Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
(... and how it could still all get fixed, if only enough fanboy heads were rudely dislodged from a sufficient quantity of fanboy derrieres.)
"Only
the learned read old books, and we have now so dealt with the learned [...]
We have done this by inculcating 'The Historical Point of View.'
The Historical Point of View, put briefly, means that when a learned man
is presented with any statement in an ancient author, the one question
he never asks is whether it is true. He asks who influenced
the ancient writer, and how far the statement is consistent with what he
said in other books, and what phase in the writer's development, or in
the general history of thought, it illustrates, and how it affected later
writers. [...] To regard the ancient writer as a possible
source of knowledge -- to anticipate that what he said could possibly modify
your own thoughts or behaviour -- this would be rejected as unutterably
simple-minded."
-- C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
This one -- I am as Nostradamus; the future is mine to know -- is going to cheese off damn near everyone who reads it.
Lurching and loping my way to the one hundred page mark on this, my Silver Age Shrine... I've had the real and distinct pleasure of communicating with (literally) scores of you, out there on the other side of the cyber-veil, re: the merits and measure of that marvelous, seminal period in comic book history.
This site -- for whatever reason you wish to asccribe -- has attracted (if I may say so, without embarrassing anyone unduly) one darned classy bunch of "regulars," by and large. E-mail missals sent winging my way have been both literate and lucid; refreshingly free of the anti-Silver Age bias that is (from all indications) common enough coin amongst the modern day would-be comics cognoscenti, to whom anything older than breakfast is antediluvian, and fit only for the ashcan.
Not to belabor the point: it has been (and, I trust, will continue
to be) my signal honor and pleasure to continue doing this archive/ retrospective,
for as long as soul; fingers; and keyboard decently allow. 
However: no matter how great the temptation (or enjoyable the experience) it may well prove to luxuriate in the shared memories of that period -- not so very long ago, really; only an eternity or three -- when comics were still written to be equally accessible to readers young and old alike; when the artists working on same were mature craftsmen, and not anatomy- and proportion-shy adolescents, rehashing and replicating one another's non-existent "styles" like so many soulless little Xerox machines... even such pleasures as nostalgia may afford us are numbed, somewhat, by the awareness that we are sipping cocktails (so to speak) at a dinner party which has, really, all but ended.
That the comics industry is in the midst of hard times -- the hardest times, in fact, it has ever seen -- is scarcely a revelation, to any fan or reader savvy enough to read an issue of KISS: THE PSYCHO CIRCUS without benefit of silent labial accompaniment.
Sales have been spiraling steadily down, down, downward in much the same manner as a paralyzed peregrine since the 1970's... to the point, at last, where the once-mighty American comic book industry can no longer credibly lay claim even to being a major player within the overall entertainment gestalt. Today's top-selling titles for the "Big Two" companies -- JLA and the BATMAN line for DC Comics, Inc.; the various components of the X-MEN franchise, for the Marvel Comics Group -- now routinely amass monthly sales totals so threadbare, that even as (comparatively) recently as twenty-five years ago, they'd have been regarded as impetus to cancel the books outright... out of simple embarrassment, if nothing else.
Over the past few years -- both as an outgrowth of correspondence initiated through this site, and on the various comics-related sites online -- I've discussed the Whys and Wherefores of this lamentable turn of events with various and sundry respondents, and have finally reached the point where several bedrock conclusions have manifested as all but inescapable, given the preponderance of the evidence. These are as follows:
1.) The average modern comics fan is the chiefest sales "albatross" hanging about the neck of today's comics industry.
2.) The comics industry, in turn -- catering to the nonsensical anti-story, anti-historical; and anti-inclusive dictates of the modern fan -- has blithely assisted in its own imminent suicide/immolation.
3.) Said comics fan is deeply and irrevocably in denial as to his (or her) culpability in this matter.
4.) Unless both fans and professionals alike arrest the present sales atrophy by returning to some of the demonstrably more savvy sales and storytelling precepts of the last successful era (i.e., the Silver Age)... the comics industry, as we know it, will no longer exist within a decade.
I will, on the following pages, lay out the bare bones and articulate the organs of this argument, so that one and all may follow the rigors of this particular autopsy. The evidence presented will speak for itself, in such a way as to preclude (God willing) both willful misinterpretation and/or simple obdurance.
... and then maybe -- just maybe, mind you -- I won't have to continually belabor the same irreducible points, over and over and over again, for the rank and file of today's smug, self-adulating and self- congratulatory "all-history-is- bunk" bunch.
That would be nice.
1.) The average modern comics fan is the chiefest sales "albatross" hanging about the neck of today's comics industry.
