I haven't seen the new Joker movie--in part because, as I'm writing this, it's not yet released, but more than that is it doesn't interest me. Not only is it rated R (not a deal breaker for me, but certainly an indication that I need to make a more educated decision if I were to want to see it), but the story of the Joker from which, I take it, much of the film derives its inspiration is a graphic novel that has heavy emphasis on the graphic part. I've flipped through it and…yeah, it's not for me, I think. (I mean, seriously: Who wants to read a hyperviolent story about a killer clown?) And though the early reviews are definitely mixed--well-made movie that ultimately says nothing is what one chap on the radio said this morning--there's no doubt that the film has caused some reflection and conversation. Much like Game of Thrones, I can appreciate how these quasi-polemic texts--even if it's full of content that I don't want to see--can generate debate and worthwhile considerations. That, I think, is really worthwhile. To go along with this, I saw an article that deserves a read. It's a bit long, but Wilkinson's analysis is really thought-provoking. She doesn't spend a lot of time calling out the bed-wetters whose lives are so devoid of purpose that threatening critics of a movie they haven't been able to see seems to be the best use of their time, though she certainly would be justified in making an article exclusively like that. Fandoms are a peculiar thing; belonging (in the unofficial way in which anyone belongs to a fandom) to a handful of eclectic pieces, I can assert that being able to enjoy a thing on its own levels and for what it is can be enjoyable. So, too, can the feeling of belonging that a mutually shared interest provides. That is to say, I get where fans are coming from when they want to defend the art with which they've cultivated their identities. But Wilkinson's piece is about more than that, including the tricky balance of how art is massively influential yet somehow held guiltless for crimes done in its name. Neither violent movies nor violent video games cause real-life violence, but that doesn't mean that art is amoral. It does affect people--otherwise, we probably wouldn't worry about it. I think to my own feelings about Hamlet (and Hamlet) and I know that the art of Shakespeare can definitely make a difference in how a person feels. Wilkinson brings up a number of good points throughout her essay, but there are two that I'd like to focus on. First: [I]f Joker engenders sympathy for the devil, so to speak, then it’s well within critics’ and audience’s rights to call it out and decry its moral bankruptcy if they think that’s bad. This made me sit up a bit straighter. I've been reading Areopagitica with my CE class students this term, and it's put me on a months-long Milton buzz (though I feel like we didn't wrestle with the text nearly enough). Not only is Areopagitica pertinent to what we're looking at here (licensing, not censorship, is Milton's bugbear, but the idea of stifling content is significant in our day just as it was when he wrote the pamphlet), but so is Paradise Lost. When Wilkinson writes about a right to call out the "moral bankruptcy" of a piece of text that "engenders sympathy for the devil", then there's a major question about what to do about Paradise Lost. I think of Blake's comment about how "Milton was of the devil's party without knowing it" and how charismatic, charming, convincing, and conniving Milton's Satan is. I've had plenty of students admit that they really like him as a character--and, stripped of the religious context that Milton was expecting his readers to bring with them (indeed, could not, I think, imagine a world without, despite his prodigious powers of imagination), Satan is the most interesting and sympathetic character of the whole poem. The life that infuses Paradise Lost's first ten books peters out in the final two books, in no small part because Satan has finished his part of the story. Should there be a moral outcry over Paradise Lost on the same grounds as the valorization of violence that Joker purportedly generates? Clearly, Paradise Lost is old news: The poem was published in the mid-1600s, and though it has always been significant and in print, it's a stretch to call it fresh. (At least, in terms of its longevity. The ideas, I would argue, are perennial.) Joker is so new that we're buzzing about it before the general public could see it. But the fact is that if there's something pernicious in the art, it ought to be opposed…right? And that's where the second part of Wilkinson's piece, a thought found in the final paragraph, comes in: Safe art is usually bad art; then again, not all unsafe art is good art.
