Monthly Archives: February 2012

Post to Incestuous Sheets

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The Rub at Magic Futurebox

This last weekend I traveled into the depths of Brooklyn to witness The Rub, a re-envisioning of Shakespeare’s Hamlet done by a small troupe, the Tremor Theatre Collective, which includes my wife and fellow Hooded Utilitarian Marguerite Van Cook in the role of the young prince’s mother, Queen Gertrude. After Marguerite’s many late rehearsals, she’d tell me of the unusual methods of director Nessa Norich, an innovative theatrical force emerging from France’s Jacques Lecoq International School of Theatre. Norich’s actors formed the production from improvisation, from physically interacting with each other and with the deep columned space of the host theatre Magic Futurebox. From weeks of coaxing and collating the freely invented dynamic interpersonal movement and gestural variations of her cast and imposing a anachronistic montage of verbal and visual references, Norich finally introduced a script in the last week of rehearsals. As I was trying to help Marguerite run her lines, they seemed almost peripheral to the source text with only scattered bursts of Shakespearian diction, but Norich’s presskit describes a “surreal and playful investigation of the frustration, anxiety, passion, complacency, selfdoubt, delusion, isolation and desire that come with being heirs to a state rotting from the inside out.” That’s basically what our Will was on about, as well as where we Americans seem to be at. When I actually saw the results of Norich’s intriguing construct, I found that Shakepeare’s narrative is well represented even as it is made part of something contemporaneous and electrifyingly involving.


The Rub: Gerson, Van Cook and Stinson. Photo by Nessa Norich

The character of Hamlet is effectively played by several actors: one (Micah Stinson) sulks and simmers while another (David Gerson) adopts a keenly fearsome, sinuous aspect of outrage held barely in check. Three more Hamlet alters argue by turns and interweave at breakneck speed through the cavernous room (Colin Summers, Daniel Wilcox and Steven Hershey, who also flow seamlessly into a mellow-voiced Laertes, a loquacious Polonius and an opportunistic King Claudius, respectively). Queen Gertrude’s role is here expanded to be a fiercely comedic whirlwind of Freudian complication. I can’t claim objectivity, but it’s awesome to see Marguerite use some of her many performative skills. As Gertrude she works the stage like a vaudevillian; she stalks with limber, cartoony malevolence, she flummoxes a game reporter (Chas Carey) like a Danish Ghaddafy, she purrs, cajoles and overtly schemes with her new husband against Caitlin Harrity’s earnestly vulnerable Ophelia. Site-specifically mapped projections cunningly use the architecture of the theatre to add ominous, surreal narrative elements. The audience is brought out of their seats to follow the scenes into the depths of the room, making them complicit in the action as it boils to its inevitable final conflagration. While it certainly adheres to the spirit of Shakespeare’s intent, The Rub also shows a freedom of conception that to me is the essence of Art. I love it and so does Magic Futurebox, who have extended the production through next Friday and Saturday.

The Rub @ Magic Futurebox: 55 33rd Street, 4th Floor, Brooklyn, NY (D, N, R trains to 36th St) on Friday Feb. 17th at 8pm and Saturday Feb. 18th at 8pm

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Before Watchmen: Too Sullied Flesh

Shakespeare’s plays are in the public domain; he left no heirs but he is always credited as the source of any use of his works because his efforts are of undisputed quality and value. I suppose it is possible that the more extreme liberties taken by the Tremor Collective might put some Shakespeare purists’ noses out of joint, but theatre is by its nature an act of interpretation. It is a given that a source play is subject to adaptation.  Plays are meant to be reimagined through the efforts of the director, actors, set designers and other members of the ensemble putting up the production.  This is not the case with the current news cycle bummer about DC Comics’ reworking of co-authors Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ Watchmen, a book that was not conceived with the intent that it should be re-interpreted by other creative talents, on the contrary: Watchmen could not be a more deliberately complete work than it is.

