Manga is not a dirty word…

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I don’t think I fully realized how big a hole Tokyopop blew in the comic book horizon when they shuttered their original manga program until recently. Say what you will about Tokyopop as a company, it’s hard to argue that for a few years, they created a lot of opportunity for a lot of artists. Thanks to Tokyopop, thousands were exposed to the work of Felipe Smith, Rivkah and M. Alice LeGrow. Popular indie artists like Becky Cloonan, Ross Campbell and Brandon Graham got a boost to their careers, and dozens of unpublished creators received their first break through the Rising Stars of Manga contest.

But more than any of that, Tokyopop embraced a style of art that most other publishers wouldn’t touch—the manga-influenced one. An entire generation of young comic book artists had grown up reading the books that Tokyopop, Viz and Dark Horse had helped bring to the United States and wanted to draw in that sort of style, and for a few years, it actually seemed like they may be able to make a little money doing so.

Then Tokyopop ran into trouble, and the rest of the manga industry soon followed suit. Yen Press has scaled back their original manga plans, Del Rey Manga no longer exists and Viz, if they ever intended to publish original content created in the United States, seemed to have a change of heart. Of course, in so doing, the options for manga-influenced artists were gutted, leaving most to look to web-publishing and self-publishing for getting their comics out there.

Now, I’m not knocking self-publishing or webcomics. If done well, they can pay off handsomely for a talented creator. But they shouldn’t be the only options out there for talented artists. Yet the unfortunate truth is that the majority of western comic book publishers really have no interest in publishing manga-style comic art. And you know what? I really don’t blame the publishers. They aren’t interested in publishing that style of art because it doesn’t sell for them. Of course, the reason it doesn’t sell is entirely due to us, the fans.

Why are we so limited in what we’ll read? I’ve already written about our reluctance to sample anything not published by the Big Two, but we also need to really ask ourselves why we’re so biased against manga-influenced art. I understand why much of the Japanese manga that gets published out here may not be of interest to a reader who isn’t interested in interpreting another culture’s mores and sense of humor just so they can enjoy a comic book. But we’re not talking about Japanese manga here. We’re talking about American comics that just happen to be drawn in a style that’s influenced by Japanese sequential art.

Before I go any further, I should probably make it clear that I’m writing this as someone who was once ridiculously biased against manga. I started at Tokyopop with an inherent love for superheroes and a complete lack of interest in Japanese graphic novels. Had I not landed my job there, it’s unlikely I’d even know what a tankoubon was, let alone actually sat down and read them. It’s also worth mentioning that since leaving Tokyopop, the amount of manga that I’ve read has seriously decreased. There are titles that I enjoy, but when I compare the amount of manga I read each year with the number of western comics, western comics win by a mile.

But I still read Bizenghast. I still read Nightschool. I read Re:Play through to its conclusion (and not just because I was the editor of that series for a while). If I have any interest in the subject matter of a comic, I’ll read it, regardless of the style. So why is it that comics drawn by manga-influenced artists (other than Adam Warren) seem to always struggle to find an audience in the United States?

Unfortunately, I still think there’s a lot of misunderstanding among both readers and publishers. They hear manga and they instantly think of big eyes and flowery backgrounds. The problem is that far too many people still cling to the idea that manga is a style. Manga is not a style. It’s a format, and even within that format there’s a lot of diversity. To say someone is a manga artist is no different than to say they’re a comic book artist. And just like with comic book artists, manga artists can draw in vastly different styles.

Svetlana Chmakova’s manga art is very different from Nam Kim’s. Christy Lijewski’s art looks nothing like Rem’s. All of them are manga-influenced, and not one of them draws characters that look like Sailor Moon. Sure, it’s possible they could adapt their art, make it look more western. Being stylistically diverse isn’t a bad thing, especially if it can get them more paying work. But why should they have to do that if they don’t want to? Why should any talented artist have to?

I should mention that there ARE publishers out there who seem more than happy to hire gifted, unique artists regardless of their style and influence. Thank goodness for Oni Press, First Second and traditional publishers like Penguin. We need more of them. But for that to happen, we first need to be willing to prove to publishers that comics drawn by manga-influenced artists can sell, and that means recognizing that manga isn’t this evil, threatening entity that we must destroy before it absorbs all the shelves at our local comic book shops, but part of the family. Don’t roll your eyes when you hear someone call themselves a manga artist—look at their art. Really look at it. It won’t hurt you, and if you keep an open mind, I can guarantee that there are quite a few manga-influenced artists that you’re going to love.

