Author: Marc Alan Fishman

Marc Alan Fishman: The Mystery of Mr. Rhee

The whole time I’ve been on the creator side of Artist Alley here in the midwest, the name Dirk Manning has been omnipresent. The ebony-coifed, Cthulu-befriending, ne’er-do-well of independent horror comic writing fame has long been a stalwart presence on the periphery of my own indie tunnel-vision. Finally, I decided to be more than a passing conversation and Facebook poker and converted myself into a paying customer. And with his first volume of Tales of Mr. Rhee sitting proudly over the potty where I watch my toddlin’ son enjoy bathtime, I’ve consumed the initial batch of madness. I am elated to post that I didn’t carve a single mystic rune into my skull whilst enjoying it.

The book itself is a hoot. A collection of web-comics presented in the standard printed comic format, the series straddles the line of the occult somewhere between the blue collar and the black robe. “Mr. Rhee” himself is a tough-as-nails savior of the damned in the same vein as folks like Constantine or Hellboy. He’s got spells and a bad attitude to keep him safe from demented and deranged demons. In all, the first volume covers bits and pieces of the titular thaumaturgy, from his humble and tragic origin to his current dangers regarding the dastardly demons that lurk in Mr. Rhee’s barely-kept-closed-closet. Say that three times fast.

Upon completing the trade, I was left in a bit of a stupor. The forward, by fellow midwestern writer “Uncle” Raf Nieves – which I oddly chose to read last – dealt entirely with the damn, I wish I’d thought of that feeling a creator might get reading somebody else’s work. While I had none of those feelings, I get entirely what was being communicated. It’s actually what drew me into making comic books in the first place. Mr. Rhee and the universe he occupies shares so much space with so many other occult/horror universes that it left me pondering mostly how talents like Mr. Manning, Nieves, and the rest all end up traveling down the same dichotomous road.

As mentioned above, Tales of Mr. Rhee lives on the line between the blue collar workaday world and the epically macabre. The evil and horrific worlds created in horror comics (and TV shows, movies, what-have-you) rely heavily on balancing the mundane with the insane. A Friday the 13th movie without the overnight camp set-up is simply never worth your time. And even when a story shuffles harder towards the blue collar – like Hellboy or Goon – there’s always a strong undercurrent of truly wicked things that anchor the story down. The balance is the key to the quality.

And for those seeking to dispel my thesis with Ghostbusters… go watch the boogyman episodes of The Real Ghostbusters and get slimed. But I digress.

The best scares – like the best laughs, or even action beats – come when you least expect it, and hit at issues underneath the surface. The best terror one might ever feel (aside from the kind you get when you sign your first mortgage) contains a large portion of plausibility, with the right dash of the impossible. A spider catching you off guard might make you jump. A spider that whispers to you that you’ve always been a failure is terrifying.

Tales of Mr. Rhee begins as an unassuming monster hunter rag. So true that it ultimately excels when the supernatural takes form as annoying neighbors, transitory spirits hanging at the bar, and even within the crevices of land purposely sold to a unassuming family to spare those in-the-know from the potential danger. The tales themselves are presented all without backstory, and finish as quickly as they start. As chapters tick off, the creeping crescendo of the final reveal ultimately provides the biggest scare of them all: We thought these tales were merely random short idiosyncratic occurrences, devoid of greater machinations. All-the-while, amidst his own decaying network of former associates, Mr. Rhee, unyielding bad-ass we thought him to be, is caught with nary an alacazam to mutter in the face of the evil that lurked underneath him the entire volume. Plausible, with that pinch of the impossible you say?

Chilling indeed.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Loving Age of Ultron

Oh, Avengers: Age of Ultron, how I loved you so! From the moment the pre-movie Ant-Man trailer began to the last second of Whedon-tinted footage befell my eyes, I was a happy camper. Before I roll up my sleeves and dive in to the nitty-gritty details that made the movie for me, I’d be remiss if I didn’t shout from the rafters that this week’s column is chock full of spoilers. So, consider yourself warned. But I digress. Let the love-in begin!

Remembering Where It All Began.

More than once during Age of Ultron, the lingering ideas of Iron Man permeated the plot line. This attention to detail – taking the theme of Tony’s war-mongering past as the driving force for all that has followed – helped create a sequel born of the cinematic MCU, rather than being plucked directly from the proverbial pulp.

That Pietro and Wanda would stare a Stark explosive in the face for several days of mental anguish, would lead them to their nearly permissible antagonistic actions showed a deft hand in the writer’s room. Pair this with the birth of Ultron himself and you have a wealth of villains to combat without it feeling like a bloated mess. I’m looking at you, Spider-Man 3, Amazing Spider-Man, and any other multi-villain movie menagerie. Here, Tony Stark is the spark for the unfurling events. It’s an organic plotline that pays dividends through believable character interaction. Astonishing, no?

Exploring The Details Of The Under-Players.

In the first Avengers movie, Black Widow and Hawkeye were mostly there to flesh out the cast. Believably placed for the ties to S.H.I.E.L.D., Natasha and Clint had their moments, but their placement on the team at large seemed more or less to add a human element to an inhuman team. No, not those Inhumans.

