The Paper Age

All doomster predictions aside, I don't believe that the paper book is going away anytime soon, if at all. I can tell you what is going away, though, and soon: the paper catalog.

Especially in the book industry, publishers are falling all over themselves trying to put an end to the paper catalog -- and I suppose there are lots of benefits, to their budgets, to the environment, to my desk. But I hate it.

The industry standard is currently Eidelweiss, a bit of web-based software owned by a company called Above the Treeline that allows publishers to easily share their catalogs online. And it stinks. The sales reps "mark up" (add comments to) the catalog and send us an email link. When we click on the link, what we get is a plain, uniform list a hundred books long, with a tiny thumbnail of each book cover, the ISBN, price, and the sales rep comments, if any. In order to get the details for any one of those books, you have to click through on another link.

Here's the deal: I can not be bothered to click on a hundred links to a hundred separate pages to look at the details of a hundred books. When you do click through, every single page is uniform, identically designed, no individuality for any title. This is not an enticing way to sell books to a book lover. It's like browsing books at Amazon, I defy any book lover to actually do it.

With a paper catalog, you turn the page and all the information you need is right there. Usually there's an image of the book cover that's actually large enough to see, a description, some review quotes, the print run, it's all RIGHT THERE. No clicking to do. Also, if the catalog designer is worth anything, he or she can customize the design of each individual page to suit the book that's on display.

When Penguin's adult hardcover line published paper catalogs, I used to order between sixty to ninety titles from them every season. This spring they went exclusively to Eidelweiss, and you know what? I ordered just twelve titles. In a way, it was kind of a relief. A lot less work for me.

I can't believe that I'm alone in this. At a time when the book industry is whining about how their sales are shrinking, they seem to be doing everything in their power to make their sales worse. People in the retail business do not have the time to be farting around on the internet clicking links for hours. Plus, in order for me to do the purchase order up, I have to print out the damn Eidelweiss listing anyway, and that costs us money. Until they can devise an online catalog that actually looks and works and is as easy to use as paper ones, I predict their sales to retail stores will plummet.

Macmillan is going Eidelweiss this spring, Random House is going Eidelweiss this summer, and the death of the paper catalog is in sight. It's just one more way that the world is changing, not for the better.

-- Freder.

Let's Nap With Cap!

As a tie-in to the current release of Captain America: The First Avenger, Syfy recently ran a marathon of all the previous Captain America movies, barring only Republic's 1944 serial (which never had much to do with Captain America anyhow).

In the comics, Cap actually had three lives, one of which most people prefer to forget. In the 'fifties, he was a Commie-bashing crusading district attorney -- an incarnation deftly explained away by writer Stephen Englehart during a brilliant run in the '70s. The Captain America that concerns us here is the one that links the two halves of the twentieth century: Steve Rogers, the Living Legend of World War Two, and the 'sixties icon lost out of time, struggling to find himself once again.

The two '70s made-for-TV movies starring a nonentity named Reb Brown have little to do with this figure. The producers seemed determined to turn the character into a bland, generic '70s TV action hero, and seemed embarrassed by the costume. These two pilots were bad even in their day, about as close to the bottom of the barrel as comic book movies can get, and their stench has actually ripened with age.

In an era of fast talking and quick cuts, this Captain America plods, plods, plods, populated by a bevy of second-rate TV talent and directed with all the zip of double-strength oatmeal. Christopher Lee guest stars as the villain in the second one, though he's given comparatively little screen time, and let's just say that he doesn't even try to bring his considerable skills to bear on the lame script material. Much of the "action" consists of endless farting shots of Captain America driving around on his motorcycle; and the "character" stuff is strictly out of '70s TV Standard 101. Let's just pretend that this Captain America doesn't exist.

It's all  the more surprising to me, therefore, that the 1990 Captain America, intended for but destined never to make the big screen, is so vilified and demonized by most comics fans. Compared to the TV versions, this is Raiders of the Lost Ark, and although its low budget shows in a variety of ways (more and more so as the picture goes on), I've always rather liked it. It's a straightfaced, honest attempt to present Cap in both of his worlds, the past and the present day, well thought-out and entertaining in an easy way throughout its runtime.

Is it because the Red Skull is changed from a German to an Italian? That never bothered me; his story is much the same. Is it because the picture basically shoots its budget on the 'forties scenes early in the picture and the action is notably less exciting from then on? Is it because the Red Skull's "henchmen" are big-haired wenches on motorbikes? Is it because the padding on Matt Saliger's shoulders is oftentimes pretty obvious? These are all valid criticisms, but they never brought the picture down for me. Why? Because it's a lot like Linus Van Pelt of Peanuts: the mistakes you make don't matter as long as you're sincere.