At New York Comic-Con last month, I was introduced to a ridiculously talented manga-influenced artist. She showed me her latest comic (which she had self-published), and after seeing how skilled she is, I thought about a few of the projects I’m working on that are in need of artists. I asked her if she only drew in a manga style, and she said yes. It was the only way of drawing that she really felt passionate about. I remember looking down at some of the comics in front of me, shaking my head, and telling her that unfortunately, I didn’t have any opportunities for her right now. None of the publishers I’m working with are interested in publishing comics drawn in a manga-influenced style. She smiled and said she understood, and that it’s something she’s heard before.

It’s a conversation I hope to never have again.

Forgotten Friday: The Fisher King

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I made a reference to The Fisher King in my last Forgotten Friday, and it occurred to me that it’s something of a “forgotten” film itself. The Fisher King was directed by Terry Gilliam in 1991, after he directed a string of high-budget, high-concept genre films that met with varying levels of success (Time Bandits, Brazil and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen), and he’s gone on record as saying he directed it because he wanted to do something smaller and with a more commercial script written by someone other than him. As a result, it’s probably the most grounded film he’s ever directed, which may be why many people seem to have forgotten about it. But that’s a shame because while it may be more entrenched in reality than many of his films, it’s still very much an example of Gilliam at his imaginative best.

The movie stars Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams. Bridges plays Jack Lucas, a former shock jock dealing professionally and mentally with the fact that some pointed comments he made to a caller on his show motivated the caller to go on a shooting spree in Manhattan, killing many innocent people…one of whom happens to be the wife of Williams’ character, Parry. After the death of his wife, Parry became catatonic and when he emerged, he’d lost grip with reality and now lives homeless on the streets of New York. After he saves Jack from being mugged, the pair strike up an unlikely relationship that begins out of a sense of obligation Jack feels he owes to Parry, but soon develops into true friendship.

Where Gilliam’s unmistakable touch comes in is in the way Parry views the world. He sees himself as a modern knight out to retrieve the Holy Grail from the man he believes has taken it. He’s also tormented by a terrifying Red Knight who reveals himself to Parry every time he does something brave or confident. It’s the Red Knight, a stunning visual representation of the guilt and grief Parry feels over his wife’s death, that’s responsible for Parry’s inability to reenter society.

The Fisher King is a true dramatic comedy. There are moments of pure hilarity and moments of true poignancy and pathos, and I still can’t watch the last act without tearing up. True, it does idealize the problem of homelessness. The homeless characters in the film seem like playful deviants who are homeless simply because they live their lives a little differently than others, and to be honest, at times it makes their lives look more appealing than the characters who don’t live on the streets. But this isn’t meant to be a breakdown of our nation’s homeless problem. This is a movie about grief, friendship and forgiveness, and at that it’s a stunning success. It features two knockout performances from Bridges and Williams and it ends with them lying naked in Central Park. What more could you want?

Check out the trailer to The Fisher King below:

My NYCC Schedule

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For those of you who haven’t seen the tweets and status updates, I’m going to be at New York Comic-Con this weekend. My main reason for going is to catch up with all of my east coast industry friends, but I’ll be doing a lot to promote Fraggle Rock while I’m there.

We’ll have copies of the first volume hardcover in the Archaia booth for those of you who haven’t picked up the hardcover yet (and I know there are a lot of you, so get to it, will ya?). Knowing Archaia, they’ll probably be running a great show special as well, so NYCC will be a really good opportunity to pick up Fraggle Rock and some other excellent comics for much less than you’d pay in stores and get them signed by the creators to boot. Aren’t cons wonderful things?

And for those of you interested in finding me, I’ll be signing copies of Fraggle Rock in the Archaia booth (#2031) with a variety of contributing writers and artists at the following times:

Friday, October 8th 4:00-5:30 p.m.
Saturday, October 9th 10:00-11:30 a.m.
Sunday, October 10th 2:30 p.m.-however late I can stay

I’m also going to be on the Archaia All Ages panel on Sunday from 12-1 p.m.

Here’s the description:

ARCHAIA ALL AGES
All ages books are not necessarily children’s books—they’re books that readers of all ages can enjoy! Join Archaia for updates, previews and exciting new information on several of its All Ages titles, including: FRAGGLE ROCK VOL. 2 with editor Tim Beedle; MOUSE GUARD with creator/writer/artist David Petersen; MOUSE GUARD ROLEPLAYING GAME BOX SET with Petersen and game designer Luke Crane; and RETURN OF THE DAPPER MEN with writer Jim McCann and artist Janet Lee. Moderated by Archaia Editor-in-Chief Stephen Christy. Panel Room 5 (1A17-18)

Hope to see you there!

