Por que los heroes no crecen ?

[DRA]

Sorry chicos, pero esta en ingles




Top Shelf has recently released Less Than Heroes by David Yurkovich, collecting his unique super hero work from Threshold and other sources.

Yurkovich’s heroes are all too human, each with hang-ups, issues, and complexities that make Peter Parker’s trouble paying the rent look like … well, a kids’ comic book.



The following essay comes from Less Than Heroes.


Why Don't Heroes Age?

“Things do not get better by being left alone.”

Winston Churchill

As a long-time fan of comics in general, and specifically of the Silver- and Bronze-age of comics, I’m often floored when, while reading a circa 1970s issue of Peter Parker, the Spectacular Spider-Man or Marvel Two-in-One, I stumble across a deliberate pop culture reference. You know, Spidey socks a villain in the nose and says, for example, “Now you know how Gabe Kaplan felt when Welcome Back Kotter was cancelled,” or when Iron Man cries out, “I’m as tanked as Billy Carter,” (or words to that effect). What floors me about such dialogue is not so much who is saying it but what is being said. Pop culture references place characters in a given time period, causing anal-retentive readers like yours truly to question their so-called agelessness.

By ageless, I am referring to the fact that comic book heroes, villains, and supporting cast members seldom age, or, if they do, they age contrary to “real” time. For example, DC’s Batman was introduced to the comics-reading public in 1939 by Bob Kane. Were Batman to have aged “normally,” assuming he was 20 years of age upon first donning the black and gray bat suit, he’d be a youthful 85 years old today. Another example is, of course, Spider-Man. When the series debuted in 1962, Peter Parker was a timid high school student who, approximately 16 years later graduated college. In real time, Peter would be approaching 60 years of age, as would Flash, Mary Jane, and his other chums. One final example is the Fantastic Four. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby established that two members of the famed quartet (Reed Richards and Ben Grimm) had served in the armed forces during World War II. Assuming both were 18 years old and enlisted in 1942, they would each be pushing 80 today.

However, as comic book geeks know, “comic book time” differs vastly from “real” time. Since the early 1960s, Marvel’s books have been replete with moment-in-time references, that is, a reference to an event or person that clearly places ownership to a specific time in history. The examples are endless: The Fantastic Four race to the moon to beat the “red menace” and help America to win the space race; years later, they ensure the safety of the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969; Captain America visits the troops and fights in the Viet Nam war; Iron Man fights in the Viet Nam war; the British rock quartet The Beatles appear in Strange Tales with the Thing and the Human Torch; in issue number 133 (April 1973) the Fantastic Four usher in the new year (1973); Spider-Man meets the 1970s Saturday Night Live “not-ready-for-prime-time players” including the late John Belushi; The Avengers appear as guests on (then) NBC’s Late Night With David Letterman. These are but a few of the dozens of examples that spring to mind. More recent examples would be Mark Millar’s numerous references to Freddie Prinze, Jr., in Ultimates, and of course, the heroes of the Marvel universe who pause to help in the rescue efforts following the WTC attacks of September 11, 2001. These references to real-time occurrences and individuals are not placed within the pages of funny books to “trick” the reader, but to provide a sort of backdrop of information to which the reader can relate. The problem, as I see it at least, is that these sorts of references eventually serve only to distance the reader’s belief in the heroes and villains and the world in which we all allegedly share. As to the Marvel characters appearing at ground zero on 9/11, I think it was a mistake, for the simple reason that it undermines the very nature of the super-hero genre. Since the mid-1960s, with the publication of the Lee/Kirby Galactus trilogy in Fantastic Four 48-50, in which the FF fought for the survival of Earth itself, the stakes between good and evil in comics have often been on grand, even galactic, scales. Throughout the 1960s thru the 1990s, super-heroes and villains toppled skyscrapers and other buildings as part of their “role” as hero or villain. Along comes 9/11, a real-life, world-altering event, and soon Spidey, Captain America, and et al. race to ground zero to aid the fire and rescue personnel in their intense and heroic efforts. All fine, except it makes subsequent issues of the Spidey comic seem more than a bit insignificant (i.e., big deal if Doc Ock just escaped from prison, New York has just undergone a tragedy of indescribable proportions). I realize the writers, editors, and artists all wanted express their thoughts, hopes, and anguish following 9/11. We all wanted to do something to express what we were feeling. But I think putting 9/11 into Marvel’s time-line diminished the overall impact of the monthly comic stories that generally feature bad guys trying to do bad things (e.g., what bad guy could invent a world domination plot to live up to that crime?)—it also served to once again place the heroes and villains in a fixed point in time—that is, September 11, 2001. And I doubt very much if the Marvel heroes will acknowledge the upcoming 3-year anniversary of 9/11, because I doubt very much that the Marvel heroes have aged three years since September 11, 2001.