It reminds me of a tweet I saw somewhere in passing that was grousing about the "clean" comedy of BYUTV's comedy troupe, Studio C. The tweet said, in essence, "Just because something is 'clean' doesn't mean it's inoffensive." I think they were talking about a skit that relied on fat-shaming for its laughs. That's "safe" in the sense that, content-wise, it isn't edging into profanity or sexuality or even politics for its presentation. And though I've enjoyed bits from Studio C in the past, their comedy isn't really one that I follow. (I think I may not like skit-comedy, now that I think about it, since I don't find SNL funny either.) Anyway, the point I'm going for here is the idea that Wilkinson is bringing up: "Not all unsafe art is good art". We don't get absolutes in this part of life--we struggle to even define art in the first place, to say nothing of the modifiers good or bad. Earlier in her piece, Wilkinson mentions that she used to do film reviews for conservative Christian audiences. Being in that demographic (kind of), I knew exactly what she meant when she said that her audience cared more about the explicit content sections of the film than the overall point that the movie was trying to make. I think this is some of what I struggle with when I bring up (in a tired way) how It changed me for the better, despite the bad things inside of it. What I really like about Wilkinson's observations is that she's teasing out important nuances: The Passion of the Christ did quite well at the box office because of church groups going to see the film en masse, despite it being rated R for intense violence. And, as many people have mentioned within my hearing, a faithful adaptation of the Book of Mormon would also be rated R for violence, what with the decapitations and dismemberments that pepper the text. Oh, and the cannibalism, too. That's…gross. Yet I'm certain many members of the Church would not let that rating interfere with their participation in the art because it is doing something within it. Or maybe I'm wrong. That's what's been difficult for me to parse out lately: Perhaps we're just sublimating our desires for extreme content by justifying post hoc benefits. It almost feels the same to me as when I figure out why I should, say, buy a Moleskine Pen + Ellipse digital notebook: I could benefit from being able to digitize and store my hand-written notes. I would be able to produce a lot more content for my website and there's a lot of stuff that I write but don't share simply because I don't want to type up the same thoughts again. See? I really should buy this $200 pen! It's actually beneficial! Do we do that with the harsher, more titillating parts of art? Do we say that vicarious violence lets us indulge in the baser impulses without it damaging an actual person, so it's really okay? Are we unimpressed with the hypocrisy of decrying violence in our media yet saying that films like Saving Private Ryan are acceptable because it's historical violence--as if that film isn't a fantasy of its own, or that the on-screen violence somehow not violent because of its historical nature? Should we be carving out such exceptions? Part of me wants to say no, as then we have an actual standard of behavior that isn't bending to whims and changes of culture. But part of me thinks that suppression of feelings isn't wise and that we have to acknowledge the parts of our humanity that are just as much integral to us as loving and eating and breathing, but are much less flattering. How much of our darkness do we need to look at? Are we less moral because we've sheltered ourselves too much from the harshness of our natures? Maybe someday I'll be able to find answers to these questions…or, even better, answers that I can believe in. Note: I had another bout of insomnia last night. I didn't look at the clock, but it was well after 1:00, maybe even 2:00. Then I had an early morning appointment at the dentist's office. I'm not saying this to conjure sympathy, but to provide two things: 1) an informal sense of how frequently this happens to me, and 2) an apology in advance if this essay is even less structured or logical than usual.
There are a lot of things in my life. Not, like, activities or people, but stuff. Actual things. I have a lot. Most of what I value, in terms of things, are my books, writings, and video games. I also really like my knickknacks--action figures from my childhood, small metal models I've made during General Conference, homemade gifts from my wife or kids--which are arbitrarily arranged on spare (and rapidly dwindling) shelf-space. I like being able to glance around and see a mug with Shakespearean scenes as well as a recently acquired Spider-Gwen action figure. It's one of the things that makes my office feel like an amalgamation of my interests and passions. The thing about my things, though, is that I like to keep them orderly. When my room is messy, it tends to grind my gears. It's a subtle thing--if there's one book out of order*, I don't get all bent out of shape. But the fact that there's a spare chair in my office right now (I purchased a new office chair--after almost ten years with the same one--and assembled it yesterday; its predecessor is now filling what little floor space remains me) is floating in the back of my consciousness. I know it's there, it's bugging me, but I haven't the energetic wherewithal to do anything about it. Same goes for the random pieces of detritus that are littering the other gaps between bookshelves, chairs, and desk. Despite not having fully taken care of my desk--it has two drawers, both of which are junk drawers, and two cupboards, both of which are junk cupboards--since it's out of sight, out of mind, I don't worry about them. I'm aware that I have some things on my desk that I'd like to put away, but for various reasons I don't. It's like your inbox: Some emails are destined to sit there so you know where they are and don't forget about them. I think it's strange that, despite the fact that I value cleanliness and I want my home to be orderly (I have three