I started doing Tai Chi when I was 20. Today, I figured out how to breath. Damn, that took a long time.
(I just had to share that with someone.)
I'm by no means the first to make this argument, I'm sure, but I just had an analytical reaction to this article, which comments on the legal hullabaloo surrounding this artist's work. Go head and click the links and read them. I'll wait.
Okay, here's the thing. The trouble is that very few people know about the concept of the 'homosocial,' as opposed to the 'homoerotic.' Sure, there are homoerotic moments in comics, if you want there to be (it's art, it's about interpretation), but they're not as universal as some people would have you believe.
Homoerotic relationships are, as the name implies, when dudes are doin' dudes. In imagery, when men are eroticised we tend to call it homoerotic. We also tend to assume that women don't like to look at men with little or no closes on (which is not true, believe me). Basically, masculine sexuality is made into a taboo so as to ward off homosexuality. How many times have you heard a guy emphatically claim that he has no idea what a handsome man might even look like?
Acceptably-heterosexual imagery of men must show off abstract sexuality, such as clothing that indicates how much money they make (the suit and tie), how physically difficult their jobs are (the worn-out jeans of the labourer), their incredible self-reliance and rugged individualism (anything that implies the cowboy, for example), the ability to cause physical harm (the warrior), or their connection to solid, 'rule-of-the-father' institutions (the soldier, the cop, etc.). Male sexuality can never be about the body, 'cause as far as homophobes are concerned, that's just gay.
The homosocial, on the other hand, is the space to which the relationships that are barred to men have moved. When male relationships aren't necessarily erotic or sexual, they are homosocial instead. The homosocial space is where you can love a man without the implications of butt-fucking. The homosocial space is where Booster Gold and Blue Beatle can be 'life partners' without any snickering. As you no doubt already realise, this space barely exists in our culture. The moment two men are affectionate towards one another outside of very specific circumstances, they're HUGE HOMOS OH MY GOD!
In conclusion, Batman and Robin, as well as Booster and Beatle, have homosocial relationships. They care deeply for each other, they have a bond that no one else can replace, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're "doin' it."
The interesting thing, though, is that because men have so few acceptable forms of affection that they can direct at one another, the only other alternative is eroticised language and behaviour. My theory of the homoerotic language in WWI poetry and prose is that these writers simply didn't have any other way to express the deep, emotional bonds they had with their fellow soldiers. I'm sure many of them were actually gay (about 10%, right?), but that's beside the point. The vast majority of the time that men get nervous about the homoerotic implications of imagery of men in action/adventure comics, and film and TV for that matter, it's because male sexuality has been ham-strung by enforced homophobia. We simply have no words to use to express our love and affection for one another that don't sound queer. Notice how queer it sounds for me to even refer to men feeling "love and affection" for one another at all? That's what I'm talking about!
This is a remarkable little mini-series; that's why I'm remarking on it.
Azzarello has said that the challenge of the book was making Lex the 'good guy,' not just the protagonist. The way the book does that is actually quite ingenious. It sets up a tragedy with Lex as the tragic hero.
You see, we can pity a tragic hero. We can empathise and sympathise. We can feel his pain. And we do all of this not in spite of the fact that that hero has made bad choice, selfish choices, destructive choices, but because of it.
The book's content reiterates its structure, too. Lex believes that Superman cannot feel fear, therefore he cannot ever empathise with humanity. He cannot understand their fear, that turns to hatred, of a villain, a murderer, a monster. Therefore, they cannot understand his mercy, because only someone with nothing to fear would save the life of such a monster.
The book succeeds in making us feel bad for Lex because it invokes our very human fear of being ruled, dominated, by an 'alien' force, which Superman does not, and in this text cannot, understand because he thinks he's human, despite being that alien force.
I've heard the argument over and over again. Villains, in comics, in spy movies, in action/adventure stories of all kinds, always claim that the heroes are forces of oppression, that they will not allow real freedom. Funboy, in James O'Barr's The Crow says, "I never let anything define or limit me." That's the ideology of the villain in popular culture. My reaction has always been to call that attitude arrogance, to say that anyone who claims that limits are shackles just doesn't want the rules to apply to him, wants to act without conscience or responsibility.