Here’s another example of the dichotomy of cultural references in super-hero comics. Why can Peter Parker take a date to see Help! in the ‘60s, I Am Curious, Yellow in the ‘70s, Platoon in the ‘80s, and There’s Something About Mary in the ‘90s, and still remain his youthful self through each passing decade? It is the paradox of doing serial fiction and there is little that can be done to remedy or counteract the situation. Certainly it’s been tried. The writers and editors at DC comics have done various retro-fittings of their universe; I believe this first occurred in the Crisis on Infinite Earths maxi-series and was followed years later by the Zero Hour mini-series. On a somewhat smaller scale (though perhaps of greater significance), character retrofitting occurred in the landmark Batman: Year One mini-series. Likewise, in the wake of John Byrne’s much lambasted Spider-Man: Chapter 1, a series clearly designed to retro-fit Spider-Man’s origin but one that displeased many long-time fans, Marvel launched its Ultimate line and began anew the adventures of everyone’s favorite wall crawler in the mega-popular Ultimate Spider-Man. Marvel has expanded the Ultimate line to the point that most of its major characters now have “Ultimate” counterparts who are younger, hipper, slicker, and who live in today’s world. Retrofitting a character’s past, rewriting that which has already been written, seems to be a necessary evil.
But is it really?

The answer is both yes and no, and I will attempt to explain why. When you or I think about Spider-Man, Batman, Superman, the Hulk, or Captain America, we probably think that these are fictional comic book characters. We are wrong. Spider-Man, Batman, et al. are not characters, per se; they are properties. In that regard there’s much to be said about what can and cannot be done in the sandbox in which these characters play. Thus, central protagonists undergo relatively few “real” changes. Consider, for example, Marvel’s signature character, Spider-Man. Since the 1970s Spidey has faced countless personal crises. He was buried alive; his clone returned from apparent death; he’s been jailed; his Aunt May died (only it turned out not to be his Aunt May); his once and former love returned from apparent death (turned out to be a clone); he switched from the familiar red and blue long underwear to a black and white motif and then returned to the tried and true original; he married long-time gal-pal Mary Jane, etcetera. Now, consider the Spidey whose web-swinging adventures are chronicled each day in hundreds of newspapers nationwide. The syndicated Spidey has undergone few, if any, changes. His costume never changed from red/blue to black/white; his supporting cast remains as it did years ago. The newspaper Spidey has been swinging around the same loop of time for 30 years, and will likely remain unchanged for the next 30.

There are, of course, exceptions to the rule. Characters are sometimes killed off (once in a great, great while they even stay dead, though don’t hold your breath). Sometimes the mantle (i.e., costume) is passed along to another—such as in the case of Batman’s side-kick, Robin. (Though how seriously can one really take a character whose life is determined by a reader poll?) But these examples represent the deviation rather than the norm. As properties of substantial financial value, it’s in the best interest of the corporations and stockholders whose money is invested in the corporations to see that the properties are utilized for a maximum profit—i.e., licensing. I doubt seriously a toy manufacturer would elect to produce a Captain America action figure based on a comic book starring an 80+ year-old Cap, as it would be a niche market to be sure.

