On Travelling

“Well I was doubling over

The load on my shoulders

Was a weight I carried with me every day

Crossing miles of frustrations

And rivers raging

Picking up stones I found along the way”

~ ‘Travelling Light’, by Mellon/Bannister/Byrd/Hindalong

from the album “Songs From The 23^rd Psalm”, 2002

I have always enjoyed travel and have relished the blessing of reasonably frequent opportunity and means.  I’ve been lucky enough to visit almost all Australian capitals, states and territories, and almost a dozen countries, and every trip offers something new.  I’ve noticed a higher than normal awareness of the absurd when I’m travelling.  It may have something to do with the inherent foreign-ness of the situation and environments one finds oneself in.

I recently had the opportunity to take Wonder Woman to visit family in North Queensland, and as usual, it was a wonderful and often bemusing experience.  As is customary for us, the flights we could afford were in the very, very early hours of the day.  Owing to having a night out far from home the evening before the flight, we chose to stay in a cheap hotel near the airport for an all-too-brief sleep before the bleary-eyed stagger to the airport.  I booked and paid for the hotel online.  At check in, I asked the bored-looking gentleman at the front desk if I needed to sign anything.  He chuckled and said “No. We already have your money.”

I realised why he was so amused as soon as I saw the room.  It was inexpensive, and still barely worth it.  A spartan concrete box with a bed low to the ground, to match the ceiling.  The bathroom was a portable toilet and shower all-in-one unit that you pretty much needed to back out of when exiting because there wasn’t really the space to turn around and exit forwards.  Two large signs on the interior said “KEEP DOOR CLOSED AT ALL TIMES - STEAM WILL SET OFF FIRE ALARMS”.  Surely there is a standard with respect to smoke alarms that says they at least should be able to discern between smoke and water vapour, hardly similar substances.  It was a good thing we weren’t there to watch TV, because it was only a few inches wide and had a remote control with at least 63 more buttons on it than the TV had functions.

Long-term airport car parking is more than just a place to park your car.  It is an opportunity for kind individuals such as you and me to generously line the pockets of the (no doubt wealthy) owner of a slab of concrete with very low overheads in comparison with what’s on offer.  Surely owning one of these facilities is not much more than a license to print money?  I realised that the car was staying in pretty much the same quality of accommodation as we enjoyed the previous night.  We ventured on to the airport in plenty of time for our flight.

I fail to see the point of rushing to line up to be seated on a plane.  There’s an inevitable collective surge of passengers as soon as the call for boarding is announced.  I’ve never seen all this hurry result in anything but people queueing for longer than they need to in order to get past the airport staff in the terminal in order to queue further at the door of the plane.  Then there’s the inevitable wait for people to stow their carry-on luggage and get themselves seated.  My habit is to wait until the last person has checked in, stroll up to the plane and take my seat while all those who had previously leapt into action are now impatiently waiting for the plane’s departure, an event not scheduled for several more minutes at least.

What’s the rush exactly?  It is allocated seating, right?  Am I missing something?

Same goes for getting off the plane.  Wait patiently for everyone to rush off the plane, lazily step up next to your fellow passengers at the baggage pick up and, in the end, wait 10 minutes less for your luggage than they do for theirs.

Awaiting a connecting flight, we wandered the long corridors of a domestic terminal, passing at least five identical newsagents/bookstores selling identical magazines and books. The further we walked, the more same everything appeared, like a traveller’s version of Groundhog Day.  Perhaps the hour that we rose that morning finally caught up with me.  Even coffee could not assuage that foggy feeling. 

Just prior to boarding, we sat near a gaudily overdressed woman and her cheeky young son.  She was furiously rummaging through all of her carry on luggage in a vain attempt to find their boarding passes, the young boy frequently interjecting unpleasantries and whining that they would miss their plane.

“I’ll smack you” she spat at him.  I nearly volunteered for the job and hoped they weren’t sitting near us on the plane.  They were not, despite finding the boarding passes at the last possible moment.

At our destination, almost every bag at the pick-up point had the same large, dull green utilitarian quality about them.  Looking around I realised we were surrounded by soldiers, not a common sight in Australia.  Turns out that a nearby military base was running exercises in conjunction with our American cousins (with whom we are not really related).  I hoped all this exercising made our boys and girls fit for war.  Or maybe I didn’t hope that at all, fatigue all but overtaking me.  All the oddness and lethargy was mixing together in a kind of waking dream that was beginning to make me wary.