kids, so it never really is that), the extra level of commitment needed to get it that way perpetually eludes me. It isn't just that the kids will bomb any empty place with toys, puzzle pieces, or discarded clothing. My office is very much my space, yet I don't have it set to anything other than an organized chaos of sorts. Goes to show that we never really do live up to the ideals that we wish we could. --- * In fact, I managed to organize my science fiction/fantasy bookshelves in alphabetical order. The rest of my books were pieced together on broad categories--philosophy, science, British literature, Shakespeare, Spider-Man--and then abandoned. ==== Hey, friends. I have been releasing essays on my website for a couple of years now at a pretty steady rate. I'm happy to do so, as it benefits me as a writer and (I hope) you as a reader. I also think that, as a writer, it's okay if I believe that my work has some value monetarily as well as emotionally. To that end, I've created a Ko-Fi account, which is basically a way to give an online tip to a creator whose work you appreciate. The idea is, you can buy them a cup of coffee. (That's what the name of the website sounds like, if you're curious.) I'm not charging for any of the content on my website; instead, if you'd like to toss me a cup-le (see what I did there?) of bucks to show your gratitude, that would be cool. I'd totally appreciate that appreciation. If you don't? No problem. We can still be friends. As always, thanks for reading! I don't mind doing the dishes or folding laundry, at least not very much. Sure, there are other things with which I'd rather pass my time, including reading, writing, playing video games, sleeping, or basically doing anything other than dishes or folding laundry. But as far as chores go, folding (not changing it--I hate that) and dishes stacking aren't bad.
To help wile away the time, I often listen to podcasts, audiobooks, or, depending on my mood, video essays on YouTube. These tend to be--though aren't always--bite-sized so that I can slam a few of them during the mindless chores. I've watched way too many Cracked videos, and I also have soaked in a lot about film criticism, as well as some of the unique vocabulary of cinema. One thing that I watch a lot are videos about comic books, as well as critiques of a lot of the Batman movies. Yesterday I realized: I don't watch a lot (read: any) videos about my friendly neighborhood wall-crawler. I took some time and enjoyed a handful of them before retiring to bed. The idea that Spider-Man doesn't have as much to say--or, rather, that there is less to say about Spider-Man--is one that I've sort of struggled with. I mentioned before that I main Spidey, but there always seemed to be something realer about the Dark Knight than the web-head. Maybe it's the hyphen. But that doesn't make a lot of sense, when I look more closely at it. Spidey has had his fair share of bizarre and bad stories--as has any character who has been around for the better part of a century--so it certainly isn't the idea that there's something too childish or campy (a la the Adam West version of Batman or the Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends cartoons) inherent in either property to dismiss Spidey as too kiddy without doing the same for Bats. If Spider-Man's more lighthearted tone--his constant quips and his (dare I say?) even more colorful costumed villains--preclude him from more serious/somber/insightful criticism, then there's a real problem there. Part of this likely stems from the idea that comedy can't be profound (something seen in literary criticism about Shakespeare, whose tragedies get all the essays and the tragedies make all the money). And there's definitely the concept of Spider-Man as an inheritor of power--utterly useless without the spider bite. That argument doesn't hold a lot of water for me, though, especially in comparison to Batman. Bruce Wayne is an inheritor of immense financial power, and is useless without his dead parents. More than that, though, is a dismissal of Peter Parker. If you think about DC's Trinity, Superman is--for a long run of his career, at least--unwilling to share his secret identity. Batman never wants to, guarding it violently throughout the decades. Wonder Woman has an alter ego as a comic book trope, but she's easily Diana Prince as much as she's Wonder Woman. If alter egos are a spectrum, Superman is on the far left with his secret identity a foundational, but less significant aspect of his personality. Batman is on the far right with his secret identity being Bruce Wayne. Diana is more in the middle. So is Spider-Man. Peter Parker's character is part of what makes Spider-Man so interesting. (The fact that, with the exception of Miles Morales, no other Spider-Man alter ego has had as much depth and popularity is telling.) Divorcing Spidey from Peter is essentially impossible, as the two sides of his personality are intertwined. While there's definitely some wiggle room, Peter is Spider-Man and Spider-Man is Peter. That sort of connection is part of why the recent Amazing Spider-Man movies were falling short: Peter Parker was an obnoxious, selfish teenager with a quick wit, and only half of that equation is correct. The Peter Parker we see in Homecoming is much more in line with who Peter is, though my own personal preference is a slightly older Peter--one stuck in his