Listening to the Rent soundtrack, specifically “Life Support,” I welcomed back the chills that that song gives me, and realized that it is rare that a comic book moves me like Rent does. Since I was reading comic books at the time, the contrast was that much more apparent. When I acknowledged this fact, I entertained the notion of a purge like Longbox Graveyard did, to get rid of anything that doesn’t move me. I wondered what I would have left if I winnowed away the mounds and mounds of chaff to find the joy in my collection. Also, I realized how few titles I was currently buying created the kind of aesthetic involvement that I wanted, and wondered how it was possible to increase the likelihood of it happening. And, is it my fault? Should I return to the childlike appreciation that I had in my first interactions with comics in 1973, or rekindle my imagination, or outgrow my hobby of comic collecting?
Ducks gaping at the beautiful and the sublime. Carl Barks’s “Seven Cities of Cibola.”
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m no elitist. I love comic books. Not only do I own mounds of them, I read them. But I am under neither the illusion that all comics are wonderful nor the illusion that comics are incapable of excellence. I don’t believe for instance, that there is any art hierarchy that devalues comic books and elevates music, painting, or architecture. Comic books are capable of shock and awe, of aesthetic responses, can produce both the beautiful and the sublime. A comic book by a master like Carl Barks’s “Seven Cities of Cibola,” does all of those things at the same time. It is just that many comic books don’t make you feel anything. And this is not the fault of comic books per se, but the people creating them as well as the audiences consuming them that enable certain modes of taste to become the norm. As Sturgeon’s Law goes, 90% of everything is crap. That means everything: 90% of all movies, TV shows, comics, video games, fine art paintings, and other artworks fail at being awesome and are merely passable. Just as there are five hundred channels full of nothing to watch, for every Saga or Bone there are a hundred comics that struggle with mediocrity.
Jeff Smith’s Bone.
Presumably you still enjoy your hobby, because you are reading the comics section at Nerdspan. But maybe you are suffering through your pull list, realizing much of it is only mediocre or at best above par, and wishing that it could be better. Which isn’t to say that any of it is poorly drawn or written, just that little of it at all has any feeling to it. There are high production values and refinement of craft, no doubt, and the characters do their best to emote when they’re barren of empathy. Mediocrity mimics quality, after all. If it was hard to publish mediocrity, and not the norm, Sturgeon’s Law would never have been coined.
I wonder if perhaps its that I’ve changed, that I’ve aged, and then dismiss that thought as mere snobbery. Sure, comics can be an immature pursuit, but so can sports, movies, love, or money, and few will tell you that they’ve outgrown sports, movies, love, or money. But while I can’t blame aging for my dissatisfaction, I am nonetheless to blame, along with the rest of the marketplace, for stunting the growth of the medium. The fan blames the publishers and the creators for the quality of the books they are reading, but the truth is that we get the books that we deserve by making them salable. We buy the bad books out of fan service and don’t buy the good ones. Interesting comics like Dial H or Fearless Defenders flounder, while every comic with a Batman or a Wolverine succeeds regardless of the quality of the contents. It is the same reason that there are one hundred sequels for every Citizen Kane that is filmed. Fewer people will take risks if the efforts of risk-takers mainly tank; the sure thing is always easier. Because what sells is always the most important thing in an art form that is also a commodity with a price tag right on the cover.
By not being critical of the comics we are reading, we are ensuring the stagnation of the medium. Which means, conversely, that hope lies in an audience of discriminating readers passing the surplus and superfluous titles. Which means that the standard for comic book criticism needs to be raised as well. Because 90% of criticism is crap too, and as comic book criticism has never been as plentiful as say, film or tv criticism to begin with, there haven’t been that many firebrands to light the way. Film as a medium is about the same age as the modern comic strip, and has had dozens of influential critics with strong voices, while comics have only had a handful; so movie makers usually remember to ask the vital question, “why should the viewer care?” whereas sometimes comic creators forget to ask that question, and comics have been doomed to repeat their history for longer than necessary.
Fortunately, while comic books that make you feel something are uncommon, they are probably not too far from hand. The works of Osamu Tezuka, Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Will Eisner, Sergio Aragones, Edmond Hamilton, and Otto Binder are numerous. There are sequential novels with wide sensitivity to feeling like Elfquest, The First Kingdom, Bone, A Distant Soil, Scott Pilgrim, and The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck. While I was writing this essay, I rediscovered some classic Carl Barks and Don Rosa Uncle Scrooge stories with my daughter. “The Duck that Fell to Earth,” made me laugh so hard that it hurt a little. This week, when you read your pull list, if you feel like there is something missing after reading the last comic in the pile, go find that story in Donald Duck Adventures 37. It’s a treat you deserve.
