There’s a great interview with Joss Whedon, director of the upcoming The Avengers movie, out May 4th, in Sunday’s Arts & Leisure section of the New York Times.
Anyone who reads these columns with any regularity already knows that I am a Buffy geek. But you don’t know that I originally ignored it. Yep, that’s right. I didn’t find the Buffster until the second half of the second season, about the time Angel went back to being Angelus. I found her thanks to my participation in a message board called The Coffee Nebula, which started as a Voyager fan fest, but spread out into other science fiction — I can’t call it sci-fi — and fantasy shows, especially after Voyager ended. (The Neb, as we “Nebsters” fondly call it, is still active, so you might want to check it out.) Everyone was raving about Buffy The Vampire Slayer, so I finally gave in checked it out. And was hooked.
I searched out and found the episodes I had missed. They weren’t quite as strong as the current episodes, but thinking about it now — and after reading the interview — I’ve figured something out.
This week I’ve been ruminating about the Internet and free speech over at Michael Davis World. Whereas I don’t want to discourage you from checking out my pearls of wisdom in its awesome glory let alone the interesting and edifying comments in response thereto, I do want to clue you in on what the whole thing’s about.
I said “Arizona House Bill 2549 states if you post an offensive annoying comment online, you are guilty of a Class 1 misdemeanor. What is offensive? What is annoying? The bill criminalizes behavior that is used “to terrify, intimidate, threaten, harass, annoy or offend (using) any electronic or digital device.” Of course, it also outlaws lewd or profane language. You could be fined $250,000, and you could be sentenced to six months in the clinker.
“Do you think this un-American attack on liberty could not possibly pass? Well, you’re wrong. The folks in the Arizona house and the Arizona senate have already passed this bill and it presently awaits their governor’s signature.”
Given this nation’s fear-based cultural drift towards repression of our freedoms, the chilling affect of this law is as overwhelming as it is overwhelmingly depressing.
Then I looked at some of the comments we’ve received on our March Madness campaign here at ComicMix.
As I’ve stated repeatedly, I am a First Amendment absolutist. As long as it’s legal, there is no reason why advertising cigarettes should be illegal (and no, I do not smoke cigarettes). I don’t believe in the concept of “hate crimes.” Hate speech might be evidence of the motivation behind a crime and that’s fair – freedom of speech does not absolve you from the consequences of your actions. But speech is not in an of itself “action” and we have the right to express our opinions. And I certainly do not want to censor or limit in any way anything anybody might comment on here at ComicMix, even if the ox you’re goring happens to be mine.
However, given some of the comments I read recently here on ComicMix, I am making a request for a higher level of civility. There’s no enforcement behind this, and if you want to comment on this column with a “fuck you, you crawling piece of shit,” well, that’s your prerogative… you asshole.
One of the things I like most about ComicMix (and, for that matter, Michael Davis Worldwhere ComicMix columnists Martha Thomases, Marc Alan Fishman, Michael and myself also blog) is that, by and large, this is a pretty civil operation. We tend to respect one another’s opinions, or at least we’re usually polite. I realize this places a burden on impulsive wits, but I figure if I can usually rein it in, then anybody can.
ComicMix Sorcerer Supreme Glenn Hauman and I have been discussing all this, and Glenn summed it quite up nicely when he said “Welcome to the Internet.” I’m too much of a Tex Avery / Bob Clampett fan to ever be that cartoon bunny rabbit dancing in the sunshine, but I sometimes recognize being a jerk has its limits.
So, on one hand, I want to compliment us all on being such polite and considerate folks. On the other hand, I’d like to ask those who feel the phrase “flame on!” refers to something other than Johnny Storm to please play nice. We’ve all got enough trauma in our lives, and I hate the idea of chasing anybody out of the sandbox.
I think Catwoman is the most fascinating woman in the DC universe.
I can never have a conversation about the character with men and women of a certain age about her without their mentioning Julie Newmar, who played the lithe kittenish female fatale on the Batman television series of the ‘60s as a woman whom we knew had a thing for her “arch-enemy” but loved her diamonds more. With men a certain look comes into their eyes; I wouldn’t exactly call it “leering,” but it sure comes close. With women, I think they remember Newmar’s Catwoman as an independent woman going after what she wanted – be it the Caped Avenger or the ancient Egyptian cat-stature worth millions. (And what little girl didn’t want to look like Julie Newmar when she grew up?)