The problem, here, rests chiefly in that the hardcore "fan" component within today's ever-dwindling comics readership all but demands certain (anti-)storytelling practices and procedures be followed which render the final product -- the average "mainstream" adventure comic -- actively and aggressively hostile to the sensibilities and preferences of any would-be new reader/purchaser.
It was an inerrant article of faith, back in the 60's and the 70's, that (as DC editor emeritus Julius Schwartz so often phrased it) "every comic book is some reader's first comic book." To that end, a simple, sales-elegant procedure was rigorously observed, month in and month out: the stories and characters were intentionally fashioned to be as inclusive and "reader-friendly" for the comics neophyte as they were for the aficionado.
This meant, for instance, that the average DC Comics super-hero offering was complete and self-contained, within any given issue... and that -- in the exceedingly infrequent instances where a given story was allowed to elongate into a story arc -- the writer and/or editor undertook every conceivable effort (i.e., multi-page story "recaps"; extensive expository captions and dialogue; etc.) to ensure that no one shelling out cold, hard cash for a DC comic book would walk away from the experience feeling "cheated," comprehension-wise.
(The Marvel comic books of the day -- while more given, certainly, to the
multi-installment telling of the tale -- were no less assiduous in making certain
that any tyro's initial issue of, say, AVENGERS or SPIDER-MAN had all the major
characters, plots and sub-plots decently explained away no later than
the third or fourth page... tops. And anyone doubting the veracity
of that statement need only leaf through one of the Marvel Masterworks
volumes, reprinting the stories of said era. The proof -- as they say
-- is in the puddin'.)
Compare this methodology, if you will, with any given issue of (say) X-MEN or SUPERMAN published during the last five, ten years. I defy anyone to look me squarely in the eye and tell me -- with a perfectly straight face, mind -- that an eight- or ten-year-old reader whose first exposure to the characters consisted of something as studiedly oblique and self-referential as "The Trial of Gambit" or "The Millennium Giants" would have a prayer in hell of knowing what was going on in the story, sans the tutelage of a fanboy-in-residence.
This, by definition, is simply b-a-d w-r-i-t-i-n-g... even if such inbred, quasi-Masonic fare is the current storytelling flavor-of-the-month of the hardcore contingent. It is Bad Writing precisely because (pay attention, please) it discourages the casual reader from ever becoming a regular one... plain and simple.
No one -- and I mean no one -- relishes having to hand over their hard-won lucre for the experience of feeling stupid; slow; or "left out" of the storytelling experience. Such an aggressively anti-reader mind-set virtually assures that the comics neophyte -- tentatively sampling his first issue of This Title, or That One -- will never, ever stick around for more of the same, barring any unfortunate masochistic tendencies.
It is the comic book equivalent of a major film studio ordering all local movie theatres to begin rolling all major releases thirty minutes "into" their respective storylines.
Today's fannish hoi poloi, however -- when confronted with the
realities of this situation, vis-a-vis the falling standards of modern
comics scripting -- fairly bristles at the notion of returning to proven
Silver Age form, in this particular. "Nonsense!" he cries. "Maddening
obfuscation and hordes of insufficiently-explicated characters actually induce
the 'newbie' to keep reading! They adore the feeling of having
wandered into the midst of a forty-man tag-team steel cage grudge match, halfway
through! They can't wait to become one of the minutiae-obsessed
'anointed,' like us!" Which, one presumes, is simply one of the
many, many reasons that comics sales are so... whaddyacallit... robust,
right about now. Because of all the "enticed" newbie readers we've been
forced to beat savagely away, yowling, with large sticks. IIIIIIIIIIIII'm
just sayin'.
Remember what I mentioned earlier, re: fanboy "denial" of storytelling; publishing; and economic realities? That was Exhibit "A."
Welcome to the TerrorDome.
Yet another means by which the selfish storytelling
preferences of the fanboy cadre actively retard the desire and ability of the
casual reader to follow along is via the seemingly innocuous enough concept
of "continuity." Hang on tight; the trestles on this intellectual
carnival ride are rickety ones, at best.
"Continuity" -- as the term is used in fannish circcles, today -- is the anal retentive notion, y'see, that Every Single Comic Book Story Ever Published -- every issue of SUPERMAN; every issue of BATMAN; every issue of SPIDER-MAN... GIANT-SIZE MAN- THING... what-bloody-ever -- must must must "fit," seamlessly, with the tales chronicled in ev'ry single other title published by any given comics company.
(The metaphor most often employed in defense of this odd little notion is
that of "... a great tapestry, spanning the decades of DC/Marvel/(Fill-In-the-Blank)
Comics." As we will be able to see for ourselves, however, in just another
moment or two... the more apt description would be: "...
a great straitjacket, limiting the abilities of any given comics scrivener
to write stories that make any sort of 'sense' to anyone other than myself,
and a select handful of similalry obsessive and narcissistic close, personal
friends." From my mouth, to God's ear.)
