For those who might not know, American comic books are in a bit of a Renaissance. Along with everything else, comics are going digital.
Now, people in the comics industry have been thinking about how to make this "work." Like books, people prefer to have comics in their hands. Though Amazon's Kindle is a nifty little toy, not many people are screaming about how wonderful it is to curl up in bed with a nice e-book.
Marvel Comics currently has the Digital Comics Unlimited program, where, for a small sub fee, you can read scanned copies of old and new comics on your computer monitor. Though this is nice, and cheap, it doesn't use the advantage of a digital medium.
Less than a year ago, DC Comics began its Motion Comics line. The releases of these comics have been scattered - a few here, a few there. Mostly, these are popular and award-winning miniseries that have been tweaked here and there for motion as well as sound, making it a cross between an audio book and a bad cartoon.
DC started with Watchmen, using the Motion Comic to build hype for the film, and has since moved on to Batman: Black and White and Superman: Red Son. These aren't bad attempts at going digital, but these stories weren't written or drawn to have motion.
Scott McCloud, the ever-experimental comics guru, has fooled around with the medium as well, working on pieces that use the Internet or motion to move the comic around spatially. But his experiments never really use the concept of motion, per se.
Tomorrow, Marvel Comics will release (via iTunes) its first original Motion Comic, Spider-Woman: Agent of SWORD. Since the book's artist, Alex Maleev, and writer, Brian Bendis, are working on this book with the intention of giving it motion, I can only hope that this book will really prove what a "digital comic" can do.
However, all of these attempts at moving comics into the digital realm begs one question: Do comics need to be digital? I believe that Spider-Woman may answer that question with a resounding "YES" if, and only if, Spider-Woman is capable of telling a story in a way no comic ever has before, while still retaining the essence of an American superhero comic. Otherwise, it's just a cartoon.
8.18.2009
8.13.2009
Writing Exercise: "What Time is It?"
Right now, look at the clock. The current time will determine what kind of story you are going to write.
The current HOUR will determine the MAIN CHARACTER of your story.
If the HOUR is 1 - a robot.
If the HOUR is 2 - a hopeless romantic.
If the HOUR is 3 - a masked vigilante.
If the HOUR is 4 - an elected official.
If the HOUR is 5 - a dinosaur.
If the HOUR is 6 - an imaginary friend.
If the HOUR is 7 - a widow.
If the HOUR is 8 - a tiger cub.
If the HOUR is 9 - the Troll King.
If the HOUR is 10 - a police officer.
If the HOUR is 11 - a college freshman.
If the HOUR is 12 - a god.
The MINUTE (in the tens place) will determine the GENRE of your story.
If the MINUTE is 0X - war.
If the MINUTE is 1X - science-fiction.
If the MINUTE is 2X - horror.
If the MINUTE is 3X - romance.
If the MINUTE is 4X - fantasy.
If the MINUTE is 5X - psychological thriller.
Finally, the TIME OF DAY will determine the TONE of your story.
If it is A.M. - comedic.
If it is P.M. - dramatic.
For example, if it is 2:18 p.m., I would write a DRAMATIC SCIENCE-FICTION story with my main character being A HOPELESS ROMANTIC.
Benjamin strolled the streets the night before it happened. He knew he wasn't supposed to. In fact, he could have been arrested simply for setting foot outside of his apartment stoop, but he was tired of being forced into his little cell every night after 19:00. He was tired of looking out his apartment window, watching the MPs force everyone inside while the curfew bell tolled.
Benjamin had heard earlier that day, just like everyone else, about the news on the radio. It was coming, and not even the Supreme President and his Royal Army could stop something like this. Benjamin felt infuriated at the hours upon hours he had spent, sitting in front of his radio at night after curfew, listening to the Supreme President's address, full of boasts and promises of an invincible army of gears and levers and processors. It was all lies, Benjamin now knew. His world was nothing but lies.
And so it was that thought that forced Benjamin out of his apartment fifteen minutes after curfew. He couldn't even see the moon that night. It was undoubtedly gone, nothing but a specks of dust being sucked into the heat of a star or some such. The sky glowed red, like the lipstick of Benjamin's mother. Or so he thought.