Here in Ultron, our truly human Avengers showcase that it was their humanity that was their superpower all along. Hawkeye the family man and the Black Widow the no-baby-mama helped anchor their gifted counterparts when things got too explody. That we would see Hawkeye leap into battle knowing he leaves a wife and kids behind – because he knows his worth and importance to the team – hit me as a parent right in the feels. As for Natasha revealing a secret shame to Bruce Banner in an effort to prove that her budding feelings for Tony Stark’s best science-bro matched his outer monsterhood with her own perceived faults… well, it was a touching and mature a concept placed in a movie I wouldn’t have pegged as either of those adjectives.

A Master Plan Worthy Of A Mean Child.

Loki, granted the mind-gem by Thanos in an effort to conquer Earth, hatched an invasion pitted against  a handful of misguided do-gooders. His machinations included mind-control, sabotage, and ultimately brute force. In contrast, Ultron – very much a child, with more mental capacity and power then he can truly control – opts instead to smash the earth with a big rock. Sure, there’s more to it than that… but really, there isn’t. And it’s a brilliant move. When we first meet him, Ultron seeks to evolve. He sets about his plan not unlike Loki – using mind-control and psychic attack to distract – but when he’s denied his prize, there’s little left to do but start killing. That he was able to create a network of thrusters underneath an entire city in what feel like a few days? Well, I guess that’s what makes him a super-villain.

What I love most about it though, is that the end-game motivations of Ultron end up immature and thuggish when he’s left without the toy he wanted in the first place. We are reminded at the tail-end of the movie that both he and The Vision are very much new to the world. No amount of knowledge can replace wisdom. Again, this is a little detail in a large moving plot that escalates a would-be blockbuster into something that rises above my personal expectations.

And Last, But Not Least… The Promise Of The Future.

When the dust settles, it’s apropo that there’s no schwarma to be had. The Avengers fall into their more natural state. If I might beat this dead horse one last time: the actions presented all felt in line with the characters we’ve seen built in front of us now for the last seven years. Of course Captain America and Black Widow will remain Avengers set to train the first class of new heroes. Tony Stark, tail between his legs, retreats to his vast fortune and his machine shop to ponder where he goes next. Thor returns to his homeland to seek answers, and likely build towards Infinity Wars. Hawkeye gets his well-deserved family time.

And our incredible Hulk? He’ll incredibly sulk for a while, until he’s needed again, I suppose. Given that he turned down the opportunity for a romantic connection in lieu of a martyrs’ life makes sense. He did try to commit suicide only a year or two ago. He’s not ready to move on.

And after a nuanced movie like Age of Ultron? Neither am I. Excelsior indeed.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Notes from C2E2

A week ago Friday, my studio mates and I met once again in the hallowed halls of Chicago’s McCormack Place to ring in the first big show of the year for Unshaven Comics. ReedPop’s C2E2 is to the Midwest what SDCC is to the west coast, or Reed’s sister show the New York Comic Con is to the east.

Unlike those two aforementioned behemoths, C2E2 doesn’t come with huge PR stunts, a multitude of multimedia stars, or what I’d personally dub a wave of humanity. Instead, the still-amazingly-large show boasts only one or two A-List celebs, a mish-mash of medium weighted ‘hey, I know [that person]!’, and an endless sea of comic-making talent. I’d dare suggest that comics are still the primary focus of the show. I might be very wrong on that point… but damn it if I’m not an optimist.

The show for we Unshaven Lads wasn’t what I’d hoped. You see, as the business-end of our business (natch), I’ve always adhered to the mandate that when we repeat a show we should see a ten-percent increase in book sales. To me, that represents us continually adding to our meager fan-base, in addition to keeping those on board who are here with us for the ride. This year, the fifth I believe for C2E2, marked the first time we didn’t meet or exceed that goal. And to rub it in, we did nine-percent less than last year. As the dollar and cents guy, my need for explanation has nipped at me all week.

To be honest: I got nothing. The fact is we left that show having sold 330 books and plenty of posters and trading cards. We didn’t meet our goals, but that won’t stop us from returning next year. If anything, it’s motivated us to up our game. More on that to come in future columns.

If I may stray to a tangental story…

You’d be surprised after pitching the same pitch thousands of times we really only hear a handful of responses. Most typically, ‘Wow, what a mouthful!’, ‘Oh my god that’s everything I love!’, ‘Hey [so and so] c’mere and listen to this!’, or the always wonderful ‘Great. Where’s Dan Dougherty’s table?’

Every now and again, a fan when pitched to will turn the tables to present us with unpublished work of their own. Traditionally its done with an air of pity mixed with hope and pride. In their mind, you showed me yours, now I’ll show you mine eventually leads to them hopping behind the table with us after only a cursory glance at their magnum opus. Because clearly our three headed logo deserves a mysterious fourth. Or so I might assume.

As so many of us know, when you want to break in to the comic industry it can feel like an impossible mountain to climb. An artist can produce a portfolio, and if they are skilled enough (and meet deadlines), work is out there – albeit accrued most likely through networking like an insane mental patient. If you’re a budding writer, your choices are far more limited. And every convention we go to… out comes a few of them right to our table. Their hopes placed in our hands, with a pitch in tow. After leaving C2E2, we Unshaven Lads left with a bit of wisdom to share with all those folks who consider this common practice.