Then there is Eartha Kitt, who took over the role from Ms. Newmar. She had no desire to rub her fur on the Caped Avenger – her signature purrrrrr-fectly contralto, raspy voice let us know that the only catnip she was interested in was money, and lots of it. Her Catwoman was a bit more, well, sophisticated, than Newmar’s, and I think a little off-putting to the adolescent boys – and girls – of the era; a little scarier because she was more adult.
Michelle Pfieffer, although blonde, totally understood Selina, who, in my opinion, is always straddling a psychic crevice. To paraphrase Mae West, “When I’m good, I’m very, very good. And mousy. And let people walk all over me. And dress like a frump. Barely brush my hair and rarely brush my teeth. But when I’m bad, I’m better. And proud. And strong. And smart. And sexy – my lips taste like vanilla cherry!” All those in favor of Ms. Pfieffer, raise your hands.
Halle Berry? Oi!!!! Though I’m sure there are those out there who would love to finish shredding her costume until she’s perfectly naked.
Anne Hathaway, whose breakout role as Andy Sachs (“Ahn-dreya,” as Meryl Streep – as Miranda Priestly – called her when not calling her “Emily”) in The Devil Wears Prada was absolutely luminous, is playing Selina in the next – and final – installment of Christopher Nolan’s brilliant Batman trilogy, due to hit theatres this summer.
Don’t know about you, but I can’t wait. I have a feeling that, like Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara, this is going to be perfect and dream casting. Okay, the jury is still out, but I believe that not only is Hathaway an actress who is capable of delving into her emotional and psychological shadows – see Rachel Getting Married – but she is also a sexy, talented, and intelligent player whom, I am sure, will bring all those factors into the role.
And she sings, too!
Hmm.
I could easily see Selina Kyle as a nightclub chanteuse. Singing “God Bless the Child.” And “Strange Fruit.” And “Lover Man.”
What do you think? What songs would be on Selina’s repertoire?
Before I begin this week’s column, I need to correct an error from last week’s Music to Write By. Daughter Alixandra let me know that it’s Ewan Mcgregror who stars in Moulin Rouge, not Ethan Hawke.
Onward.
Unless you were vacationing in another dimension last week, you know that the Supreme Court heard arguments on the constitutionality of the individual mandate for heath insurance contained within the Affordable Care Act, popularly known – or “unpopularly,” depending on which side of the aisle you sit – as Obamacare.
Which got me to wondering about insurance for the übermenschen.
The cost of cleaning up after the supermen give each other black eyes – something that seems to occur on a daily basis in the various comics universes – must be astronomical for the city, state and federal governments in which these manos a manos take place. Not to mention the individual cost to the poor schlubs who either work or live in these battle zones.
Imagine what it’s like living in a world where the odds of getting caught in one of those battle zones is over 50%. There are all sorts of “pre-existing conditions” or “Acts of Superhero” clauses in insurance company contracts, otherwise they would be either constantly teetering on the brink of bankruptcy – or after just one good fight between Spider-Man and Doctor Octopus, out of business. Add another deduction for SBHI (Super Battle Health Insurance) and your paycheck is a joke. The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) offers “Fight Insurance” for those living in a “Fight Zone” – areas known to periodically sustain damage from the clashes between ultra-powered enemies.
By the way, why does anyone live in the Metropolis of DC or the New York City of Marvel?
What insurance do the superheroes and super villains carry?
I bet Stark Industries has a subsidiary that writes insurance for them in the Marvel Universe. I don’t think it makes money, probably loses money in fact, but accounting creatively writes it off as a business expense, and the rest of Stark Industries makes up for it anyway. And it wouldn’t surprise me that the company does a mean business in insuring the villains, either. After all, if Saudi Arabia can do business with Israel, why can’t Stark insure Magneto? Or perhaps Wilson Fisk has an insurance company among his holdings from which the bad guys can buy policies. With exorbitant premiums, of cause.
Harder to figure out how the übermenschen do it over in the DC universe. Perhaps the Justice League has incorporated itself and has created its own insurance carrier that it offers to the good guys. But I can’t see the JLA offering insurance to their evil doppelgangers – I don’t think they’re quite as business minded as they are over in the neighboring universe. Maybe Superman squeezes some coal now and then to make some diamonds to feed the pot. (But isn’t that illegal? Or is that like the Fed printing money?)
