MattBrady
12-17-2002, 07:08 AM
<center><a href="http://www.newsarama.com/Thousand_Flowers_index.htm"><img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/flowers_banner.jpg" width="475" height="75" border="0"></a></center>
<center>A THOUSAND FLOWERS</center>
<center>Comics, Pop Culture, and the World Outside</center>
<center>Installment 7</center>
<center>by Stuart Moore</center>
7. Comics’ Drunken Uncle: Science Fiction
Part Four: Missions from God
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/Analog_1971_04.jpg" width="175" height="250" align="right">Any child of the ‘70s or ‘80s can hear Dan Ackroyd’s voice from the Blues Brothers movie: “We’re on a mission from God.” Whenever his and John Belushi’s sincerity or resolve is questioned, Ackroyd’s character, Elwood Blues, repeats this litany.
Science fiction and comics people -- both professionals and fans -- have their holy missions, too. And sometimes they get a little touchy about them.
Science fiction people -- those involved in the community, as fans and/or pros -- have always prided themselves on their superiority to the public at large. Early sf fans immediately identified with the persecuted, mentally advanced mutants of A. E. Van Vogt’s first novel, Slan, as described by James Gunn in Alternate Worlds: “fans in Battle Creek, Michigan, conceived a cooperative housing development for fans to be called Slan Center, and a group of them actually moved into an eight-room house called the Slan Shack.”
These and other sf groups, like the Futurians, viewed science fiction as more than light entertainment -- certainly as more than the pulp-derived juvenalia the literary world labelled it. To them, it was a calling. If they didn’t look to the future -- if they weren’t going to improve the world -- who was?
Barry N. Malzberg, in The Engines Of The Night, describes an awkward meeting with legendary sf editor John W. Campbell (see <a href="http://www.newsarama.com/cgi-bin/ubb/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=3&t=000011" target="_blank"> Installment 5 </a>), late in Campbell’s life. Awed by Campbell’s achievements yet frustrated by the insular publication that Analog had become, Malzberg tried to argue for the importance of outside influences and modern literary techniques in sf. The editor’s reply: “‘Mainstream literature is about failure,’ Campbell said, ‘a literature of defeat. Science fiction is challenge and discovery. We’re going to land on the moon in a month and it was science fiction which made all of that possible.’”
The reality, of course, sometimes differed. British literary novelist Kingsley Amis wrote a pivotal critical analysis of sf, New Maps of Hell in 1960. In it, he quotes (anonymously) several “leading writers” on their opinions of their readership:
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/amisnmohpb.jpg" width="175" height="288" align="left">“Science-fiction readers are ‘the curious who are looking for stimulation or sensation’; ‘people with technical training who want fictionalised shop-talk and teenagers who find glamour and excitement in science’; ‘ten per cent mental juveniles who still like fairy stories, ninety per cent chronic nosey-parkers who like having their imaginations stimulated’; ‘misfits in society, often subversive misfits’; ‘idealistic, forward-looking, well-read, interested in the arts.’”
In these various pictures of sf fans, we begin to see their dark secret: Yes, on the whole they’re forward-thinking, often quite intelligent, concerned about the future. But they’re often also social outcasts, for whom it’s very important to believe that they’re more intelligent than everyone else around them.
A lot of them also just plain like rocketships, ray-guns, and time travel. There’s nothing wrong with that -- but there’s no necessary correlation to a person’s intelligence, either. Plenty of smart people would rather read Thomas Pynchon or David Foster Wallace instead.
In his excellent recent book The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of: How Science Fiction Conquered The World, Thomas M. Disch explores this disconnect in more detail. He describes a 1964 stayover with a minor sf husband-and-wife writing team of the time, Walt and Leigh Richmond:
“Their method of collaboration was uniquely science fictional. Walt, a laconic, Burl-Ivesish fellow, would sit with a quiet smile on his lips and telepathically project his inputs to Leigh, who would translate them into their prose at the typewriter.”
Disch neatly encapsulates the sf-centric view of the world as he continues:
“The first tenet of fandom is that sf is the true and only literature…The second tenet of fannish faith is that fans are a breed apart, elevated above the uncircumcised by a mysterious, inherent difference…Yet there will be those, like (I imagine) Walt Richmond, whose capabilities don’t gibe with their aspirations, whose chess game isn’t top-notch and whose grades, even with effort, are C’s and B’s. How is one to reconcile, in such cases, the discrepancy between a grandiose self-image and the steady encroachments of mundane reality?”