Salinger (yes, the son of that other Salinger) plays Steve Rogers with honesty and conviction. He makes the uniform work because there's nothing campy about his performance. His sincerity has a remarkably calming effect on the rest of the movie. The picture's biggest scene comes early on, as Cap is strapped to a missile targeted at the White House. This could be the stuff of Camp City, and the actor playing the Red Skull certainly tries to go there, but Salinger pulls him back from the brink.

My only real kick against the movie is that Cap goes on ice right in the middle of his very first adventure, which literally means that he never gets to become The Living Legend of World War Two, and that no one in the present-day story has ever heard of him, barring the two or three people who happen to be involved in the plot.

I think it unjust that the picture never got to see theatrical release. But I'm told that it's available online, for free.

Which brings us to Captain America: The First Avenger, which actually bears a lot of similarities to the Salinger version, although with its much larger budget the challenge of keeping things moving is not a problem. One of the similarities is the sincerity, and it strikes me that no movie about Captain America would ever work, no matter what the budget, if the element of sincerity wasn't there. When the 98-pound weakling Steve Rogers is asked, early in the show, "So, you want to kill Germans?" his reply is exactly right: "I don't want to kill anyone. I hate bullies. No matter where they come from."

Indeed, the first two-thirds of the movie are its best game. There's a lot of care taken to establish character, mood, and motivation. Once the picture moves into its final act, it descends into sound and fury, all very well done, but nothing that we haven't seen before. The resolution of the conflict between Cap and the Red Skull is particularly unsatisfying, as Cap isn't allowed to defeat the Skull; the Skull defeats himself.

Hugo Weaving plays the Red Skull marvelously well, by the way; no drapery-chewing here. Although "masked" with human features through the early scenes, once the mask comes off it never goes on again, and were treated to a villain that evokes the work of Jack Kirby and Stan Lee perfectly.

In a bid to lay our doubts about the costume changes to rest, director Joe Johnston launches a terrific musical sequence with Cap in his authentic comic-book duds selling War Bonds on tour. The sequence is canny and great fun, satisfying our desire to see the Golden Age Cap onscreen, while justifying the more practical, muted costume that's introduced later in the film. He even carries his original shield! I was grinning like a kid through the whole thing.

There are quirky, funky retro-modern gadgets and ships throughout the whole picture that lend a nice Republic Serials feel to the action; and in a move that's calculated to leave true Marvelites of a Certain Generation sweeking with glee, Cap gets to lead the original Howling Commandos into action, complete with Dum Dum Dugan in his bowler hat and 'stache, and all the rest of the gang.

Chris Evens does his job, but in the end I like Matt Salinger better as Steve Rogers, even with the padding, and wish that Salinger had had the opportunity to play the part in a movie that's as well-mounted as this one is. Though imperfect, this Captain America gets it largely right, and finally gives us a film version of the character that doesn't come with some degree of embarrassment attached.

-- Freder.

"Exactly, Brigadier, Exactly!"

A friend on Facebook left me a message asking me to post EXACTLY how I am (capitalization his). Well, that's exactly the thing: exactitude is not exactly a strong point of mine in the best of times. As exactly as I can express it, this is exactly how I am: I am somewhat like The Doctor.

I'm an eccentric non-neurotypicical who has just been through an explosive, year-long regeneration, and I'm not done yet. "Still cooking." Unfinished. I have good moments and bad ones, and the good can change to the bad in the blink of an eye.

Anyway.

Been away from the computer for nearly the whole week-end. Sunday last I had my father and his wife over again for what I thought was a very successful Father's Day. It came off well enough that I felt up to managing company again this weekend. D_____, a friend that I haven't seen in, what, a decade or more? came by in the afternoon. It was fantastic to see her again, I'd nearly forgotten why she was one of my favorite people from the old bookstore days. She could only stay about forty-five minutes, but even so it was a bit like no time had passed at all.

Then around six, S_____ and C____ came over to dinner. I'm afraid this was a bit more like a visit to a local museum for them than it was a relaxed social outing! I forget that although the house is, for me, uncluttered and open, to others I think it must be a bit like the stepping into a TARDIS.

Yesterday I spent almost the whole, entire day reading. I cannot tell you when was the last time I did that. No, really, I can't tell you, because I don't remember, it was so long ago. Used to do it all the time. I took an hour or two at three o'clock to mow the lawn and clean up after -- the rest of the day I was out on the porch sofa, stretched out with a varying array of quats sitting on or around me (at one point I had all five on the sofa with me!), nose buried in a book. Nothing high-toned, mind you. But I was determined to finish Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children just on principle, just so that I could say that I'd finished something.

