My Favorite Quote of the Year

From Adam McGovern at ComicCritique.com:

"Wildstorm was roundly pilloried (here and elsewhere) for not renewing Marc Bernardin & Adam Freeman’s smart sci-fi spy thriller The Highwaymen, but luckily the criticism didn’t affect either the writing team’s attitude or Jim Lee’s judgment, since the boys are back for the smart sci-fi prequel comic to February’s film Push. Nobody in current comics is better at combining the wit and ensemble dynamics of heist films with the scary intensity of geopolitical conspiracy pulp than Bernardin & Freeman, and theirs is the *other* comeback of the year."

Because it's cool...

that's why.

Bob Schreck...

...got laid off today. In case you don't know who Bob Schreck is, he's one of the good guys.

One of the first feature stories I ever wrote for EW was about Frank Miller coming back to Batman for The Dark Knight Strikes Again. I interviewed a bunch of people about the project, one of them being then-Batman editorial overlord Bob Schreck. Great interview, lots of juiciness. A few months after the story had hit stands, I dropped Bob an email and asked him to lunch. He accepted. Maybe out of professional courtesy, maybe out of a back-of-his-mind bit of gamesmanship—I was still editing EW's comic coverage back them, so making nice with me might grease some wheels down the line—who knows? But he took the lunch and even allowed me to pitch a half-assed story idea, which we then talked about for 30 minutes. And then talked about again a few days later before he passed on it (and rightly so, as it was half-assed).

We stayed in touch over the years and when I finally gave up the comicss journalist ghost and started writing, he invited me in to talk about doing some Vertigo work. Pitched him a couple of things, developed them into proposals, talked through story arcs—they never went anywhere, but that's not the point. Most of them never do. But he took the time, time he probably didn't have.

I think, more than anything else, Bob Schreck enjoys the act of discovery: be it finding and nurturing new talent, or finding and nurturing new stories out of old talent. He genuinely likes the people, and getting the best work out of them.

The dude's a titan, and DC's loss will be someone else's massive gain.

Boobs, Push, and Adam Freeman

I swear, if every interview was as fun as this one, I'd do interviews up the ying-yang.

STILL RELEVANT: The Secret Service's Super Bowl

I originally wrote this post back in December of 2006. Everything in it still applies now that Barack Obama is, officially, President Obama. We're now playing for all the marbles.

======

Or World Series, or U.S. Open. Take your pick. Whatever you wanna call it, that's what it's gonna be for the Secret Service if Barack Obama does, indeed, run for President.

Why? Because, for the first time, a black man has a legitimate (and, depending on who you talk to, likely) shot at winning the White House. (And Jesse Jackson's run, however well-intentioned it may have been, never really had a shot.) Even though it's been a scant 40-odd years since the Civil Rights movement, I'd like to think that we, as a society, are ready for that.

But there are still pockets of this country who won't stand for it, who aren't ready for a Negro in Chief. And those happen to be incredibly well-armed pockets.

So this is when we see, exactly, what the Secret Service is made of. Because those nuts are gonna come for Obama...whether the general public hears about it or not.

Put your game-face on, fellas. Show time.

Paul Blart: Mall Cop Makes $33 million

Jesus, America. Can you not just stay home and read a book? It seems like sometimes you fuckers will watch ANYTHING...

Damnit Damnit

Shit I Loved This Year

I know, I've all but taken the month of December off. It was a combination of deadlines for Push #5 and #6, along with Genius #1 -- all three of which needed to be delivered before year's end, and were – craziness at the job (in case you hadn't heard, we had some severe layoffs at EW and, as a result, my workload has effectively doubled), and general holiday mania.

But it's the end of the year and, as such, time to reflect. And, because I'm an entertainment junkie, naturally I use pop culture as my lens. So, here's the shit that I loved this year:

SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE. Good God, if you haven't seen this you really should. A fable, to be sure, and an incredibly vibrant and moving one. Danny Boyle is giving Steven Soderbergh a run for his "I'm gonna make a film in every genre and make it well" money.

FALLOUT 3. Thoroughly realized post-apocalyptic setting + excellent role-playing engine = 40 hours happily spent at the Xbox.

CASANOVA. Someday I'll unhinge my comic writing so that it's as follow-your-bliss as Matt Fraction's. At times it feels like Casanova is the man's subconscious idea of what a spy movie ought to be – and that Fabio Moon and Gabriel Ba have tapped right into that subconscious. And other times it's just brilliant.

THE DARK KNIGHT. Well, duh.

WALL*E. Just beautiful, heartfelt filmmaking. The purest romance I've seen all year. And that's counting Slumdog.