Our pick up was not there, not at all surprising considering the work it takes to organise four lively children.  The wait was not long at all.  Upon collecting our baggage, we stepped out of the terminal and into the warm sun and warmer embraces of a kind of second home. Here I found not just time away and rest, but most of all, one of the things I’m most grateful for in my whole life: 

Sanctuary.

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**

On TV, part 3

“Look

If you had one shot

To sit on your lazy butt

And watch all the TV you ever wanted

Until your brain turned to mush

Would you ever go for it?

Or just let it slip?”

~ ‘Couch Potato’, lyrics by ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic

from his album “Poodle Hat”, 2003

Here we mercifully arrive at the end of our journey of a day of TV (the first parts of which are chronicled in part 1 & part 2), and thank goodness for that.  By the time the evening shuffled around, I’d spent the best part of 12 hours absorbing the various contributions the TV networks chose to throw my way one quiet day.  It was getting a little desperate now: I longed to switch off, having well and truly had my fill for the day.  I’m positive my eyes had a certain blood-shot, bug-eyed quality to them by now, which was causing the children to look at me warily.  I may have even been drooling and babbling a little, but we’ll keep that just between ourselves.

Masterchef (Ch 10) was on.  I do rather like Masterchef, mainly to ogle the food I’ll never eat, much less prepare.  Food with names in French or Italian where you need to put on the correct accent in order for it to sound important.  It’s a bit tough to believe these folks are amateurs when considering their skills and knowledge.  Clearly there are more than a few folks out there eating much more complex fare than the traditional meat and three veg.

Masterchef, like most other “reality” programs, is quite simply not a reasonable representation of any kind of reality that I’m familiar with.  It is a collection of ridiculously contrived scenarios played out by contestants specifically selected to add drama and hopefully a few fiery conflicts, perhaps even a few tears in the name of human interest.  They are labouriously placed under a microscope and examined like a curious bug with its legs pulled off, to a soundtrack of appropriately dramatic music (the chka-chka-chka of maracas favoured by The Biggest Loser (Ch10) at moments of high tension are a personal favourite - listen for them if you ever get a chance).

Time: 2000 hours

Number of times my bug eyes fell out of my head:  73

Number of times I considered leaving them hanging out just for fun: 73

What bugs me to distraction about all of these reality programs are the overwrought descriptions they give themselves and their contestants.  Let’s get a few things straight. They are not on a journey.  They are not fighting/singing/dancing/cooking/renovating for their lives, as if they are taken to the alley out the back of the studio and euthanised after the show.  This is not the end of their dreams (come to think of it, if these people have so much of what they frequently describe as “passion” for what they are doing on these shows, why on Earth do they need to go on TV to realise their “dreams”?).  What it boils down to is that they are contestants on a game show.  The show may have an obscene budget, massive sets, overblown scripts and charismatic characters as hosts and judges, but they are not more than game shows that will be swallowed and digested and eventually passed and forgotten by the viewing public in the fullness of time.  Is a little perspective too much to ask?

I finished the day much as I started it, in bed watching the small TV with Wonder Woman at my side.  We watched a few of the American serials that she enjoys.  It could have been Bones (Ch 7), NCIS/NCIS LA (Ch 10), or The Mentalist (Ch 9), but to be entirely frank, I was beyond concentrating on them.  Perhaps the day’s activities had taken enough of a toll and flattened my ability to digest what I was watching, not that it takes much effort to take in their banal content.  It is the conundrum of these shows that in order to consistently create the drama their stories rely on, they need to escalate the scenarios their characters experience to increasingly ludicrous and unbelievable levels.  This means they usually reach the point where considerable plot holes are whizzed past with alarming regularity without so much as a supposedly intelligent character calling a halt to proceedings and introducing a modicum of sense.  These programs are just too fast and loose in their writing for me to truly enjoy them.  I guess I always have The West Wing on DVD when the despair at the current state of TV offends my sensibilities past the point of coping.

Time:  2130 hours

Hours spent watching TV so far today that I simply will never get back: 14

Number of times I will repeat today’s experience in the future:  0

It’s interesting to note that as of now, the On Writing Blog contains more words about TV than any other topic that it has considered.  This is at worst an indictment, at best a little sad.  TV is so pervasive in our lives, but, I’m happy to say, we really don’t need to continue to draw from this well and sup from its meagre offerings.  Switch it off.  Put on a great movie instead.  Listen to the radio, or some CDs.  Or even enjoy a little reflective silence.  We may all be better for it.