It's a bit derivative -- X-Men wrapped in a fairy-tale setting, and pocketed with isolated lapses in taste and careless writing, but on the whole it's an entertaining diversion with its own flavour. At least it's not another Harry Potter knockoff, although it does revolve around the old saw of a so-called normal kid discovering that he has a special ability.

Of course it ends, not so much in a cliffhanger, but in a clear set-up for another book to follow. I enjoyed reading this one, but not so much that I need to pursue any further installments in the series.

I wish that I had a special ability, I mean other than making friends with animals (which is also my Indian name: "Makes Friends With Animals.").

During my dinner break I watched a vintage Doctor Who show with William Hartnell, and then I went right back onto the porch, where I started in on something even lighter-weight: David Thorne's The Internet is a Playground. I still haven't decided for certain if his stuff is for real, or if he's made it all up. It's a lot funnier if it's real.

And just before bed I returned to a favorite, King Aroo. Have I burbled about King Aroo on this blog? Do yourself a favor and follow that link. Then follow this one. I don't care where you buy it or even if you buy it -- get it from the library if you prefer; after all, it's pricey; but King Aroo really is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Nothing makes me smile inside like King Aroo. I'm so glad that I decided to nibble a few pages before sleep.

Other than mowing the lawn (and I wonder what my neighbor thought about that after I'd already done the side facing them early on Wednesday morning, just after midnight!) I did nothing more productive. I've decided not to beat myself up about not working on the new website as I should be doing. After all, I'm still cooking, and I've decided that's all right. When it's ready to happen, it will happen.

--Freder.

Marvel's Menagerie of Miscreant Martyrs!

Benjamin J. Grimm of The Fantastic Four, crotchety hero inside, monster outside. It's
all about appearances. Or is it? From FF #51, arguably Lee and Kirby's finest moment.

My friend Donna G., who has been awfully nice to me through all of this, sent me the following extract:. I've edited it slightly for brevity:

Paul Collins, author of Not Even Wrong: A Father’s Journey Into the Lost History of Autism, interviewed on the public radio program Speaking of Faith: “[Star Trek's Mr. Spock] has one foot in the human world, and the other one isn't. He's trying to figure it out and trying to somehow reconcile this. That's one of the reasons that a lot of autistic people find him to be such a sympathetic character, because his situation mirrors their own. They are very much part of our world. And yet, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to them. And particularly ... there is so much to social interactions that can't really be explained very logically. You just have to intuit them. And when you actually try to sit down and explain it to someone, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense.”

Oh, my. I never thought of it that way. But 'tis true. And the list of heroes for people like me does not begin to end there.

A lot has been written about the not-so-deeply hidden "gay agenda" in the X-Men movie series (and people like Brian Singer and Sir Ian McKellan don't deny it). . . but that "agenda" is really nothing more than a new wrinkle grafted onto an already existing subtext in the original Marvel comic books. Teenage angst comes in many forms, and Stan Lee was probably the very first to exploit it on a grand scale as the Editor-in-Chief and Global Mastermind behind Marvel Comics.

The Marvel heroes were socially awkward, but secretly powerful. Not every Marvel fan has Asperger's Syndrome, but now I understand why I was drawn to a particular "spectrum" of characters in the Marvel Universe: the Freaks.

I started reading comics in the first place thanks to a brief piece in The New Yorker's "Talk of the Town" section that focussed on the late Steve Gerber's best-known creation, Howard the Duck. This cigar-chomping, endearingly grouchy waterfowl who referred to humans as hairless apes was stranded in our reality when the Cosmic Axis shifted and dragged him through a wormhole from another dimension. The tagline printed on the cover of every issue could not have been more specific: "TRAPPED IN A WORLD HE NEVER MADE!"

That was just how I felt. Still feel.

Few writers in the Marvel stable really understood The Incredible Hulk; even Stan the Man himself had a hard time figuring out how to use the character at first. For my money, Rascally Roy Thomas was the first one to get it right, essentially portraying Ol' Greenskin as a full-blown Autistic, which underscores the character's dangerous element: imagine all that power literally in the hands of a five-year old with a deep set of communication and emotion-management issues. In later days, Roger Stern was the only other writer who "got" it.

Up to a point in the early eighties, I own every issue of The Incredible Hulk ever published. He was my absolute favorite. I knew all about meltdowns and their consequences. Doctor Robert Bruce Banner, who could devise the nation's first and only Gamma Bomb, can't handle basic interpersonal relationships -- and when he gets mad, you'd best be moving out of his way quickly. Banner could be the poster boy for Asperger's Syndrome.