In super-hero comics, the epic battle often reigns supreme. Sadly, such stories have generally been produced in such a fashion (again, geared toward maximizing profits) that readers must purchase dozens of individual issues they might otherwise not collect. (The classic example of this scam being Jim Shooter’s Marvel Super-Hero Secret Wars, a 1980s maxi-series that crossed over into every title Marvel was publishing at the time, and which was ultimately conceived not for comics per se, but to launch a line of action figures). However, epic battles, when done well, can also represent the best of the super-hero genre. The Kree/Skrull War in The Avengers, the Avengers/Defenders war, Jim Starlin’s groundbreaking run on the Captain Marvel series, and Jim Shooter’s “Enemy” story arc (also serialized in The Avengers). Grand tales of this nature may take upward of a year’s worth of issues on any given title of a series, but the events contained within the story may occur in as little as a week or month of “real” time. It is in this way that many editors throughout the decades have explained away “comic book time.” Yet the problem remains. For example, if the Avengers undertake a major battle that spans six monthly issues but encapsulates a mere hour in “real” time—what has happened to the other 5 months, 29 days, and 23 hours of their lives?
Perhaps ‘tis best not to dwell on matters of such insignificance. But because such lingering thoughts occasionally keep me awake at night, I have drafted a few possible solutions with regard to time and aging of our costumed heroes and villains.

1. Avoidance. Story writers could strive to keep their tales “timeless” by avoiding references to contemporary celebrities, current films, popular music, current events, and political climates. This option is far from foolproof. For example, a scene in Amazing Spider-Man might feature Peter Parker using a hand-held cellular phone. This is fine for you and me, but in 10 years time the cell phone may be replaced by a newer, more compact device. Readers sorting through back issue bins may be taken aback at the “primitive” devices used by Parker, such as photo developing solution or a traditional dark room. A script may call for a character to be depicted behind the wheel of a new automobile. Assuming the artist is competent, the vehicle’s make and model may be quite recognizable. Yet, years from now readers may no doubt ponder the artist’s use of this “antiquated” vehicle. Ultimately, such issues of avoidance are short-term fixes at best, unless technology, language, fashion, and human behavior should suddenly cease to evolve (or devolve as it were).

2. The Fixed Era. Stories can be set to occur in a fixed era—such as Matt Wagner’s 1930s epoch Sandman Mystery Theatre series published by Vertigo. (Incidentally, the SMT run stands as one of the few series in which time did seem to move forward. Wagner also worked from a strikingly intelligent aspect with Comico’s Grendel series, in which the various story arcs occurred initially in real time, with subsequent arcs featuring futuristic incarnations of the title character. Again, however, this stands as a rare exception rather than the norm.) As a broader example, the powers-that-currently-be at Marvel could decree to its freelance staff that “in Marvel time it is forever 2003.” Thus, every story being published and every story to be published (with the exception of the aforementioned “period” pieces that occur in the past or [as in the case of the dreadful “2099” universe] the future), would occur in 2003 AD. This theory, however, seems shortsighted given that readers in 2006 might be uninterested in the events going on in Spider-Man’s life circa January 2003 (since to them it will be considered old news). It also limits the writer with regard to future technologies that he or she would be unable to incorporate into scripts.

3. No More Aging. A short-term fix could remedy this situation while at the same time introduce a new set of problems for our favorite costumed heroes and villains. The catalyst of the event—be it, for example, science, black magic, alien interference—is unimportant, provided the end result is that, such as the tragic child in Harlan Ellison’s haunting “Jeffty is Five,” our heroes find that they no longer age. Psychologically, this could prove challenging for even those of the most resilient of mind. It is akin to a What if…? scenario. Imagine if Aunt May really did kick it, or if Mary Jane grew old and withered while Peter Parker remained his youthful, troubled self. This could provide authors a new avenue for exploring the “Why, I have these awesome powers!”/”Why was I cursed with these powers?” introspection crises prevalent in many Silver-age tales, though it might certainly alienate readers who would, understandably, feel detached from these ageless individuals. As an experiment for one or two “super” individuals existing in their own pocket universe, it could prove a novel concept.

4. Real Time. This final solution is my personal favorite and the one to which I try to adhere when writing super-hero fiction: Keep the stories in real-time, but accept the fact that characters must age in real time as well. The fountain of youth can only be drunk from so many times before its waters run dry. One of the many interesting elements of the aforementioned Matt Wagner’s original Grendel series was that the Grendel persona was not limited to Hunter Rose; rather, it was adopted by others. This resulted in a series of well-crafted, interesting tales occurring at various points in time with varying cast members. Which is, I suppose, why I so disliked the Marvel 2099 universe. I would be much happier reading the Marvel 2003 universe in 2003, and the 2004 universe in 2004, etc. Let them age. Create believable scenarios and allow the mantle to be passed on to others. DC and Marvel have both done stories of this nature albeit in an “elseworlds” or “alternaverse” type universe, the most cutting edge of which is, arguably, Frank Miller’s Dark Knight Returns saga.