The sad truth of it all is that breaking in to comics is as simple as coughing up the time, energy, and money enough to produce work on your own… and then taking that petrifying leap of faith to put it in the hands of unsuspecting strangers in hopes that they’ll want to keep it in exchange for a few shekels. To sell from the fan’s side of the aisle to the creators though crosses an unspoken line. Suffice to say, when we’re on the creator’s side, it’s to sell, not buy. And trust us, we also come to shows to buy.

In an interview long-long ago, the great and powerful forehead of comics, Alex Ross, was noted in saying that the way he broke in was not in effect any particular meeting or casual chit-chat at a con. It was made due to professionalism in his presentation. His portfolio was neat, clean, and presented with confidence. Meetings were sought, and attended with focus and zeal. If Unshaven Comics left the 2015 C2E2 with any advice to give those would-be suitors trying to make it to the other side of the aisle, it’d be to heed that statement.

It could be clear enough that artists in the alley aren’t often seeking new talent to create with. And for those who do, well, they’d be apt to put up a sign about portfolio reviews. But I digress. The truth of the matter is though, that when a fan presents us with their lone copy of their manuscript in a sweaty manila envelope… there’s little to nothing we can do then and there to be of any help. In between pitching, selling, drawing, and networking… being able to focus, read, and absorb someone’s work isn’t going to happen. Instead, a few phrases will be skimmed, while we figure out a way to not be a dick to the fan we’re still trying to sell our own book to.

And when an artist presents his or her portfolio – even if they are amazing – the likelihood that we’ll have the wherewithal to save their contact information and reach out after the show is as apt to happen as DC nabbing a copy of The Samurnauts, and signing us to an exclusive deal.

In the end, we know how hard that road to the other side of the aisle is. And we know because in 2005, we were the ones walking from booth to booth peddling our lone issue of a comic we knew would break us in. Simply put? It didn’t. So we put it out ourselves, and earned our fans one at a time. We’re still doing it now. And faced with less sales than the year past? It’s only made us hungrier for the future.

Consider that a Chicago-sized deep dish pizza for thought.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: When Are Characters Not Real?

This past week we were given a pivotal episode of Gotham. Amidst all the gut-wrenching angst, two minor sub-plots reached fever pitch. In one, the soon-to-be Riddler finally snapped, and joined the “Murder-Because-I-Can’t-Take-It-Anymore” club. In the second, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot finalizes his plans to murder Sal Maroni – after the don himself decides to push the buttons of the would-be Penguin. Both these plots were fantastically acted. Both left me seething as much of the characters on screen. But the actions taken by both men as depicted struck me as off-character compared to their comics origins. Disconcerting, but simply par for the course adaptations.

Ever since the pilot, Edward Nygma’s screen time has been dedicated to his pining for one Ms. Kringle, deep in the fileroom of the GCPD. And while Edward didn’t quite take no thank you as an answer for his advances… it would take her having to date a man who proclaims “some women just need a strong hand” to eventually turn Nygma into a killer. Was his repeated stabbing of Kringle’s meathead beau deserved? Sure, if you’re playing fast and loose with morality. But up to that point, the “Riddle Man” was eccentric but not psychopathic. A cursory glance of my own definition of what makes The Riddler doesn’t often cross the boundaries of passionate physical violence. In fact, really, it never does.

When I think of Edward Nygma? It’s too hard not to immediately recall “If You’re So Smart, Why Aren’t You Rich” from Batman: The Animated Series. In the episode, Nygma was a puzzle maker pushed to his limits by the greed of his boss. When pinned against the wall, Nygma wilted and took a full year to return to Gotham, reformed as the mastermind so many of us pin to the very core of the character. The Riddler is a thinker. He’s a player in a grand game. He’s a thief. He’s not blood-thirsty malcontent. In Gotham, the proclivities of the character remain in tact – he’s clever, obsessed with riddles, and seemingly more obsessed with matters of the mind than of physicality. But in the show, the creators are apt to force the psychosis onto Edward rather than really let it seep in from the corners. In the cartoon? The Riddler was a nuanced ne’er-do-well. In live action? He’s a living cartoon.

Where I found Nygma’s turn to the dark(er) side to be a bit foul, I’m of the opposite mind concerning young Penguin. While Mr. Taylor himself merely walks the walk of the would-be villain… he certainly wouldn’t be pinned in a lineup of actors one would think of when the casting turns to the oft-depicted Rubeneque rogue. But I digress.

As depicted throughout this first season, there’s been a ton to like about Oswald. His silver tongue and laughable frame allowed him to play in between heavy mafiosos like Loki must do at Asgardian cocktail parties. He talks his way into power and out of seedy situations. The Penguin is a schemer. He’s a would-be kingpin (no, not Kingpin) who fancies himself an ornate and public figurehead not unlike the dons he aspires to murder. When plunged into his enemies, Ozzie’s knife feels well-placed. From the very first time we meet him, he was always a bird of a darker feather… both on the page and the screen.

