A Nice Failure

Every artist who ever lived is correct about critics: they are barren nursemaids, never-weres deficient in the slightest authority to dictate the placement of a comma. They are shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, and comics critics are among the very worst, lacking in even the brazen, flatulent delusion that marks the livelier movie types. Yours is a *nice* failure, Tucker, a sweetheart’s sigh of continued, contented disappointment, sauntering dignified into worthwhile irrelevancy, beyond which none will remember, nor care, nor will any demerit solemnify the ignorance of anyone who might be moved, through any impossible intercession, to somehow remember.

That’s from an email apparently sent by an unidentified body to critic Tucker Stone, and… Well. It’s kind of amazing, right? It feels like a joke – I actually hope that is a joke on Stone’s part, to be honest, because otherwise it’s been written by the most insecure person ever, desperate to pre-emptively respond to any negative criticism by yelling NO YOU’RE A BIG MEANIE WHO NO-ONE CARES ABOUT ANYWAY at the top of their voice. The mix of over-written insult (“never-weres deficient in the slightest authority to dictate the placement of a comma,” indeed), childish offense (“They are shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit”) and comedic patronizing (“Yours is a *nice* failure, Tucker”) marks someone so oddly desperate to convince that they really don’t care despite their visual upset and no these aren’t tears it’s allergies and why are you even looking at him anyway, jeez.

(It’s clearly a him; it’s comics, after all.)

As a critic of sorts – even a comic book critic, at times – I read this and instead of feeling suitably chastised at all of the clearly bad life choices that led to my failure as a human being, I get both ridiculously amused and very curious: Who could be that thin-skinned and childish to lash out like that? How can they survive in the real world without coming face to face with far harsher truths and criticism than anything a comic critic could share? And do they spend their spare time writing impassioned screeds in their journal that are just as wonderfully reminiscent of a smart, socially awkward 15 year old railing against the world?

(This reminds me of a story that’s not actually mine to tell, about a comic book creator who once spent an hour at the start of an interview telling the interviewer about all of the bad career choices that they had made. By “they,” I mean that the creator spent an hour criticizing the interviewer’s choices, getting more and more personal. I was once threatened with violence by a comic book professional on the floor of a comic convention. Things are weird, in the comics world.)

I can understand the urge to not want to read criticism of your work, but in that case, don’t read the criticism. It’s actually kind of easy not to, really. To instead try and shout down critics, tell them that they’re worthless and should give up, is just kind of pathetic, all told.

Unfinished Writing #23

Here’s something unusual; an unfinished review that was intended for the Savage Critics; it’s been sitting on my laptop for the last few weeks, untouched because I couldn’t find enough time to complete it – I don’t know why I didn’t finish it, it stops midthought, suggesting that something distracted me as I was writing – and, now that the subsequent issue is also a few weeks old, it seemed so untimely that I decided to leave it alone. Instead of just dumping it altogether, though, I thought I’d throw it up here.

It feels as if there’s now some sort of belief, or suspicion, perhaps, amongst comic professionals that in order to get readers and retailers on board with your new series, you essentially have to tell them enough of what the story is that you spoil whatever plot twists may be in the first issue. That’s certainly true of SPIDER-MEN #1, which – in terms of plot – doesn’t get any farther in its first 20 pages that getting Peter Parker and Miles Morales face to face. And yet… that that climactic moment doesn’t have any punch can’t be blamed on spoilers or PR or anything else; the title of the comic, after all, is Spider-Men, the cover features both Peter and Miles swinging together with their masks off (which would happen further on in the story than what’s actually in this first issue), and the recap page at the start introduces both Peter and Miles. The comic itself spoils that final page without breaking a sweat.

And that last page feels like a fudge even beyond that; it’s a full-page splash of Peter and Miles coming face to face, with both figures in the air, Miles quietly saying “No way.” On the one hand, that’s a nice moment – Miles is literally verbalizing what Peter’s inner-monologue had just said twice (But I’ll get back to the problems with repetition later), making the Miles-echoing-Peter-in-choice-of-superhero-identity more explicit – but on the other… Outside of the fact that we as readers and writers have the meta-textual knowledge that this is one Spider-Man meeting another Spider-Man, this shouldn’t actually be a big moment for Peter. After all, he’s met clones before, he’s met fake Spider-Men before… Why would running into someone who’s not even wearing the same costume as he does, who is shorter and has a different body type be anything more than a “Kid, why’re you biting my style?” moment, exactly…? The only way that final page works as a dramatic moment is with the added knowledge of this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for… but that same added knowledge also robs the moment of any power, because this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for, if that makes sense.

