Bat History

Dark Knight Rises is an odd movie. It’s a mish-mash of Dickens, adventure stories, geek nostalgia, Hollywood bombast, and a smattering of “ripped from the headlines” topicality. The movie manages to be a fairly enjoyable diversion, but as other reviewers have noted, it’s a mess from both a narrative and ideological perspective. But its messiness isn’t entirely the fault of the filmmakers. The latest film is part of a decades-long process where a children’s adventure story was modified to appeal to an older audience, specifically an audience that remained attached to the childish elements of the story. Live-action Batman films (and TV) are required to satisfy both a nostalgic attachment to childish adventure stories while insisting that such entertainment is not childish.

In ancient times (i.e., before I was born) live-action Batman was a simple concept. No one would accuse the original Batman series (1966-68) of being too complicated. It was children’s television at its most basic: bright colors, catchy music, unvarnished plots, and violence that never went beyond a punch to the jaw. The series had no pretensions of being either great art or politically relevant, which is not to say that it was bad. In fact, Batman was and is consistently entertaining. The over-the-top performances of the villains, the deadpan earnestness of Adam West, and the 60’s camp were successfully mixed with the more ridiculous premises from the comics. But while the series became a cult classic, it had its share of detractors. Its unabashed silliness was less appreciated by the aging community of comic fanboys who wanted their Batman stories to cater to their adult tastes.

Comic book Batman entered a “grim and gritty” phase during the 1980s, and this was reflected in Tim Burton’s Batman (1989). Significantly darker and more violent than the TV series, the movie was clearly targeted at an older fanbase. It was also the first attempt to turn Batman into a Hollywood blockbuster, along the lines of Jaws or Star Wars. Blockbuster status meant lavish production values, fancy special effects (which haven’t aged well), marketing deals with fast food chains, and an A-list cast, including Michael Keaton, Kim Basinger, and Jack Nicholson. But the childish elements of the character remained: the Batmobile, the Batcave, and all those “wonderful toys.” Another director might have produced an incoherent disaster, but Burton cobbled together a reasonably entertaining, if shallow, film that satisfied both the fanboys and mainstream audiences.

The secret to Burton’s success was due to his idiosyncratic vision of Gotham City, a heaping dose of film noir with a touch of BDSM and goth sub-culture. Batman and its sequel, Batman Returns, could be described as noir-lite, lacking most of the typical noir preoccupations but relying on dark, brooding imagery to enhance a plot that relied on mood more than substantive content. The goth and BDSM influences factors more heavily in Returns, particularly during the famous origin sequence of Catwoman. Among the many superhero film franchises, the Batman films by Burton stand out as having a distinctive look.

Burton’s idiosyncrasies allowed the various pieces of the Bat franchise to co-exist, albeit uneasily: the fanboys got their “dark” story, mainstream audiences got an action film that didn’t look like all the other action films they had already seen, and the more juvenile elements appeared slightly less ridiculous if they were bathed in shadow. But in aiming for an adult audience, Burton could never fully embrace the most childish parts of the Batman franchise. Most obviously, Robin is nowhere to be seen (to say nothing of Batgirl, Bat-Mite, or Bat Shark Repellent).

The Bat-franchise went through a number of changes with Batman Forever (1995). Officially a sequel to Batman Returns, Forever could more accurately be described as a soft reboot, given that the film had a new lead actor (Val Kilmer) and a new director, Joel Schumacher. And Schumacher’s movies had a different visual style and a greater affinity for the childish content in Batman comics. This Batman film would have a Robin (Chris O’Donnell). Gadgets and other wonderful toys would be on full display, and Schumacher even worked in a joke with the “Holy ___!” exclamations made famous by the original Robin, Burt Ward. And the dark Gotham of the Burton films was replaced by a much more vibrant and cartoony city.

But many of these features were overshadowed by the presence of Jim Carrey (as the Riddler), who was at the height of his fame when Batman Forever was released. The next film lacked Carrey and his massive ego, allowing Schumacher to shape the Batman franchise to his own preferences.

Batman and Robin (1997) is widely regarded as the worst of the Batman films, and perhaps the worst superhero movie ever made. While my inner contrarian would love to defend the film, in truth it was fairly awful. Bad acting, worse writing, and not a single moment of genuine excitement. But for many fans, the movie’s greatest sin was that it was campy. It had Batman and Robin fighting on ice skates. It had godawful puns delivered by Arnold Schwarzenegger (as Mr. Freeze). And there were nipples on the bat-suit.