But in this case, in this one case, I'm convinced. LL:MOS has convinced me that, at least in its portrayal of these now iconic characters, that Superman is limited by his invulnerability, that there is something to human experience that he does not have because he has so little to fear.
This lack in his character is exactly the same as the feeling of indestructibility exhibited by the teenager who's simply never been in danger, and therefore doesn't understand what it is. It's reflected in the man who doesn't understand the need for a women's centre, because he's accustomed to a world where there are no doors close to him. We can see it in the rich who are so accustomed to luxury that they do not percieve that there are those who don't have it.
Superman is, undeniably, a member of an élite class of people, and though that might not be inherently bad, it limits him. It leaves him unable to understand what it's like to be the rest of us.
Serialisation is part of the comicbook reader's decision-making process to continue or stop reading a series.
As a parallel, a friend of mine explained to me that to really understand the more sophisticated anime, I have to give it six episodes, or else I'll hate it. And he was right! Although Cowboy Bebop and _Samurai Champloo grab you right away, stuff like Lane or Evangelion require paying attention for quite a while before you sort out the show's content.
The American model of television has traditionally been stand-alone episodes that could play in almost any order. There's no sequence to The Honeymooners, so two or three episodes will give you a clear idea of what kind of show you're watching, if that many.
But of course, all that's changed with serial TV shows. Ever since Babylon 5, season-long story arcs have been all the rage, even in sitcoms (which is pretty remarkable). [This is all starting to sound familiar. Have I gone off on this rant before?] However, most people (erroneously) regard TV as 'free,' so there's no investment (either ecnomically or emotionally) in a show. The serial nature of TV lends itself to casual viewing, to picking up lost episodes when you get the chance.
So if you watched the first two episodes of a show and didn't like it, you'd only continue if it were free. If you had to pay for each episode, like a comicbook, especially with prices the way they are why bother? (Although the US$ dropping like a stone has made things a bit cheaper in Canada. Thanks George!)
Ironically, piracy has become the 'try before you buy' system of the techno-L33t. If you can casually peruse the first dozen issues of a series then it's much easier to decide if you want to invest money in it.
(or "The Hits Just Keep On Coming")
The obvious answer is, yes, they're worth something. They have value as objects of art, as entertainment, as memorabilia of your youth. They may not be worth money, but who really cares about that? Nobody buys DVDs thinking they'll be 'worth something' in ten years. We certainly didn't buy NES games in the early 90s because we thought there'd be collectibles fifteen years down the line, which they are. This isn't just an "oh for god's sake just read them" rant, either.
The fact that comics are still 'collectibles' from a market stand-point has a lot to do with how few people read them. Newspapers, magazines, and books expand their readership by going beyond the primary purchase. Newspapers and magazines calculate their audience based on sales, but take into account how those publications are passed around amongst readers. Novels are part of a thriving market in used books. The engine that drives both of these is that after the initial purchase, the cost goes down, not up, which allows readers who are only half-interested to give them a try 'cause, what the hell? A 350 page novel for $3 is a good deal.
Comics publishers are trying to replicate this through Free Comic Book Day, but that's not addressing the basic problem. Comics need to be cheaper. There's just no way around it. At the very least, there needs to be comics that are cheap and freely available in order for new readers to try them out, and this is where a healthy used (as opposed collectible) market would do us a world of good.
The things aren't worth money any more, so why do we continue to pretend that as soon as they're back issues, the price goes up by 25%? My only guess, with great respect and gratitude towards comic shop owners (except for One Eye at Warp One, I'm still pissed off at you for being a dick to Nathan Philion), is that it's a way to recoup the losses incurred because of flagging sales, but that attitude seems to be what's killing comics. Raising prices because readers are leaving only makes more readers leave. If you want to sell more of something it's blindingly obvious that you have to lower the price.
