Author: Dennis O'Neil

DENNIS O’NEIL: Ode To John Carter

Let the laments commence; it’s official – John Carter is a flop. Looks like the movie’s makers will take a $200,000,000 bath.

We finally trekked north to the monsterplex and settled ourselves to witness a showing of the flop before anyone was certain of its flophood. We did, and we left the theater and got into Mari’s car and drove south and were home.

We’d seen the film. And felt very little. We’d seen it and there didn’t seem to be a whole lot more to say.

Why?

Leaving the theater, I wasn’t irritated, or insulted. If I wanted to write a quibbly review I probably could – look ye hard and ye can find garbage, brethren; yeah, the writing was flattish and somehow the fabricated world seemed to be just a jot too fabricated. But nothing on the screen was godawful. The shots were in focus. The effects were okay. The acting was serviceable, except for that of Lynn Collins, whose performance was pretty interesting. (What would she do with Lady MacBeth?) The rest of it was what it was and –

Maybe that’s my problem. What it was was a heaping of déjà vu. I wonder how I would have enjoyed the flick if I hadn’t seen Star Wars in all its manifestations. I guess I can no longer be entertained by cinematic spectacle movies merely as spectacle, even when it’s in 3D. I’m sated with exploding spacecraft and after the baddies did in a whole planet in the first Star Wars…well, pretty hard act to follow, no?

Like a kid who’s been taken to one magic show to many, I’m jaded. (Another friggin’ rabbit?)

Here’s a scenario wrapped in a question: What if a temporal glitch moved John Carter back in time…oh, say, 65 years – moved it to the screen of a small neighborhood picture show (and there were a lot of them, back then.) The stuff we take for granted – exploding planets and the like–would have been absolutely astonishing because nobody would have ever seen anything remotely like it. What effect would seeing even a reel or two of a modern sci-fi film have on the minds of those who paid their money to see Dick Tracy’s Dilemma? (And isn’t that Joe O’Neil’s kid in the third row?) Would they immediately start a new religion? Would they go collectively bonkers? Or would they all go into a fugue state from which they would emerge only after Dick Tracy had reclaimed the screen and when they got home remember only Dick, believing that nothing had interrupted the detective’s pursuit of The Claw?

But wait! How do we know that this didn’t happen?

Allow me one more speculation: What if the memory of the time traveling flick wasn’t entirely erased, but survived as a nugget deep deep deep in some subconscious, a nugget that influenced the life of its host and drove him into a degraded life of writing science fiction and comic books? Wouldn’t that be strange? But – wouldn’t it explain an awful lot?

Wouldn’t it? Oh good lord in heaven..wouldn’t it?

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

DENNIS O’NEIL: Doonesbury Envy?

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

Happy, Martha?

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, I don’t either.

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

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases (go figure!)

 

DENNIS O’NEIL: “I’m a rambler, I’m a gambler…”

But before we get to this week’s topic, John Carter (of both Mars and East St. Louis), I’d like to apologize to the students and faculty of the State University of New York at New Paltz for the talk I gave there on Friday, during which I allowed myself to ramble…

But you want to know what’s pathetic? An old fossil, his dome a’shining, unable to remember if he ever edited (or wrote) a John Carter of Mars comic book.

One more thing about New Paltz… I’m not sure why I rambled – I did have notes laying there on the table in front of me. But ramble I did and, again, I apologize…

John Carter? Yes, John Carter. As most of you know, there is a major movie, in 3-D as well as the plain vanilla 2-D, just released and undoubtedly playing at a theater near you – here in Nyack, the nearest screens are at the Palisades Mall and we’ll probably saunter up there one day soon. We didn’t go on opening day because I’d promised to speak at New Paltz…

Yeah, about New Paltz: I think I was okay until I asked for questions from the people in front of me – handsome, lovely young people! – and let me assure everyone that the questions were and are not to blame, the fault is entirely mine….