As it has stood for 26 years, Watchmen has gone through many editions and enriched DC Comics financially and in terms of credibility. In fact, this multifaceted work is virtually the jewel of their crown. It is one of the key books that began to give comics a degree of critical acceptance, and it is one that deserved such attention—it gave the company a cache to build on, which they have sometimes tried to do with their more ambitious efforts such as the Vertigo line and their similarly convoluted graphic novels, story arcs and miniseries. They could have continued to profit from Moore and Gibbons’ book and striven to emulate their example of excellence, without violating the bounds of decency. But that was not to be. First, Moore disowned the adaptation of Watchmen to a film by Zack Snyder and for a good reason: the comic stands as a finished and hermetic work of Art in the form of a comic. I doubt that he could anticipate how bad the movie would be, though; it reglamorized the violence which Moore and Gibbons had taken pains to deglamorize, changed the ending entirely and amplified what I see as the flaw of the book.


Watchmen: Sally Jupiter is sodomized offpanel; and the “cover-up.”

Make no mistake, what Edward Blake does to Sally Jupiter is not attempted rape, it is rape. He assaults and beats her, then sodomizes her. This is a DC comic and so we are not shown explicit penetration. Instead, the rape happens in a space of indeterminate timing between the first two panels shown above and outside the cropped image of the second panel, where the two characters’ relative positions, Sally’s choked scream of pain and the symbolic bestiality represented by the ape’s head in the case make abundantly clear what is happening. In panel 3, Blake isn’t removing his pants, he’s pulling them up. The colorist has obscured where Gibbons drew Sally’s shorts and stockings pulled down in panel 4, which represents a typical male reaction to rape, at the time and often still. Hooded Justice’s harsh direction to Jupiter to cover herself can be seen as an indicator of why both her daughter Laurie and Hollis Mason (in his book excerpt within the book) are unaware that the rape was actually perpetrated in full: the truth had been suppressed.


Laurie is given clue #1 that Blake is her father.

Jupiter’s previous flirtations with Blake are used as justifications for her contemporaries to think that she had somehow “brought it on herself” and Jupiter’s own feelings of shame and what can be seen as typical victim psychology cause her to diminish the crime, to the extreme that a decade later she has an affair with Blake, which produces a child: Laurie.


In Laurie’s childhood memory, Sally tries to explain to her husband why she has a tryst with Blake, the rapist; confronted by Sally, Blake gives out with clue #2; and their daughter’s epiphany on the moon.

 


Hammering the offensive flaw: Sally loves her rapist.

Sally kissing the photo of the late Blake amplifies the flat note in what is otherwise one of the most carefully and sensitively composed comics ever done. In a medium predominantly directed to males, an often overtly misogynistic form oblivious to the consequences of sexual violence, this rare realistic depiction of rape in comics comes to represent a offense a woman could forgive, that she even might even come to love her rapist. Even more offensively, Snyder in his film made the fact of Laurie’s very existence through Sally’s forgiveness be the salvation of the world. This concept unfortunately lurks in the book, but shorn of the larger rationale of Moore and Gibbon’s ending which involves the human race uniting in the face of a manufactured outside threat, in the film the forgiveness of the unforgivable, the purpose of conception superceding a woman’s rational sensibilities, the “miracle” of the existence of even the product of a rape, all become the primary lynchpins of a narrative seemingly altered to pander to Christian Americans.

For his part, Moore removed his name and refused to profit from this adulterated mess, while he ensured that his collaborator and co-author Gibbons was the sole beneficiary of any royalties. Moore and Gibbons always steadfastly declined to do any more comics with the characters of the book and for 26 years DC respected their contribution to DC’s standing enough to let it go. It should be noted that a production of new comics like Before Watchmen did not happen under the watches of the more sensitive Jenette Kahn or Paul Levitz. No, it takes a corporate pitbull like Dan Didio to make such a decision. With the recent announcement, Moore immediately registered his protest and Dave Gibbons—well, unlike Moore, he still works for DC on occasion, so I’d guess that he couldn’t risk anything but a vague “good luck with that” statement. DC’s behavior, along with Marvel’s recent anti-creative legal victories, should send a cold chill through comics professionals.