Every writer has his or her way of settling down to write. Mine is to bring a Diet Pepsi and a pack of Salem cigarettes – yeah, yeah, I know… my bad – to my computer desk. Oh, yeah, and slipping in a CD.
Here’s the dope.
I’m pretty much out of the loop when it comes to music.
On the radio I listen to our local NPR (I love everything about that station); the local CBS sports station (especially during the football season – and during the past two or three weeks, the Peyton Manning-Tim Tebow-Mark Sanchez drama here in New York City has mesmerized me); WRL-1600 AM (the progressive station that took over for Air America here); occasionally WWOR-710 AM (though the station has moved too far to the right for my tastes – at least they got rid of Lou Dobbs!); and CBS’s “oldies” station when I’m commuting. I also play my CD’s, which are eclectic to say the least – the soundtrack to Buffy The Vampire Slayer’s musical episode, Once More With Feeling; a lot of Sinatra; the soundtracks to Yentl and South Pacific; a lot of Beatles; Michael Jackson’s Thriller; The Greatest Hits Of Diana Ross and The Supremes; and a great mix of punk, alternative rock, jazz, and Ethan Hawke singing Your Song from Moulin Rouge (which is amazing) that my daughter made me that she called Rod Stewart Sucks,because she knows I like him. Here’s the problem – I groove to all the songs on that CD, but except for the aforementioned Your Song by Hawke, and Midnight Train To Georgia, I’m hard pressed to tell you the names of the songs and the groups who perform them. I’m not even sure of the name of the song that Etta James performs on the CD – I think it’s I’d Rather Be Lonely (Than Be With Somebody Else), but I’m not sure – and it’s one of my favorites.
My musical tastes when writing are equally weird. I listen to soundtracks.
Right now I have the soundtrack to Ben-Hur playing at full volume. (It was composed by Miklos Rozsa, whom I had to look up on Google to discover that he won three Academy Awards – for Double Indemity, Spellbound, and Ben-Hur – and also composed the music for The Lost Weekend, The Jungle Book, The Thief Of Baghdad, Ivanhoe and Lust For Life, to name just a few others.) I find the music of Ben-Hur inspiring, poignant, thrilling/ It’s romantic in its classical sense, meaning that the pieces are passionate and expressive.
Other orchestral soundtracks that inspire me, take me into the heart of my characters or my theme – and this isn’t the complete list – are:
The Last Of The Mohicans – which, by the way, was also a favorite of “My Friend Kim”
Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back
Superman
ET The Extraterrestrial
Amadeus
The Godfather (I and II)
The Winds Of War and War And Remembrance
Angel (the television series).
I also listen to musical soundtracks. I love that the songs are expressions of emotions and perplexities, which is why I write. I especially love Rodgers and Hammerstein. Lerner and Lowe ain’t bad either. And then there’s Sondheim. Some examples:
Carousel
South Pacific
Brigadoon
The King and I
Oklahoma!
West Side Story
Moulin Rouge
Funny Girl
Glee (every season)
Just put on the second CD to Ben-Hur. I gotta write a paper for school.
Kimberly Yale, as you know, was John Ostrander’s wife, and it was John’s beautiful tribute to her in his column WWKL? last week that has inspired me to write about her and our friendship.
Kim and I met over 20 years ago at a Chicago ComicCon when she chaired a Women In Comics panel to which I had been invited. I was a real newbie to the biz, wondering what the hell I was doing there, and completely awed to be meeting the real people behind the names on the splash pages of my favorite comics. So I was incredibly shy – yes, hard to believe, but completely true – when I went into the room where the panel was being held and walked up onto the dais. I didn’t know anyone…or at least, it felt like that. Although I do believe that it was Michael Davis who had promised to come to the panel to cheer me on. Was it you, Michael?
This woman about my age with beautiful red-blonde hair and who just radiated confidence and energy came up to me and said, “Hi, I’m Kim Yale. You must be Mindy Newell. I am so happy to meet you.” I was flabbergasted. “How did you know that?” I said. “Oh, a little birdie told me,” she laughed. (Never did find out who that birdie was.) She introduced me to two of other panelists, Trina Robbins and Joyce Brabner – and they knew who I was, too! We stood talking as conventioneers started filling the room, and I started realizing that I wasn’t such an oddity after all. These were all bright, intelligent women who loved comics just as much as I did!