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**

On TV, part 2

“What’s happening in this world, I don’t care at all

But it better not pre-empt Monday Night Football

I can’t even come up with my own views

I’m taught how to think from the evening news”

~ ‘TV’, by Hoppus/DeLonge/Raynor

from the Blink-182 album “Cheshire Cat”, 1994

Last week, I wrote about the first part of the day during which I spent a good many hours in front of the TV, and described some of my many varied thoughts.  Most of them scathing.  I find little to celebrate about what’s on the box, and spending those hours gave me the opportunity to garner some solid ammunition for a good rant.  Raging against the machine can be cleansing, like taking out one’s frustrations on a punching bag.  With TV, however, there’s plenty to find grating, so for me it’s a bit more like shooting fish in a barrel.  A very small barrel.  With a bazooka.

Time:  1200 hours

Hours of TV so far: about 4 ½

Number of occasions I’ve wondered whether or not this was a good idea:  147

Prior to the lunch hour, I’d drifted across a few of the news services while channel surfing.  When noon kicked around, I found myself trying to avoid the Oprahs and Dr Phils of the world, and largely failing. I happened upon Ellen DeGeneres (Ch9).  I don’t mind Ellen DeGeneres (the person, that is).  She seems genuinely intelligent and manages to negotiate a delicate balance between the squealing masses that become giddy at the thought of being in a studio audience near a real life celebrity and the realisation that being on TV is really quite ludicrous.  I don’t think her audience or her guests realise that Ellen probably holds them in a degree of contempt, the vast majority of her (quite funny) jokes are at their expense.

Among her interviewees on this auspicious day are the ‘stars’ of an American reality TV show call Jersey Shore (only shown in Australia on pay TV - another good reason not to subscribe).   “Spectacularly moronic” and “catastrophically dull” are two phrases that merely scratch the surface in describing the miscreants that are highlighted on this program, given what was on display by Ellen’s guests.  I’m staggered that there is a program that actively features the misadventures of these people that actually passes for entertainment.  Surely you could get much the same thing filling a house with a dozen shaved chimpanzees laden with bling and hair gel, and plying them with alcohol?  I would imagine a similar level of intelligence as well.

Ellen ridicules them mercilessly with a deft hand, teasing them with the warmest of grins, so the overly-buffed morons don’t even know they’re being held up in derision.  If it weren’t for the fact that their ‘celebrity’ is no doubt making them obscene piles of money, I’d feel sorry for them.  Actually, no, I still wouldn’t.

Time:  1400 hours

Number of trips to the pantry looking for BBQ Shapes:  7

Number of boxes of BBQ Shapes found:  0

Daytime TV is a dire beast, at once miserable and unimaginative.  The new free-to-air channels that have bobbed up have given more choice in programming, to be sure, but let’s face it - it’s not better TV as much as more of the same drivel.  It has afforded the stations an opportunity to fill their schedules with re-re-reruns of old (sometimes very old) TV shows that once graced the airways during the prime-times of yore. Friends, Roseanne, Murder She Wrote, Seinfeld, Bewitched, I Dream Of Jeannie, Mork and Mindy, Family Ties, and many others have had a new lease of life on 11 (Ch11), 7Two (Ch72), 7Mate (Ch73), Gem (Ch90), and GO! (Ch99).  Watching many of these made me realise just how dated and cheesy they really are, and I wonder if the shows we see in primetime today are going to hold up any better.  I guess the best today’s programs can hope for is that they become pop-culture folklore, like MacGyver (Ch11).  The name of the program (and main character, played by the mullet-wearing Richard Dean Anderson) has become a verb in some contexts - to fix something cleverly with limited resources is said to have ‘MacGyvered’ it.  Having entered into common lexicon, MacGyver has achieved some sort of immortality, other than endless syndicated reruns. 

Following the late afternoon and early evening news services, which regurgitate the same news I had seen variations of all day, came the televisual equivalent of a frontal lobotomy, Channels 7&9’s respective “current affairs” offerings, Today Tonight and A Current Affair.    Those that know me know that I’m on the record as pretty much despising these shows.  The main reason is that what’s in the box is completely different from the description on the label. They appear to me to be news and current affairs programs almost entirely devoid of news and current affairs.  If it has a trunk like an elephant, ears like an elephant, tusks like an elephant, it’s big and grey and you saw it on an African savannah, why call it a bowl of cornflakes?  They are tabloids and advertorials on the small screen, NOT current affairs programs.