GRAND THEFT AUTO IV. So what, it's essentially the same open-sandbox crime game as the last three. I don't care. Rockstar does this kind of shooter better than anyone. Their recreation of the New York metropolitan area was scary in its verisimilitude. And fun to blow shit up in.

IRON MAN. Yes, I've got a problem with the second act – in that there isn't really a second act, just a dude working in his garage – but given that Iron Man is just a dude in a suit, Jon Favreau and Robert Downey Jr. made sure that dude was interesting to watch.

DR. HORRIBLE'S SING-A-LONG BLOG. I want to be Joss Whedon's squire. And I had no idea I liked Neil Patrick Harris so much. Go figure.

IT'S ALWAYS SUNNY IN PHILADELPHIA. Caught up with this show on Hulu. So wrong, in so many ways, that it's right.

FABLES & NORTHLANDERS. Brian Wood made me a believer: Vikings do rock. And Bill Willingham had a plan all along, and watching it play out was a joy to behold. Vertigo can still deliver the goods.

BURN NOTICE. Smart, funny, and educational…if you're looking for an education in pseudo-spycraft. Jeffrey Donovan is perfect as the ex-spook stranded in Miami and looking for a ticket back to the bigs – his off-kilter smile never extends to his eyes.

LEFT 4 DEAD. The multiplayer game of the year. Nothing is as thrilling as rolling through a zombie-occupied burg with three buddies, shooting everything that moves, watching each other's backs, and holding off the Horde while waiting for the chopper to lift all of you to safety.

DEATH RACE. Gives me hope that you can do a basic exploitation flick these days. Simple formula, pulpy execution. Nothing but fun.

Sorry, y'all

Been a little crazy these past few weeks. Vacations, deadlines, work implosions, and holidays have joined in an Axis-like alliance and declared war on my spare time. But I yet live, and will return.

Push #1: Two Conflicting Views

Here are two reviews of the first issue of Push. The first, from Hannibal Tabu over at Comic Book Resources:

"Much like Larry Hama did with "Spooks Omega Team," WIldstorm wunderkinds Adam Freeman and Marc Bernardin showcase some team dynamics between professionals, all of whom exhibit mental powers. Telekinesis, mental suggestion, precognizance, even taking latent impressions from inanimate objects. In a relatively small amount of space, they're all given some chance to shine. All of which brilliantly sets up the twist at the end, and this is an interesting start to a new project, and yet another home run for Bernardin and Freeman, who are surely showing up as some of the most interesting new voices in comics."

And here's an (edited for space) excerpt from Tom Spurgeon's take on The Comics Reporter:

"I hate saying this, because creating is hard, and people almost always work on things with the best of intentions and with as much integrity as they can muster, but this is almost a parody of a certain kind of adventure story, where the entire world presented bends itself to an inauthentic plot line and demands of the genre as if they were the Holy Scripture made real at a wild-eyed camp meeting.... It's like something a machine might create cutting and pasting from old Caliber comics and grocery store serial adventure novels. I guess it could work as a film because it's certainly a blank slate of comfortable plot elements that someone could make come to life.... But as a comic, particularly a comic for anyone who's read any type of similar work at any time in their lives and doesn't have a bottomless appetite for seeing one more thing working that same tired ground, Push #1 doesn't say a whole lot and what it does it says in a very, very tired voice."

Well, we got tagged. As ever, I'm okay with negative criticism, provided that criticism comes from a well-reasoned, well-argued place. I don't need to agree with it—and, for the record, I think Push is just as good as Mr. Tabu says—but having been a critic, I can respect it. And I won't hide from it.

My Son, The Vault of Information

A little preamble: I am a fan of the Yankee Football. My team is the New York Giants. Because I grew up in New York, and that's what you do. For Christmas a few years ago, my wife bought me a Tiki Barber jersey, which I wore to games with pride until last year, when a freshly retired Tiki became a persona non grata by criticising his former team. Everything Tiki-related was loudly and heartily booed in Giants Stadium. (Which is a shame, because he was one hell of an athlete—one of the best to ever play for any team.) My wife asked me, idly, who I'd want on a new jersey. I told her that rather than risk a current player once again falling out of favor, I wanted someone immortal. I wanted Lawrence Taylor.

Flash forward to this past weekend. My wife and four-year-old son, Luc, come back from running some errands. Luc bounds over and says "Daddy, you got a prize."

"Really?" I say. "What'd did I win?"

"No, you got a surprise. Number 56."

Barely stifling my laughter, I say "No, buddy...you're supposed to keep a surprise to yourself."

"A blue 56. On a shirt. For you."

