Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
On Being a Historian/Advocate for the
Silver Age of Comics; Carrying the
Lighted Torch To the Back of the Cave; and the Self-Destructive Cargo
Cult of Modern Comics Fandom.
Yes. I'm Afraid It's Another One
of Those Rants. 
(Part One)
You have to wonder, sometimes:
- At what moment in this medium's checkered history, precisely,
did the notion of "fun" become anathema to the modern comics enthusiast?
- When and where were the by-elections held, mandating that readers younger than (say) thirteen and older than thirty were to be forevermore accorded the status of pariahs within the fannish community, re: their own storytelling preferences and desires?
- And at which point on the graph of the comics community's collective (un)consciousness did the counterfeit notion that "Comics Are Better Than Ever, Goldang It!" achieve the status of Mathematical Inerrancy... even as increasingly anemic sales figures (proving, demonstrably, that such is decidedly not the case; no truly worthwhile commercial art form has ever gone a-begging, acceptance-wise, over a period of decades) threaten daily to reduce the medium to cargo cult-like irrelevancy... if not commercial extinction, outright?
Howdy, all. I'm back.
Let's rumble.
"Fun" has become the epithet of choice, in today's fannish lexicon.
The notion is generally smuggled in under the conversational cloak of
some other rubric, of course. (No one, it seems, wants to go "on
record" as being against fun, after all. I mean... good golly
--!)
"Corniness." "Silliness." "Childishness." Stuff like that, there. That's how the modern-day fannish hoi poloi (sneeringly) refers to dear old "fun," nowadays... that is, whenever they deign to mention it (with a derisive snort) at all.
The imbecility inherent in this particularly pigeon-toed rhetorical stance, of course, is that brightly-colored, cheaply-printed tales of mesomorphic, impossibly altruistic boy scouts in form-fitting spandex are, by definition, "corny"; stories involving men who can punch their respective ways through mountain ranges with their skulls are inherently "silly"; and sagas breathlessly detailing the serial exploits of all-but- omnipotent individuals who choose to resolve the vast bulk of their (incessant) conflicts by means of Great, Whopping Fist Fights are, de facto -- work with me, here, people -- "childish," by their very design.
This really is not all that bloody difficult a concept with which
to bear-wrassle, people.
Demanding that a storytelling medium created for the very young (or -- at the very least -- the very young at heart) all but renounce its signal, storytelling strengths (i.e., the potent, "anything goes" primacy of the fairy tale, and the concomitant exhilaration thereof), in favor of more (putatively) "adult" navel- gazing and high-minded Seriousness of Intent...
... well: it reminds me of a bunch of (ostensible) "grown-ups," squabbling and rudely shouldering their own children to one side during a sandlot baseball game... blustering, all the while, that said kids "aren't playing this here game right," and proceeding to monopolize the bat; ball; sandlot; and whatever daylight remains, while they have their fun.
... and -- in the meantime -- the kids stand, slump-shouldered and miserable, on the sidelines.
They had actually been enjoying themselves.
Little knuckleheads. What could they possibly know about real "fun," anyways...?
Were I to ask for a show of hands, re: a vote of censure for the "adults" described in the foregoing example... I daresay that every last individual reading these words would rocket their hands upwards in less time than the pause between this heartbeat and the next...
... and never once recognize themselves as the hypocrites that they are, while so doing.
Let's talk about that, for just a moment.
Let's chat about the long-neglected (and -- if the prevailing sentiments offered up for perusal on the various and sundry comics-related "message boards" online may be taken at face value -- much despised), all-but- vanished "Kiddie Kontingent" of the comics industry's overall sales demographic.
Granted: this is rather like devoting one's time and energies to an in-depth analysis of The Impact of the Wire-Mesh Bustle Industry On Today's Woman.
Translation: "... there ain't no such animal, no mo', no mo'."
Now: there are any number of rote, simplistic raionales offered up daily
-- by fan and pro alike -- as to why, precisely, this medium's
core constituency has all but fled, shrieking, from its four-color
inveiglings and blandishments, to seek succor in the arms of (say) The
Nintendo Corporation's easy entertainments.
Chiefest amongst these, of course, is that said diversions are
(comparatively) "easy." The average "Super Mario" adventure scenario
offers its players a clear, straightforward story line; a readily sympathetic
protagonist; and the assurance of a final resolution to the interactive
saga, without necessitating that the player -- in turn -- fork over increasingly
exorbitant amounts of hard-won lucre in order to properly enjoy
the experience.
Whereas this is a valid assessment, so far as it goes... I'm still awaiting concomitantly lucid (or at least exculpatory) rationale as to why such a deplorable state of affairs is something of which we (either as fans, or an industry) should feel particularly proud, by way of accomplishment.
If a medium given over to the chronicling of tales involving men bitten by radioactive spiders, or whizzing their way through space via the agency of magical "power rings" can't even render such childish conceits as these in a form or style as to engage the interests and attentions of their natural, ready-made target audience...
... then this speaks far more forcefully, I think, against the industry itself than it does either today's pre-adolescent set... or the cackling, remorseless eeeeevil of the lab boys down Sega way.
I'm just sayin', is all.
The defensive argument that "a quick two or three rounds with SONIC THE HEDGEHOG is easier for a kid than slogging his (or her) way through the latest issue of SUPERMAN" is as (self-)damning an indictment of How This Industry Is Busily Shooting Its Own Toes Off as any summary judgement even so cantankerous a curmudgeon as I could ever level.
... and if that revelation doesn't give regular readers hereabouts
the screaming heebie-jeebies... then I'm certain I don't know what possibly
could.
Here's a notion: try, oh, do try to remember back to how it was, back when you first stumbled across this marvelous, magical storytelling medium for the very first time.
Maybe you were eight years old (as was I, the day my parents and I first moved into our new home, and I discovered that the previous juvenile inhabitant therein -- I like to think he did it on purpose; it's the hopeless romantic in me -- had left behind much-read copies of SHOWCASE #55 (the first Dr. Fate and Hourman team-up!); DETECTIVE COMICS #344 (The Batman cracks the case of "The Crime-Boss Who Was Always One Step Ahead of the Batman"!); and half-a-dozen other four-color treasures. Maybe you were a little younger; a year or two older, perhaps.
... and maybe it was simply that you were sick one day, and your mother or your grandfather -- on a whim, surely; nothing more -- picked up a random handful of comic books in order to keep you decently distracted from your miseries. Or you got dragged along to some deadly dull garage sale by your parents, and you happened to espy an especially colorful and/or intriguing cover, peeking out from amongst the battered paperbacks atop some rickety folding card table.
Whatever. It doesn't really matter.
Just... remember.
Remember how the writer(s) seemed, all but instinctively, to intuit precisely what it was you'd been looking for, all this time, in your pre-adolescent quest for entertainment and (possibly; perhaps) even enlightenment:
A clear, straightforward storyline.
A readily sympathetic protagonist (or maybe even an entire team of same).
... and the golden assurance of a final, cathartic resolution, by the time you'd finally goggled and sighed your way to the very last page.
Hold on to that memory. Hold it good and tight...
... and, now, ask yourself this:
How long do you suppose you would have continued to purchase; pore over; and collect comic books... if all of those elements had been missing, that first, fateful encounter?
We'll pick up right where we left off, on the page(s) immediately following.
"Shouting At the Loons": PAGE TWO
"Shouting At the Loons": PAGE THREE
"Shouting At the Loons": PAGE FOUR
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