Guest Blogger: Mike Discusses The Problem With Comic Books

When first introduced to comic books, I fell in love when Marvel Comics. The series that hooked me was called "What If?" It always explored a variation on the events that had transpired in the Marvel Universe. Story-lines, such as "What if the Avengers had fought Galactus?" or "What if Wolverine became Lord of the Vampires?" were regularly explored and followed to an often tragic end. What thrilled me about these comics was how they played with an established, concrete history. I didn’t know it at the time, but what I really loved about the Marvel Universe was its incredible sense of continuity.

You would often see a character from another comic passing someone like Peter Parker or Tony Stark on the sidewalk. A little footnote below would exclaim "What is the Human Torch doing in Queens? Check out this month’s Fantastic Four for the scoop!" These characters lived in a connected world. Often a character would not be present in the book he guest-starred in because he was busy in his own comic or off teaming up with another hero. The writers seemed to realize and care about continuity, about what was happening, and when, in the world of Marvel Comics. And I was an addict.

In the last few years, this has all changed. The current head of Marvel Comics, who was hired around 10 years ago now, issued a new decree for the formerly continuity- heavy Marvel Comics: "Continuity can be ignored for the purpose of a good story." It was, for Marvel at least, a revolutionary concept. Suddenly, Spider-Man and Wolverine were EVERYWHERE. The problem is that while it worked for sales, the overall quality of the writing suffered once continuity was no longer respected. "A good story" seemed to be confused for "A story that sells like hotcakes."

Along with this sudden freedom, the comic industry also learned something evil. They realized that any time they changed the status quo, their sales picked up. Phrases like "The end of an Era!" or "The beginning of a new legacy!" began gracing the covers of more and more comics. You had Team and Roster changes, heroes donning new names and costumes, heroes dying in big, publicized events and then returning, triumphantly resurrected, having fought their way back from the grave to defend their homes. These days, heroes die all the time, and their resurrection may only be months hence.

When Captain America died a few years ago, it was a pretty big deal. The entire Marvel Universe was shaken, with every hero talking about it, going to the funeral, and dealing with the reality of emotional loss. There was an incredible mini-series published at the time--Fallen Son: The Death of Captain America--which shows different heroes, such as Iron Man, Spider-Man, and Wolverine, each dealing with a different aspect of the grieving process. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance are explored in a single issue, and it’s truly an emotional and moving book.

About a year after Cap’s death, Thor used his great power to summon the spirit of Steve Rogers and visit with him. Moved by the Captain’s sadness at the use of his death for political agendas, Thor flies into high orbit, and uses lightning to silence every satellite broadcasting coverage of the anniversary of Cap’s death for one minute. One full minute of peace for his fallen friend. Again, the story was emotionally fulfilling and moving. It brought real weight to events of a fictional world. These comics not only made me miss the Captain, but also truly appreciate what the world had become after his loss.

And then, they brought him back. "Cap isn’t dead!" they told us. "He was just lost in time! See his return in the new mini-series, 'Captain America Reborn!'"

And suddenly, those wonderful, emotionally moving, and incredibly well-written books reflecting the death of Captain America lost all significance. They were rendered obsolete. Why would someone read a reflective piece on the life and death of an individual that’s still alive?

Death in comics has become a revolving door that nearly every character will pass through, disappearing for a short time before returning completely unscathed. It’s hard for a reader such as myself to really care much these days when a traumatic event comes to pass for a beloved character. They died? Aw, they’ll be back in a few months. No big deal. The most glaring example of just how bad things are in the world of comics is that even Spider-Man’s Aunt May and Batman’s butler Alfred have both died and returned. Let’s consider this. Aunt May. Really.

I think the main problem is this: If an event has no lasting impact on the life of a character, then it is of no importance to the reader either. Continuity must not only exist, it must be respected. If an event takes place, its consequences must be real and lasting. When you remove the consequences, you remove the meaning of the event.

For continuity to truly work, and for the life, adventures, and tragedies of a character to truly matter, there must be a clear beginning, middle, and end. Not only must the end be clearly defined in relationship to events,  it must be defined in time as well. When that cycle comes to an end, you can begin another. Maybe it’s a new character; perhaps it’s the child of the hero. But the life of a fictional character, especially that of a comic character, cannot continue indefinitely as it has in the past and have any credibility or structural stability.

One of my favorite comic runs in the last few years was Joss Whedon’s Astonishing X-Men. Completely free of the continuity of the X-Men comics that were being printed at the time, Whedon's comic explored a wonderful story that touched on many classic moments of the X-Men’s past. The series, while amazing, exemplifies both the problem and the solution to Marvel's continuity chaos. The series did rely on the pasts of the X-Men featured, but while there was a clear beginning, middle and end,  it did not have a clear place in the overall continuity of the X-Men timeline.

Furthermore, while the comic featured emotional growth for many of the characters, some events were spoiled by story-line ramifications appearing in other comics published before those events happened in the main series. Many events featured in the series, such as a long awaited relationship between two characters and the "death" of a hero, have since been undone; the relationship ended, the dead resurrected. Again. Perhaps most problematic is that the series actually featured the resurrection of a long missing character. (However, the character had been out of print for some time, and his resurrection did not undo what his death had accomplished.)

Unfortunately, when continuity does appear in the Marvel Universe these days, it has no real weight. Sure, if it will help sell a comic; a hero might cross over into the big company-wide story. But often, events are written and then ignored or undone according to what the sales figures dictate.

Any event that happens in the life of a character must be true to what he has experienced before and effect what he does in the future. The story must be the most important consideration. What does this story say? What did the character learn? How did he learn or grow? Once the sales of a series outweigh the importance of the story itself, the reader suffers, and the work suffers. Strong characters deserve not only strong stories, but a strong history and complete timeline. Without these things, comics will continue as literary garbage heaps, continually piling and piling yp until the audience is drowned in useless waste.