There is one question that must ultimately be addressed: Is it the individual behind the mask whose mettle defines his/her alter-ego, or vice versa? Rather than concocting poorly-crafted retrofitted tales that must eventually be retro-fitted, and rather than changing insufficient details such as a character’s hair color, utility belt, or position at the Daily Bugle, allow the characters in the sandbox to age. If these “icons” of the 20th (now 21st) century super-hero genre are, indeed, the stuff of legends, they will be remembered as such. At this point in their careers, the Batman and Joker should be fighting over catheter bags in the Gotham Memorial Nursing Home, not above the streets of Gotham City. The new millennium ought to usher in new ideas, new characters, and a sense of realism with regard to time and age. Look at it this way: When I was 10 years old and started reading comics, I accepted what I read—ie, Peter Parker is Spider-Man, Tony Stark is Iron Man, Steve Rogers is Captain America, etc. Ten years from now, if I have a child and he or she elects to read comics, will it really matter to the tyke if the mantle of Captain America has been passed along to another person, or if Peter Parker’s son is now swinging across the rooftops as Spider-Man? I kind of doubt it will.

It is, perhaps, because I am aging, and because I have now been a fan and collector of comics for nearly two-thirds of my life (and a comics creator for nearly ten years), that my thoughts have been so consumed by this topic. Perhaps. But I actually believe it is because I am most impassioned about the comic stories published during the Silver and Bronze age. As each year passes, I find myself less and less interested in the new material being released in the super-hero genre and more infatuated by comics of yesteryear. These four-color tales of wonder were chock full of surprises, action, and adventure. Rather than relying on shock tactics, “adult” language, and “mature” themes, they were largely filled with optimism and innocence. Perhaps naively so. But it worked, and often worked very well. So, while I think the characters should age in time, I am caught in my own dichotomy as I prefer these books from the past. I guess I never recovered from the bleakness of two 1980s DC series: Frank Miller’s Dark Knight Returns and Alan Moore’s Watchmen. That is to say, while unmatchable in their brilliance, these two ground-breaking titles forever changed my opinion of the genre. And while I don’t think Marvel’s done anything quite as substantial with regard to putting a buzz-kill on the fun at the cost of bringing the genre into adulthood, they do have Ultimates, which, like the entire Ultimate line, is basically an ongoing What if? series to be excused from regular Marvel continuity. The mean-spiritedness of Ultimates seems to epitomize today’s comics icons—they are fallen angels whose marble shoulders have been slowly chipped away in a world of angst, indifference, and sarcasm, i.e., perhaps their most evil foes these days are their own writers. In that regard, at least, the characters have aged, if not in necessarily in years, at least in worldliness, and gone with their naiveté are the days of innocence and fun in the super-hero genre, and largely my interest with it. So I find myself in a quandary, against the very resolution for which I have in this essay advocated.

That said, perhaps readers will understand why the stories presented in this volume of Less Than Heroes were inspired from the comics of yesteryear. Despite the dark nature of characters such as the Stamp Collector and the Lightning Man, I think the overall spirit of Threshold and its cast is one of quirky fun and adventure that, hopefully, harkens back to the Silver and Bronze ages, rather than the “Modern” age. And yes, these characters age. (But, in my own small universe, aging doesn’t have to mean cynicism, although it certainly can mean osteoporosis.) As frequently or infrequently as the Threshold/S.H.o.P. characters may appear in print, rest assured they live and breathe in real time just like the rest of us. If my next S.H.o.P. story doesn’t see print until 2024, you can bet that Meridian and her pals are all going to be undergoing mid-life crises or passing the torch along to a new quartet of crime fighters. And what’s so wrong with that?

David Yurkovich

February 1, 2004


Newsarama

[Logan_San]

No, no... demasiado Ingles para esta hora de la madrugada... esta tarde si entro hago el esfuerzo y lo leo...

Saludos.

[POLAR]

Por que no tomaron Danonino???
Mucho ingles para poder leer en el colectivo...
Despues veo si lo leo a la noche

[DRA]

Larvas.