mid-twenties and still trying to balance everything. My point is that a good Spider-Man story is a good Peter Parker story first: Spidey will come in line pretty easily. And that, as a writer, is a more challenging task than it sounds like. There's continuity and homeostasis to deal with when one is writing a Spider-Man story arc, but more than that there is a problem with getting Peter into the mode that he needs to be in for the story to actually work. Tackling Peter's problems is what gives Spider-Man stories their unique flavors: It isn't enough for New York to be threatened (yet again) by Doctor Octopus; it needs to happen on the one night when he promised MJ that he'd meet her for dinner. That's hitting both characters, both sides of Peter's life, in a one-two combo. But, because that's the formula, the writing can maybe become stale or less exciting. The Bard knows that I don't read Spidey comics any more, and I think a big part of that reason (time and money being the larger ones) would have to be because of a feeling of obligation. I abandoned ship right around the Brand New Day storyline a few years back, so I don't know what Spidey is up to these days, but I remember feeling like "Old Spider-Man is back!" really summed up the vibe they were going for. By forcing Peter and MJ to divorce (it's a long story), the comics were able to go back to the old formula of a frazzled, single Peter who was trying to make it all work somehow. And I think I got tired of that. This, naturally enough, leads to asking the question: What does a good Spider-Man story look like, then? If it can't be the old style because that's what's been done before, and the new stuff is, apparently, trying too hard to be like the old stuff, what's to do? Well, I'm not really sure. I would say that there isn't anything wrong with the Peter Parker/Spider-Man formula, necessarily. It can be done correctly and incorrectly, and I think, so far as recent iterations of the character (mostly of the film variety) are concerned, it's been done incorrectly. What would a Spider-Man story look like if I were in charge? Hmm. That's a fun question. Maybe I'll tackle that… ….another time. Note: This essay stems from the backstory that my wife and I invented together for the costume she's making for Fan X and Halloween 2018. We've been interested in steampunk for a number of years, which precipitated my NaNoWriMo 2016 project. For this costume, she wanted to make a Steampunk Batgirl. I'm not much at making costumes, but I do like telling stories, and one of the important aspects of steampunk character creation (and of cosplay in general) is to ensure that there's a strong backstory for why the character is the way she is. This, then, is a quick outline of a non-canonical, unofficial alternate world in which my wife's Steampunk Batgirl lives.
In a Victorian-era inspired Gotham, a man named William Tockman grows weary of his living impoverished whilst the upper crust aristocracy--the Cobblepots and the Waynes--flaunt their wealth with endless parties and frivolous ornamentation. Despite their seemingly endless funds (and the balls to show it off), Gotham is in dire need of redemption. Crime is rampant. Poverty grips the majority of citizens. They can't even get their trains to run on time. Incensed by the injustice, Tockman pulls together his Minute Hands, a group dedicated to stripping away the decadence and giving Gotham over to Tockman. His promises include a reversion of wealth (for his most loyal followers), a rejection of degenerate and overly ornate art, and--of course--trains that will run on time. As he slowly conquers the city, he proves capable of fulfilling his promises. Not all are content with his ploy of power and seeing the once beautiful and architecturally inspiring Gotham reduced to straight lines and rigid schedules, all of which are enforced by his elite group of soldiers, the Minute Hands, and their subordinates, the Second Hands. On the surface, many people are happy--more, at least, than under the old form. But there's sickness and sadness. Those who don't conform to the new regime are taken to the Clock Tower where, the rumor goes, horrible things happen to them. One of the primary technicians of the Clock Tower is a woman named Barbara Gordon. Her father, James Gordon, had been one of those who sought for a better Gotham. However, he had died in a steam-run airship accident when Barbara was young, leaving her to grow and learn on her own. Taken in by Tockman and his promises of a better Gotham, Barbara helped Tockman--the self-proclaimed Clock King--to run the city. Using her eidetic memory and penchant for utilizing steam-tech to solve the engineering problems, she became one of the most respected and useful of the Minute Hands. Because of her obsessive personality, Barbara put so much time into her inventions that she never stopped to see what they were being used for. One day, on her way home, Barbara's train was unexpectedly stopped. Terrorists, the conductor explained, had ruined the tracks. The trains would not be running on time today. Upset at the inconvenience--and a tiny nugget of doubt forming in her mind that perhaps the Clock King wasn't as all powerful as she'd been led to believe--she decided to walk home. It was on that night that Barbara was confronted by those who were being exploited by the Clock King--lower class people who were forced to labor in