My absolute favorite issue of The Incredible Hulk is still the one in which Roy Thomas introduced Doc Samson, a neurotypical scientist who, in the name of curing Bruce Banner, steals the Hulk's power, pumps himself up into an Adonis, and then moves in on Banner's girlfriend, Betty Ross. This pisses off Banner so much that he sneaks back into the lab and re-exposes himself to gamma radiation in order to become the Hulk again. The Green-skinned Aspie and the pumped-up neurotypical square off against each other, with the over-confident Samson not realizing that he has all the power of the Hulk -- when the Hulk is calm. But Jade-Jaws isn't calm any more. He's pissed. And, as was expressed in almost every issue, "The madder the Hulk gets, the stronger the Hulk gets."

The ehm, "disagreement" ends with the total humiliation of that sand-kicking Doc Samson. Unfortunately, when Betty goes running out onto the scene of battle, it isn't the Hulk that she goes running to. We last see Ol' Greenskin standing alone in the street, looking on at Doc Samson cradled in Betty's arms, knowing that he's lost something, but, for the life of him, not being able to figure out what that something is.

*Choke* Gets me every time.

I used Benjamin J. Grimm for my graphic this time because the image came readily to hand, and because the message reflects how Autism and Asperger's children feel. But The Thing is really a very different case -- which is perhaps why the fabulous Fantastic Four were an acquired taste for me. Ben Grimm is a 100 percent neurotypical, a jock, to be honest, who happens to be trapped in the body of a . . . well, a rocky orange thing. He doesn't represent Asperger's or Autism because he totally gets the neurotypical world. But his physical appearance is so severe that he feels humiliated and shies away from social contact. Consider it a really, really bad case of acne.

You see, Marvel Comics was an Equal Opportunity exploiter of the fears that Young People have. If you know of a child who is suffering from anxieties of any sort, I would suggest identifying a corresponding character in the Marvel Universe and putting the stories in their hands. NOT the current stuff -- the classics, Marvel circa 1962 to 1969. It's all out there.

Discovering comics, in the years after I graduated from high school, when I had already read "serious" writers like William Faulkner and George Orwell and James Thurber and Anais Nin, really opened some doors in my head. But that's for another post.

-- Freder.

The Lurking Fear

I was spending my second night in a row out on the couch on my porch, with Honey sitting on me and Pooky trying to, reading Asperger's Syndrome and Anxiety by Nick Dubin, and thinking, how could I possibly convey the deep connections and revelations that I'm seeing here without just quoting passages to the point of copyright infringement, when I suddenly had an insight.

Quoting, quoting, quoting. One of my biggest problems, first pointed out to me by an old ex-girlfriend, is that I'm almost incapable of expressing myself in normal conversation without quoting,

But, quoting someone who is not exactly a friend, but whom many of my oldest friends will recognize in the words:

I would bet you "Serious. Folding. Cash" that Charles Schulz, the lamentably late creator of Peanuts, was an Undiagnosed Aspie.

It's in almost every strip that he ever created for the series, and it's also in the sheer dedication of will whereby the strip was his life and his life was the strip, to the point that his first wife divorced him over it, to the point where the notion of anyone else taking it on or continuing it after his death was almost physically repellent to him.

It's especially in the classic strip, later adapted for one of the television specials, in which Lucy, below her sign reading "Psychiatric Help Five Cents," diagnoses Charlie Brown as having "The Fear of Everything" -- and Charlie Brown literally blows her over with his cry of:

"THAT'S IT!"

Furthermore, I would bet you that the number of adults walking around out there with undiagnosed Asperger's is potentially astounding.

It wasn't an accepted diagnosis until something like 1993 -- no one was making that diagnosis when I was a little kid, and it wasn't even a glimmer in Mr. Asperger's head until, I think, the early fifties. Something like that.

Peanuts could be a rallying cry that more attention needs to be brought to the diagnosis -- not just to improve the lives of children who suffer with Asperger's, but to explain the lives of some us who always knew that something was wrong -- but never had a word for it.

-- Freder.

Connect the Dots, Lalalala. . .

If I'm looking at you with a blank stare on my face, it's probably because I didn't understand what you just said, and I'm tired of saying "I'm sorry?" or "What?"

It's been this way all of my life. It's not a hearing problem. When I ask people to repeat themselves, oftentimes more than once, they sometimes raise their voices. Someone once even said to me, angrily, "Why don't you clean your ears out?"

I can hear you just fine. The problem is, I can't understand you. It all sounds to me like the teacher in the Peanuts cartoons: "Wa WAH wa waa, wa wa wa WAH."

When I was a little kid I couldn't understand most of the dialogue in movies and on TV; I followed the story visually, and if it was something that couldn't be followed that way, like, say, A Man for All Seasons (which traumatized me as a kid because it was nothing but people yammering for two hours and then they cut off his head), I would just tune out and disengage.