He wasn't supposed to visit the Low District, but laws, like lies, didn't matter anymore. What would they do, throw him in a cell? The MPs must be with their families by now, Benjamin thought. The idea of these men, the only men still in the service of the Supreme President, without their armor or whips, but instead holding tightly their little ones - it warmed Benjamin's heart.
But the thoughts of holding someone, an act he had never been allowed to do because the Council for Procreation still had sixteen months before getting to Benjamin, infuriated him. The only family photo Benjamin had left was a snapshot of his parents, sitting pristine and still in front of a white curtain. His father is holding his mother around the stomach. Benjamin liked to think he was in her stomach at that moment; he liked to think that, at some point in his life, he had been present for a moment of warmth.
Benjamin left the paved street and began marching down the dirt path into the Low District. He had heard rumors of men from the High District venturing down into the Low for black market activities. He had always considered himself above such things, but what difference did morality make anymore? A code of ethics surely wouldn't stop what was coming for them.
Benjamin was surprised to hear the laughing and whooping of merrymaking, and soon he found himself just outside a dancing circle, arms interlocked and feet kicking for the sky. Small fires lit the way deeper into the District, and Benjamin descended into the belly of the lowly village.
How much longer did he have, Benjamin wondered. Long enough for a night together? Long enough to learn the intimate curves of another's body? He could only hope so.
On the front porch of a shanty house, Benjamin found three young women, perhaps only a year or two younger than himself. He caught the eye of a lady and smiled at her. She smiled back, but raised her eyes to the dancing circle now some distance away.
"Ahem, excuse me, miss?"
"Yes?" answered the lady.
"Might I -- I mean, I was wondering if you were one of the ladies I have heard about."
"And what kind of lady might that be?"
"Perhaps, a lady of intimate relations?"
The lady laughed. She sounded so innocent to Benjamin's ears, he found it hard to believe she was anything but a newlwed housewife.
"Tonight, sir, we are all the same. There is no business tonight, only goodbyes."
"Oh," Benjamin said. He had not thought of that. He had not thought that, of all the things to no longer be of importance, that money might be one of them.
"What is your name?" the lady asked.
"Benjamin 54 Charles Place."
"Well, Benjamin 54 Charles Place, my name is Velvet. I am sorry, but your money will be of no good here tonight."
He paused for a moment, trying desperately to remember her face before he went. His eyes fell to his feet, and growing under the shanty porch he found a single rose. He plucked it, minding the thorns, and handed it to Velvet.
"I apologize, miss. Enjoy your night."
"Perhaps, we might enjoy it together?"
He looked up at her and saw her smile of pearls. "But, you said --"
"Money, tonight, is of little value. But there are other things to be gained before the end of the world." Velvet took his hand and led him into the shanty.
The current HOUR will determine the MAIN CHARACTER of your story.
If the HOUR is 1 - a robot.
If the HOUR is 2 - a hopeless romantic.
If the HOUR is 3 - a masked vigilante.
If the HOUR is 4 - an elected official.
If the HOUR is 5 - a dinosaur.
If the HOUR is 6 - an imaginary friend.
If the HOUR is 7 - a widow.
If the HOUR is 8 - a tiger cub.
If the HOUR is 9 - the Troll King.
If the HOUR is 10 - a police officer.
If the HOUR is 11 - a college freshman.
If the HOUR is 12 - a god.
The MINUTE (in the tens place) will determine the GENRE of your story.
If the MINUTE is 0X - war.
If the MINUTE is 1X - science-fiction.
If the MINUTE is 2X - horror.
If the MINUTE is 3X - romance.
If the MINUTE is 4X - fantasy.
If the MINUTE is 5X - psychological thriller.
Finally, the TIME OF DAY will determine the TONE of your story.
If it is A.M. - comedic.
If it is P.M. - dramatic.
For example, if it is 2:18 p.m., I would write a DRAMATIC SCIENCE-FICTION story with my main character being A HOPELESS ROMANTIC.