Schumacher’s great mistake was in assuming that Batman was a campy character for kids (and maybe adults who enjoy children’s entertainment). It’s an honest mistake, because Batman really is a campy character for kids (and kids are still interested in Batman, as demonstrated by more than one successful animated series). But something big happened over the course of the 80’s and 90’s – fandom got older and became mainstream. And over the past two decade superheroes went from being a niche product sold to young children and antisocial geeks to being a significant chunk of Hollywood’s revenue. People who had never picked up a comic were getting excited about the latest Batman, X-Men, and Spider-man films. But the mainstreaming of superheroes meant the contradictory preoccupations of fandom – a reverence for source material with an insistence that such material be updated for an older audience – also became mainstream.

The change was driven by a number of factors. Comic nerds may be a minority, but they are disproportionately likely to have disposable income and are fiercely loyal to certain intellectual properties, two things which make them an attractive market to the Hollywood suits who own those IPs. Also, the older distinctions between “children’s entertainment” and “adult entertainment” were declining, the result of the creation of the PG-13 rating in 1986. Previously, the MPAA ratings systems drew a stark contrast between films appropriate for children (G and PG) and films restricted to adults (R) because of sex or violence. But the PG-13 rating effectively created new genre of action movie – with just enough violence and sexual content to please adult males but not so violent or sexual that parents wouldn’t allow their kids (or at least their teens) to see them. And the “grim n’ gritty” superheroes preferred by older fanboys fit perfectly into this new rating. Tim Burton seemed to understand the new approach, so he toned down the goofier aspects of Batman. Schumacher highlighted that goofiness, and the fans never forgave him.

Which leads me back to the recent trilogy of Batman films directed by Christopher Nolan: Batman Begins (2005), The Dark Knight (2008), and Dark Knight Rises (2012). Superficially, Nolan’s films are similar to Burton’s. The three movies  are dark, both visually and figuratively. They were surprisingly violent, even by the standards of PG-13 movies. And many of the more juvenile elements of the Batman comics were either excised or downplayed. For example, Robin is largely absent from the trilogy (except for a brief reference at the very end of Dark Knight Rises). But the Nolan films went even further in the pursuit of seriousness. Batman was grounded in a realistic world, so his vehicles and gadgets became less fanciful and were explained away as next-gen technology (memory cloth!), persuasive to audiences as long as they don’t stop to think about it. And the outlandish versions of Gotham created by Burton and Schumacher were replaced with spliced footage from real cities such as Chicago and Pittsburgh. Nolan was also determined that his movies touch upon important current events. In other words, he wanted his films to be topical. In The Dark Knight, Batman uses an illegal surveillance system to track down the Joker, referencing the growing “surveillance state” in the U.S. and the obvious risks to civil liberties. Dark Knight Rises includes an homage to “A Tale of Two Cities,” and it’s not hard to see a link to the Occupy movement and growing inequality in the U.S.

Nolan went further than Burton in promoting Batman as a character that adults could appreciate, but at the end of the day he couldn’t ignore the childish roots. The character of Batman is still a boy’s adventure story, and the elements which make the Batman stories juvenile are the same elements that actually make them fun. So Batman still drove a rocket car, used cool (if less ostentatious) gadgets, and fought supervillains. And in the third film, Batman was flying around in a vehicle that was obviously pure fantasy, brawling with Bane, flirting with Catwoman, and prepping a would-be Robin. Altogether, Dark Knight Rises was actually rather “comic booky.” For all their pretensions at maturity, realism, and topicality, the Nolan films are still about a guy who dresses like a bat and fights supervillains.

So Batman can’t escape his goofy comic book origins. The various stabs at maturity will generally be in conflict with the juvenile appeal of superhero stories, namely the fistfights, the toys, and the empowerment fantasies. It is also extremely difficult to address political issues with any degree of nuance or intelligence, because boy’s adventure stories are not known for either of those qualities. But Batman will not be going back to the days of Adam West and the batusi. Given the huge success of the Nolan films (and the bitter hatred directed at the last Schumacher film) it’s clear that mainstream audiences have embraced the preferences of fanboys. Batman is going to be dark, violent, and pseudo-mature for the foreseeable future.