It leads me to the bigger question we comic book fans find ourselves asking when our magazine heroes become moving pictures. Where is the line drawn? In many cases, it’s been as spot-on as we could ever hope. Marv in Sin City. Hellboy. The Joker in Batman: The Animated Series. Captain America in all those Marvel movies. In each depiction there was truly no wiggle room between the source and the eventual performance. But as with so many things, the devil is in the details.

Think of the Daredevil movie, circa 2003. While the character of course was white in the comics, casting a mountain of a man like Michael Clarke Duncan in the role of The Kingpin seemed more fitting. And the way he was played in the movie (in spite of the absolute atrocious writing) was true to the source. The Kingpin was a heavy-hitting don, with his fingers in a lot of criminal pies. He was classy, and he radiated power. I’d be hard-pressed not to ask our resident Black Panel creator Michael Davis how he personally graded the depiction. In sharp contrast, there’s Bullseye. What was once one of the most dangerous and professional killers in the MCU was represented by a scene-eating Irishman with his logo carved into his forehead. He rode loud obnoxious motorcycles, wore loud boots, and seemingly smirked at everything in apropos of common sense. Maybe he was high? What he wasn’t was Bullseye.

Ultimately, our characters are merely licenses. They are templates by which studios fill in enough detail in order to eventually deliver a new end-product. We, the gatekeepers of cool, typically judge these depictions against the knowledge we’d absorbed through years of private fandom. Those stalwart traits that drive the characters must remain in tact for us to wholly celebrate them. See: The Avengers. When they stray too far – become too Hollywood, too dark, too polished, or simply too unrecognizable? Well, that’s when we mock the hell out of them and demand justice. See: Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice.

On second thought, maybe don’t see that movie. That hardly looks like the Batman and Superman I know. Natch.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Silly Consumers… Comics Are For Kids!

Watch_mr._wizardThe evening on which I am writing this article (Tuesday, the 14th), marks the third year I’ve been an “Artist In Action” for a small program run by a local elementary school. The day finds me giving a presentation (alongside two other fine artists) on how I make art via the computer, in 20-minute blocks, for every class in the school. The kids themselves range from kindergarten through 5th grade. Their teachers range from fully interested in what I’m presenting, to completely happy they don’t have to do much more than tell Billy to stay seated for an hour. It’s a long day, all things considered. But suffice to say: it’s a soul-satisfying experience that I hope will continue for years to come.

As in years past, I’ve actually felt a bit embarrassed. Next to oil painters, and collage artists… my work has often felt sub-par or perhaps juvenile. And my techniques – which include lightboxing (“Your mother’s a tracer!”), flatting (“Because good boys and girls know how to stay in between the lines!”) and other tricks of the Comic Book trade (“What? That’s not a filter!”) – leave the real artists often scoffing under huffy breath over my end-product. Yet today, my two adjoining artists were technophiles in their own right. A sculptor with work experience in Auto-CAD, and a collage / multi-media artist who squeed at the very mention of a GoPro. It was a breath of fresh air knowing that only three years into the program, the message to the children was not of the Luddite bible. But I digress.

The largest lesson I took away from the day hit me early in one of my presentations. Ever the eager-beaver, and teacher-pleaser, this year I came prepared with a take-home lesson for all the kids. I included an assignment sheet asking children to make their own six-panel strip, and included the simple steps Unshaven Comics takes in producing our own work. I also included the page with the panels (just-in-case), as well as a sheet for coloring (just-in-case the assignment wasn’t their speed). The unmitigated glee hit me after this exchange:

Me: Kids! Since you’ve been so attentive and awesome here today, I have a gift for you.

Kids: *Gasp!*

Me: Homework!

Kids: Boo! Noooo! Why! Awwwww!

Me: The homework is to draw your own comic!

Kids: *Undecipherable cheers, hoops, hollers, and genuine joy*

Watching the kids throw their arms up in cheers over the idea that they could make a comic was something that at first my snarky brain could not process. Certainly these video-game addicted ne’er-do-wells could give two poops about making a hand-drawn comic! But nay, in fact there they sat – Indian style, of course – all buzzing and humming over who would collaborate with who on this story or that. Shortly after, their questions came at lightning pace.

How do we start? Where do we start? Can it be about Pokemon? And with my cheeks literally in pain over the unyielding smile, I told them the truth: Start anywhere you want, just write out what you think is exciting, scary, funny, or cool. And yes, it absolutely can be about Pokemon. It took several minutes to calm them down. And with that, the presentation ended, and the next group sat down ready to figure out why their friends were high-fiving and jumping off the walls.

It’s here of course I have to take a step back. In the eyes and minds of children, comics represent infinite possibilities. Long before printer quotas, direct market subsidized pricing models, future IP copyright options, online distribution platforms, or dreaded convention travel and table costs amortization ledgers, there truly is imagination at the heart of our industry. There, amongst two-dozen ten-year olds, comics were an opportunity to collaborate, and entertain. And to their teachers, comics were an opportunity to converge lessons on writing, observation, comprehension, and visual communication into a single assignment.