Because there’s no “Who’re you?” “I’m Spider-Man!” “No, I’m Spider-Man!” exchange, it means that #2 is forced to carry that scene, which… I don’t know; I find myself feeling as if that we don’t need two issues of a five issue story to get to the “We’re both Spider-Man, oh, I get it” point, you know? If you consider that, thanks to the page count of comics these days, this is going to be a 100 page story (5 issues of 20 pages), then the “first act” of the classic three act structure should be totally done with by page 34 – yet, by page 20, we’ve only really been introduced to Peter Parker and had hints of the two other core characters in the story. That leaves 13 pages or so to (a) introduce Miles Morales, (b) explain that Peter is now in an alternate universe – Something, that, again, shouldn’t phase him that much considering everything else he’s even done, but I suspect will because otherwise how will the readers know that this story is supposed to be important? – and (c ) presumably allow both heroes to put together that Mysterio has something to do with all of this. Somehow, I don’t really see all of that happening, do you…?

The feeling that this first issue is poorly paced isn’t helped by the fact that Bendis’ Peter Parker is so frustrating, offering schtick instead of characterization. Bendis’ monologue for Parker is horrifically written; unsubtle (It’s full of things like “I am including the part where my life seems to be in constant danger by elaborately themed costumed crazies. And the part where, no matter what I do, I’m hated by just about everybody this side of the Verrazano Bridge,” because, I guess, telling is much faster than showing when you only have 20 pages), almost entirely expositionary, and just plain clumsily constructed. Here’s the opening to the issue:

I love this city.

Love it!!

And, really, the best part about being Spider-Man is getting to swing around up here and just… take it all in.

The best part!

Why the dual repetition? You got me; emphasis, I guess? A sneaky shout-out to the “two Spider-Men” concept? I have no idea, but as inner monologue – or, even, narration, which’d make more sense, unless we’re supposed to believe that Peter Parker spends his evenings reintroducing himself to himself and justifying his life choices – it’s extremely awkward and takes Peter from “quippy” to something akin to “over-caffinated preteen with limited attention span trying to explain why they love Justin Beiber so much.” Maybe I’m way too old-fashioned with my Spider-Man, but for me, his inner monologue would be slightly more ordered and less “OMG!!!” than this; it’s not that it just reads poorly, it also “sounds” wrong for the character.

(Also: Am I wrong in my read on the character that Spider-Man’s quips aren’t necessarily the way he thinks, as such, but an attempt to hide nervousness/anxiety/guilt behind what he considers bravado? Bendis’ narration reads as an excitable version of Spider-Man’s personality, whereas the set-up of the character suggests it should be the opposite.)

Oddly enough, there was a really easy fix to so many of these problems: Use the other Spider-Man. Not only would Bendis have a better handle on Miles’ narration – Being the sole writer of Miles to date, there was almost no way that he could get that voice “wrong” – but Miles, being the newer and less explored character, not only needs the space of the lengthy introduction more (Despite the high sales of Ultimate Fallout #4 and Ultimate Spider-Man #1, there’s no way that the character is as well-known as Peter Parker) but works better as a point-of-view character for the series: He hasn’t dealt with Spider-impostors before, he has an emotional connection with (a version of) Peter Parker that Peter doesn’t have with him, and he’s new to all of the super-science that’s necessary to get through a story about parallel universes and crossing over and the like, allowing him to need the exposition that the audience also needs.

More importantly, using Miles as the main character for the first issue would have validated him as Spider-Man. As it is, this first issue does the one thing the character didn’t need: it underscores his position as the “alternative” Spider-Man, the other one. As far as this first issue is concerned, Miles’ character is so unimportant that his part could be filled by Spider-Man 2099, Spider-Man India or even Ben Reilly; he’s literally a non-character who plays more part on the cover (where at least