I flitted between ACA and TT and absorbed an hour’s worth of nonsense in a half-hour slot.  ACA started their show with a ridiculous exposé of the Channel 7 show Australia’s Got Talent, fraudulently claiming some higher moral standing in the process.  They then featured a story on an apparent argument between Blanche d’Alpuget and the daughter of Bob Hawke, as witnessed by the ever reliable paparazzi.  Since they didn’t have vision, the producers were kind enough to show a crude reenactment animation of the alleged fight.  Just what all Australians really needed, a cartoon catfight.  How thoughtful of them.  They followed up with the breathless revelation that several MacDonald’s had been held up, the apparent moral to the story is that armed robbery is not very nice.  They promised to further contribute meaningfully to society the following evening with a segment on weight loss secrets.  I’ll bet the farm that exercising and eating less won’t get a look in.

Today Tonight did not fare any better.  It started with a price comparison between supermarkets, and in typical one-sided fashion, interviewed only those whose vested interests were being promoted in the piece.  They promised their own version of the Australia’s Got Talent exposé which turned out to be little more than an ad for the program.  They returned to the tried-and-true cash-for-comment-style “journalism” with a segment on new smart TVs, featuring the grinning faces of the retailers who will soon be selling those very same products to the unsuspecting public, without so much as a “this segment brought to you by” tag.  Two of these kinds of stories in one show is shameful stuff, frankly.  I was desperately wanting the host of Media Watch (Ch2) to burst into the TT studios and give them all a bit of a smug spanking, but alas, the moment never came. 

The time for these kinds of shows (if there ever was one) has passed.  They need axing, and quickly, before more people get sucked into the ignominy of producing and indeed watching them.  Newer shows like The 7PM Project (Ch10), which follows an actual current affairs program in 6:30 With George Negus, at least wears its heart of entertainment on its sleeve.

Time: 1900 hours

Number of showers I felt I needed during ACA and TT to get rid of that grubby feeling: 37

Most commonly used phrase of the day so far: “Can I please stop now?”

GO! (Ch99) was the next destination, for a little bit of a tonic to all those “hard-hitting” shows, with Australia’s Funniest Videos, featuring all kinds of sound-effected slapstick.  After a few short minutes of toddlers face-planting into dog poo and surprised men being unexpectedly smacked in the privates, I’d had my fill.  How many times can you really see these kinds of things before they become passé?  Whatever the figure, I’d reached it.  What I had not yet reached, was the end of this day of TV…  you can find out how it all ended next week.

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**

On TV, part 1

"Radio, TV and magazines

Telling you how to be to make the scene

It's all black and white with no grey matter in between

And the megalithic media with feet of clay

Suck to the people so the ratings pay

Never give a care who's caught in the ricochet

Every picture paints a thousand lies and the airways amplify..."

~‘Popaganda machine" by Wiedeman/Frost/Frost/Barton

from the 1927 album “…Ish”, 1989

Holidays from the regular doldrums of the day job gave me an opportunity to do pretty much whatever I wanted for a few days. These occasions are rare and I was determined to make the most of it. While I had plenty of other things to do, I’m firmly of the view that doing nothing is best savoured when there are other things on the to-do list. I chose that for one day, I’d (mostly) sit in front of the TV and channel surf, which would serve the dual purpose of offering me the opportunity to rest completely and waste time, and also give me some fodder for a new piece of writing. Many’s the occasion that I find myself arguing at some ridiculousness or inanity on the idiot box, yelling near-obscenities at some blowhard advocating something actively dense. Now I would spend the time garnering ammunition for a decent rant. Ranting is always cathartic... right?

Time: 0730 hours
Number of coffees: 0… so far…
Desire to be awake: Also 0

The alarm went off at 7:30 in the morning. I drowsily turned and smooched Wonder Woman, reached for the TV remote and switched on the small TV in the corner. Immediately I was assaulted by the excessive cheeriness and altogether cheesy grins of the morning show presenters. The particular brand of entertainment that shows like Today (Ch9) and Sunrise (Ch7) thrust upon an awakening Australia aims for breezy family viewing with which to welcome each new day. I loathe them. I find their hosts uniformly gormless and without charm, usually spruiking some thinly veiled form of rampant consumerism and are ridiculously conservative. Worse is their hypocritical misogyny. They openly have a balance between male and female co-anchors and on-screen personnel, but in the worst of all TV traditions, the men have the ability to be older, greyer and fatter than their female counterparts and still retain their relevance. Can anyone seriously suggest to me that Richard “Jeff Goldblum is dead” Wilkins would still have a job if he was a woman?