As I left the school for the day, I saw several teachers lining up at the copy machine; it was all I could do not to fist pump the air like Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club.

Marc Alan Fishman: People Can’t Change!

If you believe one Charles McGill, Esq., then you might just agree with my column title this week. Charles, or just Chuck to his brother James – err, Jimmy – is quite the cantankerous coot when he wants to be. And when he’s not being cranky, he’s stripping his brother’s soul away, through a cruel and twisted life-view. It’s enough to drive a guy to throw years of attempted redemption down the drain in lieu of cheap wins and morally ambiguous behavior. And it’s a damned beautiful shame.

I’m of course talking about the recently completed first season of Better Call Saul, the progenitor to Breaking Bad. To be totally fair, Saul isn’t what one might truly dub a prequel per se. Instead, it’s a same-universe flashback, fleshing out of an otherwise ancillary character into a fully developed lead, worthy of his own show. Suffice to say, I’ve been on board since the first episode. But unlike Breaking Bad – which I believe attempted to keep its audience at arms length from truly embracing Walter White – here we’re given Saul Goodman in the real flesh, and we’re welcome to call him our hero.

If Breaking Bad is Vince Gilligan’s (and Peter Gould’s) grand opus, then Better Call Saul is most certainly his encore. Liken it say, to Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven (but not definitely not Twelve, and not Thirteen). But, I digress. We have content to dissect!

As we knew him from Bad, Saul Goodman was the epitome of a made-for-the-late-night lawyer. The kind whose waiting room brimmed with the lowest of the lowlifes in the ABQ. His office, a mock Oval Office replete with faux-columns, and the finest pleather, was a testament to what a sleazy con man might surround himself with when he wants to appear above board. It took only seconds of screen time to define him as anything close to it. But, in true fashion to deliver more than meets the eye, Saul wasn’t an idiot. He was sharp, knowledgeable, and safe enough – a con man with a coherent (if often errant) conscience. Now, flashing back six years from when we’d first seen him, we get the details behind the facade. And all of it is built on a house of cards when we learn that Saul Goodman is actually ‘Slippin’ Jimmy McGill of Cicero, Illinois.

One of the biggest themes to be presented throughout the first season was change. Over the course of ten episodes, we found the soul of someone seeking redemption. Pinned for giving a Chicago Sunroof (look it up) to the man that would steal his wife, Slippin’ Jimmy – life-long loose-change con man – is given hard time. His clean-cut brother, high-powered Albuquerque lawyer is there for his brother’s release. And its there Jimmy vows to finally change for the good. His brother’s smile through the frown is enough to show us how much belief he had in the sentiment. As we’d later learn, Slippin’ Jimmy took his pledge in all seriousness. A move away from bad influences, a menial job mastered, and a night-course law degree earned over years begat a bar-passing honest-to-goodness lawyer out of a man who once slipped for money. Real change.

When Jimmy dropped his degree-bomb on his brother, he literally had to squeeze the phrase “I’m proud of you” out of Chuck’s bewildered lips. It was not a con (but it was a degree from University of America Samoa…). But in the eyes of the good brother, it wasn’t true penance for an otherwise wasted life. Jimmy, ever eager to prove his mettle, would start a home practice when the evil partner of Chuck (The Hamlin, of Hamlin, Hamlin, and McGill) let Jimmy go from his mailroom position, and opted to only reassess Jimmy’s desire to work within the firm in six months. It was all a lie. This was merely the first jab in an astounding one-two punch.

The haymaker came shortly after Jimmy managed to wrangle a million-dollar class action lawsuit by literally swimming in sh*t long enough to earn it. And in the face of this victory – now cementing our hero as an imperfect guy willing to roll up his sleeves and earn his stripes – he met with the crushing realization that he’d never earn that spot at the table. Charles McGill, Esq. had been the one to force Hamlin to fire Jimmy before. And he made Hamlin out to be the bad guy once again, in offering to take on Jimmy’s big case… just without him anywhere near it.

There have been few moments on TV that rendered me utterly speechless. When Jimmy confronted his brother over the betrayal, and Chuck snapped back immediately with “No one ever changes!” I couldn’t muster anything but warm breath. Slippin’ Jimmy would always be Slippin’ Jimmy to Chuck. No matter the journey. No matter the facts. And with that statement, Gilligan and Gould shot Bruce Wayne’s parents. They killed Uncle Ben and Gwen Stacy. They activated James McGill’s X-gene. Because now, fueled by the sentiment of the brother he still cares for, James – Jimmy – is no longer in the picture.

Long live Saul Goodman, manager of an Omaha Cinnabon.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Deadpool Will Kill DC To Death

This evening, whilst pondering and pontificating over what point I should pencil in the ole’ puter, I stumbled across this clip and its pretty sister clip. Suffice to say, color me curious, kiddos.

Contrary to the predilections of our esteemed Emily W. over here on ComicMix, I’ve never been fond of the Merc with a Mouth™. More often than not, I’ve found him to be a useful tool for a writer to take a short catnap and still be paid. I’ve often found most iterations of the chimichanga eating, joke cutting, kill-first-ask-questions-why ‘Pool to be lighter than light fare. I mean, check-off your aforementioned beats (with the chimichangas, and killing, and the what-not) and end it incoherently, and voila! Instant noodles in comic book form. Now with the character coming to the silver screen, the Marvel and Fox co-production will face becoming more than a farce to ultimately feast at the feet of the fans. Phew!