And that brings one to question the involvement of all participants. Now, I shudder to imagine that I was more of a “team player,” that I hadn’t bitterly complained about such things as inequities of cover credit, that I drew in a still gritty but somewhat prettier style and had somehow “moved up the foodchain” of artists who draw for DC, or that Brian Azzarello in a generous mood had decided to throw me a bone for drawing his very first professional script, the results of which pleased Axel Alonso so much that he made his new writer a star, and Azzarello had actually recommended me for a gig. Okay, that’s a little poke at Brian, but let’s pretend that for any of these reasons I had been actually offered the Rorschach title. Then I would have been faced with the painful prospect of turning down such a very high-paying, high profile job for reasons of ethics. It’s hard to come down on people who need work. “Tough economic times” can be a powerful incentive to ethical compromise. But one wonders whether people as successful as Azzarello, Darwyn Cooke and J. Michael Straczynski need the work. Rather, they seem to all believe that they are entitled to presume on Moore and Gibbon’s masterpiece, because they are bursting with their own “stories to tell” about the characters. One wonders how they would feel if the shoe is on the other foot and it was their brainchildren at stake. Regardless, their presumption shows a disregard for comics as an art form of any significance and disrespect for the accomplishments of their contemporaries.

It gets worse: given that the actuality of the rape has been debated, one wonders how the re-interpreters will further mangle Moore and Gibbons’ intent. One might dread Cooke’s version of the adolescent Laurie in Silk Spectre, even if it will be drawn by Amanda Conner, because Cooke, known mainly for his reinterpretions of others’ creations, in his first adaptation of the appallingly misogynistic Parker books invalidated any claims of sensitivity or irony in his approach by having the lack of taste to render all the female characters with his typical cute Batman Beyond template. What one gets is interchangeable, expendable girls dying cutely for no reason at all, while the main character could care less. It doesn’t bode well and the covers of the new comics released so far carry out a theme of disempowerment, some directed deliberately at women, as Noah showed in his HU post yesterday. A general theme of uncaring seems to blanket Before Watchmen; as Azzarello stated in The New York Times what seems to represent mainstream comics’ overall regard for their audience’s intelligence: “a lot of comic readers don’t like new things.” Jack Kirby must surely be spinning in his grave. Perhaps Azzarello in his case was being ironic, but he couldn’t be more clear that one won’t be seeing anything new in Before Watchmen.

Who Is Under the Hood?

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So as folks may or may not have noticed, we are getting fewer and fewer links from comics blogs as time goes on. However, it doesn’t seem to have affected our traffic; on the contrary, we’re getting slightly more hits, if anything.

Which brings up the question — how are you all finding us? I’m curious to know. Do you follow us through twitter or facebook or through our feed? Did you find us through a google search? Do you have us bookmarked?

And, as long as we’re asking, what do you like (or dislike) about the site? Is there something you read us for in particular? Is there something you wish we’d cover that we don’t?

I realize this may not be of interest to anyone else…but I was curious, so I thought I’d ask. In any case, whether y’all want to talk to me here or not, I do really appreciate that you are finding us somehow or other, and that you’re taking the time to read us.

Excess Meaning

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Above is a art project Bert Stabler and I worked on together. I wrote the words and he drew the image.

Except, as you’ve probably noticed, there are no words. When it came down to it, Bert decided that the pictures looked better without the text. So he took them out.

In some versions of comicdom, this could be seen as a cardinal sin. As Joe Matt says, “”I’ve gotta draw minimally to serve the storytelling! The writing always comes before the art!” Similarly, Ed Brubaker argues “I’ve always felt that the writing was far more important than the artwork… As long as the art supports the story…” It’s hard to see how Bert could have more thoroughly violated these precepts.Not only does his art not serve the storytelling, but in the name of the art, he actually went ahead and removed the words altogether!

Of course, in our project, the words were always subordinated to the drawing; Bert did the artwork first, then I provided words…and then he decided the words didn’t fit (in some cases literally — too much text for the boxes.) But that merely underlines the point that art here was not subordinated to storytelling.

Bert’s piece takes several steps towards abstract comics. Appropriately enough, Andrei Molotiu has taken on a lot of these issues at his Abstract Comics blog (from which I pinched the Matt and Brubaker quotes). Specifically, Andrei has argued that art in comics should not be, and often is not, subordinated to the demands of text or narrative. Speaking of the art-must-follow-story meme, Andrei says

This is exactly the logic of illustration–which is a form of logocentrism… And here we can expand the discussion beyond abstract comics, which occupy only the extreme position (like “purely harmonic music”) in a wider range of art that exceeds narrative demands.

In another post, Andrei goes on to look at some examples of non-abstract, art-superfluous comics.