Classic and Not-So-Classic Superheroines: A Brief History in Covers and Panels

Fantomah

First Appearance: Jungle Comics #2 (Feb. 1940)
Created by Fletcher Hanks (a.k.a. Barclay Flagg)
Publisher: Fiction House

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The Woman in Red (Peggy Allen)

First Appearance: Thrilling Comics #2 (Mar. 1940)
Created by Richard Hughes and George Mandel
Publisher: Nedor Comics

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Catwoman (Selena Kyle)

First Appearance: Batman #1 (Spring 1940)
Created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger
Publisher: Detective Comics, Inc. (DC)

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Lady Luck (Brenda Banks)

First Appearance: The Spirit (syndicated – June 2, 1940)
Created by Will Eisner and Chuck Mazoujian
Publisher: Register and Tribune Syndicate

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Invisible Scarlet O’Neil

First Appearance: Invisible Scarlet O’Neil (syndicated – June 3, 1940)
Created by Russell Stamm
Publisher: The Chicago Times

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Black Widow (Claire Voyant)

First Appearance: Mystic Comics #4 (Aug. 1940)
Created by George Kapitan and Harry Sahle
Publisher: Timely Comics (Marvel)

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Red Tornado (Abigail Mathilda “Ma” Hunkel)


First Appearance (as Red Tornado): All-American Comics #20 (Nov. 1940)
Created by Sheldon Mayer
Publisher: All-American Publications (DC)

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Miss Fury (Marla Drake)

 First Appearance: Black Fury (syndicated – April 6, 1941)
Created by Tarpe Mills
Publisher: Bell Syndicate, reprinted by Timely Comics (Marvel)

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Bulletgirl (Susan Kent)

First Appearance (as Bulletgirl): Master Comics #13 (April 1941)
Created by Bill Parker and John Smalle
Publisher: Fawcett Comics

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Hawkgirl (Shiera Sanders)

First Appearance (as Hawkgirl): All Star Comics #5 (July 1941)
Created by Gardner Fox and Dennis Neville
Publisher: All-American Publications (DC)

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Black Cat (Linda Turner)

First Appearance: Pocket Comics #1 (Aug. 1941)
First Solo Title: Black Cat Comics #1 (Jun. 1946)
Created by Alfred Harvey with art by Al Gabrielle
Publisher: Harvey Comics

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Phantom Lady (Sandra Knight)

First Appearance: Police Comics #1 (Aug. 1941)
First Solo Title: Phantom Lady #13 (Aug. 1947)
Created by Eisner-Iger Studio, re-designed by Matt Baker
Publisher: Quality Comics; Fox Features Syndicate

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Miss Victory (Joan Wayne)

First Appearance: Captain Fearless #1 (Aug. 1941)
Created by Charles Quinlan and unknown writer
Publisher: Helnit Publishing Co.

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Spider Queen (Shannon Kane)

First Appearance: The Eagle #2 (Sep. 1941)
Created by Louis and Arturo Cazeneuve
Publisher: Fox Features Syndicate

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Wonder Woman (Diana Prince)

First Appearance: All Star Comics #8 (Dec. 1941)
First Solo Title: Sensation Comics #1 (Jan. 1942)
Second Solo Title: Wonder Woman #1 (Summer 1942)
Created by William Marston with art by Harry Peter
Publisher: All-American Publications (DC)

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Lady Satan

First Appearance: Dynamic Comics #2 (Dec. 1941)
Created by unknown
Publisher: Harry “A” Chesler

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Spider Widow (Dianne Grayton)

First Appearance: Feature Comics #57 (Jun. 1942)
Created by Frank Borth
Publisher: Quality Comics

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Liberty Belle (Libby Lawrence)

First Appearance: Boy Commandos #1 (Winter 1942)
Created by Don Cameron and Chuck Winter
Publisher: Detective Comics, Inc. (DC)

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Mary Marvel (Mary Batson)

First Appearance: Captain Marvel Adventures #18 (Dec. 1942)
Created by Otto Binder and Marc Swayze
Publisher: Fawcett Comics

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Miss America (Madeline Joyce Frank)

First Appearance: Marvel Mystery Comics #49 (Nov. 1943)
First Solo Title: Miss America Comics #1 (early 1944)
Created by Otto Binder and Al Gabrielle
Publisher: Timely Comics (Marvel)