Just as the perkiness was approaching the point of nausea, I switched over to Breakfast (ABC1), which is a far better product. Proper, intelligent morning news and current affairs, reasonably light in tone, and, not being beholden to its corporate masters, well balanced. Some may suggest it is too dry and stuffy, as much of the ABC is traditionally viewed, but I personally find the whip-smart Virginia Trioli a treat. Oh that I wish that intellectual stimulation trumps bright colours and whitened teeth for others as much as for me.

Time: 0900 hours
Number of Coffees: 2
Number of hours of TV still to watch: unfathomably many

9 o’clock comes around and the botox-infested morning shows continue with Kerri-Anne Kennerley (Kerri-Anne, Ch 9) and the imaginatively named The Morning Show (Ch7). Man alive, these shows are vile. They have the temerity to put ad breaks in the middle of shows that are essentially one big advertisement, with all their goofy advertorials. Advertorials are an exercise in Darwinism; they prey on the feeble. Take a moment to search eBay for any number of unwanted ‘Ab Blasting Machines’ and you may get a hint at just what I mean.

The so-called ‘personalities’ that host these types of programs (and the ones that precede them) have been traditionally called anchors, presumably because they have a force of personality that stops a viewer from drifting away before the next useless product they’re unashamedly flogging. They rely on the cult of personality to create more doe-eyed consumers for junk merchandise. Harmless, perhaps, but I’m convinced that these advertorials commit the same crime as trashy magazines aimed at women – their very survival depends on an unwavering disengagement of the brain on behalf of the audience. More misogyny cleverly disguised as entertainment. Harmless? Perhaps not so much. I can’t watch these kinds of programs without feeling vaguely insulted.

If only more people, particularly women, realised that by-and-large behind the cheesy grins encouraging us to “Call Now!” are middle-aged, middle class men essentially mocking them, these types of shows wouldn’t continue. French philosopher/writer/lawyer/diplomat Joseph de Maistre once said “Every country has the government it deserves” *. Same goes with TV I guess. Just remember the next time Kerri-Anne urges you to listen to “a word from our sponsors”, that you’re taking instruction from a woman who has been nominated several times for an Australian Skeptics “Bent Spoon Award” (awarded to an Australian deemed the perpetrator of the most preposterous piece of paranormal or pseudoscientific piffle). Furthermore, back in 2010 just after AFL Grand Final week, she referred to women allegedly sexually assaulted by footballers as “strays”, and is the proud owner of a star on Australia’s own ‘Walk of Stars’, outside a charcoal chicken in Caloundra, sandwiched between stars belonging to Leo Sayer and Lucky Grills. Just saying.

Time: 1030 hours
Number of Coffees: Still just 2. Stall! Stall! Stall!
Number of times I’ve looked around for something heavy to throw at the TV: 17

My morning was chugging along rather painfully so far, but I had so far resisted the urge to gouge out my eyes with a butter knife. I still had a long road ahead of me… you can find out how it went next week.

* Except I'm fairly certain he said it in French.

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**

On Love

“This is my idea of Heaven, lying here with you 

This is my idea of Heaven, nothing else I'd rather do 

To feel your heart beating 

To feel our lips meeting 

This is my idea of Heaven”

~ ‘My Idea Of Heaven’, by Leigh Nash

from her album “Blue On Blue”, 2006

I’m told love is a many splendoured thing.  I’ve heard it is everlasting.  It may also very well be magical, it’s likely quite the conquerer, and it is all you need.  It can apparently also be likened to those occasions when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, but I’m yet to verify that.  

The subject of love in all its various forms is a near obsession with artists, musicians, and writers world wide, to the point where instead of struggling to find a musical quote to kick off my thoughts, in this instance I was simply inundated with ideas.  I suspect it has a universality that most everyone can identify with on some level as to be an emotion common amongst all mankind.  Writing about the topic is almost pointless; I quite simply have nothing to add that any reader didn’t already know or hasn’t been said before by better writers than me.  I couldn’t even begin to do one of those amusing men are from Mars/women are from Venus comparisons.

What I can talk about with relative authority is the love I share with my dear wife, my WonderWoman.