Disch suggests that, for extreme cases -- and the Richmonds certainly qualify -- the answer is crackpot religion. (Exhibit A: L. Ron Hubbard and Dianetics/Scientology.) But there’s a less severe, more common reaction: You can dig in and declare yourself superior to other geeks.
We discussed one such schism within sf in <a href="http://www.newsarama.com/cgi-bin/ubb/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=3&t=000011" target="_blank"> Installment 5</a> -- the need for “serious” sf fans to disavow works that they saw as shamefully trashy or lowbrow. There have been other ideological feuds in sf as well. The ‘70s saw a debate about whether fantasy, which came into its own as a book publishing category around 1978, was “polluting the bodily fluids” of science fiction with its childish subject matter and lack of logical rigor. This came up against the rocket-ship problem: a lot of sf fans just like dragons and elves, even if there’s no logical basis for their existence. (The dragons’ and elves’ existence, that is. Not the fans’.)
And, of course, there’s always comics.
This is one of those statements that screams out for qualifiers, but here goes: Up until the advent of the direct market, around 1980, comic books were designed and produced mostly for children. Yes, there were exceptions: The Spirit in the ‘40s (packaged for newspaper insertion), EC in the ‘50s, the undergrounds of the ‘60s, and scattered critically-acclaimed-but-low-selling anomalies in the ‘70s. But throughout that time, comic book writers, artists, and editors generally knew who their audience was: teenagers and younger children.
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/acmenovli15.jpg" width="300" height="284" align="right">Now consider Disch’s description of sf fans’ self-image as a “breed apart.” They already felt defensive about their field, which they felt was itself unfairly cast as children’s literature; the last thing they’d want to be associated with was (Golden and Silver Age) comics. The science was preposterous, and the pictures clearly branded comics as kids’ stuff. Hell, by the ‘60s, sf fans had spent decades trying to disown E. E. “Doc” Smith -- his lurid prose, his flat characters, his ridiculous science -- and here was a medium that shamelessly raided him for one of its “modern” icons! (See <a href="http://www.newsarama.com/cgi-bin/ubb/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=3&t=000014" target="_blank"> Installment 6</a>.)
If sf fans are passionate advocates of their chosen literature, comic fans are at least as fervent. But the religious reasoning -- the “mission from God” -- is a little tougher to explain in this case. Yes, comics fans are an elite, but…why? It’s not intelligence, per se, and no one really thinks that comics are going to save the world.
The usually-cited rationale is that comics are an artistic medium as valid as any other, but not recognized as such. Okay, but…so what? Let’s assume it’s true; let’s say that, if they were freed from the limitations of being considered children’s literature, comics could be 30% good and 70% crap, like books (just to pick a, hopefully reasonable, percentage); or 20% good and 80% crap, like movies; or 5% good and 95% crap, like TV. Is that something to be proud of? Is that, in itself, something to champion?
Maybe it is. Maybe the 30% or 20% or 5% of good material is worth the fight. But I don’t think it’s the reason most fans are fighting it.
No, most comics fans have hidden, shameful reasons for their defense of the field. In this respect, as in many others, they’re a lot like their Uncle Hugo who scorns them. Like sf fans, many comics devotees feel like outcasts to begin with, and are looking for something to attach it to. And since comics have traditionally appealed primarily to young readers, adult comics fans have strong attachments to the material they read when they were young -- often when they were quite young.
SF fans enjoy their nostalgia, but comics fans love it -- which makes it difficult to “grow the medium up,” to repurpose it for older readers. A common subject of internet debate -- What was the best period of recent comics history? -- usually devolves into groups of fans all arguing for whatever was being published when they were twelve. And since superhero comics have dominated the landscape for the past thirty years, that’s usually what those fans defend the hardest.
This leads directly to an overreaction: many other fans, especially those of college age, rebel loudly against the stodgy defenders of the past. These fans can’t understand why the comics market doesn’t shift to a graphic novel-only format overnight (answer: it’s an economic disaster, and not everybody wants the damn things) or why the top-selling books continue to be thirty- or sixty-year-old concepts (see nostalgia, above). Either because they don’t understand superhero comics or (more frequently) because they’re ashamed of their own past affection for them, these fans want to throw out all the old -- tear down the direct market, bring down the big companies, destroy the monopolistic distribution system -- then plant a new flag of independence, artistic freedom, and variety in the ashes.
It doesn’t work that way, of course. First of all, the major companies aren’t going anywhere just because a few arthouse mavens say so. Second, this revolutionary attitude risks alienating too many readers, and losing a lot of what makes (American) comics work. Without the direct market, where are you going to sell Love & Rockets and Bone? Bookstores, yes. But to far fewer people, in far smaller numbers.