Basically, there needs to be a whole hell of a lot more bargain bins.
Whether comics reflect the readers' or the artists' opinions is a very tough call. Superhero comics are small enough that most artists are in constant contact with their fans. Bendis, JMS, PAD, Waid, Ellis, they're all in direct contact with fans all the time, and they do listen. They take it with a grain of salt, especially Waid who had a really tough time of it (he made the mistake of going to UseNet. Ouch!), but they're there. They listen. They take part in the discussion.
How much power those individual artists might have in comparison to the corporate interests of DC (a subsidiary of the unholy trinity of Time/Warner/AOL), Marvel (a bluechip company run by stockholders), or Image (founded and owned by Todd "Asshole With No Talent" McFarlane) is a seperate but related question.
I tend to see the situation as one of neglect more than anything else. Time/Warner/AOL keeps DC around as a lost leader for merchandising, as far as I can tell, and Marvel just hopes to make enough money off of movies to have perpetual, short-term booms in sales. As for Image, their artists (theoretically) have total creative freedom, but the company itself is mostly supported by McFarlane 'Toys' (vaguely posable plastic statuettes), so the comics themselves are sort of meaningless.
Comics don't really make the money, as I understand it (haven't checked the numbers recently). As a result, they've been mostly left to their own devices by the parent companies. As long as there still is a Superman and a Spider-man, they're happy because it means that the merchandising has a focal point or an origin point or whatever. They don't really care. The result is that artists can kinda do what they like, including a lot of really subversive things.
JMS' Supreme Power contains some scathing attacks on the American military and on the use of propaganda in the US to promote blind patriotism. The very fact that the American President Lex Luthor during Bush's reign is extremely telling. The tradition at DC comics was always to depict the president accurately. Bush Sr. and Clinton both appeared in Superman's comics in the 90s. Bush Jr., however, is replaced with the original supervillain. That cannot be a coincidence, though I'll grant that it could be unconscious.
There's a lot of utter crap in supehero comics. Mysoginy, corporate propaganda, sabre-rattling, racism, messages of conformity, the list goes on, of course. But there are moments when, in the midst of one of the most (traditionally) mainstream American narrative genres, an artistic team manages to say something really subversive. I'm still amazed that Joe Kelly got away with puting the words 'I won't support the War in Iraq until you show me some damn evidence' in the mouth of Superman. Think about that.
A colleague of mine just compared the scholarly interest in superhero stories to the scholarly interest in children's literature, and though I see the comparison, I think it's a little unfair to relegate all superhero comics to the 'kiddy lit' pile. Yes, the majority of it fairly thin fantasy/action, but there is a growing number of superhero books that cater to a much more politically attuned reader, JMS' Supreme Power or B.M. Bendis' Powers are probably the best two on the shelves right now.
Then there's the less pointed but still surprisingly political stuff going on in, for example, JLA, which had an issue on the Iraq War that paralleled Bush to Lex Luthor (#83, "American Nightmare"), or The Ultimates, which routinely calls superheroes "persons of mass destruction." Even the JL: Unlimited cartoon got damned political last year. Partly, this is due to how much politics have become the American national sport, but partly, the audience has just gotten smarter
Also, even the thin stuff really isn't aimed at kids anymore. The Batman animated series was aimed at guys in the late teens and twenties (I know, because I was one of them), as was something as innocuous as Animaniacs. Mainstream superhero books are marketed directly at guys in their twenties. The sexual content, the language, even the appeals to mass culture all point to that. We need to come up with a new age category for fantasy literature that isn't aimed at kids, but also isn't "L"iterature, either. It's not just YA; it has content and references that only adults get. It's also not 'adult' in the same sense as Sandman or Transmetropolitan.
There's something really charming about Moore's jouvinilia. Miracleman reads that way. There are things in it that he's trying to work with and accomplish that he can't quite do, but the exhuberance and energy and sheer density of stuff is exhilerating.