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Blonde Phantom (Louise Grant)

First Appearance: All-Select Comics #11 (Sep. 1946)
First Solo Title: Blonde Phantom #12 (Jan. 1947)
Created by Stan Lee and Syd Shores
Publisher: Timely Comics (Marvel)

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Miss Masque (Diana Adams)

First Appearance: Exciting Comics #51 (Sep. 1946)
Created by unknown
Publisher: Nedor Comics

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Black Canary (Dinah Drake-Lance)

First Appearance: Flash Comics #86 (Aug. 1947)
Created by Robert Kanigher and Carmine Infantino
Publisher: National Comics (DC)

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Moon Girl (Claire Lune)

First Appearance: Moon Girl and the Prince #1 (Fall 1947)
Created by Max Gaines, Gardner Fox, and Sheldon Moldoff
Publisher: EC Comics

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Golden Girl (Betsy Ross)

First Appearance (as Golden Girl): Captain America Comics #66 (Dec. 1947)
Created by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby
Publisher: Timely Comics (Marvel)

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Merry, The Girl with 1,000 Gimmicks (Merry Pemberton)

First Appearance: Star Spangled Comics #81 (Jun. 1948)
Created by Otto Binder and Win Mortimer
Publisher: National Comics (DC)

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Bat-Woman (Kathy Kane)

First Appearance: Detective Comics #233 (Jul. 1956)
Created by Edmond Hamilton, Sheldon Moldoff, and Stan Kaye
Publisher: National Comics (DC)

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Supergirl (Kara Zor-El, Linda Danvers)

First Appearance: Action Comics #252 (May 1959)
Created by Otto Binder and Al Plastino
Publisher: National Comics (DC)

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Bat-Girl (Betty Kane)

First Appearance: Batman #139 (Apr. 1961)
Created by Bill Finger and Sheldon Moldoff
Publisher: National Comics (DC)

Respect my Hobby!

A few weeks ago I visited The Art of Video Games exhibition at the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington, D.C. The exhibition is relatively small, and if you don’t stop to play any games you can easily walk through all the rooms in about half an hour. It’s divided into three main sections: an introductory area, an “arcade” area where visitors can play famous games such as Pac-Man and Super Mario Bros., and a “best of” area where various gaming devices (consoles, PCs, etc) were on display along with video samples of well-regarded games. It was also completely free, which is the right price for me.

Setting aside the particulars, the basic idea of video games in an art museum is an odd one. Paintings and sculpture are designed to be viewed, but games are meant to be played (preferably while seated in a comfy chair). While the “arcade” section makes a certain amount of sense, the rest of the exhibition involves looking at games rather than actually playing them. The traditional manner of museum display (look but don’t touch) is inappropriate for the medium.

But a more significant problem is that the exhibitors never show how video games are art. To be fair, “art” is difficult to define even when discussing a more established medium. However, common definitions of art usually mention creativity, the unique expression of an idea, or an aesthetic accomplishment above mere craft. How does something like Pac-Man qualify as art? It was certainly unique when first released, but is there any underlying idea beyond cute ghosts and a chomping circles? How is Pac-Man more than mere craft? I suppose if you define art in the broadest possible terms – including Michael Bay movies, talk shows, and Superman dolls – then there’s no reason not to accept Pac-Man as well. But if art is simply a synonym for entertainment, then the entire exhibition is nothing but pretense. Displaying video games in an art museum is clearly a statement that video games are on par with the fine arts that usually appear in museums or galleries. But if any amusing diversion can qualify as art, then the only reason to put it in a museum is the “snob factor.” It’s in a museum/gallery, therefore it’s respectable.

On a more favorable note, the strongest feature of the exhibition is the evolution of graphics and visual design, with numerous examples from each decade. One of the earliest games, Pong (1972), is nothing more than a white square on a black background that bounces between two white lines on opposite sides of a television screen. Flash-forward to 2010, and games like Mass Effect 2 sport cutting-edge graphics, 3-dimensional environments, and a visual design that rivals any sci-fi blockbuster. The technological progress that allows for flashier visuals also allows for a full musical score and voice actors. While the exhibitors no doubt want to draw attention to the increasing sophistication of gaming narratives, that sophistication would not be possible without technological breakthroughs. In fact, no other entertainment medium has experienced such radical change in such a short time, and that was all driven by improvements in computing technology (film experienced several technological leaps, such as synchronized sound and the switch to color, but these changes were spread across a century, and many other aspects of filmmaking have changed little).