I’ve known love before WonderWoman and I met, to be sure, familial as well as romantic, so I certainly can’t claim any romantic nonsense about not knowing anything of love until I had met her. However, in all truth, all I’ve experienced before meeting WonderWoman pales in comparison to what we share together now.  It is  genuinely the first time I’ve experienced all that love has to offer in human terms.  I’ve never experienced a relationship where a partner has been so overwhelmingly supportive and devoted to me as a man.  She encourages and loves not out of any selfish reason, not for what she can get out of the relationship, but for who I am.  To accept the real me as she does is no small stretch, I can assure you wholeheartedly.  Loving me is not the least complex of tasks, nor is it even vaguely easy.  It requires a patience and virtue that borders on the superhuman.  The WonderWoman moniker would seem to me to be beyond apt.

When we met, I had to deal with some enormous baggage of a life previously lived, all of which she has deftly navigated with utmost grace.  Since marrying, my respect and adoration of my WonderWoman has continually grown deeper and stronger with each passing year.  Surely deep and fundamental respect is the basis for any full experience of a true loving relationship, and she has much about her that commands that kind of respect from me; devotion flows as easy as breathing from there.

There is a certain quality in a life partner that I think is vital, and WonderWoman has it in spades: She finds a measure of amusement at my jokes.  This cannot be underestimated.  My jokes are seldom funny, and yet she will guffaw and grab me and squeeze me in amusement, her eyes positively dancing.  Even if this is completely faked, which it isn’t, (not that faking amusement isn’t entirely justified in this case), it shows a beautiful commitment to find fun in our relationship even when she need not do anything of the sort.

As if all this wasn’t much, much more than enough, she possesses no small measure of stunning beauty.  I could look at her forever and still get that familiar buzz to which I’ve become gratefully accustomed.   There’s beauty and there’s beauty, and then there’s WonderWoman.  She’s just incredibly, fantastically gorgeous.  I can’t imagine being luckier.

I feel like we’ve shared a lifetime of experiences, a feeling that belies the number of years we’ve spent together, and even still we manage to laugh and cry and romance each other as easily as falling off a bicycle without wheels.  That’s not as frequently achievable as those less jaded may imagine, as divorce statistics would no doubt attest.  From here on, I simply cannot imagine life any other way than by the side of my WonderWoman.

I strongly suspect she feels likewise.  In a world where more is seldom ever enough, I think that this might be.

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**

On Comics, part 2

“Lois Lane please put me in your plan

Yeah, Lois Lane you don't need no Superman

Come on downtown and stay with me tonight

I got a pocket full of kryptonite”

~ ‘Jimmy Olsen’s Blues’, by Barron/Comess/Schenkman/White

from the Spin Doctors album “Pocket Full Of Kryptonite”, 1991

If you tuned in last week, you’ll have read about some of my predilection for the storytelling medium of comic books.  My love for the medium goes back to when I was a mere slip of a lad.

Of the ‘Big 2’, Marvel Comics and DC comics, I tended more towards Marvel (featuring characters such as Spiderman, The Hulk, The Fantastic Four, Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, and The Avengers) than DC (home of Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern, and Aquaman).  To me, a notable difference between the Marvel and DC stables of characters seem to be how much more ‘human’ the Marvel characters seemed to be; Superman was an alien, Batman a billionaire, Wonder Woman a warrior princess, whereas Spiderman was an orphaned, down-on-his-luck high-school student, The Hulk a victim of an accident, and the Fantastic Four a family.   The X-Men serve as both a reflection of human bigotry and racism, and analogous of puberty.

Also, the nature of their alter-egos was often fundamentally different; Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman disguised themselves as Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince.  Their human faces are the characters disguising their true state. Peter Parker, on the other hand, disguises himself as the hero Spider-Man.

Comic books are not the exclusive purview of superheroes, of course.  Comics have, and still do, portray stories in every conceivable genre, from science fiction, to romance, to westerns, to thrillers, to adventure stories, to drama, to fantasy, to war stories, and so on.  It is perhaps strange that tales featuring super-heroes are the most common genre in modern comics in the western world.  I cannot say with any kind of certainty why this is, although I do believe the super-hero genre (if, in fact, it is a genre) has the ability to cover a multitude of other genres simultaneously.