Benjamin strolled the streets the night before it happened. He knew he wasn't supposed to. In fact, he could have been arrested simply for setting foot outside of his apartment stoop, but he was tired of being forced into his little cell every night after 19:00. He was tired of looking out his apartment window, watching the MPs force everyone inside while the curfew bell tolled.
Benjamin had heard earlier that day, just like everyone else, about the news on the radio. It was coming, and not even the Supreme President and his Royal Army could stop something like this. Benjamin felt infuriated at the hours upon hours he had spent, sitting in front of his radio at night after curfew, listening to the Supreme President's address, full of boasts and promises of an invincible army of gears and levers and processors. It was all lies, Benjamin now knew. His world was nothing but lies.
And so it was that thought that forced Benjamin out of his apartment fifteen minutes after curfew. He couldn't even see the moon that night. It was undoubtedly gone, nothing but a specks of dust being sucked into the heat of a star or some such. The sky glowed red, like the lipstick of Benjamin's mother. Or so he thought.
He wasn't supposed to visit the Low District, but laws, like lies, didn't matter anymore. What would they do, throw him in a cell? The MPs must be with their families by now, Benjamin thought. The idea of these men, the only men still in the service of the Supreme President, without their armor or whips, but instead holding tightly their little ones - it warmed Benjamin's heart.
But the thoughts of holding someone, an act he had never been allowed to do because the Council for Procreation still had sixteen months before getting to Benjamin, infuriated him. The only family photo Benjamin had left was a snapshot of his parents, sitting pristine and still in front of a white curtain. His father is holding his mother around the stomach. Benjamin liked to think he was in her stomach at that moment; he liked to think that, at some point in his life, he had been present for a moment of warmth.
Benjamin left the paved street and began marching down the dirt path into the Low District. He had heard rumors of men from the High District venturing down into the Low for black market activities. He had always considered himself above such things, but what difference did morality make anymore? A code of ethics surely wouldn't stop what was coming for them.
Benjamin was surprised to hear the laughing and whooping of merrymaking, and soon he found himself just outside a dancing circle, arms interlocked and feet kicking for the sky. Small fires lit the way deeper into the District, and Benjamin descended into the belly of the lowly village.
How much longer did he have, Benjamin wondered. Long enough for a night together? Long enough to learn the intimate curves of another's body? He could only hope so.
On the front porch of a shanty house, Benjamin found three young women, perhaps only a year or two younger than himself. He caught the eye of a lady and smiled at her. She smiled back, but raised her eyes to the dancing circle now some distance away.
"Ahem, excuse me, miss?"
"Yes?" answered the lady.
"Might I -- I mean, I was wondering if you were one of the ladies I have heard about."
"And what kind of lady might that be?"
"Perhaps, a lady of intimate relations?"
The lady laughed. She sounded so innocent to Benjamin's ears, he found it hard to believe she was anything but a newlwed housewife.
"Tonight, sir, we are all the same. There is no business tonight, only goodbyes."
"Oh," Benjamin said. He had not thought of that. He had not thought that, of all the things to no longer be of importance, that money might be one of them.
"What is your name?" the lady asked.
"Benjamin 54 Charles Place."
"Well, Benjamin 54 Charles Place, my name is Velvet. I am sorry, but your money will be of no good here tonight."
He paused for a moment, trying desperately to remember her face before he went. His eyes fell to his feet, and growing under the shanty porch he found a single rose. He plucked it, minding the thorns, and handed it to Velvet.
"I apologize, miss. Enjoy your night."
"Perhaps, we might enjoy it together?"
He looked up at her and saw her smile of pearls. "But, you said --"
"Money, tonight, is of little value. But there are other things to be gained before the end of the world." Velvet took his hand and led him into the shanty.
8.10.2009
Irredeemable, Part Deux
In this review I wrote for ComicNews, I mentioned how interesting it is that there is a story out there that really focuses on the villain and his seeming invincibility. I mean, sure, there are tons of stories where the villain is pumped up to impeccable heights, but there is also a hero in that story who proves his merit by knocking said villain down.