In less alliterative words: Deadpool, if handled properly, could be the death knell of DC and their movie making enterprise. How would a red-suited slapstick killer be so powerful you ask? Well, given the very nature of the character – as seen in the clips referenced above – the power to break the fourth wall is inherently at the ready. And Deadpool is very lucky to have a completely covered mouth when in full crimson regalia. Allow me to do the math, short-stacks. While doing their eventual ADR work for the film, the writers (and Marvel) will have the opportunity to poke more than a few wink-and-nudges right into the beefy chest of their rival.

Set to debut a month prior to Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, who here can’t see a possible future in which ‘Poolie crushes it at the box office? No doubt chock full of gore, laughs, and potentially lethal barbs fired at the angst-to-be that is DC’s milieu at present, it’s not that far flung to think that as popular as Batman and Superman are, one can’t deny that a Deadpool that rips the World’s Finest a new sphincter might turn more than a few heads. In the same era Marvel drop the Guardians of the Galaxy on the unsuspecting public – to the tune of over 400 million space-credits (not counting merch sales) – having another C-Lister take a few box offices over just seems like a wonderful insult to injury.

The Deadpool movie is written by the dude who made the hilarious Zombieland, and stars an absolute wit like Ryan Reynolds in the titular role (heh, tits…). That being said, there’s no chance in hell it will bank more money than Batfleck and company. But all it’ll take is a few glancing blows by ole’ Wade Wilson before DC is out of the gate, and suffering.

Given how self-serious DC seems to be with each released promo, I’m more than ready for a laugh at their expense. Somewhere between the Samoan Bad Ass Aquaman, and Bald-n-Angry Zuckerberg, Deadpool will have plenty of targets to play with – all while shooting guns and killing mobsters or whatever. While I’m sure the Deadpool movie won’t be specifically targeting any DC property amidst its running time, the fact is they’ll have plenty of opportunities to sneak in some serious body blows. Combine that with a potential massive profit (beyond all that money they made on literally every other movie in their rolodex…), and frankly, I don’t know how Superman and Friends live to see another day. But I digress.

Deadpool will be the popcorn catnip immature nerds will flock to. With Looney Tunes mashing itself with curse words and death, you simply can’t get the raunch-loving masses any more in a tizzy. OK, you could promise some boobs or something, but let’s not get hasty. While I’m not one for purchasing Mr. Wilson’s exploits within the pages of his on-and-off series’ from the House of Mouse… I’m apt at least for 90 minutes worth of brain rot and guffaws at the local megaplex.

Which, I have to say, is a hell of a lot more than I’m willing to give DC these days.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: A Law Worthy of a Super-Villain

As I trolled my Facebook feed this morning, I was caught off guard by some Indiana-dwelling friends. It would seem what I’d thought was an Onion news item was in fact real news. The Indiana state legislature passed a bill – the re-imagining of the “Religious Freedom and Restoration Act” – and upon reading what it allows… well, it sounds like the plot of a Garth Ennis yarn.

And yes, I know that ComicMix is a site for us to post about comics, pop culture, and the other related minutiae of geekery. This law represents nothing related to popular culture outside the fact that the Indianapolis Star reported GenCon threatened to move their large convention to a state that doesn’t allow businesses to discriminate under the pretense of religious freedom. And while I’d hope that Indiana Governor Pence takes the threat under advisement, let’s be honest. He’s far more interested in thwarting legions of Storm Troopers’ ability to purchase goods and services… because they enjoy sodomy and Satan worship, don’t you know.

Unlucky for us pinko-commie-liberals (those who support Obama, and/or think war is dumb), this law isn’t anything new. Indiana is now amongst 19 states that all passed similar legislation. This was to combat the atrocity of Obamacare forcing businesses to pay for healthcare that allowed for the proliferation of birth control, as well as combat all those laws allowing “the Gays™” to marry.

If I recall my US history lessons, I remember that the United States of America was founded in part because crazy folks began to realize that a government need not control, nor be controlled by a central religion. They dreamed of a land where people would have the right to free speech. To gather as they see fit, and worship whomever they chose to. And after a little genocide, they got a huge chuck of land with which to do it. After some wars, death, taxes, and whatnot, the US even adopted the crazy idea that all men are created equal, and gave equal rights to people of all colors, ethnicities, and (eventually) genders. Insane, I know. And after even more death, wars, taxes, the rise and fall of MTV, and a little bit of space travel (if you believe it was real), this same country even started to realize that all people are created equal, and started allowing identify as gay have those very same rights that straight people had.

Well, obviously this is all too much to handle. Thank Rao for red states. I don’t mean to be partisan about the issue, but it’s rare I hear from someone left of center decrying the wasteland of debochery we obviously live in. I’ve seen nary a single soul with an Obama sticker adorned on their VW Jetta lambasting the heathens who shop openly at Whole Foods. But I digress.