For instance, he talks about a Bob Kane story from 1941, in which Kane used a ton of circular panels, as Andrei shows:

Andrei goes on to say:

Now, what does this mean? Probably nothing. (Which is not to say it’s not significant; just that it’s probably not meant to mean.) One can obviously draw the parallel between the circular panels and the moon–but the resulting interpretation (Batman as creature of the night, etc.), would be generally valid for ANY Batman story: so why specifically this one? Similarly, one can find some connection to the closing words of the story, where Bruce Wayne, with a wink, tells Commissioner Gordon: “I guess the life of Bruce Wayne does depend quite a bit on the existence of the Batman!” There is a kind of circularity implied there, I guess, and we can then claim the circularity is echoed formally in the art… And yet, if that’s the great realization, the theme of the story–again, the Bruce Wayne/Batman dichotomy is a constant throughout the strip. Why this story specifically?

I don’t know. Maybe Bob Kane had a brand new compass he had purchased the day he drew this story, and he was just dying to use it. But my point here is: I’m not so much interested in fully motivated signs, portentous (a la Wagner) leitmotifs charged with meaning as you can find in, say, “Watchmen” or “The Dark Knight Returns”–works in which their creators seem fully in control of their formal language, in which every single (or almost) signifier can be seen as adding something to the story’s theme. Rather, I’m interested in what, at this point, may be called automatisms, tics perhaps, that nevertheless affect our experience of the comic.

Andrei is drawing a distinction between formal elements that can be collapsed into the theme and formal elements that are tics, excesses over meaning. As an example formal elements linked to theme, you could perhaps take this Gruenwald painting, where the idiosyncratic formal use of scale illustrates the phrase “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

And as an example of formal tics that do not link to theme, you could take the insistent circular repetitions in the Frank Miller Spider-Man/Daredevil crossover which Andrei analyzes.

In Gruenwald, the formal elements relate directly to the spiritual meaning; in the Frank Miller, the circles are just a way of organizing space; an abstract, musical surplus, which contribute to pleasure or experience without, Andrei says, contributing to narrative or meaning.

The question I have here though, is this: are narrative and meaning synonymous? Obviously they aren’t; Gruenwald’s painting isn’t a narrative, but it’s intended as an illustration of a thought or a metaphysical insight. But what about in Miller?

Perhaps one thing that the circular motif does is to insist on its own integrity. It draws a border; looking at those images, it’s hard to avoid the sense of space. In both of the sequences form Miller above, the words are literally pushed off to the edge, allowing the circles to spread — Daredevil’s senses, his “sight”, reaches out across the page, marginalizing the text. Logocentrism is (again, literally) replaced by iconocentrism. This is the case even in instances where the text is more interspersed with the circles, as below.

The spinning multiple figures against the whiteness demand attention. It draws you down into an excessive, vertiginous whirl of motion that makes the banal text (“Got you fella! Hang tight!”) seem like the superfluous bit.

Thus, the image spilling over the words does not exceed meaning. Rather, its meaning (or one meaning) is the excess itself. When Andrei says illustration is excess, he is not illustrating the way in which illustration does not mean; rather, he’s illustrating that very meaning, which is excess. The circle is a hole in narrative — a vortex that escapes the story’s staid linearity and in its place spins out an ever-expanding circumference of pleasure.

Bert’s excision of text can also be seen as a kind of deliberate overtopping, or annihilation, of narrative content.

In Bert’s drawing, the Peanuts characters flow and morph, losing their coherence as they dissolve into a kind of post-modern iconic glop. They don’t cease to mean; rather, their meaning is unanchored from its original context and sent oozing along the chain of signifiers. So Schroeder turns into a guitar which turns into tombstones haunted by a cute little death and Linus and Lucy fuse into a single terrified/terrifying blob of torment and tormenter. It’s a violent detournement — and the violence is not only in the drawing, but in the (lack of) text. The Peanuts characters are all caught in the boiling cauldron of narrative meltdown, and their blank, stunned, failed efforts at speech only emphasize their tortured transformation. The speech bubbles hang emptily in the design — the last, sad trace of the vanished stability of logos, as around them rages the free-associative chaos of the image.

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In the examples so far, Andrei’s conception of the visual as excess (beyond meaning in his formulation, of meaning in mine) has worked fairly well. I think it is possible to find instances that call it into question though. For example:

This is one of Hokusai’s One Hundred Views of Mt. Fuji. It’s title of this particular plate is “Fuji as a Mirror Stand.” The point, or meaning, is, then, a kind of visual pun — the image of Fuji in the background with the sun sitting on top of it recalls a mirror sitting on its base.