It didn't start to get better until middle school, when stations started running things like Batman and Star Trek in the afternoons, and I could watch the shows as much as I liked, picking up something new every time.

To this day, I still have trouble with some people and certain words and certain kinds of voices. I don't always "get" all the dialogue in talk-heavy movies. In a group conversation, I still oftentimes miss a lot of what's said and end up withdrawing emotionally from the conversation.

It's one of the reasons I hate the telephone. I have a hard enough time understanding people when I can see their lips move. The only person I can really talk with on the phone for any length of time is my friend BC, who speaks quite clearly and distinctly.

If I appear not to be engaging with things that are being said, it's probably because I am not even "there."

As a kid they called this "daydreaming." Now I wonder if it wasn't something else.

I have to be careful here, because I don't want to make any claims, and I don't have the knowledge or experience to make a diagnosis. I'm certainly not looking for sympathy. What I'm about to type, I'm not saying that it's so.

It's just that every time I see a news story, as I did last night on The PBS News Hour, about Autism or Asperger's, I listen carefully to the symptoms and inevitably I think, "Jesus Christ, they're describing me as a kid."

When I look at pictures of those little boys, I could be looking at pictures of me.

My parents carted me to doctors who checked my hearing and told them that it was a little bit better than normal. They took me to a school behavior therapist who, as far as I know, never told them anything. Meanwhile, I lived in my own little world, read a lot, and interacted with other children only in one-on-one situations. When I got involved with groups, the other kids would inevitably make fun of me or beat me up and I'd go home crying.

The Hulk was my favorite Marvel Comics character because I could understand him: both what he was saying and what was going on in there.

Just now I Googled "undiagnosed autism in adults" (yes, I'm aware that this is about as unscientific as you can get), and once again, reading down through the articles I had the uncomfortable sensation that I was reading about myself.

Again, I'm making no claims; additionally, if this was true, then I feel it would have to be classified as a minor case -- probably trending more in the direction of Asperger's than autism.

But it would explain so much: the inappropriate reactions, the emotional outbursts, the sensitivity to heat and the sun, the frustration and anxiety, the manic / depressive spells, the feeling of constantly being overwhelmed by the daily things of life that most folks take for granted,  the occasional physical ticks and stammering, the anti-social feelings (when I was little I would actually hide behind the sofa when people came to the house; I'm too big to do that now, otherwise I would!), the single-mindedness, the discomfort I feel in group situations and the difficulties "maneuvering through complex social cues at school, at work, or elsewhere."

The things, in short, that I often write about on this blog.

Could it be? Maybe not. I'm lousy with numbers and math, no Rain Man here!

Do I even want to know the answer?

I'll have to think on that a while longer.

-- Freder.

Sublime, Ridiculous, and points Inbetween

Lilies of the Field is a cute, fun movie. . . but I can't help but feel that I would have enjoyed it much more  if I had seen it thirty years ago.

As it is -- the set-up relies on the piling up of coincidences, and once you've seen the set-up, if you've seen many movies at all, you know exactly where this one is going to go.

Is there anyone out there who can't tell what's coming? Who doesn't know that Poitier is so going to build the damn chapel? Who doesn't know that the Mother Superior is going to get everything she wants and then some, and make him like it? And so on, to a wistful, inspiring end?

To my mind it's poorly directed, but it's beautifully shot and acted, and I was enjoying myself. On the other hand, I had errands to run, and wasn't suffering from any delusion that there would be a twist somewhere along the way. . . so -- maybe I'll finish it off the next time TCM airs it.

Inexplicably, I did sit through every dumb minute of Ghost Rider tonight. It's not the worst comic book movie ever made (although it makes Howard the Duck look like A Midsummer Night's Dream), but that's not me calling it good.

There are some good bits, I guess, but they don't amount to anything. I agree with my friend BC that they spend a lot of time building up the Old West version of the character, only to have him ride off into the sunset just when he could have been making himself useful. But that's Hollywood for you: The world belongs to the young, and God Forbid you had any of those Upitty Old People thinking that they were still good for something. . .

Really, there's only one thing wrong with this picture: the script and the direction. TWO -- TWO things wrong! The script, the direction and the special effe-- THREE things wrong, the script, the direction, the special effects and Nick Cage. ..

--FOUR!

. . . and so on. Cage is really bad in this movie, almost a parody of himself.

So why did I sit through every frame of Ghost Rider while walking away from Lilies of the Field?

 I guess that I'm morbidly fascinated by failure. That, and the chick was hot. It had a good beat. I could dance to it.

-- Freder.

A Renaissance of Renaissance (or, The Power of Music II)

A Song for All Seasons, the 1978 release from Renaissance.