the tunnels beneath Gotham to extract the dregs which power the steam-tech she'd been working on. Her suspicions about Tockman increased; her lack of faith became more and more apparent. Eventually, she decided to confront Tockman about the injustices he was meting out on the people of Gotham. "They're merely pips, my dear," he'd said, gesturing out the window of his Clock Tower, the tallest building in the city and the place from which he oversaw the entire reconstruction of Gotham. "Disposable. Replaceable. Insignificant." The callousness of his comments so rankled Barbara that she refused to follow orders. Incensed, the Clock King decreed that any Minute Hand that would not keep time would not be kept, and ordered some of Barbara's erstwhile friends to "see her out." "She's broken," the Clock King said as Barbara, defeated after trying to fight off the other Minute Hands about her. "I'm not broken yet," snarled Barbara. At that, Tockman gestured for the Minute Hands to stop. "No," he said, walking closely, his black eyes hidden behind the clock-motif glasses he always wore. "But you will be." Before anyone could do anything, an alarm blared. Through some of the steam-tech communicators that Barbara herself had invented, news of an attack on the Clock Tower arrived. It was the terrorist group who had ruined the trains a few weeks before: The Sons of the Bat. Furious that his stronghold was under siege, Tockman told his Minute Hands to "break her and stop the Bat," then hurried away to his awaiting airship. Barbara watched in dismay and terror as Tockman escaped, leaving her to the eager-to-please brutality of the Minute Hands. Without ceremony, the members of the Minute Hands dragged Barbara Gordon to the stair well and, with a chorus of laughter, hurled her over the side. Their efforts, however, weren't perfectly coordinated, and Barbara spun, rather than plunging straight down. She crashed against a bannister, smashing through and--in a single, painful instant, felt her legs go numb. Consciousness returned in waves of pain, but the one thing that came to her mind was vengeance. She couldn't let the Clock King get away. But when she tried to stand, she found that everything below the waist was a fire of agony without response. The fall had broken her back. Despite that, Barbara struggled to climb up the stairs. Tears and sweat and blood from who knows where accompanied her as she tried to clamber after the Clock King. It was an exercise in futility, but it was all she knew how to do. Tenacity would keep her moving, even through the torture of her broken body. The sound of metal clinking against the stone steps drew her attention. Looking over her shoulder, Barbara's eyes widened when a bat the size of a human came hurtling up the center of the stairwell. She watched in horror and intrigue as the legendary resistance fighter, the Batman, soared past her. At first, Barbara thought she had slipped into a dream that heralded her death. But her perfect memory, running again and again as she tried to get herself back to the Clock King's office, showed her the details that she'd missed at that first glance. The speckles of blood and a broken lip on the lower part of Batman's face. The tears in his steam-tech armor, the areas of poor engineering that allowed for steam leakage, all of which were attached to a harness at the rebel's waist. The tears in the cape that showed up as ragged and threadbare, not animalistic or leathery. The Batman was a man. But who was he? By this point, she could hear the sounds of scuffling, shouting, and fighting. One of the Minute Hands who had thrown her down came plummeting past her. Barbara savored the look of horror on the man's face, but was startled to see a cable attach itself to the man's torso. It was painful, but the cable arrested the man's fall, though he slammed into the stairs once the cable went taut. Barbara looked up and saw the second Minute Hand lunge toward the Batman, only to find himself flipped about, thrown to the floor, and his arm expertly broken. The man's screams cut short when the Batman bent over and dealt a sharp, savage jab to the man's face. Barbara saw justice. And she wanted a part of it. Calling out, her voice ragged from the pain, Barbara drew Batman's attention. Once he had secured the Minute Hand, he dropped to where Barbara lay. "What happened to you?" he asked, his voice gravely but not unkind. She noticed a weariness to his posture and, unless she was mistaken, blood seeping from his side. "They broke me," she said, her words hiccupping. "We need to get you some help." She shook her head. "No, you need my help." The Batman paused. "Why?" Barbara tapped her head with a finger. "I know things. About the Clock King and how his steam-tech works." "Tell me." "Get me out of here," Barbara said. "And I'll help you." It didn't take much time for the Batman to come around to Barbara's point of view, and he carefully extracted her from the Clock Tower. The assault had been a success--they had claimed the space--but the Clock King had escaped. The Sons of the Bat--which turned out to be a small collection of highly trained street-fighters--dispersed as the Second Hands came in. Their overwhelming numbers prevented the resistance from maintaining their victory. And though it had been difficult, the Clock King had been shown that he could bleed. *** Barbara was taken to an underground