And yet the  actual  technology of gaming is mostly absent from the exhibition. There’s a small exhibit that explains some technical terms like the difference between 16-bit and 64-bit, but the attendees are never allowed to “look under the hood.” The wires, chips, processors, hard drives, and other do-dads are not on display. There are obvious reasons why this is the case. After all, this is an exhibition in an art museum, not a science and technology museum. But the science cannot be easily separated from the art (if we’re willing to call it that), so the exhibition feels incomplete.

The Art of Video Games exhibition reminds me of the similar effort by comic professionals to gain academic and institutional respectability. Comics have largely been successful in this regard, and scholars now refer to the medium as art without rolling their eyes.  Perhaps video games will find equal success, though it probably won’t happen any time soon. When comic creators made their bid for respectability they could at least point to a few works that were acclaimed by critics from outside the comics community (Maus, Jimmy Corrigan, and classic strips such as Peanuts). By comparison, few critics outside the insular gaming community speak of Pac-Man with reverence. And even the best video games are little more than addictive diversions (Angry Birds, Tetris) or solid genre product (Mass Effect, Grand Theft Auto).

But then again, who am I to argue with the Smithsonian? If they say shooting zombies in 1080p resolution qualifies as art, then I’ll go along with it. I’m an art lover.

A Fanboy Denied

My introduction to Wonder Woman was not the original Marston/Peters comics. I’m not sure what my first exposure to Wonder Woman was, and it almost seems like I became aware of the character through cultural absorption. As a kid, I saw a few snippets of the TV series with Lynda Carter, I read a few DC comics featuring Wonder Woman (but not her own title), I watched the Justice League cartoon, and played a few superhero video games. I don’t remember which piece of entertainment came first. What I do remember is that my fanboy brain had already constructed the “ideal” Wonder Woman long before I ever picked up a Wonder Woman comic. In other words, I was a Wonder Woman fan but not a Wonder Woman fan.

And therein lay the roots for so much of my dissatisfaction with the character. It would be easy to say that I dislike Wonder Woman comics because they suck. Well … most of them do kinda suck (the less said about the current run, the better), but I’ve put up with sucky comics in other circumstances (X-Men, I’m looking in your direction). But Wonder Woman comics always provoked a hostile reaction from me. Even the runs that were supposed to be good (according to the Internet hive-mind) failed to measure up to my standards. George Perez? Meh. Greg Rucka? Terrible. Gail Simone? Tiresome. They were never going to be as good as “my” Wonder Woman, so why bother?

I first read a collection of Marston stories about four years ago, well after I had formed my views on Wonder Woman. Needless to say, it was like nothing I had ever read in superhero comics. Bondage, cross-dressing, and lesbian subtext in a comic marketed to children!  It was idiosyncratic, to put it mildly.

 

It was obsessive, fetishistic, and outright insane, to put it less mildly. And it was fantastic! Most superhero comics aspire to little more than genre hackery, and many fail to measure up to even that lowly bar. But Marston’s Wonder Woman was a personal and ideological work. Regardless of what one thinks of Marston’s values, his comic stands out as a rare artistic achievement in mainstream comics, a fusion of radical feminism, patriotism, BDSM, and commercialism.

Regardless of its strengths, I should have hated this comic, considering how different it  was from my vision of Wonder Woman. Why is she getting tied up all the time? Why does she say ridiculous things like “Suffering Sappho?” What’s with the giant kangaroos? Etta Candy … what the fuck?

But I couldn’t find fault with Marston, as much as my ego wanted to, because his Wonder Woman was far better than mine (or any other version of Wonder Woman I had encountered). My Wonder Woman was nothing more than a grab-bag of traits: She’s strong (but not mannish)! She’s fierce (but not in a mean way)! She’s smart (but not nerdy)! She’s sexy (but not trampy)! I hadn’t created the perfect version of Wonder Woman, instead I’d assembled a highlight reel from every comic, TV series, or game featuring the character. And when I pasted these traits together they amounted to nothing more than another bland, inoffensive superhero. Marston’s Wonder Woman was born out of actual ideas. Those ideas were crazy (and occasionally creepy), but there was genuine thought and creativity behind his stories. Nothing I dreamed up has ever come close.