The simple truth is that this law (both in Indiana and in all states who adopted similar laws) is unconstitutional. While I agree that a business can put up a “No shirt, no shoes, no service” sign, and stick to it, putting one up that declares “no gays” infringes on the rights of personal freedom. Not wearing a shirt or shoes could be argued for via sanitary needs. Being gay, a Satanist, or a Cherokee doesn’t introduce potentially harmful bacteria to available merchandise. And if a store is to be open to the public, then the public – with all their beliefs in tact – should have the right to shop in said store. Of course I’d rather know up front if a store I planned to support did not support gay rights, so I could be quick to never shop there again.

This is the world we live in, kiddos. Our federal government can’t find a reason to not allow people of the same sex to marry, so the individual states choose to do it instead. I’d say we’re on the verge of a Civil War, but frankly I know we’re not. We’re amidst a time where the old guard clings to their outdated views, and the next generation removes the idiocy in due time. In this case? I just wish I could fast forward to the time where the bigots and ignorant decide to secede from the Union, and hold shop somewhere I’m not. Because the “Religious Freedom and Restoration Act” is something even Doctor Doom would identify as futile.

Doom / Sanity 2016, folks.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: The Flash Reaches Light Speed

So I’ve gabbed about Gotham. I’ve adjudicated over Agents of SHIELD. Isn’t it time I got flustered over The Flash? After the episode debuting this week, “Out of Time”, I’m beside myself with glee. For those who saw the episode, that knowing smirk over my pun-tacular metaphor means we’re going to be the best of friends. For those who are missing out on the festivities – or don’t wish to spoil themselves having not seen the episode yet – I’ll see you next week.

OK, are the buzzkillers gone? Good. My god, what an episode! The Flash started off with a bang – melding the innocence of the silver age, with a well-rendered modern edge – and has quickly become appointment DVR television for the ole Fish-man. Whereas I boot up an episode of Gotham with tepid hope, and SHIELD with a yearning for less angst, I hit play at breakneck speeds when Grant Gustin slips in the red leather and lightning bolt ear cups. And “Out of Time” ensured that amongst all the comic-to-TV series being blasted throughout the airwaves these days, The Flash is the best one on by leaps and bound.

If I’m to ape my old Snarky Synopsis column from www.MichaelDavisWorld, allow me to sum up what all we saw this week. We callback to the very first episode wherein the Martin brothers kill Joe West’s partner and take off in a biplane. Lucky for them, Dr. Wells’ particle accelerator don’ blowed up, and the resulting storm they pilot through. It splits their plane and leaves the crappy criminals imbued with wizard-like power over the weather. But the brothers were separated by the crash, and ole Mark Martin (the older of the pair) wouldn’t catch up to his kin before Joe would put two bullets through his chest. Now, some time later, Mark returns to get his revenge (on the revenge Joe got on his brother for killing his partner, I suppose?). What follows – in between some typical CW-style love quadrilateral drivel – is a breakneck deluge of amazing exposition.

The new Weather Wizard attempts to murder Joe and nails (but doesn’t kill) the captain of the squad instead. He captures Joe and lures Barry and Iris out into the open – where a waiting tsunami begins to crest. Barry reveals to Iris he’s the Flash! Caitlin Snow preps the Flash to fight off the impending tidal wave with a wall of wind to contain it. And for the thousandth time in the show’s history, Barry asks “How fast do I need to go?” Of course the answer is always “as fast as you can, dummy!” Hence, he begins to run from one edge of the beach to the other at breakneck speeds. As the counter wall begins to rise, to subside the decimation, a smash cut lands Barry Allen mysteriously back to a familiar street-corner, literally an evening ago!

Oh, and while all of that was happening Dr. Wells revealed to the ever-curios Cisco that he was indeed the Reverse Flash, Eobard Thawne, trapped in the past after attempting to murder a young Barry Allen. And what does Cisco get for having the man who took him in practically as family, for finding out the juicy little spoiler? He gets his innards shaken, not stirred. And we’d be devastated over this… had Barry not literally traveled back in time to end the episode.

We Flash followers have known that time travel was on the horizon. Enough episodes had hinted at it to warrant more than a passing notion. And as Joe’s suspicions of Dr. Wells swallowed Cisco in just a few episodes ago, the end was nigh. But here we’re given the most dubious of double-backs. Having Barry now alter the timeline, we’re treated to the Hitchcockian allure of seeing the bomb under the table, whilst Barry be forced to save us from it. It’s the kind of storytelling that was made for the comic-to-TV adaptation. The silly psuedo-science of metahumans and speed forces are combined with well-worn characters who’ve spent just enough time with us for we, the audience, to truly care about their well being.

