The Mainstream Niche - How DC and Marvel Can Expand Their Audience

DC Comics announced a line-wide reboot last week in which 52 of their most popular superhero comics, along with a smattering of new titles, will start over from issue #1.

This is not even a remotely shocking move. DC has officially rebooted its entire line at least once, and that’s not even counting semi-reboots like the recent ‘One Year Later’ and countless restarts for titles with beloved characters and weak sales. The more significant news to come from this announcement—despite the insistence of major media outlets and comic snark forums that are wasting time analyzing the DC pantheon’s new costumes—is DC’s new digital sales strategy, which will see the publisher releasing digital versions of its comics on the same day as print versions. Besides siphoning a few customers from the comic book stores on Wednesdays and drastically undercutting the retailers the industry has depended on for almost twenty years, this initiative is a step in the right direction to grabbing the mainstream market.

The industry has been flopping around like a sturgeon on the deck of the Pop Culture Entertainment yacht for years now with sales decreasing, across the board, steadily since the early ‘00s. After its recent re-organization under the DC Entertainment banner brought it more closely in step with Time-Warner’s multimedia strategies, DC Comics quickly became a target for the bigwigs at Warner looking to actually turn a profit from “funny books”. The decision these clever folks arrived at after months of reshuffling DC’s upper echelons was to restart the line and go digital. An interesting strategy, but it’s not enough to capture the unicorn that is new readership and it will likely diminish the already miniscule hardcore enthusiasts.

Assuming hardcore fans will stay, in some capacity—those who don’t might simply migrate to Marvel for a moment then drift back, but eventually most will age out of collecting—how does DC, and Marvel, capture the elusive mainstream niche. Simple, follow the models of television and film to make these stories more accessible, available and captivating. Today’s comic publishers and creators need to realize that consumption of media has changed significantly since the 1930s and to catch up with the times they need to seriously revise their approach to the quantity, frequency and style of comic storytelling.




Accessibility of material and story is the key to grabbing and retaining a larger, more mainstream, audience. Digital distribution is the most logical step for any comic publisher to take in today’s marketplace, but it’s not enough. Comic publishers need to push their comics through the same distribution channels that major film studios and television networks use. New issues of comics could be available not just through iTunes, Amazon or Comixology, but through cable providers’ On Demand services and video game marketplaces like the PlayStation Network (PSN)—securely, of course—and Xbox Live. Imagine downloading a comic to flip through on an HD screen, using the remote to scroll and zoom from the comfort of the couch. Such an approach would give the art the chance to breathe and allow visually impaired readers a chance to see the words on page without squinting. Voice and soundtracks could even be added to make the comics come alive—not necessarily as motion comics, but closer to audiobooks. To my knowledge Marvel sells some of its motion comics collections through the PSN and Xbox Live, which is genius because gamers are more of a target market for comics than they’re willing to accept.

If these companies really want to capture a growing audience like gamers, and impress casual audiences, they need to consider interactive comics in the vein of Square-Enix’s mobile app Imaginary Range. Imaginary Range is an interactive comic that blends simple point and click gameplay with elements of motion comics. The app lacks static images with creepy moving mouths and swinging limbs; instead, the camera sweeps and scrolls across panels like a movie allowing users to watch and read panels individually, outside of a page construct. Thus, Imaginary Range unfolds like an animated movie rather than a comic. Square-Enix adds value to the app by dropping in short click/drag/point mini-games—such as locating a lost character by dragging a rifle sight around the screen or pointing missiles at a killer robot’s weak spot—at crucial plot points. The plot progression that follows these games may be predetermined, but at least the readers aren’t just passively responding to the material. The game-comic is reloadable like a video game—complete with save points—and offers some bonus material like image galleries, all for free, which is more content for 100% less than the average $4 comic.


If a free mobile app can has the potential to offer more entertainment value and interactivity—a relative distinction, but one that shouldn’t draw too much argument—than a costly weekly comic then there’s no reason to wonder why the industry is having trouble making significant profit. As publishers expand their digital distribution, either through Marvel’s subscription models or DC’s new initiative, they need to seriously consider reducing the prices of digital, and print, comics that will be available. DC is planning on continuing to charge $2.99 for print and digital versions at the time of the relaunch, which is roughly equal to the cost of purchasing or renting a TV episode on iTunes or Amazon. An hour or 45-minute long TV episode, which is about 45 to 60 pages of script on screen, is the same amount of money as a 20-page comic—that’s not even considering shows available for free on network television. Makes sense. Doesn’t it?