The cutest ruining of a birthday surprise EVER.

Push #1

Is out today. I'm pretty pleased with it...as pleased as a fella can be about a book that doesn't star his own characters, operating in a world not of his own creation—it's a licensed comic, based on the universe created by the makers of the feature film Push, out next Spring. Actually, that first statement is only partly true, given that only one character is a holdover from the film; the rest of the populace are ours. Still, we were not free to do as we pleased with the story. Approvals needed getting from the production company, plot points needed vetting. The approvers were aces, but still...the most comfortable prison and all.

It's the closest we've come to writing company-owned characters—not counting a four-page Lobo story we did for a DC Halloween anthology last year—and, I've gotta say, I'm not in love with it. Can we do it? Sure. But I find myself way more invested in a story when it's a wholly organic creation. It was an interesting exercise, though, but I don't relish the extra work that goes into work-for-hire.

If I'm pitching a creator-owned book, there's one story: the one I want to tell. If the editor doesn't like it, he passes on it, and I move on to the next lucky victim. And if no one bites, the idea goes in a drawer, to be brought out when time passes and either I make it a better pitch with the benefit of fresh eyes, or the person who passed on it is replaced by a fresh editor with regular eyes. But if I'm coming up with springboards for Batman or Spider-Man, I'm doing a lot more work with a lot less opportunity for reward. Plus, that's story generation with only one possible market. And, you know what? I'm a busy guy.

I don't write comics to keep the lights on, or my kids in new shoes. I'm doing it because I love it. I want to love the entire process, from beginning to end. I've got a full-time job in a deadline-oriented business. I've got a family that I want to see—a lot. If I don't love the thing that I'm doing that takes me away from those two, then it's not worth it. And, frankly, I don't love thinking up 10 different stories that have probably already been told in different ways about a character that's been around since WWII. I'm not gonna crack it. Or, if I did, they're not gonna let me do it.

I had an idea a few years ago that centered around Bruce Wayne having a son that he didn't know, or know about. I thought it was a pretty neat way to play a little Count of Monte Cristo in the Batman Universe. I sent it to a guy I knew in the Bat-office. Never heard anything back. And I wasn't surprised. Because would-be freelancers don't get to tell those stories, Grant Morrisons do. And I understand why only dudes like that get to monkey with continuity. Doesn't mean I have to agree with it. Instead, freelancers have to pitch sitcom stories for superheroes: tales that start and end with the characters in the same place they began, both emotion-wise and continuity-wise. "Put the toys back where you found them, in the same condition." I've got nothing against the guys that do that work, and do it well. Power to 'em. But, I'm sorry, that's not the way I want to spend the little free time I've got.

Are there conditions under which I'd consider it? Absolutely. You wanna talk about more than an inventory story that's gonna lie around for years before getting dusted off and slotted in? You wanna talk about examining, evolving, and in some cases, killing the characters? Awesome. Like the man said, sometimes folks just need killing. But I'm not up for spinning the wheels.

So, hey, go buy Push. It was an experiment for us. Not sure how many more experiments like it we'll do, so get it while the getting's good.

The Gift of Silence

When I was a boy, of maybe eight or nine, my favorite show on television was The Dukes of Hazzard. I loved the Duke boys, and the way they shot dynamite arrows and blew up nothing more important than randomly placed piles of tires or barrels. I loved Roscoe P. Coltrane—who I thought was named Roscoe Peco Train—for the silly way that he talked. And I wasn't sure at the time why I loved Daisy Duke, but it eventually became evident.

But most of all, I loved the car. That screaming orange 1969 Dodge Charger with the doors welded shut could outrun anything, anytime. It could fly over ravines and barricades. It kicked up rooster tails of dirt even when it was rolling on pavement. I was a model builder when I was a kid, and the General Lee was one of the first cars I ever completed, and I took great pride in the finishing touches: making sure the paint was as smooth as shitty brushes would allow, ensuring that the plastichrome pieces were super-shiny, and using a protractor to get the Confederate flag on the roof perfectly aligned.


It never occurred to me, until very recently, what my parents must have thought of this. My father, an immigrant from the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, and my mother, who was a girl during the Civil Rights era—they must've been appalled that their young black son was infatuated with this show that glorified the very symbol of southern aggression and oppression. That he was playing, every day, with the a toy emblazoned with a flag that had been co-opted as a banner of hate.

But they never said anything. Never a word of discouragement, never a hint of disapproval. They just let me play, knowing that, in time, The Dukes of Hazzard would dim in my estimation, to be replaced by something else just as temporary. And that, someday, I'd learn who General Lee was, what the Civil War was, and why the Dixie flag is such a firestarter.