So far, V for Vendetta is a combination of standard generic approaches. First, we have the 'valiant rebel' story, ne man who's gone insane to combat an insane world. V is, in his own way, an antihero and a pastiche of a superhero, and there is a clever inversion of the standard superhero, here. Instead of defending a (by implication) perfectly sane and reasonable world, V's actually aligned against the world in which he lives, which is an updated version of Orwell's IngSoc with some new technology thrown in.
The generic structure reflects the point of the book: there's something wrong with the world. As with Battlestar Galactica (from yesterday), we can't read this story as a wholely internal continuity. It's no coincidence that this story comes on the eve of the Labour victory at the UK polls, and then a decade of ultra-conservatism in the form of Margaret Thatcher. The presentation of an obvious fascist government is a reference to a tyranny of a less obvious kind.
Second of the genres is the revenge story, possibly the revenge tragedy (I haven't read to the end). This only crops up a few 'issues' in (I'm reading the collection, so they all kind of blend together, for me), but there's a neat bit of narrative unity in linking V's revenge plot directly to the setting. V is, literally, a product of the world they created. He stands for the kind of insanity that fascism will produce, the violent thirst for vengeance against the powerful.
This is all part of an interesting way to read SF that, though it's nothing new, has been in my head recently. Individual characters in 'epic' SF (your Star Wars, you Dune, your Babylon 5, and even Battlestar Galactica, though less so in that last case) aren't just characters, they're historical signifiers. They represent a certain class or kind of person. Depending on the narrative, they might have fully three-dimensional personalities, but there is a measure of the icon to them, regardless.
Chancellor-come-Emperor Palpatine's machinations represent the slow degeneration from idealised democracy to tyrannical dictatorship. Paul Muad'dib Atredese represents absolute power corrupting absolutely. The political figures in Battlestar Galactica are direct references to, not necessarily individual people, but certain positions within the government and the military in the United States.
V, therefore, represents the anger of a dominated population just as much as the people he kills often represent those who either benefit from the domination, or have simply learned to live with it. What I can't help thinking, while reading V for Vendetta, or the granddaddy of fascist novels, Nineteen Eighty-Four, is that there must be a huge number of people who just live with it, who don't percieve any problem with the way they live. It's just 'the way it is.' If that's the case, then how do we know we don't live in exactly the same kind of world? Who, in our context, can we go to and ask? I suspect that only the seriously downtrodden and powerless could answer that question.
Partly in response to an on-line discussion group, and partly in response to a friend that I’ve been talking to, I’ve realised that the ‘military coup’ depicted on Battlestar Galactica isn’t what I thought it was. The president, Rosalin, deliberately sabotaged a military operation, and did so because the drugs she’s on have given her delusions of grandeur. The declaration of martial law, especially by the military itself, irked me to no end, but I’m forced to admit that that woman should not be in charge of a state.
The question I’m left with, then, is this: why did I have such a strong reaction against martial law that I sided with a drugged-up zealot? I think there are a series of really interesting answers to that question.
First, on a narrative level, I have no reason to believe that Rosalin isn’t a saviour, a prophecied leader who will bring salvation and peace to her people. A lot weird stuff happens on Battlestar Galactica, and whether or not the Colonial gods or the Cylon God actually exist is still up for grabs. I don’t expect a difinitive answer either way, but dismissing the possibility is what I’d do in the real world, not the fantasy world inside the show.
Second, on a logistical level, I’ll have to review the episodes in question, but the military, Cmdr Adama and Colonel Tigh, didn’t know that the president was, literally, taking crazy pills when they locked her up. They knew she was off on a religious tangent and that that tangent was not in synch with military operations, but they didn’t know the extent of it. So, saying that they were putting away a dangerous madwoman is accurate, but it doesn’t fully describe what they did in the moment. They merely ‘relieved’ her of duty based on her interference with a military operation. That was the explanation, both publically and privately, so her state of mind isn’t really at issue.