True Story: I was debating the question of "continuity" with another fan on one of the DC Online message boards, a while back. Said fan was waxing decidedly wroth over the nettlesome notion that -- O, merciful God! -- a writer had snafu'd some distinctly m-i-n-o-r, decades-old "plot point," in the course of crafting an (otherwise) extremely well-told yarn, on one of the company's "team" titles. He was, as a result, flat-out demanding that the writer in question be shaven; tattooed; and outcast, naked, into the snows of Manhattan.
When I opined, by way of response, that this seemed somewhat excessive a reaction, all told; and that no normal human, after all, could reasonably be expected to possess the same basement-dwelling, tunnel-visioned obsession with the most trivial trace elements of decades-old storytelling effluvia as the standard, modern-day fanboy, and still be counted upon to write coherent english prose... said die-hard snarled:
"I don't care. All I know is this: if I were the editor of JUSTICE LEAGUE, or SUPERMAN, or any DC title... I'd refuse to hire any writer unless they'd read every single published appearance of the character I'd assigned them!"
Now: a few of you, perhaps, are nodding your heads at this juncture,
aand muttering "quite right; quite right." If you are... you're
excused. Leave the room. Go out, and frolic and gambol yourselves
silly in the afternoon sunshine. There's nothing for you here, from this
point onward, but derision, and heartbreak.
For the rest of you, however... I want you to try the following exercise:
DC Comics has just assigned you to chronicle the monthly exploits of (say) the Batman.
Naturally, you're pleased and excited. This is
not just any old caped-and-cowled-type doofus to whose storytelling kingdom
you've just been ceremoniously handed the keys; this is T*H*E* B*A*T*M*A*N*,
for cryin' out loud! One of the two genuine, undisputed icons in
all of comics history! Your mind all but a-reel with story concepts, you're
practically hopping from one foot to the other, like a toddler searching frantically
for the nearest restroom. Oh, baby, you exhult, inwardly.
Just lead me to the nearest typewriter... NOW!
... and then your editor hits you with The Big Shockeroonie: before you can type Word One for the character... you must read every single Batman appearance EVER published. (!!)
Let's do the math together, shall we...?
That's every issue of DETECTIVE COMICS, since the character's initial appearance allllllllllllll the way back in issue #27. Call it approximately seven hundred issues, give or take...
... plus every single issue of BATMAN, obviously. Add another five hundred and fifty or so comics to your reading pile.
Lesse, now... Ol' Bats teamed up with Superman in approximately two hundred and fifty issues of WORLD'S FINEST, all told. Was the regular co-star in (roughly) one hundred and thirty issues of THE BRAVE AND THE BOLD. Appeared in well over two hundred issues of the original JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA series...
... cripes! Even if we stop right there: that's over ONE THOUSAND AND EIGHT HUNDRED COMIC BOOKS TO READ -- !!
... and: oh, yeah; almost forgot. You're not allowed to "contradict" anything written in ANY of 'em.
Doesn't matter how terrific a storytelling concept you happen to come up with; counts not one whit how much depth and illumination it would afford the character. "Would boost sales on the title to one million-plus, each and every month... guaranteed," you say? Pish-tosh. What's more important here, Mr. Wet-Behind-the-Ears: actually telling a cracking good story (and keeping the character's franchise an economically vital one)... or making darned certain that every "Bat"-tale you write, from here on out, pledges blind and unswerving allegiance to some throwaway panel caption penned back in '49...?
Still feelin' all giddy and excited about writing that BATMAN comic, are we...?
The "continuity uber alles" lockstep is a manifestly unfair (and anti-creative) one to force any real writer to frogmarch. It cattleprods the would-be author along an ever-narrowing hedge-maze of Can't Do This and Mustn't Do That -- the dictates of honest creation be damned -- solely for the express, stated purpose of allowing a tiny, zealot minority within the overall readership (of any given title) to play a reductionist game of: "What If every Batman story [for instance] were simply one chapter in a massive, sixty-year-long novel," or somesuch.
In order to fully savor and recognize the inherit foolishness of the conceit: imagine that Random House, tomorrow morning, announced that -- from this day forward -- Stephen King; Tom Clancy; Hunter S. Thompson; Danielle Steel; Sue Grafton; and Joyce Carol Oates would all be required to yoke their respective storytelling "universes" together, in unholy tandem.
Now: imagine what the proper response of these six writers would
be, to such a mandate.
More sobering, however: imagine that your favorite author from amongst the aforementioned half-dozen (whichever one that may ultimately be) were forced, somehow, to tailor their every tale -- from this moment on -- to the creative efforts of the least able and/or creative member of the party.