Not Waiting for Superman…

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I spent last Sunday at the West Hollywood Book Fair, which felt like a real accomplishment this year considering the temperature was well into the triple digits. It was the sort of heat where everyone stops worrying about their appearance and just accepts the fact that they look like they decided to take a shower without soap and without bothering to take off their clothes. The heat was a real problem because not only did it negatively impact attendance, but it also affected the mood of those who did show up. Most people weren’t in the state of mind to leisurely peruse the fair, talking to authors and picking up a book or two if any caught their eye.

This was definitely unfortunate and my sympathy goes to the vendors and authors who experienced less than stellar sales. I just hope they realize that the problem was the heat and not the actual event. And I hope the event organizers realize that the heat is a problem and consider pushing next year’s book fair back a month or two.

And yet, my experience at the fair was largely positive. Yes, I went through about eight bottles of water and looked a complete mess, but I had a chance to catch up with some friends, meet some cool people, have Hope Larson sign my copy of Mercury, and moderate a pretty thorough panel on comic books outside the “Big Three” (though we could never really agree on who the third big publisher was, so we stuck to Marvel and DC). I was actually very pleased with how the panel went, and much gratitude must be extended to my four panelists: Joshua Hale Fialkov, Richard Starkings, Renae Geerlings and Raphael Navarro. Each contributed a fair amount to the discussion and each brought vastly different experiences to the table, which resulted in a really comprehensive discussion on the subject of publishing comics outside the Big Two. There were a few disagreements and differences of opinion, but there was certainly one thing that came up several times. Comic book fans really need to start buying stuff other than Big Two superhero books.

You know, I’m a lifelong superhero fan, and that’s never going to change. I’ve seen just about every superhero movie opening week in the movie theater and that will probably continue until my dying day. I still enjoy a great superhero story and although it seems to be a losing battle, I really do try to keep up with most of the Batman titles. But I reached a point in my life when I’d had enough and stopped buying 98% of the superhero titles that I had been buying. The reason for my decision was a key point in our discussion on Sunday: Marvel and DC no longer care about doing what’s creatively best for their properties. Instead, their interest is in leveraging them for all they’re worth. All the major characters (including my boy Bruce Wayne) have numerous monthly titles, along with multiple miniseries, one-shots and crossovers that come out each year. Forget about whether people actually want that much Aquaman in their lives, it’s there, spread across comic shop shelves and crowding out smaller independent and creator-owned titles. But that’s not even my point here. Let’s look at what such a glut does to the character.

Look at the recent YA fiction trend. Do you want to know why series like Harry Potter, Twilight and The Hunger Games are going to be read decades from now? And why books like Hatchet, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Ender’s Game and His Dark Materials continue to be read by readers of all ages years after their publication? It’s because all of those series were limited. The authors had a clear story in mind, and they stuck to that. And from the very start, I can guarantee you that they knew their story had an end.

Could J.K. Rowling have added to her already ridiculous fortune by franchising Harry Potter and cranking out volume after volume of it? Would a “Tales of the Mockingjay” comic book “written” by Suzanne Collins and scripted by some unknown comic book writer (who actually does all of the work, but shares credit with Collins since her name is the one that will move copies) sell like cupcakes? Does Haymitch like his drink?

There’s no doubt the above projects would sell, but the true cost would be the value of the original source material. And yes, this is coming from a guy who edits Fraggle Rock comics. (Which I don’t feel makes my statement at all hypocritical. Fraggle Rock was a TV show. It’s designed to be episodic. Most fiction isn’t and I think it loses much of its relevance when it’s designed to be.)

We can argue that properties can be put through a lot before they lose their literary significance. Certainly Sherlock Holmes remains as important a literary figure as ever, despite having survived not only four novels and 56 short stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but countless film and TV adaptations. But even the strongest characters—and the most iconic superheroes are as strong as they come—can only withstand so much. Superman will celebrate his 80th Anniversary in two years. That’s 80 years of continuous publication, not to mention the radio and movie serials, the numerous TV shows and movies and quite a few novelizations. How many stories can there really be to tell with the character? And more to the point, would DC honestly let them be told? Only if whatever impact they may have on the universe can be reversible or described away by some space-time anomaly or reality-altering superweapon or some other convenient plot device created to maintain the status quo. Anyone who reads comic books for any length of time knows that nothing really changes in them. Not for long. Eventually, the dead are brought back and the supervillains are released from prison.