lair, where she lay on a table for too long, recuperating from the injuries. Her ill-advised attempt to climb up the stairs whilst paralyzed impressed the Batman--who carefully kept his identity a secret from her--but had also done some additional damage. Nevertheless, Barbara didn't remain idle during the recovery. Every waking moment was filled with documenting all that she knew about the steam-tech she'd worked on. Her eidetic mind allowed her to recall the schematics with perfect precision, which the Batman could then use to improve his own gear and help the resistance. As time passed, Barbara began to feel stronger again. Against the original wishes of the Batman, she began a fierce regiment of upper-body work, improving her strength and dexterity even while her legs languished. At last, she managed to develop a steam-powered device that allowed her to walk--albeit painfully. The tech allowed her to jump higher, run faster, and fall from greater heights than a normal person, but it was dangerous and ran the risk of damage, which would leave her stranded. Batman opposed the usage. "You're not going out to the front lines," he said, his voice harsh and one that brooked no disagreement. "You're like an oracle. You show us how to use the tech in ways that Tockman never could imagine. I can't lose you." Nevertheless, she persisted, saying, "It isn't up to you, Bruce." The Batman stepped back. "How did you--" "I'm not stupid," she said. "And I've helped you. It's time that you helped me." She revealed a stack of concept drawings for the steam-tech costume that she would need him to build. A tech-powered grapple gun, similar to the Batman's, but faster, stronger, and more reliable. Gauntlets with the inimitable shape of bat wings. A headpiece that doubled as a radio transmitter. Her "legs". A cape that could work as a mini-parachute, should she need it to. A belt covered in the shuriken-like batarangs that Batman preferred. "Why is it so…ornate?" asked Batman, frowning appreciatively at her work. "It's modeled after the architecture that we've lost, that Tockman took from us. It's reclaiming the old heart of Gotham." He pointed at the clock that she had designed for her back, one covered in gears and symbols of the Sons of the Bat. "And this?" "I'm taking that which he most loves and corrupting it. Where he sees symmetry and order, I see disarray and chaos. Where he wants a clock to always be in front of him, guiding him, I put it behind me, letting time reside forever in the past. Where he wishes to see the workings and the gears hidden behind smooth facades and shiny coverings, I want the reality there for everyone to see. When he sees me again, I want him to know that he isn't simply beaten by a superior opponent: He's been beaten by everything he tried to destroy." The Batman regarded her coolly for a moment, then said. "When do you want to begin?" Barbara smiled. "No time like the present." In my family, we read comics. Okay, we don't really read them--well, I do, and my oldest is a fan of them--but it isn't a major pastime. Okay, so there's some reading but not a lot of comic books. But one thing we are? Comic book fans.
The distinction is an important one, I think, especially since the comic book industry as an actual market force is pretty slim. (This report, from June 2017, explains that there really aren't a lot of single issue sales going on. And, admittedly, comic books have always been a niche market. But comics don't just sell books…) Though there is some top-tier talent at both of the major houses, DC and Marvel, there is also a saturation issue to deal with. The question of "Where do I start?" with any comic book series is an almost impossible one. Bats in the Belfry For my money, DC's take on the multi-universe, constant rebooting the entire line M.O. is a joke. It's too complex, it's too unreliable, and I've never been a fan of the Infinite Crisis, Flashpoint, New 52, or, most recently, Rebirth events and continuity-tweaking events. Self-contained stories are more enjoyable than company-wide connections and events, in large part because there's too much to keep track of in order to get the full story. This particular criticism is leveled at both houses, but I bring it up here because I'm thinking of the Azzarello run on Wonder Woman in the New 52 continuity. While the story itself was a bit of rubbish (and I was very disappointed that they took some of the elements that Azzarello introduced and put them into the movie), it was enjoyable on its own level because it focused on one thing, one character, and the trades made the story easy to keep going. The continuity of the art, also, was a boon, as it made the story feel more cohesive. But picking up any single comic that isn't a part of a specific storyline? It's a crapshoot if you can understand what's going on or not. On the other hand, I understand the logic of why things become entwined more and more often. After all, in a world where Shazam and Black Adam and Superman all reside means that these three basically-identical metahumans are bound to bump into each other. And when you get into the nitty-gritty, street-level stuff, that tendency is even greater. I mean, the superhero subculture is likely pretty small, and DC does that feeling of people-in-a-niche-business-meet-up-with-others-like-them well. That being said, the constant interweaving of solo-titles and group work gets