When I was younger, I tended to judge the quality of a work by how thoroughly it pandered to my tastes. If something hit the correct fanboy buttons in my brain, it was deemed good. Marston’s Wonder Woman failed the “fanboy test” in almost every way, but I came around to appreciating the work. And the more I appreciated Wonder Woman, the more I came to realize that my particular vision of the character (and comics in general) was fandom at its most banal. I won’t go so far as to say that reading Wonder Woman triggered an epiphany. Around the same time I was reading Marston I was also reading Moore, Ware, and a dozen other great comic creators. But Wonder Woman was one of the first comics that stifled my inner fanboy and forced me to reevaluate my standards for comics and other media.

I’m still not entirely immune to the siren call of slick genre product, but I have an easier time distinguishing mindless fun from great art. And I understand now that “good” doesn’t mean “identical to the tastes I had as a teenager.” So thank you for that, William Marston.

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The entire roundtable on the Marston/Peter Wonder Woman is here.

British Comfort Food

Downton Abbey is a television series set on a fictional English estate of the same name. It chronicles the lives of the patrician Crawley family and their servants at the beginning of the twentieth century.

According to Wikipedia, Downton Abbey is a “period drama,” a term used by people who are embarrassed to admit that they are watching a soap opera with corsets. There’s no point in pretending otherwise, as Downton Abbey has all the familiar, soapy elements: betrayal, sex, dead bodies, catty women, unrequited love, etc., etc. This observation isn’t meant to be dismissive. Soap operas aren’t inherently better or worse than any other genre. And by the standards of the genre, Downton Abbey is pretty good. It has decent acting, high production values, and lead writer Julian Fellowes hits just the right notes of the soap genre. I particularly enjoy the mutually destructive, pathological rivalry of the elder Crawley sisters. And no one can deliver a cutting one-liner like Maggie Smith.

After watching the first season, I was reminded of why soap operas are the ultimate achievement of serialized television. The great challenge in serial storytelling is maintaining the interest of the audience for not just hours (as in a film), but for months and even years. Plots must be sustainable over multiple episodes so they can capture viewers for the long-term. The most common technique is to focus on interpersonal – and especially romantic – relationships that viewers can easily connect with. These relationship-centered stories lend themselves to deliberate pacing and slow development over many episodes. There’s the meet-cute moment, like when Matthew Crawley first encounters the lovely Mary, the gradual build-up of the relationship spread out over several episodes, the unrequited sexual tension, and finally the big, romantic kiss during sweeps. But romance is only part of the appeal, and the most successful soaps mix romantic plots with storylines involving betrayal, revenge, or other conflicts. It’s also helpful to have various sub-plots to ensure that the audience does not become bored with any one storyline. Like most soaps, Downton Abbey has a large ensemble cast, so when viewers become bored with Matthew and Mary they can enjoy the scheming Thomas or the rivalry between the Dowager Countess and Matthew’s mother.

The soap opera formula is so effective that even series that are not technically soaps will often adopt soapy sub-plots. More often than not, this means an unrequited romance between two of the main characters (as an example, see X-Files, or Bones, or House, or any drama from the last twenty years). And as entertainment conglomerates have shifted from standalone stories to long-term franchises, the soap opera formula has spread to other media. Every new story has a huge cast and a plot extended across multiple novels, movies, comics, or video games. The soap opera is so mainstream its basic features are taken for granted.

But because the soap opera is so ubiquitous, it’s hard to do anything particularly innovative with the formula. Downton Abbey distinguishes itself from the pack in two ways: setting and social commentary. A pre-WWI English estate is a relatively unusual setting (especially for American audiences), and the series is overflowing with nostalgia for a bygone era of fox hunts and Victorian fashion. The social commentary, on the other hand, focuses on class relations and the role of women in a pre-feminist society. At least in the first season, the treatment of these issues is rather cursory and superficial. The writers want to show the gradual transformation of British society, so there are sub-plots where the youngest Crawley daughter flirts with women’s suffrage and helps a maid find a more respectable job as a secretary. But the series never addresses the roots of social inequality, because to do so the writers would have to acknowledge that the Crawleys are spoiled oafs who’ve coasted through life thanks to their undeserved wealth. So the appeal of the setting – and its adoration of noble privilege – clashes with the attempt to say something meaningful about social change in the twentieth century. At least the social commentary provides a veneer of seriousness that most soaps lack (it’s not just a TV series but a “Masterpiece Classic,” according to PBS).