That’s not to say that revolutionary fervor is a bad thing, especially for comics writers and artists. You’re not going to create great works without great intentions, and this field could certainly use more great works. But I’ll say it again: Superheroes aren’t killing comics any more than space opera, or fantasy, killed science fiction.
So, to sum up:
SF fans think they’re the only forward-looking people in the world.
Comics fans think they’re the sole defenders of a valid art form.
Both may be partly right -- but both have other reasons for their holy missions. And those hidden reasons can lead them to attack each other, unreasonably.
Which leads us right back to the sf/comics schism we’ve been dancing around for four columns now. Is it as bad as ever? Is there hope for the future? What about the children -- oh, Lord, the little children?
Yes, this was supposed to be the final installment of Comics’ Drunken Uncle: Science Fiction. But it’s a big topic, and -- oh, we’ll just let Uncle Hugo, our anthropomorphic representation of the sf field, have the last word for today:
“I guess I did rattle on there a little, huh, kid? But I think I made a point or two. Maybe. You can prob’ly get a nugget or two of wisdom out of ol’ Uncle Hugo’s words. Huh? *belch*
“We’ll definitely wrap this up next time, though, and we’ll kiss 2002 good-bye at the same time. It’ll be New Year’s Eve -- so you know I’ll be sober.”
**
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/Creators/stuartwizphoto_f.jpg" width="110" height="113" align="right" alt="Stuart Moore">Stuart Moore has been a writer, a comics editor for Vertigo and Marvel Knights, a kitchen worker, a book editor, and the nighttime manager of the Lawrenceville, NJ Woolworth's curtain department. He has won the Will Eisner award for Best Editor 1996 and the Don Thompson Award for Favorite Editor 1999.
Currently Stuart freelances as a writer of comic books and nonfiction; he’d like you all to go out and buy Zendra, his epic science fiction series from Penny-Farthing Press. Issue #5 of the second series, Zendra: Heart of Fire, is on sale now, and the trade paperback Zendra 1.0: Collocation collects the first series. Then you can go to Stuart’s message board at <a href="http://www.joequesada.com" target="_blank">http://www.joequesada.com</a> and discuss Zendra, this column, or anything else you like. Happy holidays -- see you back here in two weeks for a real Uncle Hugo-style toast!
<center>A THOUSAND FLOWERS</center>
<center>Comics, Pop Culture, and the World Outside</center>
<center>Installment 7</center>
<center>by Stuart Moore</center>
7. Comics’ Drunken Uncle: Science Fiction
Part Four: Missions from God
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/Analog_1971_04.jpg" width="175" height="250" align="right">Any child of the ‘70s or ‘80s can hear Dan Ackroyd’s voice from the Blues Brothers movie: “We’re on a mission from God.” Whenever his and John Belushi’s sincerity or resolve is questioned, Ackroyd’s character, Elwood Blues, repeats this litany.
Science fiction and comics people -- both professionals and fans -- have their holy missions, too. And sometimes they get a little touchy about them.
Science fiction people -- those involved in the community, as fans and/or pros -- have always prided themselves on their superiority to the public at large. Early sf fans immediately identified with the persecuted, mentally advanced mutants of A. E. Van Vogt’s first novel, Slan, as described by James Gunn in Alternate Worlds: “fans in Battle Creek, Michigan, conceived a cooperative housing development for fans to be called Slan Center, and a group of them actually moved into an eight-room house called the Slan Shack.”
These and other sf groups, like the Futurians, viewed science fiction as more than light entertainment -- certainly as more than the pulp-derived juvenalia the literary world labelled it. To them, it was a calling. If they didn’t look to the future -- if they weren’t going to improve the world -- who was?
Barry N. Malzberg, in The Engines Of The Night, describes an awkward meeting with legendary sf editor John W. Campbell (see <a href="http://www.newsarama.com/cgi-bin/ubb/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=3&t=000011" target="_blank"> Installment 5 </a>), late in Campbell’s life. Awed by Campbell’s achievements yet frustrated by the insular publication that Analog had become, Malzberg tried to argue for the importance of outside influences and modern literary techniques in sf. The editor’s reply: “‘Mainstream literature is about failure,’ Campbell said, ‘a literature of defeat. Science fiction is challenge and discovery. We’re going to land on the moon in a month and it was science fiction which made all of that possible.’”