In Irredeemable, there is no hero. Well, let me rephrase. There are heroes in the story. In fact, there is a renegade team of them, but none of them are the focus. If anything, they are really the villains, because the villain is really the hero.
Let me explain and spoiler alert for those who have not yet read the book:
Irredeemable is about The Plutonian, a superman of sorts. He puts on the costume, the cape, the alter ego; he does it all. But the world isn't as nice to him as it is to the Superman we know. This world is, sadly, more like ours.
Example #1: After saving a baseball stadium filled with people from a rampaging robot with a nuclear bomb, one bystander criticizes The Plutonian for being a freak.
Example #2: After The Plutonian reveals his secret identity to the woman he loves, she completely flips out and purposefully spills his secret identity to a group of people who work for the local radio station.
Now, these are but two examples of how The Plutonian is treated, and it comes as no shock to me that this character becomes a mass murderer. And that, dear friends, is scary.
I hate horror films. Not because they keep me up at night, sitting in my bed, chewing on my blankey, hoping for the sun to rise five hours earlier than expected. No, I hate horror films because they don't know how to make a truly scary villain. A guy who chops up every off-duty cheerleader he sees with a machete isn't scary. It's just violent.
This isn't a villain who woke up one morning with a twirly mustache and black top hat with the sudden craving to tie pretty ladies to railroad tracks. No, this is a man who woke up every day, trying to do the right thing, and only got flack for it.
The Plutonian is scary, because he's possible in our society. Falling Down proved such a case. Fatal Attraction is another, perhaps explaining why Alex Forest is one of AFI's Top Villains, despite her lack of machete, evil powers, or gruesome mask. All of these characters are scary, because they could be anybody. They could be us.
In Irredeemable, there is no hero. Well, let me rephrase. There are heroes in the story. In fact, there is a renegade team of them, but none of them are the focus. If anything, they are really the villains, because the villain is really the hero.
Let me explain and spoiler alert for those who have not yet read the book:
Irredeemable is about The Plutonian, a superman of sorts. He puts on the costume, the cape, the alter ego; he does it all. But the world isn't as nice to him as it is to the Superman we know. This world is, sadly, more like ours.
Example #1: After saving a baseball stadium filled with people from a rampaging robot with a nuclear bomb, one bystander criticizes The Plutonian for being a freak.
Example #2: After The Plutonian reveals his secret identity to the woman he loves, she completely flips out and purposefully spills his secret identity to a group of people who work for the local radio station.
Now, these are but two examples of how The Plutonian is treated, and it comes as no shock to me that this character becomes a mass murderer. And that, dear friends, is scary.
I hate horror films. Not because they keep me up at night, sitting in my bed, chewing on my blankey, hoping for the sun to rise five hours earlier than expected. No, I hate horror films because they don't know how to make a truly scary villain. A guy who chops up every off-duty cheerleader he sees with a machete isn't scary. It's just violent.
This isn't a villain who woke up one morning with a twirly mustache and black top hat with the sudden craving to tie pretty ladies to railroad tracks. No, this is a man who woke up every day, trying to do the right thing, and only got flack for it.
The Plutonian is scary, because he's possible in our society. Falling Down proved such a case. Fatal Attraction is another, perhaps explaining why Alex Forest is one of AFI's Top Villains, despite her lack of machete, evil powers, or gruesome mask. All of these characters are scary, because they could be anybody. They could be us.
8.04.2009
Writing Exercise: "So, what is it you do?"
I can't take credit for this one, but I found it on the Bendis Board and after participating in it myself, I felt extremely satisfied with the result.
Write a scene where one character asks "So, what is it you do?" within the first 5 lines.
FRANK stands in the corner of a living room during a dinner party. He rifles through the owner's book collection. TED saunters up to FRANK casually.
TED: Ted.
FRANK: I'm sorry?
TED: Ted. My name is Ted. Yours?
FRANK: Frank.
TED: So, what is it you do, Frank?
FRANK: Really?
TED: Pardon?