If Downton Abbey never quite rises above passably entertaining, the blame is mostly due to the lackluster writing rather than the conventions of the soap opera. The soap opera formula is simplistic, but that very simplicity means it can be easily merged with other genres and adapted to the interests of the writer. As an example, The Sopranos possessed many of the typical features of the soap opera (extended plots and sub-plots, large ensemble, an emphasis on relationships), and it successfully combined these features with intelligent social/psychological commentary. If I were to arbitrarily rank Downton Abbey, I’d place it below the best of HBO, but well above the cookie-cutter soaps on network TV. It’s probably on par with Mad Men, another series where nostalgia and social commentary collide.

Love and Rockets and Lesbians

News Flash: straight men love lesbians. We love them in movies, television, magazines, games … pretty much any medium you can name. But comics fandom is in a league of its own. The Japanese have an entire genre dedicated to girls who love girls.  In the U.S., Jaime Hernandez built an enviable career by writing about lesbians, and he’s hardly the only male creator to find success through Sapphic appreciation. Lesbian (and female bi-sexual) characters may not be necessary to win accolades and commercial success, but they’ve never hurt a writer’s chances.

Before someone accuses me of being glib, I’ll acknowledge that Locas is indeed more thoughtful than lesbian porn. I won’t elaborate on the merits of Locas, as I’m sure the other roundtable contributors will discuss it in detail. Suffice to say, it’s about much more than sex. And Hernandez  obviously cares about Maggie and Hopey for reasons besides prurience. But the prurience is always there, lurking in the background.

There are plenty of theories explaining why straight men love lesbians, but I suspect much of the appeal has to do with voyeurism. Lesbianism is a rejection of the male presence. Stories about lesbians allow men to gaze upon a “hidden” world of women, and by gazing upon it they shape it to their desires. The pleasure comes not simply from observing women, but from observing women in an environment that excludes men. This phenomenon is obvious in mainstream lesbian porn (that is, porn created for men), because the physical attributes of the women and the manner of the sex are intended for a straight male audience. However, voyeuristic pleasure does not require explicit sex. The appeal is not simply in the women being attractive, but that they are attracted to each other, and that attraction both reflects and enhances straight male desire.

For a writer, there are additional pleasures in creation and control. In Locas, Hernandez created an universe centered on women. The women fuck and fight and do crazy things, often in the absence of any man, yet Hernandez controls everything: their personalities, histories, clothing, bodies. Maggie and Hopey are shaped by Hernandez, and they embody his desires and fantasies. Their mutual attraction is his attraction, whether to each of them or to the two of them together.

On a related note, the limited number of male characters in Locas has occasionally been treated as a failing in Hernandez’s writing. But that complaint misses the point. The lack of male characters is not a bug, but a feature. A more frequent presence of men would alter the nature of the story, because it could no longer be a world primarily of women. Stories about men with women have their own appeal, of course, but that appeal is fundamentally different from the voyeuristic appeal of lesbianism.

Is it impossible for a straight man to write about lesbians in a completely non-exploitative manner? Maybe, but that doesn’t mean the outcome would be superior art. As I suggested above, even an exploitative work can have artistic merit (and there are treatments of lesbianism far more exploitative than Locas). And LGBT readers are often the most enthusiastic fans of lesbian stories by male creators (see Jaime Hernandez, Terry Moore, Joss Whedon, etc., etc.), at least when those creators treat their characters with a modicum of respect.

But I’m left wondering how Locas  would be different if it had been written by a lesbian. And how would the identity of the creator affect the critical reaction in the tiny world of comics? Would a lesbian creator be given the same acclaim for Locas as Hernandez, or would she be pigeon-holed as an LGBT creator writing for a queer market? Do male comic readers give a damn about lesbians when they’re created by lesbians?

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The index to the Locas Roundtable is here.

The Horrors of Broadcast Television

This is a continuation of my post on “found footage” horror.