But I was telling you about John Carter: I know I once worked on a title that featured some John Carterish material, probably adapted from the work of John Carter’s creator, Edgar Rice Burroughs… By the way, did you know that he also created Tarzan of the Apes, which was his big, big success…

I should mention to you kids at New Paltz that I often ask for questions from the audience or class or whatever I’m talking to – well, actually, there’s no particular reason I should mention it, it’s just that I want to mention it…

And while we’re on the subject of mentioning – did I mention that John Carter is one of my oldest friends? That I was best man at both his weddings? Wait…this might be confusing. I wasn’t at the wedding or weddings of John Carter of Mars, assuming he was ever married – did he make an honest woman of Dejah Thoris?… no, my John Carter is from East St. Louis, Illinois, though he now lives in Northern California near San Francisco, which has always been one of my favorite cities, even before John Carter – the one who never got to Mars…never even got as far as the moon, unless he did and neglected to mention it to me – even before that John Carter took up residence in the Bay Area and that’s got to be something like forty years, more or less, and single-parented one of my favorite people, Katie, who teaches psychology in Washington State…by the way, I’m also fond of John Carter of East St. Louis’s other offspring, Dylan, who lives and works in Missouri – I haven’t seen either of John’s children in years, though I did exchange email’s with Katie and had a phone conversation with Dylan…

Five hundred and twenty eight words already? Where does the space go?

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases and the Doonesbury Strip-Tease

DENNIS O’NEIL: Celebrating Will Eisner

Well, I didn’t see you at the Will Eisner panel/celebration, held last Thursday, March 1st, at the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, which, if you need to ask, is located at 594 Broadway, New York City, in the district known as SoHo. (And if you did need to ask…let’s just say that any comics reader, casual or otherwise, who is in lower Manhattan and has not yet visited MOCCA, and continues not to visit MOCCA just may have condemned themselves to an eternity of having Seduction of the Innocent read aloud to them by Bobcat Goldthwait.)

But back to the panel/celebration: you weren’t there and we didn’t miss you because we had what was pretty nearly a full house and that was gratifying. The “we” to whom I refer was three people who knew, or knew a lot about, Will, who died in 2005; Judy Hansen, Karen Green and your humble servant. Moderator was the always reliable and excellent Paul Levitz, so pertinent questions were asked, both of the panelists and the audience (of which you were not a member). I left knowing more than when I came, and I suspect that most of the other folk there did, too. I was particularly interested in Ms. Green’s discussion of Will’s business practices, which helped confirm my belief that Will Eisner was what Mark Twain wanted to be: a successful capitalist as well as a superb storyteller.

Did I mention gratifying? For openers, it’s always nice when someone of genuine merit gets recognized, especially when that person was a friend. And the fact that the venue for such recognition exists is nice, too. It indicates that the (always) artificial demarcations between “high” and “low” culture are going the way of the dinosaurs, and some would say, amen and about time.

(But not you because you probably wouldn’t be where amen and about time was being said.)

It might be possible, humbly, hat clutched in whitened fingers, to suggest that respectability does not always benefit what becomes respectable, but that is a pretty damn complicated topic for another occasion.

As we comics geeks continue our gradual trek toward the nicer parts of town, and the world outside our borders comes to recognize that the great comics guys – Eisner, Jack Kirby, Walt Kelly, and, no doubt, young others who are too busy at their boards to wonder about plaudits…these guys were as accomplished in their ways as Dickens and Michaelangelo were in theirs, we’ll have further opportunities to pay them the homage they deserve Is a televised awards ceremony too much to expect? Oh lordy, I hope so. (As I told you last wee, televised awards shindigs are, I boldly state, post-industrial versions of the Inquisition.)

Not that any of this concerns you. Awards? Panels? Not for you. You’re too busy watching Cops reruns. Bad boy bad boy.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

DENNIS O’NEIL: Who Watches The Wackies?