tiresome, and the complexity of the DCU makes my head hurt. Of course, there are exceptions to this--and Marvel isn't exempt from the criticism--but I feel its effects more when I think of jumping into DC. Another issue (haha pun) that I have with DC currently is their endless obsession with Watchmen. Now, I love that comic--it's a great example of a series that tells a story in a way that only comics can tell it, the story is phenomenal, and though Alan Moore hates that he ever wrote it, I'm always impressed with it. In fact, nothing makes me simultaneously more inspired to write, and hopelessly convinced that I ought not to ever write a word again than remembering that Watchmen exists. Though I think Maus is a more important comic, I don't disagree with TIME for putting Watchmen on one of its lists of 100 best novels. And DC knows that Watchmen is good. It knows that Dr. Manhattan's bright blue butt will move units. It knows that putting the blood-streaked smiley face on a comic book cover is going to bring a lot of attention to whatever that comic is doing. And, with the Rebirth event, it's clear that the world portrayed in Watchmen is actually a part of the world in which Wonder Woman, Batman, and Superman also reside. It's…a dumb idea. I mean, even if it's executed flawlessly, the problem is the same one as what DC had to deal with when they released the Before Watchmen prequel comics: They were playing in a world that didn't need more exploration. It's much like how Harry Potter and the Cursed Child felt hollow*: The story that's being told doesn't fit into a story that has been finished. In my humble opinion, I'm less inclined to touch anything relating to Dr. Manhattan being involved in Earth 2--or whatever their "main" Earth is now--than otherwise. Invoking Watchmen to get fans buzzing is good PR but horrible storytelling. Where I go with their work remains to be seen. I haven't subscribed to comics regularly since…I don't know, 2010 or so. That means that I'm not the kind of reader who buys the singles on a regular basis anyway. I prefer to wait for the trades to come out, so the entire story is put together in something resembling a logical way. That's part of the reason that I read so many comic book novels as a kid: The whole story was there, even if it was split up among three books. And the fact that I can't get fully behind the House that Batman (or Superman) built is a sad one, since I've always thought that DC brought some excellent characters to the table. Except, of course… The Spider's Web …Spider-Man. The webhead has been my constant companion since the sixth grade, and though I'm a Ravenclaw about 90% of the time, when it comes to loyalty, I'm pure Hufflepuff.** I'll never not be a Spidey-Fan. And I haven't purchased a Spider-Man comic since…um…I canceled my subscription. I was around for the end of the "One More Day" arc. Then Marvel did the same thing that bugs me so much about DC and did a massive continuity shift, erasing the marriage of Peter Parker and Mary Jane through an act of demonic will. Like, the Marvel version of Satan, a character called Mephisto, does a Control Z on Spider-Man revealing his identity to the world as part of the Civil War mega-event. Spidey's upset because his world is going to trash--essentially proving he was right to never reveal his secret identity for however many decades--and Aunt May's dying (again) and all these issues…so Spider-Man/Peter Parker decides to do a deal with the devil to get things back on course. The cost is his marriage. As the "Brand New Day" series launched with the newly unmarried--and never was married? I wasn't clear on that, and stopped reading before it was fully revealed--Spider-Man returning to his time on the streets, my own family started having some financial pinches and I decided to let the subscription lapse. Sure, individual comics aren't expensive in and of themselves, but getting three of them a month becomes pretty pricey pretty quickly. So I haven't read a lot of Spider-Man comics since they ruined his marriage (which bugs me on lots of levels that I'm not going into right now), and though I'm really interested in Spider-Gwen, there aren't any other Marvel comic characters that I want to read about. Daredevil had an interesting run I read when I was a kid, and I dabbled with the X-Men when the cartoon was popular--and, of all the properties in Marvel that I like, X-Men is probably number two--but I never really gelled with anyone else there. I was all Marvel, all the time…unless it didn't have Spider-Man. Then I didn't care. It's an interesting thing for me to consider myself a fan of comic book characters and less about comic books, though the current abundance (or, if you're feeling pessimistic, glut) of superhero movies is pretty satisfying. I saw almost all of the big ones of 2017 (except Atomic Blonde, which I didn't know was a comic book movie), and I'm looking forward to much of 2018's cinematic offerings. Though I'm a Marvel fanboy (I guess) because they own Spider-Man, I'm more interested in seeing continued exploration of themes that superhero films are best at exploring, regardless of who owns the characters. Oh, and if you're wondering who would win in a fight, Batman or Spider-Man, let me break it down really quickly: Spider-Man can bench press 10 tons, plus he can sense danger coming in the form of his spider-sense. There's nothing that