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The River is a fascinating show. Not fascinating in the sense of being well-written, or suspenseful, or really any good at all. Rather, it’s fascinating because of how thoroughly shitty it is. Despite high production values and experienced producers, The River sucks at everything. It’s a rare accomplishment, even by the low standards of broadcast television.

Created by Oren Peli (Paranormal Activity), The River is a horror series about Lincoln Cole (Joe Anderson) and his mother, Tess (Leslie Hope), who are searching for Lincoln’s long-lost father, the famed explorer Dr. Emmett Cole (Bruce Greenwood). Emmett disappeared several years ago in the Amazon rainforest. The expedition is funded by TV producer Clark Quitely (Paul Blackthorne), who offers to provide a boat and a crew, but only if he gets to film everything that happens. So Lincoln and Tess become the stars of a reality TV series, along with a tidy group of stock characters. There’s the cute love interest for Lincoln, the ethnic engineer and his daughter, the evil mercenary, the sassy black cameraman, and the nerdy, Jewish cameraman. After leaving the Amazon River to float down an uncharted tributary, the group is soon beset by ghosts, magic, and sundry evil things.

What sets The River apart from other horror series is the found footage concept. Every shot comes from either the (in-story) cameramen or the stationary cameras mounted around the boat. Presumably, the footage somehow made it back to the U.S., where the suits at ABC broke it down into hour long chunks (with commercial breaks!) before airing it. It’s a silly premise, but no sillier than any haunted house or slasher movie. It’s a decent enough idea for delivering cheap thrills each week. But a decent idea doesn’t amount to much when the execution is garbage.

The first problem is the cast, or really the lack thereof. As any slasher fan knows, horror stories need big casts to kill off. And a horror TV series needs either a very large cast or plenty of guest stars to bump off, otherwise the story cannot generate any suspense. The audience instinctively knows that the core characters are not going to die early in the series, because if they died the story couldn’t go on. But The River has barely half-a-dozen characters, and with such a small cast it must conserve every character like they’re water in the desert. So only one person has died after three episodes (the Jewish cameraman of course, as he was just too Woody Allen-ish to survive in the jungle).

The horror is further undermined by the hokey family drama that passes for a sub-plot. Did Tess leave Emmett or did Emmett leave Tess? Was Tess having an affair with the sleazy TV producer? Will Lincoln ever forgive his dad? Does anyone care about this shit? Of course not! I don’t care about these characters and I don’t want to care about these characters. This is supposed to be terror in the Amazon, not Days of Our General Hospital.

At least with the producer of Paranormal Activity at the helm, The River should be a technically flawless example of found footage horror. I say “should,” because it’s actually a terrible example of the genre. As I discussed in the previous post, found footage copies the shaky camerawork, the crappy angles, and bad lighting of amateur video, which makes it easier for the audience to suspend disbelief and buy into the lie that the footage is real. The River occasionally uses these techniques, but then it ruins everything when it switches to perfect angles and soft lighting for those oh-so-dramatic moments. And the actors, despite being in the rainforest, always look clean and pretty. My disbelief is not suspended, because the show is too slick for its own good.

And then there’s the censorship. I understand that this is broadcast television, which is regulated by the FCC. I understand that a good portion of the American public is deeply offended by the female nipple and the word “fuck.” And I understand that it must be frustrating at times to work for a lousy network like ABC. But there’s something far more pathetic than a show where no one ever curses. It’s a show where characters regularly curse but the profanity is carefully bleeped out (even the mouths are shaded, just in a case an easily offended lip-reader is watching). Excuse my French, but what the fuck are they trying to prove? Presumably, they want the audience to believe that the characters are real and speak just like normal, foul-mouthed Americans. But the censorship wrecks the found footage conceit. The whole point of found footage is that it’s supposed to look like someone found a camcorder lying in a gutter. The content is raw and uncensored, creating the illusion of reality. As for The River, the only plausible assumption is that ABC “discovered” the video recordings of an expedition that encountered real magic, ghosts and other crazy shit. And naturally the suits at ABC bleeped out the profanity before sharing this earth-shattering footage with the public, because they’re insane.

Can anyone name a decent horror series on the broadcast networks? I loved The X-Files when I was a kid, but that was a long time ago, and many of the episodes have not aged well. Perhaps broadcast television – with its censorship and commercial breaks – is simply not a suitable medium for the content and storytelling techniques of the horror genre.