It’s time for Marvel Comics to change. And not just another reboot like DC’s "New 52" that graced shelves in the last couple months. Restarting continuity from scratch may resolve past problems, but it will still leave writers open to future problems. Soon this new, fresh slate will become as muddled and confusing as it was before. The future of comics, and other continuity-based entertainment, lies not in it's perpetuity, but rather in its end. By introducing complete character timelines (ending with death/retirement), and perhaps redesigning each story arc to function as its own graphic novel, the integrity of the characters and the stories being told would be strengthened and reinvigorated. Instead of following a character doing the same thing over and over for years without end, future comic readers can have complete epics featuring heroes whose lives are worth caring about, remembering, and, who knows, inspiring others.

Papa Whedon's Influence

Tom Whedon became an associate/supervising producer of Golden Girls in Season 5. This is one of the best seasons of Golden Girls. It also marks a slight change in the humor used on the show. Don't get me wrong: Seasons 1-4 are funny. But Seasons 5 on have, well, that Whedon Family touch.

It's hard to explain the difference (unless you are a Joss Whedon fan), but it's the difference between the cute funniness of say, Charmed, the Thin Man dialog funniness of Bones (which I quite like), and the ultra tongue-in-cheek funniness of Buffy. Season 5 of Golden Girls gains that tongue-in-cheek edge.

For example, Rose's St. Olaf's stories, while as outrageous, become so outlandishly satirical, they catch you off guard. Here is a story from Season 3 and one from Season 5:

Rose (3.15): I remember when I was a little girl back in St. Olaf. There was this old lady who lived up the street. She never smiled. I mean, she always looked angry. The kids said she'd kill anyone who even stepped on her property. We used to call her Mean Old Lady Hickenlooper. It turns out she had no smiling muscles. I explained to her that a smile is just a frown upside down. From then on, whenever I passed by, she would stand on her head and wave . . .

Rose (5.1): You know, there are all sorts of things that people get that doctors can't diagnose. Gustav Lundqvist got sick from something mysterious, and he nearly died - well, he did die, in fact. Then at the cemetery, Beatrice Lundqvist, his wife, kept screaming, "He's alive! He's alive! I can hear him from the grave!" Well, everyone thought it was the hallucinations of a grieving widow, so they sedated her. But when she woke up from her sedation, she told them that he had said from the grave, "We never paid our '78 through '86 income taxes!" And his partner said, "Only Gustav would know that! He must be alive!" So, they all raced to the cemetery, and the entire town started digging like crazy, kneeling by the grave, using their hands even, dirt flying and Beatrice screaming. And when they opened that coffin, there he was...dead as a doornail. The point is, Gustav didn't die from his mysterious disease at all! He lived and recovered. The trouble is, he recovered while he was buried, so by the time they got to him, he'd died of suffocation. Another tragic aspect was, the IRS was waiting at the cemetery to arrest Gustav's partner, Bergstrom. So, Bergstrom killed himself right then and there, by grabbing the gun from Sheriff Tokqvist and shooting himself. What they did then was, since the grave was still open, and everyone was right there, and Gustav and Bergstrom had been partners, they put Bergstrom in with Gustav and had a double burial. Unfortunately, later they found out that Bergstrom wanted to be cremated.

The first story is funny (and silly), but the second one includes a degree of wacky irony that I've only ever seen in Son Whedon.

And I've wondered, How much was Son Whedon influenced by Papa Whedon? Or does humor just run in families? Or were Papa Whedon and Son Whedon discussing Roseanne and Golden Girls over the dinner table in 1989?

Another similarity is between Son Whedon's Buffy women and the Golden Girls (whose personalities are solidified in Season 5).

For example, Rose and Willow could be aunt and niece. They are both lovable innocents who deep-down have fiercely competitive spirits. Both may blurt out surprisingly caustic thoughts when pushed.

Blanche, more than in the other seasons, gains an Anya/Cordelia say-it-like-it-is quality in her outspokenness:

Blanche (5.2): And the thing is, after all this, I've decided not to sell my book. It's too good to sell. They can publish it after I'm dead, like Vincent van Gogh.

Dorothy: Van Gogh was a painter, Blanche.

Blanche: Whatever. It's all the same thing. We're all artists, we're all misunderstood. He cut off his hair; maybe I'll cut off mine.

Dorothy: He cut off his ear.

Blanche: [after a beat] I have too many earrings...I can trust you, Rose. You're from Minnesota. People from Minnesota are honest; they don't lie. What could you possibly find to lie about on a farm? Lots of lakes and nice pale people. Read, Rose, don't talk. [as Rose reads] I must publish a guide to go with my book: it's too full of references people could not possibly understand. It will be taught in universities.

Rose: Blanche, you are exhausted. You have to sleep.

Blanche: "To sleep, perchance to dream..." [gasps] My God, what a wonderful line! Oh! I'm getting so good, I can't stand it! I ought to write it in my book, that line. What do you think, Rose? What page are you on?

Rose: Well, to tell you the truth, Blanche, I don't understand any of this. It doesn't seem to make any sense.

Blanche: You're from Minnesota. What have you read, for God's sake? Silas Marner? Paul Bunyan? Give me back my book. This is why Hollywood won't get it, either. I won't have my words coming out of Glenn Close's mouth. I'd rather die!

Dorothy, with her sarcasm and eye-rolling competency, and tiny Sophia, with her pointed bon mots, together make the perfect mirror to Buffy!

I won't push my argument any further. It is, I will grant, something of a stretch. But you know, if the Whedons were writing clever 19th century French novels, there would be an entire subculture of literary analysis devoted to comparing father and son.

Maybe it is just as well they write for television.