The reality, of course, sometimes differed. British literary novelist Kingsley Amis wrote a pivotal critical analysis of sf, New Maps of Hell in 1960. In it, he quotes (anonymously) several “leading writers” on their opinions of their readership:
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/amisnmohpb.jpg" width="175" height="288" align="left">“Science-fiction readers are ‘the curious who are looking for stimulation or sensation’; ‘people with technical training who want fictionalised shop-talk and teenagers who find glamour and excitement in science’; ‘ten per cent mental juveniles who still like fairy stories, ninety per cent chronic nosey-parkers who like having their imaginations stimulated’; ‘misfits in society, often subversive misfits’; ‘idealistic, forward-looking, well-read, interested in the arts.’”
In these various pictures of sf fans, we begin to see their dark secret: Yes, on the whole they’re forward-thinking, often quite intelligent, concerned about the future. But they’re often also social outcasts, for whom it’s very important to believe that they’re more intelligent than everyone else around them.
A lot of them also just plain like rocketships, ray-guns, and time travel. There’s nothing wrong with that -- but there’s no necessary correlation to a person’s intelligence, either. Plenty of smart people would rather read Thomas Pynchon or David Foster Wallace instead.
In his excellent recent book The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of: How Science Fiction Conquered The World, Thomas M. Disch explores this disconnect in more detail. He describes a 1964 stayover with a minor sf husband-and-wife writing team of the time, Walt and Leigh Richmond:
“Their method of collaboration was uniquely science fictional. Walt, a laconic, Burl-Ivesish fellow, would sit with a quiet smile on his lips and telepathically project his inputs to Leigh, who would translate them into their prose at the typewriter.”
Disch neatly encapsulates the sf-centric view of the world as he continues:
“The first tenet of fandom is that sf is the true and only literature…The second tenet of fannish faith is that fans are a breed apart, elevated above the uncircumcised by a mysterious, inherent difference…Yet there will be those, like (I imagine) Walt Richmond, whose capabilities don’t gibe with their aspirations, whose chess game isn’t top-notch and whose grades, even with effort, are C’s and B’s. How is one to reconcile, in such cases, the discrepancy between a grandiose self-image and the steady encroachments of mundane reality?”
Disch suggests that, for extreme cases -- and the Richmonds certainly qualify -- the answer is crackpot religion. (Exhibit A: L. Ron Hubbard and Dianetics/Scientology.) But there’s a less severe, more common reaction: You can dig in and declare yourself superior to other geeks.
We discussed one such schism within sf in <a href="http://www.newsarama.com/cgi-bin/ubb/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=3&t=000011" target="_blank"> Installment 5</a> -- the need for “serious” sf fans to disavow works that they saw as shamefully trashy or lowbrow. There have been other ideological feuds in sf as well. The ‘70s saw a debate about whether fantasy, which came into its own as a book publishing category around 1978, was “polluting the bodily fluids” of science fiction with its childish subject matter and lack of logical rigor. This came up against the rocket-ship problem: a lot of sf fans just like dragons and elves, even if there’s no logical basis for their existence. (The dragons’ and elves’ existence, that is. Not the fans’.)
And, of course, there’s always comics.
This is one of those statements that screams out for qualifiers, but here goes: Up until the advent of the direct market, around 1980, comic books were designed and produced mostly for children. Yes, there were exceptions: The Spirit in the ‘40s (packaged for newspaper insertion), EC in the ‘50s, the undergrounds of the ‘60s, and scattered critically-acclaimed-but-low-selling anomalies in the ‘70s. But throughout that time, comic book writers, artists, and editors generally knew who their audience was: teenagers and younger children.
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/flowers/acmenovli15.jpg" width="300" height="284" align="right">Now consider Disch’s description of sf fans’ self-image as a “breed apart.” They already felt defensive about their field, which they felt was itself unfairly cast as children’s literature; the last thing they’d want to be associated with was (Golden and Silver Age) comics. The science was preposterous, and the pictures clearly branded comics as kids’ stuff. Hell, by the ‘60s, sf fans had spent decades trying to disown E. E. “Doc” Smith -- his lurid prose, his flat characters, his ridiculous science -- and here was a medium that shamelessly raided him for one of its “modern” icons! (See <a href="http://www.newsarama.com/cgi-bin/ubb/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=3&t=000014" target="_blank"> Installment 6</a>.)
If sf fans are passionate advocates of their chosen literature, comic fans are at least as fervent. But the religious reasoning -- the “mission from God” -- is a little tougher to explain in this case. Yes, comics fans are an elite, but…why? It’s not intelligence, per se, and no one really thinks that comics are going to save the world.