This -- in a nutshell -- is precisely the storytelling arrangement so coveted and championed by the "continuity-or-bust" crowd, within today's comics readership. Should (say) an Alan Moore, or a Neil Gaiman, come up with The Single Greatest X-MEN Story Ever Set Down On Paper... they (literally) would not be allowed to tell said tale, should it contradict -- in minutest particular -- some trivial, half-baked bit of canon established, years earlier, by Chris Claremont, or Scott Lobdell.
Commit it to memory, please: ANYthing which acts as a governor on THE VERY BEST STORIES POSSIBLE being told and sold is -- de facto -- DETRIMENTAL to the continued creative health AND financial stability of the comics medium.
Honestly: that much should bloody well go without my having to say,
shouldn't it...?
The "continuity" boondoggle also (demonstrably) discourages those all-important
new readers from entering the comics "fold," as well. (This, in
particular, seems a devilishly difficult notion for the typical immersed-in-the-stuff-since-infancy
fanboy to "grasp," for whatever reason. Lord knows, I've tried darned
near everything, by this point: flash cards... finger puppets...
even mime troupes, for pity's sake! Oh, yes... I have known despair,
in this life.)
"How," you ask...? Stone simple: the fact that today's comics find themselves increasingly straitjacketed by Every Damn Thing Which Has Gone Before; Good, Bad, or Indifferent requires that -- solely for the sake of simple lucidity -- they become increasingly incestuous, and self-referential. Variant interpretations of any character from the concretized pro forma of same are actively discouraged, even if demonstrably SUPERIOR to the one(s) making up the staus quo.
(EXAMPLE: the character of Superman is transformed -- for well over a year, mind -- into a bright blue electrical "djinn," of sorts. Said alteration is reflected -- for good or for ill -- in all four of the character's monthly titles. Readers who may well have preferred reading about the "real" Superman, at that juncture, were -- as the saying goes -- S.O.L. Not because the demand for the traditional "take" on the character had -- all of a sudden -- evaporated into thin air, mind; no, no... simply because allowing the four writers in question to actually exercise the minuscule amount of creative autonomy and simply choose which interpretation they felt most able to: a.) write competently, and: b.) sell... would have rendered some of the resultant stories (saints preserve us!) "out of continuity."
(In other words: the quality of the stories for that year-plus -- stories for which the readership was being asked (obviously) to pay money -- was, quite simply, a non-issue. It didn't even merit discussion, given the zombie-ish drumbeat of c-o-n-t-i-n-u-i-t-y.
(... and: what of the readers of JLA, during that selfsame period? The ones who would never pick up an issue of any of the solo SUPERMAN titles on a bet, but simply enjoyed seeing the character -- the traditional one -- as a component of the team, overall? Too bad; so sad. They, too, became [in a readership sense] "hostages" to the dictatorial fiats of books that -- by all rights -- should never even have had any impact on their entirely separate purchase of a completely different comic! Madness on top of madness -- !
(Now: imagine how many readers simply gave up on reading any of the above-mentioned titles, due to the fannish obsession with "continuity." How many of these -- having had their own basic, simple storytelling "needs" shrugged cavalierly aside -- are likely ever to come back, do you suppose?
(More to the point: can an industry in such demonstrably lousy financial shape as this one afford to write off even a percentage of its customer base...?)
During the Silver Age of comics: should the writer of (say) THE FLASH have elected to have said character suddenly manifest the head of a large gerbil, or what-have-you, during the course of a multi-issue storyline... the writer of JUSTICE LEAGUE wasn't shackled, in turn, to reflect any such plotting gimmick. Because: it wasn't fair to the readers of the latter comic...
...and: because the writers of said era were regarded as being something more than simply the literary equivalent of short-order fry cooks, tailoring their creative talents to the shrill, hectoring dictates of a neurotic sub-sub-strata of the readership entire.
Point One of this manifesto's quatro -- i.e., the average modern comics fan is the chiefest sales "albatross" hanging about the neck of today's comics industry -- has, then, been elucidated in sufficient measure. The incestuous mindset (in terms of storytelling preference, I mean) of the creature -- when catered to as exclusively and incessantly as does the industry, today -- is (demonstrably) anathema to the casual (or fledgling) reader.
This, in turn, has led to a sales posture so slump-shouldered and sway-backed within the industry, that nine out of every ten new titles fail within their initial year... and sales figures on the remaining titles (most of these, holdovers from the 60's and 70's) are nothing to strut about, either.
Assuming that a price hasn't been affixed to my greying head, by this point,
by an outraged fan community... we'll cover the three points remaining on the
following page.
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