They never said anything. The strength it must've taken to remain silent, when what I was doing must have bristled against the very core of their being.... They didn't teach hate even though it'd be perfectly understandable if they did. Only a parent can understand that sacrifice in the service of making a better world for their children. A better world that takes root in each small mind.

I thought about that a lot these past couple of days; what it must feel like to finally gaze upon that better world.

ROBIN BANKS: A Critique

So, after I posted the Robin Banks proposal a month or so ago, a buddy of mine—who happens to be an editor at a real-deal comic book publisher—took a look and sent me some thoughts. Here they are:

"This will come as no surprise to you, but books based on females, in general, do not do as well as books based on men. Yes, I know we can both come up with exceptions, but it is still a handicap. (And, yes, I know that’s the entire point of this series in particular—I get that. I’m just trying to point out to you what the suits are probably going to say first thing.)

"It feels right now like about four issues, and maybe even only three. Obviously, you could make this five or six or twelve—that’s all implicit but not currently explicit.

"You know, this seems like it’s got the makings of a hell of a slam bang adventure story, with great visuals and lots of attractive and totally kickass, incredibly competent women...but I’m not sure I’m getting Robin’s character arc. Other than proving she’s as capable as any man—which seems to be obvious from the very beginning—where does she grow? I mean, WE know her true worth from the first page, and so does she—so what makes her the protagonist? Or am I misreading it and she’s not actually the protagonist?

"This is a great opening, and absolutely makes me want to see more. I have no doubt the rest of her team are going to turn out to be totally wicked awesome too and very much look forward to you proving me right."

This buddy—who agreed to allow me to publish his comments in exchange for anonymity—has got a point or two. So, let's see if I can work some stuff out.

My Greatest Sin

I have never read Watchmen.

Okay, that's not entirely true. I never read all of Watchmen. When I first came across it, I was maybe 14 years old. I was a recent convert to DC Comics after years as a pure Marvel-head—Dark Knight Returns opened the door, and I walked right in. And I remember seeing the covers for the single issues on the racks and was totally intrigued. I bought them, read them, and completely didn't understand them. Later, when I picked up the collection—before we started calling them "trades"—I reread it...but skipped the prose/text supplements. At the time, it was not what I wanted in a comic book. Not that I minded reading, you know, typewritten words—I inhaled books at that age—but those textual interludes disrupted my flow.

So I skipped them.

I read the illustrated sections of Watchmen, dug it, and then proceeded to never read it again.

Yesterday, I decided to pick it back up and get the whole cover-to-cover Watchmen experience. (I did the same thing in advance of Fellowship of the Ring coming out—because when I was a kid, I never made it past the dreadfully boring Tom Bombadil stuff. 200 pages of walking and singing is tough for a kid to get through.)

I know I'm preaching to the choir, but...holy shit. No wonder.

My Favorite Special Effect

Asses, shaking. It's an oldie, but a goodie. Like the Silver Bullet, it works every time.

Push #3

Couldn't tell you why I can't find the cover to Push #2 but, hey, this one—on sale Christmas Eve—ain't too shabby. Not by a longshot.

Master, May I?

I was at an emergency gathering of the Minority Geek Council over the weekend—the missus was having a Girl's Night In at the house, and I felt the need to be with dudes and holding a virtual fight club—and we started talking about Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Here's sorta* how the conversation went:

ME: You know, I kinda dug it. Especially the Yoda episode. I could go the whole series without seeing Anakin and his Jedi intern.
MARTY: Watching him kick ass is always refreshing. But, I gotta tell you, the Star Wars Universe is starting to make me uncomfortable.
ME: Why?
MARTY: Because I don't like hearing that many people referred to as "Master." I mean, I get it, but there are but so many places where the use of that word is acceptible—
ME: Roots, a dominatrix's basement...
MARTY: —and I just wasn't prepared for how many times I'd be hearing "Of course, Master," "You're very wise, Master," "Shall I lower the blast shields, Master?" while watching prime-time television.
ME: Are you saying that Star Wars is a racist enterprise?
MARTY: All I'm saying is that "Master" is going to become part of a whole new generation's vocabulary. And, really, is that a good thing?
ME: ......
MARTY: Now, man up, bitch, or I'm gonna Tekken your ass into a pulp.


*It was a late night, and my memory is a teensy bit fuzzy. Plus, the videogame-induced epilepsy might've set in.

America...

We are officially not talking for a week. At least.

Sometimes, I just don't understand you.

I'd like to say that I want this...

But I really don't.
(I totally do.)
((No, I just can't. I'm not that guy.))
(((But it's so damned cool.)))