If that image is what the print is about, though, what to make of all that action in the foreground? The man with his dog crossing over the bridge can be seen as a visual mirror of the mirror, perhaps — but Hokusai makes it very difficult to see the action there as pure formal doubling. Instead, we want to see it as narrative. What (we ask with the dog) does he have in that bucket? Where is he going, and where are those boatmen going under the bridge? Will they speak to each other? Do they see each other? What’s their story?

In this case, we might say that the narrative, or the demand of narrative, acts as an excess; an addition balancing on top of the mountain. Human stories pass over and pull under the image; what you see is disturbed by the demands of what happens. You can look for your reflection in the serene and distant mountain, and you may even see it, but your dog is still beside you, excessively nuzzling, demanding that you move on.

Here’s another view from the same series which works in somewhat similar ways.

The title is “The Appearance of Mt. Fuji in the Fifth Year of Korei.” It is supposed to show the actual date of the appearance of the mountain. Befitting such a momentous occasion, the figures gathered here are intently focused on Fuji. On the left, government officials stare, their attention riveted — so much so that their hands imitate the curve of the mountain’s top. On the right, a group of villagers gaze with similar single-mindedness…for the most part.

There is one exception though. A single villager has been distracted; he points off to the side at…what? A bird? Falling bird poop? Godzilla?

You could easily read this as in line with the last image. The meaning of the drawing — its purpose and point — is the view of the mountain itself as miraculous and devotional presence. But there’s a story in excess of that image; something has happened, and though we don’t know what it is, it draws us away from the image and on to the next panel, even though, in comic-book terms, there isn’t one.

But while you could read this as narrative excess over the meaning of the image, you could also read it as image excess over the meaning of narrative. The scribe next to the pointing man has been recording the story of the mountain on the day of its new creation. But he is distracted by sight — first of the pointing finger, and then, presumably, of whatever it is over there that we can’t see. For us, the hint of a story is a distraction from the view. But for the writer in the image, the hint of a view is a distraction from the story.

Of course, outside the print, there isn’t really a view or a story — just a mystery waiting to be charged with meaning. Narrative and image both leap at the chance, climbing one on the other, each over each, like Mt. Fuji rising through Hokusai’s frame.

Jon? What Are You Doing Back There?

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I’m not the first to have noticed this,, but I happened to see Adam Hughes promo cover for Before Watchmen and….

Given Jon’s usual free-swinging ways, the position of his hands, and Laurie’s distracted expression, it’s hard to escape the suspicion that we’re being treated to a scene from the action here.

Charitably, one could consider this a friendly Lost Girls tribute. Less charitably, one could surmise that it’s a smug thumb (or something) in the eye to Alan Moore, telling him right out what DC and its new creators plan to do to his characters. Least charitably, it points simply to the usual level of utter mainstream comics cluelessness. DC’s disinterest in women is apparently so extreme that they can’t even be bothered to look at their flaccid cheesecake before they slap it up there on their marketing campaign for all the world to see.

The Sadomasochistic Protestant

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In Umberto Eco’s The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, Yambo, the brain damaged protagonist, trawls his childhood home at Solaro finding an attic of dusty, mildewed memories — magazines, newspaper clippings, knick knacks, and comics. The eponymous comic strip for which Eco’s novel is named has sadly dimmed with time, now clearly seen as nothing more than a faded talisman and one of the “most insipid” tales “ever conceived by the human brain.” Yet age has not withered his attraction to Alex Raymond’s most famous strip…

Flash Gordon Sunday 1935 (from the collection of Rob Pistella)

…the memory of its hero lodging itself into his dying dream towards the close of the novel, informing every childhood reminiscence and fleeting recollection; this final immersion retaining the wild discursions of a child’s mind now uncomfortably snared to the adult penchant for structure, nonsense, and logic.

There is the nefarious Ming, the sense of camaraderie among our intrepid adventurers, the grand staircase leading to heaven like something out of Powell and Pressburger’s A Matter of Life and Death…

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…or, perhaps, Hal Foster’s Egyptian sequence from Tarzan which is referenced throughout Raymond’s early years on the strip — the same obeisance to that dark god of masculine virility and white supremacy.