That, my friends, is the very essence of disposable entertainment, and that’s why comics and graphic novels as a medium continue to be so readily dismissed by so many adult readers. Ask yourself, how the prose novel would look if its flagship titles were The Babysitters Club, the ongoing work of V.C. Andrews and ever popular Star Wars and Star Trek novelizations? There are many readers who look at comics much the same way, and while it would be easy to dismiss them as ignorant (an assessment that isn’t without some truth), it’s an ignorance that we helped perpetuate.

Look, I’m not saying we should stop publishing all superhero books. There are some good ones out there. Let’s just stick to publishing those ones. The truly good ones. The Batman and Robins. The Invincibles. The ones that really stand out and get people talking. And when the writers of the projects decide they’re done, end the fucking things. Keep Batman on ice until another brilliant idea comes around.

There’s nothing wrong with disposable entertainment. But when it gets to the point that it’s defining a whole medium and quality projects are suffering and struggling to find an audience as a result, then it’s getting a little out of hand. And I’m afraid that’s where we are right now.

And for once, it’s not going to take a superhero to save us.

An (Almost) Great LA Bar

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Last Friday, a friend of mine invited me to join her at a bar downtown. She was going there to meet some friends, but what most excited me was that it was a place I’d never been to before, which means that it was undoubtedly a great bar.

Perhaps I should provide a bit of explanation for some of you non-SoCal folk. In Los Angeles, the only great bars are the ones you’ve never been to. Everyone talks about how great the drinking spots are in LA, but I’m yet to meet someone who lives here that will admit to having been to a truly great bar. Most lounges in the city seem to be pretty average. I know a few people who confess to having visited a good bar, but a great one? Well, no one I know has found one yet. We know they’re out there because so many pedigreed authors and journalists have espoused on the libationary excellence to be found atop the wooden counters of dozens of Hollywood, downtown, West Side and Silverlake watering holes. And if someone writes something, it’s automatically true. Everyone knows that. Therefore, there must be great bars in LA. The problem is clearly that we just haven’t yet been to them.

One of these days, this is going to change. There has been many a drive made to a hot, buzzed-about new joint where I envisioned the calls I would make to my friends upon first setting foot inside and discovering that I was at last basking in the glow of greatness.

“Hey Greg, it’s happened.”

“Dammit, Tim. There’s nothing I can do for you. Now, I’m gonna hang up, and you call the cops—”

“No, not that. I found it. I found a great bar.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it’s not. This place is great.”

“How many have you had? You’re not drinking Long Islands again, are you? Last time you did that, you convinced yourself that the lounge at Denny’s was the eighth wonder of the world.”

“I’m not at Denny’s and I’m not drunk. I just sat down with a vodka tonic and after the first sip, the only word I could think of to describe the experience was ‘great.’”

“Is that Nick Drake I hear in the background?”

“Sure is. They just finished playing Moxy Fruvous.”

“How long did it take to get the drink?”

“A few minutes.”

“And what kind of vodka did they use? Not Grey Goose, was it?”

“SKYY90.”

“Shit. Okay, I’m on my way. Don’t you dare move, and if I get there and I don’t see at least one woman at the bar drinking actual beer, you’re buying my damn drinks.”

“I was joined by two just before I called you.”

“I’ll be there in time to buy the next round.”

I’ve imagined having conversations like this too many times to recollect, but I’ve never actually had one. Rather, I find I’ve arrived at my destination only to discover that they have an alt-rock band playing or limit their tables to people ordering food or bottle service. Or that their selection of beer consists of Budweiser and a collection of imports of which few besides a BevMo specialty buyer would even be the least bit familiar.

So when my friend invited me to a new bar this weekend, I knew I was going to a great spot. The reviews were promising. The photos looked intriguing. It was surrounded by warehouses, lofts and neglected studio space, so the atmosphere was encouraging. I was prepared, for the first time since I became of age, to have a truly great night of drinking in LA.

And I came damn close. The bar was mid-sized and open-air, with much of the seating and mingling areas actually outside. This works well for LA because pretension tends to thrive in dark, enclosed spaces. It’s hard to seem full of yourself when you’re at risk of being shit on by a pigeon at any moment. Also, the bar served most of their drinks in mason jars, which are about as suave to sip from as a bed pan. Perhaps in other cities this would be a negative, but in LA, this is medicine that is very much needed. The crowd was a nice mix and seemed pretty friendly, and best of all, the band was miked at a level that didn’t require you to conduct your conversations in semaphore.