Last night was a watershed of Renaissance at my place! About a week ago I had the same experience that I'd had earlier with Melanie, that is, remembering that I'd forgotten. Again, I hadn't listened to their music in years and years -- again, because I have it all on vinyl but nothing to play it on. Again, I hopped on line and ordered up some CDs. Last night they arrived. . . but I also had a nice surprise from my friend BC (more on him in a moment), who sent me not one, but four other albums from the band, albums that I never owned! BC is a danged nice guy when he isn't hammering me about calendars ("That's, ah say that's a joke, son!").

I went from zero to eight in about ten seconds!

I even turned off the PBS News Hour so I could instead listen to Annie and the boys while my dinner cooked. It felt like coming back to life after a decade-long sleep.

I started with Ashes Are Burning, an early effort from the reconstituted second group, and found that it had some additional music beyond the vinyl version. When the group sang "We all are atanding unafraid | On the Frontier" I had that same thrill of recognition that comes with rediscovery. It's a great feeling.

Y'know, even English Muffins are better when you haven't eaten them in a long time. Not that that has anything to do with music.

What used to be side one (do you remember the days when records had sides?) is good, but what used to be side two is great, with the perky ballad "Carpet of the Sun," the mourning, minor-keyed "At the Harbour" and the long title track. I played "Carpet" twice and sang right along with Annie. It's been years since I sang along with a recording. We sounded great!

Come along with me
Down into the world of seeing
Come and you'll be free
Take the time to find the feeling
See everything on it's own
And you'll find you know the way
And you'll know the things you're shown
Owe everything to the day

Later in the evening, I put on A Song for All Seasons, one of my favorites of theirs. It's a completely unified album, with a fanfare, overture and finale, but the individual songs are wonderful, too. Chief among these are "The Paper Lads," a theme song the group did for a British TV show that I'd love to see someday, and "Northern Lights," a real upbeat, Romantic piece.

Destination outward bound

I turn to see the Northern Lights behind the wing

Horizons seem to beckon me

Learned how to cry to young, now I live to sing

The Northern Lights are in my eyes

They guide me back to you

Renaissance have been labeled "progressive rock," but that's a meaningless term that tells you nothing about what their music is like. Their work has a strong vein of Classicism running through it, along with other sorts of "isms" -- Romanticism, Positivism, and a good dose of musical theatricality. Their lead vocalist, Annie Haslam, is not a great singer, but she is the perfect voice for the kind of music the band creates: clear, upbeat and expressive.

On many of the albums a full orchestra backs the group up, but don't let that fool you: Renaissance were no studio band, they could do it live and did so frequently, with Annie often vocalizing the orchestral parts to great effect.

Falling around me lay, parts of my life
I'm leaving them all behind
We leave with the night
Living in strange ways
Has cast me aside
I cry in another world now
I must search for all my days gone by

I first heard them on a PBS radio show called, if I remember correctly, The BBC Rock Hour. This was just such a live performance. I tuned in late, and so did not know anything of what I was hearing, only that I liked it. I quickly slapped a cassette tape into the radio and recorded the rest of the hour. It was only then that I learned the group's name. I wore that cassette tape out over time, and tracked down my first Renaissance album (Novella) at a now-defunct record chain called DeOrsey's.

Sold, said the man to the many

Work for me -- I'll only steal your time.

Quarter time for treble days

The only way to sell your soul

Midas Man

Midas Man

Most of the time, it's my friends who introduce me to bands or singers. But this time, this one time, I was able to go to my friend BC and introduce him to the group. I think he became as big a fan as I was. That's how he came to have all those Live CDs that he sent to me. He's being the opposite of Luddite me, though, and burning all his CDs onto his Ipod. That's how come he doesn't need them anymore.

Thank you, BC! I will give them a good home!

Now then, speaking of Annie. . .

My friend BC is the Associate Editor at The Library of American Comics, and also in the package was the latest volume of their spectacular hardcover reprint of Harold Gray's Little Orphan Annie. I told you he was a danged nice guy!

The Library of American Comics is reprinting, in archival quality and often for the first time, the great classics of American Newspaper Comic Strips from Dick Tracy and Terry and The Pirates to Blondie and Bloom County. After the delightful King Aroo, my second favorite is Little Orphan Annie, a sprawling Depression-era fable about a kid with nothing but spunk, grit, determination and a great dog. Each volume in the series contains approximately 1,000 daily strips (most shot from the original syndicate proofs), nine complete stories. The Sunday strips are reprinted in gloriously restored color. BC writes most of the scholarly and entertaining introductions to these volumes (including an "introduction" to the work of Noel Sickles that could fill a book by itself!), but the Annie supplementary material is written by Jeet Heer. These beautiful volumes belong on the shelves of anyone who takes “graphic novels” (I still call ’em comics) seriously.