 “…and I’d also like to thank the guy who parks my car on Wednesday nights and the waiter at the Chinese restaurant we ate at last month and, oh, I almost forgot – forgive me – the young mom with the wild mane of reddish hair at the deli counter yesterday, oh lordy, she was gorgeous! And who else? Mr. Electricity Man who puts the electricity through the wires so my television set can light up with pictures and stuff and…”

On the subject of the television: the one that’s in the room above my head will, within the hour, be colonized by show-biz elite because this is the magic night when my sweetie and I part video-viewing company. She’ll be watching the Academy Awards and I’ll be…doing something that isn’t watching the Academy Awards. Why? Well… I feel consternated by mountain-size helpings of glitz and besides, no superhero movies are up for any of the prizes. (Those Hollywood philistines! Didn’t they see The Green Hornet?)

Though the red-carpet trodders do have things in common with superheroes. For openers: costumes. Listen, I’ve been to Hollywood – I’ve even been to three movie studios – and people don’t wear stuff like that on the street. Just as Batman only dons his cape and cowl on certain occasions – often involving dark rooftops and maniacs – these performers apparently wear their special finery on ceremonial occasions – maybe only this ceremonial occasion – and then shed it and put on, you know, clothes. And the wearing of it doesn’t even please everyone: expect the snarkfest to begin late tonight and continue through tomorrow’s cable news cycle: eyebrow archers who probably have AFTRA union cards commenting uncharitably on couture, coiffure, décolletage, footwear, anklewear, wristwear, neckwear and, if someone is just a tiny bit daring, even underwear, providing all the glorious entertainment of hearing a couple of preadolescents discussing the best looking child in the seventh grade who, of course, isn’t them.

Costumes not enough? Then add masks. Oh, not the kind of masks you wear on Halloween, nor the kind that Catwoman and Spider-Man wear to work (unless one of the trodders decides to make a Fashion Statement and harvest really major snarkery.) The masks I refer to are not donned, they’re applied with brushes and pencils and powder puffs and fingertips and…I don’t know…trowels?

Like our superheroes, these actors have something to hide – insecurity? pimples? – and I don’t think we see them at their best on Oscar night. Weirdly enough, we do see them at their best when they’re most hidden – when they’re saying others’ words and, in some cases, even mimicking others’ gestures. When they’re doing their jobs. That’s how I like to enjoy them, how I like to remember them, as wonder workers who can, however briefly, transform my world and maybe and brighten my existence for the two hours I sit in darkness.

My pick? I thought you’d never ask. I gotta go with The Artist. By the time you read this, we’ll know if I’m right. And you can do me the favor of not giving a damn.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases Gives A Damn

 

DENNIS O’NEIL Goes Haywire

Well, you know that I wasn’t going to allow Haywire to escape from my local monsterplex without giving it a look. A guy who’s written about Lady Shiva and Black Canary, not to mention a somewhat wimpified Wonder Woman who used martial arts in lieu of genuine superpowers – this guy was about to let pass a movie starring one Gina Carano who, in addition to being gorgeous, has real-life ass-kicker credentials, a film directed by one of the most interesting gents in movieland? No siree!

For reasons that I suspect are exempt from rationality, I have always responded to movie swashbucklers who can actually do the stuff they’re pretending to do – in the case of the excellent Jackie Chan, actually doing it for the camera. So, either in theaters or in my domicile, I’ve watched flicks starring Jackie, Bruce Lee, and, descending to the region of lesser lights, Cynthia Rockrock, Olivier Gruner, Jean Claude Van Damme, Don Wilson, Steven Seagal and maybe one or two I’ve forgotten.

Not everything featuring these performers was a cinematic masterpiece, but I watched and, dammit, I will continue to watch, at least as long as Blockbuster is willing to rent me discs.

The conflation of fiction and biography isn’t new – far from it. Davy Crockett and Wild Bill Hickok were featured in the pulpy dime novels of the 19th century in yarns that may have been…just a tad exaggerated, maybe. Hickok starred in a stage drama about a frontiersman who may have had more than a passing resemblance to Wild Bill himself before dying of a gunshot while playing poker, and Buffalo Bill Cody, animal hunter turned showman, had a vastly successful “wild west show” with cowboys and Indians and stage coaches and lots of horses. (Even a cow or two?)