I have noticed increasingly in recent years that there is definitely an apparently obsessive maintenance of the status quo in especially the Big 2’s respective ‘universes’ of characters, and a reluctance to explore new paradigms.  It is not new 

Back in the golden years of comics, around the beginning of the 1960’s, Marvel in particular were creating and developing their characters from scratch.  It was really a time of cutting edge creativity in the medium.  The universe the comic pioneers of yesteryear created then became popular and, over time, the essential attributes of their stories and casts of characters in their various titles solidified to become what we know and love today.  After that initial flurry of creation, it became the norm to revisit elements that were popular before, rather than creating new scenarios to be played out.  Spiderman fought the Green Goblin and the comic sold well - so new comics where he fights the Green Goblin all over again came around frequently, maybe every few months. Fairly soon, Spiderman fighting one of maybe a dozen or so villains month in, month out, over endless years, was de rigeur.  Nowadays, the Big 2 rarely introduce new characters, and even when they do, their readership seems to lament that the new villain is not as ‘good’ as the Green Goblin.  New characters are rarely embraced and tend in most cases to fade into obscurity.  Plots get rehashed, and the stories seem to rely on the illusion of change, rather than actual genuine character development.

Clearly the readership is as complicit in the recycling of this status quo due to their bitter and sometimes vitriolic (especially on the internet) attacks on any comic creator or company who dare to mess with characters they know and love and view with a sense of ownership.  It’s been noted that some of the classic pioneering comic book stories of the first decades of modern comic books would never have been allowed to be written if the internet had existed in the time of their creation.  Marvel Entertainment’s Chief Creative Officer and former Editor-In-Chief Joe Quesada sometimes refers to the bluster that is rampant on various comic book related forums on the world wide web as the ‘interfret’.

Another element that has no doubt affected the unchanging nature of modern comics is that the initial creators had no template upon which to base their creations.  They were inspired by classical literature, movies, and the world around them*.  On the other hand, modern comic book writers often grew up reading comics, sometimes even belonging to the very rabid, continuity-obsessed readership that will in turn read their work.  When they have the opportunity and become popular enough to have a platform of their own from which to create comic books, it seems that often their default position is to write their own version of the Spiderman/Green Goblin fight that has been done to death by dozens of writers before them. Comics, in many instances, have become a literary Ouroboros. 

The alternate view is that perhaps superheroes have become a new form of mythology to the modern world, in a similar fashion as the various pantheons arose from ancient times, such as the Norse gods from the Vikings or the Olympians from the Ancient Greeks.  Perhaps superheroes and their stories in the Big 2 universes are unchanging because of a resonance with mankind that requires them to remain relatively static in order to become a myth-defining phenomenon.  Furthermore, perhaps the ‘interfret’ is a reflection of a type of worship.

Modern myths notwithstanding, I’ve drifted away from comics for the most part in recent years.  I’ve found I can only read the same characters doing the same things and fighting the same villains in ever increasingly adolescent male fantasies so many times before it becomes clear that my ongoing support is merely encouraging the increasingly self-indulgent creators to re-tread old ground.  I can’t muster the kind of manic passion that comic fandom often seems to demand.  I’ve decided to be very selective in what I purchase and keep, and occasionally I go through my dozen-odd long-boxes of comics to see if there’s anything in there that may not be worth keeping long term.  I’ve promised myself to be sure to keep only the very, very best of the many Spiderman/Green Goblin battles in my possession.

*The many superheroes that received their ‘powers’ due to various kinds of ‘radiation’ may very well have emerged from a fascination with, and fear of, the perceived nuclear threat observed during the Cold War.

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**

On Comics, part 1

“Is he strong? 

Listen bud, 

He's got radioactive blood. 

Can he swing from a thread? 

Take a look overhead 

Hey, there 

There goes the Spider-Man”

~ ‘Spider-Man Theme Song’, by Paul Francis Webster and Robert Harris

from the cartoon “Spider-Man”, 1967

During my formative years in the eighties, my older brother used to read comic books.  When the opportunities presented themselves, I would often have a read myself, and allow myself to be caught up in the magical fantasy worlds they portrayed, of square jawed heroes with abs chiseled from rock, ludicrously proportioned women, and twisted, evil villains bent on world conquest.  My brother’s predilections were the super-heroes of both major rival American comic book companies, Marvel Comics and DC Comics, often referred to in industry circles as the ‘Big 2’.  I remember tentatively starting my own collection after Big Bro moved out of home, reading and buying comics in the early mornings spent frequenting the local newsagent before I attended my daily paper round.