So the panel started, and we all introduced ourselves, and Kim, as chair, started the discussion with a question that I honestly don’t remember, but my answer was about how Supergirl – the original Supergirl – was such a powerful message for little girls growing up in the 50s, being Superman’s secret weapon and all. After the panel, Kim came over to me and said, “I absolutely loved what you said about Supergirl. I am so glad you’re in this business.”
That was the start of our friendship.
I lived in New Jersey, with the Big Apple outside my windows. Back then Kim and John lived in Chicago. Back before there were cell phones and calling plans, my phone bill zoomed up into the stratosphere with long distance calls to the Second City. I was going through some hard times, and Kim was always there for me, even when it was pushing towards the wee hours. (I’m pretty sure Kim’s bill went up, too.) When Mike Gold recruited Kim for an editor position at DC, she and John moved to Connecticut. Still long distance, but waaaay cheaper than calling Chicago. And, of course, I saw her in the office.
Some things I remember and hold close to my heart:
I was dating a guy who was going to Johnson & Wales in Rhode Island. Kim suggested that we meet at their house for a weekend – which was pretty much at the halfway point – and she and John would vamoose.
Kim and I were doing the Sex And The City thing, just two women sharing lunch and gossip and deep-down secrets at a terrific Italian restaurant a couple of blocks from DC one afternoon when all of a sudden Kim mouthed something to me. I’m a terrible lip reader and I didn’t have a clue what she was saying. “Huh?” I said. She mouthed it again. I said, “What?” again. This time as she mouthed the words, she discretely pointed her finger over my shoulder. The restaurant was loud with lunchtime clients, and I could barely hear her. This time, I said, “Kim, I can’t hear you. What are you trying to say?” Kim was exasperated; she whispered, “Tony Bennett is right there.” I said, in a very looooouud voice, “Tony Bennett!!!! Where?” Mr. Bennett turned around and said, “Right here, ladies.” I was mortified. He was laughing, and Kim was hysterical.
Kim and John sharing the Passover Seder at my parents’ house. Kim’s clear voice reading from the Hagaddah with interest and passion.
Kim calling me to tell me about some physical things that were going on with her, and the fear in her voice, and asking if she should go to the doctor.
John calling me to tell me that the doctors had discovered a second lump in Kim’s other breast while she was on the table.
Going to see Kim at Sloan-Kettering Memorial Hospital.
Kim telling me that she was going to beat this thing.
Kim looking so beautiful in her hats and scarves when she lost her hair from the chemo.
Kim at Morristown Memorial.
Sharing an intimate moment between John and Kim in the hospital a few days before….
Getting a call from John that I had better come right over.
Seeing Kim on the hospital bed set up in their living room, because she could no longer get upstairs to the bedroom.
Kim sick, wracked with pain, weak – dying – and yet still so beautiful and at peace.
John calling to tell me she was now truly at peace.
Kim’s memorial service, where I honored her by partaking in the bread and wine during the Mass. The minister understanding why I did it. The guests who knew I was Jewish completely shocked.
The spreading of her ashes in the garden under the flowers she had planted.
And in the present…
Sometimes, often, I know Kim is hanging around, keeping me company.
Here at ComicMix we’ve run a couple tributes to Jean Giraud, a.k.a. Moebius. Michael Davis did his yesterday, Glenn Hauman wrote the obituary on Saturday. There might be more coming because Jean Giraud, a.k.a. Moebius, was exactly that important. Here’s how this master of our beloved medium affected me.
It was December 31, 1973, and I was in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Quebec is Canada’s most French province, and most of the people speak French-Canadian and most of the signs and radio stations are in French. They care about their heritage and their culture and, surrounded by the United States and Ontario, they have an understandably protectionist attitude.
So there I was in downtown Montreal. To be specific, I was in a Woolworth’s, then a distinctly United States institution, now sadly missed. There is no easier way to absorb the cultural differences than to see how others interpret our stuff, and this Woolworth’s was distinctly French-Canadian.
For one thing, they had a big selection of what we now call graphic novels. Not only did most domestic Woolworth’s neglect to carry comic books, we didn’t even have graphic novels in the States.