Going way, way back – even Alexander the Great was pulpified in extravagant adventures written about someone with his name and general background who didn’t otherwise resemble the great conqueror. (My source doesn’t specify how these stories were disseminated: read aloud down at the agora while the hearties knocked back the fermented honey or whatever was in the barrel in far-past days of yore?)

So what’s the appeal of these mashups of fable and fact? I offer two possible reasons.

First reason: In the cases of Chan, Lee, et. al., it might be a twin to the pleasure we get from watching dance because dance is what a well-choreographed movie fight is. (And I do wish that Hollywood folk would become aware of this.) The human body doing the extraordinary – the reason we watch the Olympics and a lot of televised sports.

And the second reason: we need heroes and maybe knowing that there’s something authentic in screen portrayals helps, just a tiny bit, in our willing suspension of disbelief.

Haywire? Oh yeah, Haywire, with Gina Carano. Did I mention that it was directed by the protean Steven Soderbergh and that I thought it was pretty good?

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

DENNIS O’NEIL Dons Bardo

You guys know what the word “bardo” means, right? You don’t? Oh gosh, I’m sorry. Last week I threw a Catholic factoid at you and this week I’m hitting you with something from Tibetan Buddhism which, for pity sake, isn’t even Christian! (What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just pass the test, toss the text, and cruise down to Steak’n’Shake like the rest of the kids?)

Never mind. Here is a definition of “bardo” provided by my favorite oracle, Wikipedia:

The Tibetan word Bardo means literally “intermediate state“ – also translated as “transitional state” or “in-between state” or “liminal state.” Used loosely, the term “bardo” refers to the state of existence intermediate between two lives on earth…The term bardo can also be used metaphorically to describe times when our usual way of life becomes suspended, as, for example, during a period of illness…

The jury is still out – way, way out – on the “two lives” business, but the bardo concept is a useful expression of something most of us experience, sometimes often. The in-between place. The “what-happens-next” region.

This time of year is bardo territory. Between the seasons. Between warmth and cold. Holidays are past and…now what?

My personal bardo? Well, last fall the Brigade of Evil Kidney Stones attacked and sent me to the hospital four times and resisted counterattack – we’d say “valiantly” if they were the good guys. State-of-the-art medical science has been only partially successful against them. I imagine the last one, who may or may not be still lurking in my innards – the X-Ray is yet to come – standing boldly and snarling, You throw sonic waves at me, puny mortal? I spit on your sonic waves!

Doctor Doom, eat your heart out.

I began teaching my NYU course last week, thus hauling myself from the between-semesters bardo.

The world of comic books is also emerging from a bardo, kind of. DC’s relaunch of its entire superhero pantheon is past. The new stuff is making its way apace, with, already, a few casualties and a few replacements. Both DC and Marvel seem to be doing some kind of reorganization. (Full disclosure: This is a guess – less than a guess: I couldn’t be further out of the loop if I lived on Pluto.) The effect of the new technology on our favorite narrative medium is still a big question mark. (By the way, I’m having difficulty learning about said technology. Wonder why.)

It’ll all be resolved, soon or late, and the bardos will come and go…

But look! Down there! The space between the end of this column and the beginning of the next! What the heck is that? Do you think it could possibly be…?

RECOMMENDED READING: I first encountered the word “bardo” as part of a title “The Bardo Thodal, often translated as “The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”  My sketchy understanding of it is that this is a set of instructions for the newly dead to help them negotiate the afterlife. It had a vogue among the counterculture in the fabled Sixties and then dropped off my radar. So maybe this is not a recommendation, but rather a mention; now you know the thing exists.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases


DENNIS O’NEIL: Patron Superheroes?

Got a concept for you. Ready?

Patron superheroes.

You’re lovin’ it already, aren’t you?