'Nuff said! as Stan Lee used to say. . .

-- Freder.

Gang-Banging the FF

I did not start reading comics until late 1976, that is, until after I had read Faulkner and Orwell and Dickens and Twain. Even then, my preference was for Howard the Duck, Warlock, Doctor Strange and Spider-Man. I did not become an instant fan of The Fantastic Four. By that time it hadn't been "The World's Greatest Comic Magazine" for more than a hundred issues, and it wasn't until I had the chance to read the first seventy or so issues that I understood what all the fuss was about.

But I'm not here to write about Stan and Jack's greatest creation. I'm here to ask a question of the people who made Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, and that question is, "What does it feel like to fuck the Fantastic Four?"

I can ask that question because I watched the movie last night, on a station called FX, just to be able to say that I had sat through it, just to know that my instincts about it were right, just to give myself the moral right to dump on what I imagine is the worst comic-book movie adaptation of all time (but I haven't seen the first Fantastic Four movie, so I could be wrong).

If you look back on the sorry list of funnybook movies, including dreck like Conan the Barbarian and The Spirit, calling this one the worst is saying a lot! There are some really stinking bad films based on comic book characters out there. Few of them have pissed me off as much as this pile of cow manure.

What's right with it? OK, the Silver Surfer is a well-realized special effect. Michael Chiklis's performance (but not his make-up) as Ben Grimm is acceptable (but not great). That's as far as it goes.

What's wrong with it? Everything else. Everything. Everything. I'm so glad I didn't pay any money to see it.

Let's start with the casting. It's inept, all the way down the line. No one looks like the characters they are supposed to be playing, and they certainly don't act like them. Jessica Alba as Sue Storm? She's a Latino fer crine out loud! Sue Storm is supposed to be whiter than snow. Nothing about her is right. Not her face. Not her hair. Not her body. Not her imperceptible degree of talent.

Iouwnn Griffgdthkdth or whatever the hell his name is as Reed Richards? He's about twenty years too young for the part, and plays Reed like a Frat House boy. Even the streaks they put in his hair are wrong.

That Nobody playing the Torch? Don't even get me started.

But the worst, the nadir, is the absolute clown they have playing Victor Von Doom. Even his voice is wrong.

Oh my, and then there's the script. They are adapting, in this film, what is quite possibly the Holy Grail of comic book stories. If The Fantastic Four were Jack and Stan's greatest creation, then the Galactus Trilogy as it has come to be known is the best of the best. All the filmmakers had to do was follow the story, perhaps making a few minor adjustments to account for the absence of a character called The Watcher.

But no. They turned it into a military hunt for the Silver Surfer, and they turned Galactus into a cloud.

I would have thought that Star Trek: The Motion Picture would have taught Hollywood a very basic lesson: that clouds do not make particularly menacing villains. For one thing, they do not have brains and cannot speak.

Finally, whose idea was it to let Tim Story into the Director's Union, let alone allow him anywhere near the First Family of Comics? He doesn't have a clue about how to develop a story, let alone how to present characters and make us love them. He doesn't even know how to frame a shot. He should have the camera dropped on his fingers.

Why did I keep watching? Because, as this train wreck of a movie unfolded, I was savoring the pleasure that I would get today from throwing a pie in its face and, in the words of John Cleese, farting in its general direction.

And now, to end on a positive note:

As ineffably minor as was Roger Corman's 1994 version of The Fantastic Four (that it was shot in a month for under a million dollars, and was never intended to be released, should tell you something: it was made only so that the film company could retain the rights for another few years), it looks like Shakespeare compared to the picture I saw last night. And Rebecca Staab is still the perfect actress for Sue Storm.

-- Freder.

The Current (well, in my place) Cinema

I spend my nights in faraway places. Over the past week I've favored DVDs that take me out of myself..

Friday night was Howard the Duck, the George Lucas, Willard Hyuck and Gloria Katz interpretation of Steve Gerber's classic Marvel Comics series. Gerber is dead now, but for my money he was the progenitor of the truly adult comic book: adult not because of sex, gore, swearing and violence but because of their intelligence, themes and cynicism.

Howard the Duck should have made for a great movie. Instead, it is merely passable -- although not the complete bomb that the criticism of the time would suggest. It actually tries to be a fair adaptation of the comic, and the acting standard is pretty high.

But oh, that duck! What were they thinking? It appears to have been a conscious decision to change Howard's appearance from that of a cartoonish duck into something halfway between a human and a real duck. Not only was it misguided, it was poorly executed. The character is so ugly to look at, with that rim of bare skin around his beady little realistic eyes. Very sadly, it ruins the whole movie. The duck should be appealing in a gravelly, grouchy, cartoonish way, and he's not.