FRANK: I don't know you from atom, kid, and you think you can just walk up to me and ask what it is I do? Some fuckin' balls.
TED: I'm sorry, I'm new to the company.
FRANK: Really? Never woulda guessed. Let me ask you first. What is it you do, Ted?
TED: I'm not really sure yet, sir. They recruited me straight from Harvard. My thesis was on Transtemporal Displacement Theory. I can only guess it has something to do with that.
FRANK: Oh, fuck me. You're Theodore Hausman, aren't you.
TED: Uh, yeah.
FRANK: Shit.
TED: Is there a problem?
FRANK: You're my new partner, kid.
TED: Sorry?
FRANK: On Monday, the big boss is gonna come down to your little shit cubicle and send you to me. I'm Frank Trinkle.
TED: The Time Cop?
FRANK: Lesson #1: Don't ever fuckin' call me that.
TED: Sorry, sir. I had no idea they were putting me in the Enforcement Division. So, what is it we'll be doing?
FRANK: Huh?
TED: In the Enforcement Division? What is it we do exactly? No one's told me the specifics. Do we arrest people for manufacturing unlicensed time-jumpers, or do we just regulate time steam travel?
FRANK: Kid, you got no fuckin' idea what you're even talking about. There is no time travel.
TED: But...
FRANK: It doesn't exist, kid. You want to know what I do. Really?
TED: Uh...
FRANK: Anyone who tries to build a time-jumper, anyone who even thinks of how to make a goddamn flux capacitor work, I go and put a bullet in their teeth, kid.
TED: Why?
FRANK: 'Cause of Lesson #2: if anyone ever did time travel, even one second into the past or future, we'd all fuckin' die, kid. And I don't just mean West America, or Earth. The entire fuckin' universe as we know it would shatter into a million different pieces: past, present, and future. That's why.
Write a scene where one character asks "So, what is it you do?" within the first 5 lines.
FRANK stands in the corner of a living room during a dinner party. He rifles through the owner's book collection. TED saunters up to FRANK casually.
TED: Ted.
FRANK: I'm sorry?
TED: Ted. My name is Ted. Yours?
FRANK: Frank.
TED: So, what is it you do, Frank?
FRANK: Really?
TED: Pardon?
FRANK: I don't know you from atom, kid, and you think you can just walk up to me and ask what it is I do? Some fuckin' balls.
TED: I'm sorry, I'm new to the company.
FRANK: Really? Never woulda guessed. Let me ask you first. What is it you do, Ted?
TED: I'm not really sure yet, sir. They recruited me straight from Harvard. My thesis was on Transtemporal Displacement Theory. I can only guess it has something to do with that.
FRANK: Oh, fuck me. You're Theodore Hausman, aren't you.
TED: Uh, yeah.
FRANK: Shit.
TED: Is there a problem?
FRANK: You're my new partner, kid.
TED: Sorry?
FRANK: On Monday, the big boss is gonna come down to your little shit cubicle and send you to me. I'm Frank Trinkle.
TED: The Time Cop?
FRANK: Lesson #1: Don't ever fuckin' call me that.
TED: Sorry, sir. I had no idea they were putting me in the Enforcement Division. So, what is it we'll be doing?
FRANK: Huh?
TED: In the Enforcement Division? What is it we do exactly? No one's told me the specifics. Do we arrest people for manufacturing unlicensed time-jumpers, or do we just regulate time steam travel?
FRANK: Kid, you got no fuckin' idea what you're even talking about. There is no time travel.
TED: But...
FRANK: It doesn't exist, kid. You want to know what I do. Really?
TED: Uh...
FRANK: Anyone who tries to build a time-jumper, anyone who even thinks of how to make a goddamn flux capacitor work, I go and put a bullet in their teeth, kid.
TED: Why?
FRANK: 'Cause of Lesson #2: if anyone ever did time travel, even one second into the past or future, we'd all fuckin' die, kid. And I don't just mean West America, or Earth. The entire fuckin' universe as we know it would shatter into a million different pieces: past, present, and future. That's why.
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