For those of you who have never been Catholic, here’s a quick definition of patron saint, via the invaluable Wikipedia: “A patron saint is a saint who is regarded as the intercessor and advocate in heaven of a nation, place, craft, activity, class, clan, family, or person…(They) are believed to be able to intercede for the needs of heir special charges.”

I mean, when you think about it superheroes and patron saints have a lot in common. Both are dedicated to helping the good guys (though the definition of “good guys” is liable to change) and both have powers that help the aforementioned good guys. You’re Lois Lane falling from a window, you yell and here comes Superman to prevent you from splatting. You’re a Giants fan, you want your team too win the Super Bowl, you pray to the appropriate saint and – yay Giants.

Okay, maybe your saint didn’t affect the game directly – though who knows? – but he or she obviously had some influence on the final score. I mean, saints obviously have a lot of clout. And these things are, by their very nature, mysterious.

Now, I don’t know if there is actually a patron saint of football, or a patron saint of the Giants, or of the New England Patriots, but if not, these surely are blanks easily filed in. If we can put a man on the moon, we can give he Patriots a patron! And by the way, there is a patron saint of athletes: St. Sebastian. So what if a Giants fan and a Patriots fan both prayed to Sebastian? Gee, another darn mystery…Maybe whoever prayed loudest?

We’re going to ignore “pagan” deities, who had a lot in common with both saints and superheroes because…well, this is a Christian country! (I believe I heard a guy wearing a suit on television say that, so I know it has to be straight.)

And that brings us to patron superheroes, though there really isn’t much to say about them, once you acknowledge the similarities between saints and superdoers. It’s just a matter of dotting the I’s and crossing the t’s, and you can manage that on your own.

But to help you get started, here’s a brief, off-the-top-of-my-head list of heroes and what they might be patron of.

Superman – immigrants.

Plastic Man – politicians.

Spider-Man – entomologists.

Green Arrow – acupuncturists.

The Human Torch – arsonists.

Invisible Scarlett O’Neil – wallflowers. (No relation, in case you’re wondering.)

The Flash – athletic shoe manufacturers

Captain Marvel – electricians.

Captain Marvel Junior – electricians’ assistants.

Hoppy the Marvel Bunny – fertility.

The Shadow – sundials.

And to make it an even dozen –

Blue Beetle – unhappy rock stars.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL’s Crystal Ball

Arm back, arm forward, release the ball and…three it goes, down he lane, heading for the pocket and…Kerflunkl –

Strike!

But uh-oh. Look what happened. Somehow, instead of rolling a bowling ball we rolled our magic crystal ball and sure, we knocked down all the pins, but we also smashed the ball to smithereens. Dozens of shards scattered on the polished wood.

Well, we won’t be using that crystal ball to peer into the­­­­­ – or some – future and let the prophecies issuing therefrom provide fodder for this week’s blather. Nope. And there are things we’d like to know about the forthcoming comics world, like will DC be able to continue the success of its reworking of the superhero pantheon (lookin’ good so far, guys!) and just how damn digital will comics get and if they get any digitaler will the comic shops cope? Will their income really be seriously affected?

(I mean, they’re closing the Blockbuster I’ve been patronizing for the past dozen years or so. Nothing is sacred, or certain, and of course we know that, but it can still kick us in the shins.)

Where was I? Oh yeah. Things we’d like to know. On a personal note…will I finish the book I’ve been futzing with for…is it three years now? And will somebody publish it? (And if our crystal ball had a literary critic app, I’d ask just how smelly a garbage heap the book is, anyway.) And back to comics-related matters: Will the Batmovie really knock everyone’s socks off? (And hey, Warners – must I pay for my own ticket or will one of you folks be kind to the ancient, doddering, mostly-retired, septuagenarian funny book hack and put him on a screening list? And not one for a screening in Los Angeles, please. He’s already scheduled to get on more airplanes than he cares to this year.)