Third, they didn’t just remove her from power. They dismantled the entire democratic system on their little fleet, and that’s the part that bugs me. Rosalin, the individual, was unfit to be the president, but that doesn’t mean that democracy itself is inappropriate for the situation. That reasoning irks me. A lot. It makes the whole thing seem like an excuse to do what the military in the show explicitly wanted to do way back in the first episodes (the 2003 mini-series): run the whole fleet under the command of Galactica itself. There are many who argue that that’s the most appropriate thing to do, regardless, that the situation they’re in warrents, effectively, a military dictatorship. Realistically, I could be persuaded of that, but from a representational point of view, I just can’t.
As much as this show has successfully integrated a lot of realism (read here as a genre) into its otherwise science-fictional plot, it’s still a commentary on politics, specifically American politics. The situations in the show are too similar to those that America is in right now for us to read the show as its own, self-contained universe. The President’s ship is called ‘Colonial One,’ the Colonies’ primary legal documents, the ‘Articles of Colonisation,’ are so far almost identitical to the American Constitution, even calling their worlds the twelve colonies implies a comparison to the US (in fact, they were originally a reference to the twelve tribes of Israel as depicted in Mormon mythology, but that’s neither here nor there). The show is about the United States of America and its present political situation, complete with a state at war and a president who’s a religious nut (NB: ‘religious’ and ‘nut’ are not mutually inclusive terms, but if the shoe fits…).
As such, I read the show as I read most sci-fi and fantasy, as a literal representation of how people percieve their situation. A lot of Americans really do think that they’re basic way of life is under imminent threat of annihilation by a foreign threat. Fewer, but still a lot, of Americans think that Martial Law might be a the best way to defend against that threat. At the very least, they’re comfortable seeing their democratic system and their personal rights slowly dismantled for the sake of ‘security.’ Despite the quite logical reasoning for the military’s decision to depose a sitting president, and despite the fact that that president is a total nutter, the actual declaration of martial law by people who have no legal right to do so, and under somewhat false pretences, just scares the shit out of me.
I finally finished it. Holy shit.
I don't have especially coherent thoughts on the subject yet, but I'm seeing some motifs in Gaimen and Moore's work that I like. First, both of them like to embrace the uncertain. Withink Miracleman, we'll never really know how Miracleman and the Warpsmith beat Kid Miracleman because, instead of an explanation, we get several different versions of what might have happened, based on theories invented after the fact by historians and the religious. Unfortunately, Moore did write an adventure in Warrior that contains what 'really' happened (damnit), but I prefer the version in which that intertextual adventure is unknown, and we merely acknowledge a bunch of interpretations.
In Sandman, however, we'll genuinely never know who killed Morpheus. There's a wonderful site that's part of the Gaiman Archive that attempts to at least profer all the valid theories as to Who Killed Morpheus?, and the most likely theory seems obvious (Morpheus needed to change, so he engineered his owh 'death' in order for Dream to become someone new, someone capable of change on a less radical basis), but we'll never really know, and that's so much more fun than a difinitive answer.
A prof once used the phrase "Notable by its absence is..." in referen to Othello, and the phrase has stuck with me. The lack of a difinitive answer is a narrative element in and of itself. Not having that nice solid answer has a clear effect on readers. It involves them in interpreting and analysing the story, and doing so on a continual basis because they can never really 'solve' the problem, since there is no solution.
That's the other motif, stronger in Gaiman than Moore, but also in both. Gaiman seems to really like pulling readers into the story. During Morpheus' funeral, the narration, unattributed but definately friendly and familiar, says that many have come to mourn for him, including "you." The story takes place in the Dreaming, and is the dream of thousands of people, including cameos by just about every character in the series, but dreams stand for stories, in Sandman, so the reader is also 'dreaming' this tale, in that metaphorical sense. We're righ there with the dreamers. They've been pulled into that world without their permission.They're just dreaming. The reader, however, is doing it voluntarily. Other than that, though, they're the same. We're reading and they're dreaming and the two are equivalent in that story.
As I say, I don't have coherent thoughts yet. I'll need a second read-through before I can really start to have calculated analysese to talk about because there's just so much going on. It's 75 bloody issues!