Batman could do*** against the wall-crawler. Bat versus spider? Spider all the way. --- * The Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them might turn out okay. Without Hogwarts, I don't know why we would have a story set in the Wizarding World. What's different here is Fantastic Beasts is already in-canon, and it's focused on a separate (though similar) issue than what the original series devoted 4,100 pages to. That being said, I'm neither excited nor angry about the next film. Except Johnny Depp. That guy's a creep. Ew. ** If you don't get what that sentence is saying, then I'm sorry. We can still be friends, but I'll be quietly disappointed with you. *** And don't come at me with the "If Batman could prepare for the fight…" garbage. Batman's smart--and it's likely that Peter Parker is smarter. Batman's a good engineer; so is Spider-Man. Look, if Bruce gets time to make a spider-sense jamming device, then Peter gets time to make an anti-spider-sense jamming device. And he can. If you still don't believe me, check out this video. It is just and true. Amen. After watching Batman Begins and The Dark Knight Rises this past month, I decided to revisit another Batman story that I remember enjoying, done in the hopes that I would be able to see if it holds up. (I should say that TDKR doesn't really hold up and is more frustrating on a second viewing than the first one.) So I reinstalled the however-many-gigs worth of data for Batman: Arkham Knight and started punching my way through Gotham City once again. The game itself is a sandbox conceit, which means that the player can pursue any particular mission or objective that she chooses, finishing the main storyline of the game at her leisure. When I played it the first time, I completed every possible option, including hunting down all of the Riddler trophies that are sprinkled through the city--a needle-in-a-haystack style of gameplay that is, frankly, more than a little tiresome. But it was so much fun to play as Batman that I didn't mind it. This time, however, I'm ignoring everything but the main plot. The game is set up to allow a second play-through in which all of the gadgets, levels, and skills unlocked from the previous time in Gotham remain, thus allowing me to focus on the story that's unfolding. There's still plenty of challenge and a lot to do--in terms of playing time, I'm probably close to 10 hours in (longer than the Nolan trilogy) and probably a bit over halfway toward the end. The advantage to this is it allows me to see how a narrative within a video game can be constructed in a way that makes sense inside of its own confines, but doesn't necessarily translate well into other media. For example, whenever Batman needs an upgrade on some piece of equipment, he phones in--never waiting for the other character to answer, for they're always at his beck and call--and asks for the assistance. Then I, as the player, guide him straight to the target--a process of, maybe, two minutes--to have the latest technology installed on the Batmobile, or what-have-you. Inside the game, this makes sense. During a normal play-through, I might choose to find some trophies, stop some robberies, or fill in my time enjoying other activities. When I play straight, however, that doesn't work. The illusion that Fox is building something whilst I am cleaning up Gotham's streets is gone. From a narrative standpoint, that doesn't work at all. There are other things that I can keep in mind, however, and that is the idea that no step goes unchallenged. If I want to write a story (and have it be a sprawling, nigh-endless tale) in which the characters have to really fight for their victory, then every choice they make should be resisted. In a game, that's part of the fun. "Get to the Belltower! Watch out, there are goons everywhere, trying to stop you!" That's the point--the plot acts as poles between which the fun of zip-lining (playing the game) occurs. It gives context to the action. In a novel, however, that would kill the pacing, yet give a sense of immense victory at the end. If I wrote a book in which essentially even the most mundane of decisions (get to the diner) was an extended process of actually getting there, arriving at the diner would seem like a genuine triumph. The downside to that is a very real possibility that the reader would forget where the character was headed or why. Keeping the motives clear without feeling tedious, keeping the resistance to the goal reasonable and logical when it's overcome, and finding new ways of describing the perpetual interference are all problems with mapping video game narratives onto a writing paradigm. That sort of granular thing can work, of course. Moby-Dick's final third or so is a culmination of all that had come before it, with multiple days of chasing the White Whale being carefully documented. Tom Clancy was known for such detail on a great many levels. But I don't know of a book in which every step of the way was challenged and fought for. Even The Lord of the Rings has moments where things go smoothly for the Fellowship. Still, this comparative quick play-through of Batman: Arkham Knight has been enjoyable, and I look forward to seeing how cohesive the plot feels when I've gone through it like the Batmobile through a concrete barrier--loudly and with little regard for collateral damage. |
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