The usually-cited rationale is that comics are an artistic medium as valid as any other, but not recognized as such. Okay, but…so what? Let’s assume it’s true; let’s say that, if they were freed from the limitations of being considered children’s literature, comics could be 30% good and 70% crap, like books (just to pick a, hopefully reasonable, percentage); or 20% good and 80% crap, like movies; or 5% good and 95% crap, like TV. Is that something to be proud of? Is that, in itself, something to champion?
Maybe it is. Maybe the 30% or 20% or 5% of good material is worth the fight. But I don’t think it’s the reason most fans are fighting it.
No, most comics fans have hidden, shameful reasons for their defense of the field. In this respect, as in many others, they’re a lot like their Uncle Hugo who scorns them. Like sf fans, many comics devotees feel like outcasts to begin with, and are looking for something to attach it to. And since comics have traditionally appealed primarily to young readers, adult comics fans have strong attachments to the material they read when they were young -- often when they were quite young.
SF fans enjoy their nostalgia, but comics fans love it -- which makes it difficult to “grow the medium up,” to repurpose it for older readers. A common subject of internet debate -- What was the best period of recent comics history? -- usually devolves into groups of fans all arguing for whatever was being published when they were twelve. And since superhero comics have dominated the landscape for the past thirty years, that’s usually what those fans defend the hardest.
This leads directly to an overreaction: many other fans, especially those of college age, rebel loudly against the stodgy defenders of the past. These fans can’t understand why the comics market doesn’t shift to a graphic novel-only format overnight (answer: it’s an economic disaster, and not everybody wants the damn things) or why the top-selling books continue to be thirty- or sixty-year-old concepts (see nostalgia, above). Either because they don’t understand superhero comics or (more frequently) because they’re ashamed of their own past affection for them, these fans want to throw out all the old -- tear down the direct market, bring down the big companies, destroy the monopolistic distribution system -- then plant a new flag of independence, artistic freedom, and variety in the ashes.
It doesn’t work that way, of course. First of all, the major companies aren’t going anywhere just because a few arthouse mavens say so. Second, this revolutionary attitude risks alienating too many readers, and losing a lot of what makes (American) comics work. Without the direct market, where are you going to sell Love & Rockets and Bone? Bookstores, yes. But to far fewer people, in far smaller numbers.
That’s not to say that revolutionary fervor is a bad thing, especially for comics writers and artists. You’re not going to create great works without great intentions, and this field could certainly use more great works. But I’ll say it again: Superheroes aren’t killing comics any more than space opera, or fantasy, killed science fiction.
So, to sum up:
SF fans think they’re the only forward-looking people in the world.
Comics fans think they’re the sole defenders of a valid art form.
Both may be partly right -- but both have other reasons for their holy missions. And those hidden reasons can lead them to attack each other, unreasonably.
Which leads us right back to the sf/comics schism we’ve been dancing around for four columns now. Is it as bad as ever? Is there hope for the future? What about the children -- oh, Lord, the little children?
Yes, this was supposed to be the final installment of Comics’ Drunken Uncle: Science Fiction. But it’s a big topic, and -- oh, we’ll just let Uncle Hugo, our anthropomorphic representation of the sf field, have the last word for today:
“I guess I did rattle on there a little, huh, kid? But I think I made a point or two. Maybe. You can prob’ly get a nugget or two of wisdom out of ol’ Uncle Hugo’s words. Huh? *belch*
“We’ll definitely wrap this up next time, though, and we’ll kiss 2002 good-bye at the same time. It’ll be New Year’s Eve -- so you know I’ll be sober.”
**
<img src="http://www.newsarama.com/Creators/stuartwizphoto_f.jpg" width="110" height="113" align="right" alt="Stuart Moore">Stuart Moore has been a writer, a comics editor for Vertigo and Marvel Knights, a kitchen worker, a book editor, and the nighttime manager of the Lawrenceville, NJ Woolworth's curtain department. He has won the Will Eisner award for Best Editor 1996 and the Don Thompson Award for Favorite Editor 1999.
Currently Stuart freelances as a writer of comic books and nonfiction; he’d like you all to go out and buy Zendra, his epic science fiction series from Penny-Farthing Press. Issue #5 of the second series, Zendra: Heart of Fire, is on sale now, and the trade paperback Zendra 1.0: Collocation collects the first series. Then you can go to Stuart’s message board at <a href="http://www.joequesada.com" target="_blank">http://www.joequesada.com</a> and discuss Zendra, this column, or anything else you like. Happy holidays -- see you back here in two weeks for a real Uncle Hugo-style toast!