Still, I look at this once in a while and try to appreciate the good parts. This was the first time I'd seen it in widescreen since the original release.

Sunday was Goldfinger. I dunno, revisiting Bond seems like the end-of-summer thing to do. Easily the most sexist and least dramatically sound of the whole series, Goldfinger is my least favorite of the Bonds second only to Dr. No. The whole resolution of the plot depends on Bond's ability not just to bed Pussy Galore (Honor Blackman) but, in doing so, to be so revelatory a lover in, literally, just one roll in the hay to turn Pussy from a very lesbian criminal into an upstanding hetero who has seen the Error of Her Ways. It's deeply offensive. The whole third act is a waste really, but what I learned this go around is that I'd forgotten how much there was to like in the first two thirds. A lot of the value in re-viewing these things in widescreen comes from their travelogue quality: they choose these absolutely stunning locales, shoot them beautifully, let you get a good eyeful of it, and then use it as the backdrop for mayhem. Goldfinger is no exception.

Last night was Harper. Another mid-sixties panavision movie made by people who really know how to frame a shot and take you places. For 95 percent of its runtime it's a near-perfect adaptation of Ross MacDonald's novel, The Moving Target. But the ending is terrible, basically chucking out the whole last chapter of the book and replacing it with a freeze-frame that resolves exactly nothing. The villain's multi-layered motivations are mostly lost, and one important plot point involving the Pamela Tiffin character is jettisoned completely. Lauren Bacall has some fun laying on the bitchy stuff with a trowel, Robert Wagner is, well, Robert Wagner, the great Strother Martin shows up in a role that's subversively funny -- but there's a little too much of Hud in Paul Newman's portrayal of Lew Harper / Archer. Still, the main body of MacDonald's hugely complicated plot is intact, it holds your interest, and two hours go by pretty quickly.

Of course there are short features on Friday nights: currently enjoying a disk of Popeye cartoons, and the new serial is Columbia's 1941 Batman. Oy! The costumes! The "acting!" There isn't even a Batmobile -- the Caped Crusaders drive around in a convertible coupe and giggle at each other like little kids. These Columbia serials make the Republic serials look like Lawrence of Arabia by comparison!

Onward! I haven't decided what to have for dinner yet, but I know the entertainment is going to be Farscape.

-- Freder

Escape from the planet of the Simian Blather

Not merely the best of the sequels, but as good in its own way as the original, this is the Apes movie that turns the series on its head. In the same way that The Incredibles is a better movie about The Fantastic Four than any of the official Fantastic Four movies (there have been three so far), Escape from the Planet of the Apes is a better representation of Howard the Duck than the movie based on that character -- it may even have influenced Steve Gerber in the direction that Howard took.

The conceit is identical: but instead of a cartoon duck who's trapped in a world he never made, we have anthropomorphic chimps coming back from the future. And instead of satirical comic book villains such as Le Beaver or Dr. Bong, Roddy McDowell's Cornelius and Kim Hunter's Zira face the very real threat of extermination by the U.S. Government.

Both Howard the Duck and Escape share a deeply cynical, not to say bitter, not to say bleak worldview and interpretation of '70s-era culture and society. In fact, with Hollywood's current lack of guts, it's safe to say that Escape could not be made today: among other things, the ending is so horrifying and so decidedly un-happy that no studio would allow it to go out. As the final scenes of Escape play out, you can imagine them calling for the script doctors.

This would be Kim Hunter's last go-around in ape drag, but Roddy McDowell kept coming back as different characters for two more sequels and the TV show. There are lots of familiar faces in the supporting cast, including Eric Braedon as the film's main heavy. Braedon had done a few seasons on Rat Patrol, but I believe this was his only major film appearance before he took up residence on The Young and The Restless, where he can be seen to this day.

It wasn't quite all downhill for the Apes cycle from here, as I'm sure I'll yammer at you about next week.

-- Freder.

Vanity, thy name is Google

A recent vanity search at Google yielded two surprising -- and, indeed, laughable results!

Somebody used a quote from my website in a book about comics publishing. The author even identifies me as the "creator of Quirk" -- as if that was something that meant anything, as if anyone had ever heard of the thing!

And get a load of this: a used book dealer in New Hampshire has listed the two paper issues of Quirk through ABEBooks. He's selling them as a "set" (*chortle* *snort*) for $12.50!

Hell fire! I have four boxes of the things that I am about to throw away. I'll send 'em to you for free, if you'll pay the postage!

Seriously. In the unlikely event that there's anyone out there who wants to check out the worst two comic books ever published, drop me an email or leave a comment. I just want to get rid of the damn things!

-- Freder