A couple of cigarette smoking skinny kids – teenagers, probably five years younger than me – approached me as I was gawking at the book racks. One mumbled something in French-Canadian. I looked at him blankly; like most United States citizens, I am linguistically challenged. I said “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak French.” Well, nor did they, but that’s not the point. The kid who approached me leaned in and translated. “Do you have any spare change?” Embarrassed, I gave him something and they slinked away in distain, leaving me to my profoundly holy moment.
I started pawing the racks, picking up each different title and thumbing through in amazement and astonishment. I’d seen a few such pages reprinted in books, but there had been only a few at that time and there were no English-language translations readily available in the States. At that time, my comic book choices came in but a few flavors: superhero, war, romance, mystery; all targeted to an age that was south of mine.
But here in Montreal was a wonderworld of choice, and I was… well, actually, I was pissed. Why didn’t we have this opportunity? Why were we restricted to such narrow fields of routine genre fiction?
Of the many titles in my view, I rapidly realized one single artist dominated the rack. I quickly understood why: he was mind-numbingly different.
He was Jean Giraud… a.k.a. Moebius.
My jealousy grew as I saw these and other books for sale at damn near every Montreal subway station I visited – and I visited quite a few, because they are beautiful. Besides, much of the newer downtown Montreal at the time was underground.
The name Jean Giraud, a.k.a. Moebius, was burned into several of my more prominent lobes. I was able to acquire imported English-language versions, and as Michael noted yesterday, Heavy Metal came along and made my quest easier.
Jean Giraud, a.k.a. Moebius, opened my eyes to the communications medium I had enjoyed and even worshipped since I was four years old. He re-fired my sense of wonder. He showed me that everything I knew was not enough, and damn it I wanted more.
Thank you, Moebius. I won’t miss your work; it’ll be here forever.
I am the proud owner of two, that’s right two original pieces of Moebius art.
It’s a big deal and it’s not a big deal. It’s a big deal because Moebius is one of the greatest artists ever. Period.
It’s not a big deal because hundreds, maybe even thousands, have an original piece of Moebius art.
That’s because he gave them away.
At comic conventions he would sit and do free sketches for people. So there is a multitude of people who all have original Moebius art.
Think about that for a second. Moebius one of the greatest artist ever, gave away sketches for free. And he did the drawings just for you.
That boggled my mind then and it boggles my mind now.
I was fan from the second I saw his work in Heavy Metal magazine way back when. Huge fan.
I had – and still have – a Moebius pen and ink style. I also give away free art at conventions, because no one would pay me, and I do those drawings in a Moebius pen and ink style.
When asked (rare as it may be) to do a drawing I still do them for free and, yes, if you catch me somewhere and I have a moment and you would like a Michael Davis drawing I will be happy to do one for you. But…
I only draw one thing… a drunken fat Batman. Long story and I will share… but not now. Now, I must digress for a moment before retuning to Moebius.
Many (I’d say most) of you just know me from my weekly rants here at ComicMix or for my f-word laced rants on my site. I’ve had a weird career in comics. That’s also a story for another time but take my word for it most of the stuff I’ve done has been behind the scenes.
I make deals. That’s what I do. That’s yet another story for another time but that’s pretty much my career in comics I’m a deal maker and I’m talking big deals also.
I’m real good at deal making, Hell I’m the freakin’ best at it if you ask me. I’m not bragging. It’s not bragging if you can do it.
I can do it.
I’m co-founder of Milestone Media and once during one of our San Diego convention trips in the mid 90s my three partners, the late Dwayne McDuffie, Denys Cowan and Derek Dingle and I, were manning the Milestone booth in shifts.
On this day, during my brake from the Milestone booth I stood on a very long line to get my second Moebius drawing. The day before I stood on line during my break for the first. When I got back to the booth I proudly showed off my new Moebius drawing.
Denys looked at it like he was going to punch me and take it. Dwayne was just as impressed, I think Derek was scaring some kid away. How? Derek took his role as President of Milestone Media very seriously. He wore tailored suits everywhere, even comic conventions. He looked like a Fed and that scares people. Really, it does.
While we were looking at the drawing Denys and I started taking about Moebius and just how cool it would be to get him to do some Milestone covers…
“That will never happen.” Dwayne said in that Dwayne is always right tone of voice, because, well, he was always right.
“Why not?” I asked. “He’s one of the biggest artists in the industry, one of the biggest artist in the world. He’s swamped and impossible to get to.” Dwayne retorted.