Maybe we could pick up a shard and catch a glimpse in it if what the crystal ball would have revealed if we hadn’t stupidly mistaken it for athletic equipment. But what good would that do? Without a context – without the big picture – what we glimpse in a shard wouldn’t provide much information. Come to think of it…the whole and uncompromised crystal ball, pre-bowling fiasco, wasn’t really all that useful, was it? Not for what counts, not for what we really want to know. (Mostly: will I get what I want? How will it all turn out? And oh yeah…will I get what I want?) That ball was always pretty murky, wasn’t it? The images it presented were fuzzy and soft-edged and weirdly distorted, the colors all wrong, the backgrounds bizarre, and when time had passed and we were existing in the reality of those images, they never meant what we thought they’d mean.  There were also smells, which the ball couldn’t show.

Once, when I was interviewing the great Alfred Bester for a magazine piece, he showed me a statuette, a Hugo, the award bequeathed by science fiction fans for outstanding work – the first Hugo ever awarded for best novel of the year. He was using it as a doorstop because, he said, that’s what it’s good for.

Maybe crystal balls make good bowling balls.

RECOMMENDED READING: Alfred Bester received his Hugo for The Demolished Man in 1953. If you’d like to compare your preferences with those of readers of yore, you can probably find a copy of the novel.­­­

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Who Needs To Be A Superhero?

File this under Art Imitating Life Imitating Art.

Or maybe, clothes don’t make the (super) man.

Last month, the New York Times ran a story – front page, no less – about ordinary citizens putting on costumes, giving themselves superheroish names, hitting the streets and combating real-life crime. Apparently, they mostly content themselves with non-violent intervention, or calling the cops, though one guy in Seattle was arrested after pepper-spraying a street fight.

They even have an organization called The Black Monday Society.

It’s been creeping into the zeitgeist for a while, this business of plain Janes and Joes putting on odd clothing and assuming alter egos. There’s been at least one movie that uses the idea as a springboard – it’s called “Super” and it’s popped up on cable channels hereabouts – and it was the core of a weekly television show titled “Who Wants To Be A Superhero?” hosted by my one-time boss, Stan Lee. (Stan: If you’re out there and asking that question, I’m not raising my hand.)

I imagine that for most members of the Black Monday Society, the masked-and-caped patrols are a hobby, a slight mutation of the dressing up at comics and science fiction conventions that can make a good time of just sitting in a hotel lobby and watching the fantasies parade on past. And hey, maybe the Black Mondays are actually of some service to heir fellow citizens. What’s not to like about blowing the whistle on some creep breaking a vacationing neighbor’s basement window, or directing a befuddled partygoer to the nearest bus stop? But here’s the catch: these well-meaning people are not superheroes, and neither are you, or I, or Stan, or Ryan Reynolds, or anybody else who ever trod the planet. We are not faster than a speeding bullet, we can’t outpower a locomotive nor leap over tall buildings, and if we were ever bitten by a radioactive spider we’d need medical attention. As a species, we homo sapiens need medical attention pretty often, and we especially need it when we meddle with strangers who are bigger, stronger, meaner, or have better weapons or ornery friends or, as almost happened when congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was shot, a good Samaritan packing a gun mistakes the heroes for the villains.

The psychosexual aspects of role playing in dangerous contexts were touched on in Watchman, still the high water mark in comic book superheroics, and the perils of being a self-appointed vigilante were the subject of last week’s episode of Harry’s Law, which dealt with a young woman’s putting on a Wonder Woman suit and bashing abusive spouses.. I’d been watching the show for about 20 minutes before I remembered that its co-writer, and the show’s creator, the prolific and generally excellent David Kelley, was also honcho on a Wonder Woman series that NBC decided not to air. The episode was unusually glum for a Kelley production, with the faux WW ending up in therapy, but it did give the producers an excuse to put a gorgeous Erica Durance in that costume.

Several decades ago, the mythologist and sage, Joseph Campbell, warned of the dangers of conflating myth with fact. A news story and a fable tell different kinds of truth and it might be unhealthy to confuse the two. So maybe we’d all better save our superheroing for the next convention costume parade and find other ways to help our neighbors.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

 

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