 

Tarzan 6-26-1933, Hal Foster

 

Flash Gordon 6-10-1934, Alex Raymond

 

And, of course, there are the fantasias on the female form in which Raymond immersed himself once his skills and reputation allowed for it. This world of scantily clad women with welcoming bosoms and teardrop asses. That vision of the cold, domineering princess ready to do every form of evil in the name of jealousy, but who is redeemed by her willingness to melt in the arms of her “true” love. These figures coyly praised by Al Williamson in his introduction to the first volume of the Kitchen Sink reprinting of Flash Gordon and ignored altogether by Bruce Canwell (in an article found in the recent IDW reprint) in favor of the contributions of co-writer Donald Wynkoop Moore and a few apologies for the lackadasical scripting on the strip. The latter’s decision not altogether unexpected I should add, the topic in question being tiresome, obvious, and puerile.

The Sunday (of June 2nd 1935) in which Dale pleads desperately for recognition from the brain-washed Flash before being ill used by her tormentors is perhaps the most glorious representation of Raymond’s barefaced fixations.

One can only imagine the sweat trickling down the heroine’s immaculate body as she holds herself taut in anticipation of the reader’s gaze, delighting in her exquisite torture. Raymond allows not one inch of readerly terror. There is only delight in this display of the draughtsman’s pleasure in pain. There are also the cat fights which take on the fervor of lesbian mud wrestling, the depraved domesticity…

…the conjoined torment at the pole of blissful brutality.

There can be little doubt that Raymond’s Flash Gordon is a textbook example of that perverse quality (and sexuality) which is marked by the way “in which violence, aggression, and pain become vehicles for other things — for staging dramas of suspense, supplication, abandon, and relief that enhance or substitute for sexual acts…its way of not ending in coitus, its lack of subordination to a genital goal of discharge or end-please.” (Linda Williams)

And so it is in Yambo’s (and presumably Eco’s) meditation on his childhood comics where “neither the femme fatales nor the satanic males (think of Ming with Dale Arden) ever sought to ravish, rape, imprison in their harems, or know carnally the objects of their lust. They always sought to marry them.  Protestant hypocrisy of American origin, or an excess of bashfulness imposed on the Italian translators by a Catholic government waging a demographic battle?”

 

Perhaps we should add to this not only the desire to marry and possess in the most virtuous of traditions but also the desire to whip and demand submission. Quite unforgotten by the producers of the film adaptation as evidenced by that fan favorite, the whipping of Aura, and certainly well appreciated by Eco in his jaunt through Raymond’s strip — yet elided here because of that tone of innocent nostalgia which must persist. Whatever may be the case, one might see in Yambo’s comment either a call for a certain logical consistency to aid the suspension of disbelief or mere misogynistic nattering.

I think it would be fair to say that we are inundated with these images from the realm of pain on a far more regular basis than the average reader of the Sunday funnies in the 30s.  Presumably, we are living in a more enlightened age. Indeed, we find Linda Williams enumerating the various approaches towards these perversions towards the mid-section of her chapter on “Power, Pleasure, Perversion”, recounting everything from Laura Mulvey’s vision of such products as “avenues of escape for phallically threatened male viewers”; to Gaylyn Studlar’s suggestion that “cinematic visual pleasure is not sadistic but rather masochistic” partaking of the “pre-oeidipal pleasures of merger and fusion rather than oedipal issues of separation and individuation”; and hence to her own extension of the ideas of Mary Ann Doane where…

“…a female spectator” confronted with such scenarios “may not identify with this woman as pure, passive vicitim, for…in these scenarios…the tortured woman has arranged to play the role of suffering woman, to put on a show of suffering the better to enjoy her pleasure.”

What is clear though is that the comics have held fast to that old time religion of Protestant decorum. Undoubtedly, lapsing into indiscretions on occasion before being flogged back into submission.

Where once Marston and Peter dreamt of strong women trussed and bound up [1], we now merely have strength and role models.  Where once curvaceous women and brawny men surrendered themselves to the whipping pole  we now have Dilbert and the faithful PrinceVal. And who is to say this is not the better course, the cartoon strip fading into irrelevance but not falling into impurity, like St. Anthony assailed by demons and rushing into the warm, ascetic glow of the desert.