“I got to him twice, today and yesterday.” I dead paned.
We all laughed at that and after that moment passed I told Dwayne I was going to ask Moebius. He said, and I’ll never forget it, “If you can get him then I’ll believe the hype.”
I got him.
Moebius did four covers for us and we then turned those covers into posters.
It was quite a coup for Milestone and me.
Moebius passed away Saturday and it really messed me up for most of the day. I not only admired his work I was a fan of the way he lived his life. Never a bad word about anyone or anything, always took the time to talk (and draw!) to his fans. He was just a wonderful man.
All these years I thought the reason Moebius did those covers was because I was such a hot shot dealmaker.
Nope.
He did those covers because he was the real deal just a wonderful, wonderful, person.
He didn’t see Michael Davis, fast talking dealmaker. No, Moebius saw a fan that stood in two very long lines twice to get those drawing. He did those covers for the fan boy who really loved his work not the executive from Milestone.
That realization came to me like a brick to my forehead this morning when I heard the news. I’m now certain the answer would have been “no” if he didn’t know I was such a fan. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.
Nevertheless, I did get a coup. Four coups, actually.
I have two Moebius drawings, I spent some time with him and he drew characters I co-created.
Not bad for a fanboy eh?
Rest in peace, dear Moebius, you were one of the greats, as an artist and as a man.
What goes into making a memorable character for a story?
According to Lawrence Block, author of over one hundred novels and recipient of the Grand Master award from the Mystery Writers of America, they must be three things: plausible, sympathetic, and original.
I think that’s a damn good definition of what makes a character real. Except that I think Mr. Block used the wrong word. It’s not “sympathetic,” it’s “empathetic.” Now, sympathy and empathy are kissing cousins, but sympathy, I think, allows the individual to separate from the character just a bit, to feel for the character while still allowing for some separation – six degrees of separation, if you will. Empathy, on the other hand causes the individual to feel with the character– it’s the recognition of self in someone else.
Without that recognition, without that empathy, the character is in danger of falling flat, of eliciting a “who cares?” response. The great characters are empathetic – Scarlett O’Hara of Gone With The Wind, the Joad family (especially Tom and “Ma”) of The Grapes Of Wrath, Vito and Michael Coreleone of The Godfather, Caleb Trask of East Of Eden, Joe and Kirsten Clay of Days Of Wine And Roses, Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, King George VI in The King’s Speech.
In comics there is Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing, Neil Gaiman’s Sandman and his sister, Death, the X-Men’s Max Eisenhardt/Erik Lensherr/Magneto and Jean Grey/Phoenix (Dark and “Light”), Peter Parker/Spider-Man and Mary Jane Watson, Selina Kyle/Catwoman, and Sue Storm/The Invisible Woman. Of course there are more; I just chose those characters that appeared at the top of my head as I write this. You will have your own characters that engender empathy.
Originality is hard. The history of storytelling begins when our ancestors first sat down around the fire and told tales to ward off the dark night. The history of storytelling is ripe with heroes and villains, love and betrayal, valor and cowardice. Originality, I think, comprises the total picture. As Block says in his book Telling Lies For Fun And Profit, “it’s not the quirks that make an enduring character, but the essential personality which the quirks highlight.” In other words, and like I said, it’s the whole picture, the complete character or individual that makes him or her an original.
Norma Desmond’s quirk is her inability to adjust to age and talkies, to realize and accept that time, and Hollywood, has marched on. Tom Joad’s quirk is his inability to accept injustice, even if it causes him to murder, which he sees as no injustice. Vito Coreleone’s quirk is to see the world as an “us against them” scenario, to nurture the family while attacking the world. Michael Coreleone’s quirk is to talk of love and loyalty to the family while he destroys it. Swamp Thing’s quirk is that he is a plant trying to be a man. And Death loves life, even as she takes it away.
Plausibility allows the reader to suspend his or her disbelief, to accept that the actions of the character are true and real and acceptable. Now in comics, of course, plausibility is a two-edged sword. Of course we know that nobody can fly; nobody is invulnerable or runs at supersonic speed; no one can turn invisible or survive the explosion of a gamma bomb (except Bruce Banner, of course!) But as readers of superhero comics, we willingly suspend our disbelief, the implausibility of the character, before we even open the book. Why? Well, I think it has something to do with the capturing of our imagination, the “what if?” factor that I wrote about several months ago. But I also think that the other factors mentioned above play a role in our acceptance of Superman or Rogue. Empathy: “I get it. I know what it’s like to be Rogue, to be unable to really touch someone, to really get close to someone.” Or “Yeah, sometimes I feel like Kal-El, a stranger in a strange land.”