And at the center of it, a happy, smart, fun-to-watch hero. It’s something literally every other comic book TV show on today is sorely missing. Jim Gordon can’t smile without seething. Skye, Coulson, and their gang can’t smile without it being a smirk. And Arrow… c’mon! Barry Allen has not been without his flaws, failures, and share of doubt. But the overarching message week after week has been one of optimism and good will. The Flash has introduced us to plenty of villains of the week, but knows that there’s no use in wasting them away after a single appearance. And by being inspired by the comics that gave birth to itself, instead of feeling like it’s a burden to bear, we’re treated to serialized stories that don’t always pile on angst and guilt. By having a definitive end to the first Martin brother, we’re given the potent return of his revenge-seeking brother (who we knew must have existed, versus some damning plot device). And with Cisco getting to hear the villainous monologue of H. Wells (natch) only to have the entire story Superman: The Movie its way back to a world where it hasn’t happened yet? Well, that’s called having your cake and eating it too.

The Flash is comic book TV done well. Perhaps it’s never been done this slick, this smart, and this fun. “Out of Time” maybe the episode that proves that even the most comic book of concepts can be done sans snark. And that my friends… is a Flash fact.

 

Marc Alan Fishman: Agents of Angst

A caveat before I dig in: I’ve not seen this week’s episode of Agents of SHIELD (and screw typing all those periods!). That being said, I doubt the snark I’m about to wield will be undone over one episode. In fact, I bet my beard on it. But I digress.

With the ending of the limited run on Agent Carter, we’ve returned to the inhumanly angsty agents under Phil Coulson. And it didn’t take long into their mighty return for me to wind up longing for Manhattan in 1946 again. Funnier still to me is the fact that when Peggy was to replace Phil on the squawk box, I lamented even programming the DVR. SHIELD boasted new technology, a major Hydra conspiracy, ties to the modern day Marvel Movieverse™, and plenty of butt-kickery to enjoy. Peggy and pals could only promise pugilists and palookas, gender inequality, and light British tomfoolery. Oh how wrong I was!

What Agents of SHIELD brought back to the forefront when it returned to air, was the considerable yoke of backstory weighing heavily around its neck. And while serial dramas bank on intricate relationships, lofty past adventures, and plenty of narrative short hands, after the breath of fresh air Agent Carter offered up, it became plainly obvious how some of those crutches are useless to stand on with fresh legs ready to run again.

The intricate relationships between Coulson’s team – between Mack and Fitz, Coulson and Skye, May and Coulson, Skye and May, Bobbi and British Guy, Mack and Bobbi, and Simmons and Fitz – all flooded back without any real reintroduction. Because the show stopped at a mid-season finale, it was evidently pressured to return us only seconds after we’d originally left. It removed any chance for us to reacclimate to the beats of the show. It was jarring. It was slow. It was angsty as a high schooler being dumped at the prom. Without any runway to travel down, everything felt superficial – as if all the character-driven moments of the episode were just boxes left to be checked, not moments to be lived in.

While I know the past of the show enough to appreciate Agent Simmons’ new-found power-xenophobia, it simply read as the plot device it clearly is. Agent Coulson bounced between guttural barking and sappy moping. Mockingbird and her beau (whose name I still fail to recall) remain jovial… using their verbal foreplay to remind us that we truly know nothing about them outside what little we’ve been shown. Mack continues to just be a collection of ticks and tallies instead of a human being. Fitz now fully embraces his less-smart-but-still-as-smart-as-the-plot-demands device. Skye, crying through literally every scene she was in, reminds us that with great powers come great big cow eyes. And by the end of the episode – where the team sat together to have a last laugh and tribute to their fallen compatriot – the moment we should feel reconnected to the team hit me as cold and lifeless. They’re telling me how to feel. I could hear it being whispered through the end credits. Why?

Because over the course of all the episodes involving the fallen Agent Triplett, he served more as an expository device than a character. Triplett enjoyed being tied to Ward and Crazy Bill Pulman when he debuted. And shortly after a cocktease of is he actually bad or can we trust him, he was reduced to the black guy until Mack showed up. Then he become the black guy who knew a lot about the Howling Commandos. A soldier, made hero, all to serve as the unifying agent to reset the season. But his death was in vein. He was a sacrifice to the gods of smaller casts, or at very least to the only one black guy on a team initiative. His loss was there more to fluster Skye then make us care. And coming out of a Whedon-led writers room? That’s quite the sin.

The evidence that Agents of SHIELD needs to take a step back and find the wonder and joy it once had comes when we look to the contrasts between our potent proxies.

Over eight episodes, Peggy Carter came to life. More than a sweet red hat and some fine hosiery, she was built as a smart, tough, world-weary spy worthy of a position of power. We got to enjoy this through the contrast of the world built around her. And over those eight episodes, Peggy was able to prove to everyone else what she knew all along. It was fun, fitting, and fast without being frenetic.

In contrast we have Skye. Or Daisy. Whatever. Once our proxy as the savvy hacker fighting against the man, over thirty-two episodes she has forgotten that life altogether. Instead, her toughness is gifted to her via montages with Ward and May. Her smarts, written in pseudo-cyber speak when the plot demands it. And now, she’ll have some emotionally driven superpowers to round off any edges that formerly existed to her character. What was once a woman is now just a sum of plot parts. She is without joy and wonder. She strives for nothing more than the show demands of her week to week.

And it’s on her shoulders that Agents of SHIELD is failing to grab me back from the nostalgic clutches of Agent Carter. Here’s hoping a wormhole is open soon, so Peggy can knock some sense in her future fem fatale.

 

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