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[1] From Bound to Blog #3, Noah Berlatsky

“And, hey, you know what? Good for Marston, really. False consciousness arguments are pretty dreary, not to mention condescending…I think it’s generally worth acknowledging that when people acquiesce in oppression or discrimination, they generally have some motivation that can’t be reduced outright to stupidity. It’s not wrong to want someone to take care of you…though obviously you’d want to be careful about the person. Marston’s feminist diagnosis isn’t coherent — it’s a contradictory mess of false consciousness, legitimate emotional goals, fetishization, and pro-lesbian radicalism. That doesn’t make it precisely wrong, though.”

 

Superthing

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This essay first appeared on Comixology.
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When Craig Yoe first saw the pulp fetish pamphlet Nights of Horror, he instantly gasped, “Oh, my God, Joe Shuster!”

That expression of shock has a couple of levels to it, I think. First, of course, there’s the simple surprise of discovering unknown work by a seminal cartoonist. Artist Shuster and writer Jerry Siegel created the hugely successful Superman for National Comics in 1938. A decade and much legal wrangling later, though, Siegel and Shuster had lost the rights to their character, and were no longer welcome at the company which had been largely built on their creation. That much of the story is well known — but pretty much nobody was aware that the down-and-out Shuster had illustrated a low-budget porn title like Nights of Horror. In fact, given Shuster’s declining eyesight, some historians weren’t even sure that Shuster could see at all by the mid-1950s when Nights of Horror was produced.

The amazement expressed by Yoe and by other comics professionals he quotes in Secret Identity: The Fetish Art of Superman’s Co-Creator Joe Shuster isn’t simply because the work was unknown, however. It’s because of the type of work it is, and the type of artist Shuster is supposed to be. Stan Lee, with his usual talent for dispensing middle-brow wisdom, pithily sums things up in the introduction. “Whereas everything about the stories and artwork of Superman was positive and uplifting, the pages of Nights of Horror…cater to the basest of man’s character and morals.”

So there you have it. Superman is good. Nights of Horror is evil. How, oh how, can we reconcile the two? Lee does it, characteristically, by genuflecting in the direction of tragic irony: Shuster loved the noble and good, but became “so disillusioned and desperate” that he debased his talents and turned to the dark side. Yoe himself isn’t that prudish, but he too sees a contrast. Superman was too perfect, Yoe argues. The discovery that Shuster had a less savory aspect, therefore, makes him, Yoe says, “someone we, with our own flaws can relate too.” Stan the Man looks on with distaste and Yoe looks on with avuncular amusement, but both agree on the central narrative, viz., it was a big step (whether down or sideways) from drawing Superman to drawing fetish art.

But was it? Not everyone thought so. Anti-comics crusader and psychologist Frederic Wertham for example, hated Superman and fetish pulp more or less equally, and for more or less the same reasons. Wertham believed that Superman encouraged “fantasies of sadistic joy in seeing other people punished.” The hyper-masculine, uniformed supermen were a sexualized, godless fantasy of force; a dream of limitless empowerment. Yoe quotes Wertham in the later’s famous screed, Seduction of the Innocent: “We established the basic ingredients of the most numerous and widely read comic books: violence, sadism, and cruelty; the superman philosophy, an offshoot of Nietzsche’s superman, who said, ‘When you go to women, don’t forget the whip.'”

As it happened, Wertham is on record condemning not only comic-book fetishism in general, but Nights of Horror specifically. The psychologist linked the fetish pamphlets to a series of brutal murders and assaults by a gang of young pseudo-Nazis in New York in 1954. As with super-hero comics, Wertham attacked Nights of Horror for its perversion, its sadism, and its general bad influence. Eventually, his testimony helped get Nights of Horror confiscated and destroyed by the state, in a decision upheld 5-4 by the Supreme Court.

Again, Yoe provides all of this information — but he doesn’t quite connect the dots. Perhaps he thinks too highly of Superman, or perhaps he’s simply unwilling or unable to credit rampant Comstockery. Nonetheless, the fact remains: in Wertham’s analysis, if not in his censorious conclusions, the crusading prude was definitely onto something. Whether it’s superheroes or fetish porn, pulp is pulp. And what pulp is made of, in large part is sadistic and masochistic fantasies. It’s not an accident that one of the earliest successful Batman villains, the Monk, was a vampire hypnotist who controlled the wills of his female victims. Nor is it coincidence that the incredibly popular early Wonder Woman stories featured elaborately bound beauties in just about every other panel. And as for Superman…well, how about this:

That’s a panel from the Superman newspaper strip which Siegel and Shuster worked on in the early ‘40s. It took me about a minute to find it by flipping at random through my volume of Superman: Sunday Classics.