I believe very firmly in comic books as a storytelling medium.  Each different way of telling a story has implicit weaknesses.  Oral story telling lacks a visualisation other than that which is conjured by the listener.  Similarly, prose allows no visuals other than what the author describes, and fast paced action is difficult to write as it often reads more slowly than the action unfolds.  Film obviously allows for visuals and  action can be seen to unfold in real time, but backstory is difficult without often clunky expository dialogue or voice-overs.  Emotion and thought can usually only be shown through word and action.  In addition, while the advent of CGI means filmmakers are limited only by their imaginations, it can get very expensive to bring those imaginings to life.  

Comic-style stories can show anything that can be imagined without budgetary considerations.  In addition, displaying a character’s thoughts is just as easy as dialogue, even though ‘thought balloons’ have not been fashionable in comics in recent years.  Where comics can sometimes struggle (especially if the artist is a weak storyteller) is in its choosing of which static pictures it uses to adequately show what may be a complex sequence of actions.  

Stan Lee, arguably the father (or perhaps the demented uncle) of modern American comics and creator of Spider-Man, Captain America, Thor, Ironman, The Hulk, The Avengers, Fantastic Four, and the X-Men, once told a story of meeting a supposed patron of the arts at a painting exhibition in gallery for fine art.*  When the gentleman Stan was talking to suggested comic book artists were not in the same class as fine artists whose work hangs in galleries, Stan retorted “You’re blinkin’ right they’re not in the same class.  Your so-called ‘fine artists’ do what they please, when they please, answering to no-one and with no deadline hanging over their heads.  Their work, if and when it’s finally seen by anyone, might bring pleasure to a select few.  The comicbook artist, on the other hand, must work under pressure, must meet the approval of his editor, publisher and countless readers...”  

He goes further to add “The comicbook artist must compose scene after scene, depict a story clearly and dramatically, create a never-ending series of characters, poses, locales, and perspectives, and do all that and more in the length of time it usually takes a ‘fine’ artist to set up an easel and mix some paints!”

Of course, Stan is very much the comic book apologist, but he makes some sound arguments.  Many comic artists also have their work hung in galleries, because it is often that good.  Most comic artists are serious about their craft, and are capable of creating some stunning visuals.  Obviously, the visual storytelling of comic books is reminiscent of the storyboards used in the creation of movies, so it’s no surprise that there has been a glut of movies starring many of the heroes of Marvel and DC.  This is especially so since the exponential growth in the use of CGI special effects in movies.  Film technology has finally caught up with the imaginations that comic book writers and artists have been exercising for decades.  

Movies have been using special effects for as long as there has been movies, but CGI has provided a level of realism seldom before seen.  These improvements have not necessarily lead to better quality movies of course; stunning CGI effects are incapable of lifting a movie out of the mire of mediocrity without a decent plot, engaging stories and interesting, fully realised characters.  It is truly astonishing that movie producers and creative folk don’t seem to always get that, and continue to churn out bombastic bits of nonsense.  Perhaps this is because film goers are often sucked in by the hype and marketing that often surrounds such films, lending them undeserved success.

I’m glad that for every dog’s breakfast like Batman and Robin (1997), Daredevil (2003) and Ghost Rider (2007)**, there is an Iron Man (2008), The Dark Knight (2008) and X-Men: First Class (2011) to balance the quality ledger.  The fact that those ledger-balancing films are brilliantly conceived and masterfully created movies first and super-hero movies second means more movies of similar quality have a good chance of being made in the future.

What many may find surprising is the number of mainstream movies based on comic books that don’t feature superheroes.  Movies such as The Crow (1995), Men In Black (1997), Ghost World (2001), Road To Perdition (2002), American Splendor (2003), A History Of Violence (2005) Sin City (2005), Constantine (2005), 30 Days Of Night (2007), 300 (2007), Surrogates (2009), The Losers (2010), and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (2010), to name just a few from recent years.  It seems to me that comic books have much more to offer than just superheroics.  The reasons why they seldom do are interesting... and a discussion for next week.

*This tale was recounted in a ‘Stan’s Soapbox’, a semi-regular editorial found in many Marvel comics of yesteryear.  This particular ‘Stan’s Soapbox’ was found in all the Marvel Comics released in December 1993.

**Incidentally, the Daredevil and Ghost Rider were both written and directed by Mark Steven Johnson - any chance Hollywood will stop allowing him to make super-hero films?  Please?

**To follow the On Writing Blog on Facebook, click HERE and click the "Like" button**