked for--and, honestly, proved a crutch for--The Simpsons. You get tired of writing an episode around Bart or Homer (or, analgously, Wolverine or Jean)? Write one about Apu or Moe (or Artie & Leech). Or, if the mood strikes you, write one about everybody, as in my own favorite Simpsons episode. Simply, there are enough people in this family to ensure that there will always be enough stories to go around, every story essentially constituting one or two of the X-Men in starring roles, with everyone else guest-starring. And if that somehow fails, you have a great excuse to create new characters, as new mutants--and, potentially, New Mutants--are born every day. Morrison's run, after all, was as much about Beak and Quentin Quire and Xorn as it was Cyclops or Xavier or Emma Frost.

And if that seems cheap, to laud the expansiveness of a possibly literally inumerable cast while attacking the solitary Superman, well I'm more drawn by another quality inherent in the high concept of the X-Men. Really, any given X-Men story isn't so much about the team as it is about mutants. And in the Marvel universe, mutants are literally about change. At puberty, mutants change species, really, finding themselves with abilities that render them unique, not only from every other humans, but even, often, from every other mutant. And think about how many of the X-Men have powers whose nature allows them to fundamentally change: Colossus. Shadowcat. Iceman. Nightcrawler. Even Wolverine's healing factor is about changing from injured to healthy, his body essentially replacing itself whenever wounded. So if the X-Men are about change, then their focus can change. Originally, the X-Men were an allegory for racism. Under Claremont, they were a soap opera, a parable of power and its pitfalls. Morrison's was a formal pastiche, where mutation was libertating rather than a constricting. I'm sure, if someone wanted to, he could write a story featuring the X-Men as a metaphor for contemporary American foreign policy while still--and this is the most important part--making the story uniquely about the X-Men.

I feel kind of guilty saying the the X-Men have more conceptual room to grow, since I'd hardly feel comfortable giving an implicit endorsement to the flood of X-titles that have continued unabated since the early 90s. Although I think that it's still possible to tell an X-Men story both good and original, I'd hardly suggest that anyone be allowed to try. But nevertheless, I'm still more inclined to buy a story featuring the X-Men than with any other popular mainstream superhero. Essentially, there are no sorts of stories which cannot be told with the X-Men, that could not fit in with this particular mileau. Look at the great X-Men stories, like X-Statix, or Peter David's X-Factor, or Windsor-Smith's Weapon X, or Whedon and Cassaday's Astonishing. These are massively different sorts of stories, yet they all seem to fit in each other's worlds (if differnet corners) because they all share one common element: change.

But that's my two cents, Weeklings. Feel free to chime in. What heroes still have room left to breathe? And which heroes ought to hang up cape and cowl, their stories done?