So Shuster was into kink, then? Yoe does manage to uncover some evidence that the artist had an eye for chorus girls and the female form. But while that’s interesting, it’s not really the main issue. The point here isn’t that this or that creator had a personal thing for spanking or sadism or masochism. Rather, the point is that as a genre superhero comics simply aren’t that far removed from the kind of pulp fetish porn that Shuster retailed in Nights of Horror. Read through Yoe’s plot synopses of the sixteen plus issues that Shuster illustrated and you’ll get a definite feeling of déjà vu. Damsels in distress, evil hooligans, manly private dicks, and fiendish torture devices — didn’t Shuster illustrate all of this somewhere before? You’ve even got a fair number of men getting shown up just like that milquetoast Clark Kent…though, admittedly, Kent’s humiliation didn’t usually involve a French maid.

The consistency, though, goes beyond the simple details of the plot or the occasional oversexed Jimmy Olsen look alike. Both Nights of Horror and Superman have Shuster’s trademark, rough and ready stiff poses, forthright compositions, and linework-because-we-need-some-linework. It’s not slick, but it does have a kind of charming mass-market anonymity. The dominatrix on the cover of Secret Identity for example; Shuster drew her breast so it looks like a detachable sack draped over her shoulder. It’s as if he just chucked her together piecemeal for the pose, and plans to disassemble her as soon as you turn the page.

And then there are the picture frames on the walls of some of the dens of iniquity drawn in Nights of Horror — picture frames in which Shuster has neglected to place any actual pictures. Yoe suggests that these vacant blank squares evoke the emptiness and cruelty of the bleak pulp world. Really, though, it seems to me likely that Shuster didn’t draw pictures for the frames hanging in the background because…this is porn. Who’s looking at the damn pictures on the wall? Shuster isn’t creating art; he’s creating a delivery system.

This ability to focus on the main bit and ignore the frills was the genius of Superman too, of course. You want a power fantasy? Okay; we’ll give you a power fantasy. Super strength! Invulnerability! Constantly humiliating the girl you desire! What could be better than that, huh? Shuster knew a thing or two about catering to his audience’s desires. That he’d pander is not surprising — though the blatant obviousness of his vision still has the power to startle.

Utilitarian Review 2/11/12

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On HU

In our Featured Archive post, P.M. Newton argues that the Wire pulls its punches when it comes to police corruption.

Jones, One of the Jones Boys, looks at Before Watchmen and asks of Alan Moore who lifts from the lifters?

I talk about why How To Train Your Dragon is better than Harry Potter.

Erica Friedman interviewed Marguerite Dabaie, creator of Hookah Girl.

A smooth 70s soul downloadable mix.

Sean Michael Robinson interviwed Gerhard about craft at great length.

I talked about morality and entertainment in Flannery O’Connor and Breaking Bad.

Kailyn Kent on Adam Hines’ Duncan the Wonder Dog.
 
Utilitarians Everywhere

At the Atlantic I discuss Bill Monroe’s pop legacy. Watch people flip out in comments when I express glancing dislike of Bela Fleck.

At Splice Today I discuss my skepticism about the economic recovery.

At Splice I describe the unpleasant sensation of rooting for Santorum.

At Splice I talk Joni Mitchell vs. Kate Bush.
 
Other Links

Alan David Doane on Before Watchmen: scab comics for scab readers.

Cheryl Lynn on listening to black creators, not black characters.

J. Caleb Mozzocco on the mediocrity of the creators on Before Watchmen.

Johnny Ryan on cartoonists vs. radical Islam.

Mahendra Singh is involved in this poetry and comics event next week in New York.

Qiana Whitted on Toni Morrison and how to draw comics characters without giving away their race.

Alex Massie wonders how much better off we might all be if the U.S. hadn’t elected three psychopaths in a row to the presidency.

And late-breaking plug; Marguerite Van Cook is participating in a play/performance extravaganza in Brooklyn, if you’re thereabouts.