I watched Game Change on HBO. The movie is based on Game Change:Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime, by John Heilemann of New York magazine and Mark Halperin of Time. Both men are seasoned politically analysts, and their book, which was released on January 11, 2010, is an inside look at the Presidential campaign of 2008. The HBO movie focuses on Palin, played by Julianne Moore, from the moment the McCain campaign decides to ask her to be his running mate to Obama’s running mate.
The movie is riveting. Moore buries herself completely into the role, and I’m guaranteeing right now that she wins an Emmy for her performance. Sarah Palin is, without a doubt, love her or hate her, an original. She is empathetic – and sympathetic – as she works to maintain her sense of self and, love them or hate them, her own beliefs against the McCain and Republican political machinery.
But is she plausible? The movie shows that, as far as being capable of being “one heartbeat away from the Presidency,” Palin was an implausible candidate. But don’t tell that to the huge – and I mean huge – groundswell of love and support she engendered.
Yesterday afternoon I went to my local comic book store, Vector Comics, to pick up my haul. Joe and Tina, the terrific and wonderful owners of the shop, were busy with other customers, so I browsed through the stacks to see if anything not on my list that caught my interest. (Actually, almost everything piques my appetite, and if I allowed myself to buy everything I want, I couldn’t pay the rent!)
Know what I found? The Sarah Palin comic from Bluewater Comics.
A long time ago – in 1959 – in a galaxy far, far away – well, actually, just over the Bayonne Bridge on Staten Island – I met Kara Zor-El.
I was six. She was 12 years old … in Earth years.
I could walk, run, ride a bike, and ride a horse. She could fly.
I was always getting numerous cuts and scrapes and bruises. She was invulnerable.
I had 20-20 vision. She had X-ray vision, telescopic vision and heat vision.
I would get in trouble for not hearing my mom or dad calling for me to come in and eat supper. She had super-hearing.
I was fast. She could break through the time barrier.
I got kicked out of Girl Scouts (remind me to tell you why – it’s not what you think). She joined the Legion of Super-Heroes.
My mom gave me money to go rent a horse for an hour so I could ride. She had her very own horse. Okay, he was actually a handsome man from another planet, but let’s not get Freudian here, okay?
I didn’t have a dog. I really wanted a dog. My parents said no. Okay, she had a cat. Not a fan of cats. Why couldn’t she have a dog?
I wasn’t Superman’s cousin. She was.
If Superman got in trouble, I couldn’t do a damn thing to help him.
She was his secret weapon. Which meant that he depended on her to pull his green-glowing ass out of the Kryptonite frying pan time and again.
No wonder I loved her.
Kara Thrace.
A long time ago – 150,000 years ago – in another galaxy far, far way, she fulfilled her destiny and led the rag-tag fleet led by the Battlestar Galactica – all that was left of the human race after its destruction by the Cylons – to a new beginning on a new Earth.
Stogie-chomping, card-sharking, Viper-jockeying, Kara Thrace.
Hard-drinking, troubled, two-timing, bitchin’ Kara Thrace.
Killed in action, resurrected, disappearing-into-thin-air Kara Thrace.
Call sign: Starbuck.
Frakkin’ Kara Thrace.
No wonder I loved her.
Buffy Anne Summers.
Not that long ago – 1992 – in still another galaxy far, far away, an apt description of California to some – a fifteen year old girl who lived in Los Angeles met her destiny while sucking on a lollipop on the steps of her high school. Soon after she burned down her high school gym. Her parents divorced and she and her mom moved to Sunnydale to start over.
Only Buffy couldn’t start over.
For “in every generation, there is a chosen one. She alone will stand against the vampires the demons and the forces of darkness. She is the slayer.”
For seven years, Buffy took on the natural and the supernatural, the unworldly and the all-too-real world, took on and stood up to and faced it all.
Vampires. Robots and a cyborg. Witches. Demons. Gods.
High School. College. Relationships. A job she hated.