The place even looked pretty snazzy. Part Victorian, part speakeasy, part Artemis Gordon dream house, it was hard not to feel pretty charmed by the whole thing. And charmed takes you a good part of the way to great. In fact, if I’d stuck to one of my usual drinks, I may very well have experienced greatness. Unfortunately, emboldened by the old-time bluegrass the band was playing and perhaps driven by an eagerness to put this promising juke joint to the ultimate after-hours test, I decided to try one of their specialty drinks.

I quickly scanned their drink menu, completely clueless as to what any of them were. Asking the bartender was out of the question. If you have to ask what’s in your drink, then as a patron you become lame and a great bar doesn’t have lame patrons. I didn’t want to find myself as the reason this promising bar missed the mark, so I decided to wing it and order the drink that sounded most appropriate for me. And for a comic book editor, there was really only one appropriate drink.

I almost missed it at first because it was the very last drink on the menu, and when I saw it, I had to scratch my head since it seemed thematically at odds with the historic kitsch the place was clearly aiming for.

The Stan Lee.

I had to go with Stan the Man. No question or doubt about it. For a comic book professional and lifelong Southern Californian, nothing could be better than sipping a drink called the Stan Lee in the company of cool friends in a charming cocktail house that looked like something from “Oh Brother Where Art Thou.” This could not only be my first great LA bar experience – it could be the perfect LA bar experience.

My drink decision made, I quickly pushed my way to the bar and ordered it. I knew something was off the minute I saw the glass. As I mentioned, most drinks in this place were served in mason jars. So when I saw him plink down the petite stemmed glass more appropriate for drinking dessert wine at a yacht club, I knew we were heading for trouble. I was so focused on the damn glass that I missed half of what went into the drink. I looked up in just enough time to see him pouring in what looked like three shots worth of grenadine.

Well, maybe it’ll look blood red, I thought to myself. Perhaps they’ll top it with Blue Curacao and get a classic Spider-Man thing going with it. But looking at that dainty glass, I knew there was no way in hell they could pull it off.

The shaker was capped, the bartender gave it a quick shake and cracked it open, and out it came.

Pink.

Goddammit. Why the hell is a drink that’s called the Stan Lee colored pink? Not a single key character in the Marvel universe is pink. I suppose it’s possible that Stan the Man is partial to pink drinks, but I can’t quite picture that, and if I can’t picture something, it’s not true. Everyone knows that.

With a flick of his wrist, the bartender dropped something in the glass. Something that looked like a candied raspberry.

“That’s $13.”

“You’re kidding me. It looks like something my four-year-old niece would serve at a tea party. I could probably down that thing in half a gulp.”

“Sorry, man. But that’s the Stan Lee.”

I guess that explains why I’ve always been more of a DC guy. I paid the bartender, who looked a lot less cool with a pink drink in front of him, then snatched up the tiny glass, taking great care to mutter that it wasn’t for me as I walked away from the bar. I think I noticed a couple of girls in vests whispering to each other and pointing as I walked away.

Now, it had taken me about ten minutes to order my drink, so if I returned to my friend without a cocktail in hand, it would have required a story about why I decided not to order one when I had left her for the sole purpose of doing so. I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired at the moment, so downing the drink and returning to her empty handed save for a clever story was out of the question. Making matters worse was that this particular friend of mine also seems to find my enjoyment of tiki drinks to be the most hilarious thing since Steve Martin sang about King Tut on Saturday Night Live. I knew as soon as she saw me walking up with a pink drink that I’d never hear the end of it.

No sooner did I spot her in the crowd than I caught her eyeing my drink. Instinctively, I responded defensively.

“Don’t ask me what I’m drinking.”

“What the hell is that thing?”

“It’s called the Stan Lee. Does this look like it would have anything to do with Stan Lee to you? It’s pink.”

“Put an umbrella in it and you should be right at home.”

“I think I’m sticking with beer after this.”

And with that, the bar fell from great to good. For you should never have to stick to beer at a great bar.

But it’s okay. The rest of the evening was actually very enjoyable despite my sour note at the bar. The Stan Lee was consumed quickly, and it didn’t take long for me to regain my composure after ordering something that looked like a wine glass full of Strawberry Quik. And while I did notice quite a few obscure imports on tap, they had Newcastle, which is like the full house of bar beers. It’s hard to go wrong with it. I wonder how pleasant the outdoor experience may be in winter when rain and cold temperatures set in, but for a Friday night in autumn, this little spot was all right. Hell, it was better than all right. It really was good, and a good bar is pretty decent for LA. In fact, a night spent at a good bar in LA is about as great as it gets.