…

No, it doesn’t. Publishers need to deliver content that is equal in quantity, frequency and form to that of their biggest competitors: television and film. As a writer-artist, I understand that developing a monthly comic is an often time-consuming, painstaking, solitary process. Most comic creators don’t have the personnel resources available to them that TV and film productions do—and asking these creative minds to increase their output is like asking a fish to walk—but they would need to increase their output for new strategies to work. In terms of scheduling and distribution, the closest analogue to monthly comic production would be the weekly, daily in some cases, model used by television networks. Yes, new comics are released every week, but generally readers must wait a month between installments for each series. As long as TV shows release new episodes each week and the Japanese have mastered the art of weekly/bi-weekly manga, the monthly model of comic distribution will not stand.


Readers should not have to wait a month to find out if the Black Hand will upend Batman after a taught cliffhanger. Comic readers deserve to have content with, at bare minimum, the same frequency as television viewers. If the publishers are unsure of how to pull this off, they should consider this strategy: rotating creative teams produce a season (13-22 issues) well in advance of release, allowing publishers to distribute these “episodes” on a weekly basis, digitally and in print. Using this model, the publishers will not only rival the release schedule of television shows, but they will invariably keep readers hooked and prevent, to some degree, impatience among casual readers. The weekly/bi-weekly model has proved a boon to the Japanese manga market, which releases new chapters of its series on a weekly or bi-weekly basis, and manga thrives—maybe not as much as it used to, but more so than American comics—as a mostly mainstream form of entertainment in Japan.


Staying on the topic of manga, Japanese creators publish monthly/bi-monthly tankobons (paperback sized collections of ten chapters) at half the cost of American comics’ graphic novel collections. These tiny books are cheap and collectible, just what the hardcore fans like. More importantly, they offer nearly 200 pages of content each month for a few dollars more than the average 22-page American floppy. Publishers could follow this trend by swiftly compiling a 13/22-issue season of a comic—like a DVD set of a TV season—and selling it on Amazon or in the few remaining big box bookstores at a reasonable cost that will not alienate cost-conscious consumers of the casual or hardcore variety.



Traditionalist comic creators may balk that adhering to such intense scheduling would be impossible, nay blasphemous. However, if the medium—which is exactly what comics are—is to survive, this is the type of change that must occur. Change of this nature will have to stretch far beyond increasing distribution schedules. It will need to be supported by a renewed approach to storytelling that unchains itself from complicated continuity, stifling events and the insular, albeit colorful, elements that have defined comics for nearly a century.

The seasonal publishing schedule presented above is one of the most effective ways to push creators toward a more accessible storytelling model. Publishers and creators will find a great avenue for creating more focused, accessible stories by releasing comics on the 13- or 22-issue season schedule. Publishers can divide this schedule into two to three seasons (fall, spring, summer) per year, with a different creative team crafting the story for each season. The seasons will each focus on one extended arc that could be peppered with one-off stories as part of the main plot or as backup stories from other creators. Continuity—the age-old of enemy of the casual reader—can be loose with a few elements of character and plot development carrying over between seasons, but, generally, each new season will be a fresh start with a new story.



In-between or alongside the seasons, publishers can release mini- or maxi-series events that are divorced from the current season’s continuity—think Elseworld, annual issues, or movies for anime series—which could serve as source material for feature film releases. This new approach to event comics would eschew the tie-ins that most readers, hardcore and casual, loathe and focus on a central mini-/maxi-series based on major adventure affecting one family of books (i.e. the Bat-family) or a small number (1-2) of loosely connected books (e.g. Teen Titans and Justice League). These isolated event comics will serve not only as the high points of the year, as current summer events do, but they can also function like blockbuster films. Events will be independent of continuity and the excess of tie-ins, becoming quick, exciting, high profile reads that any reader can pick up and use as a gateway to the weekly issues.



Once the events and weekly issues hook readers, a dash—and nothing more—of continuity will keep them hooked. With respect to the intelligence of modern audiences, continuity will not be overwhelming nor will it be completely abandoned in either the weekly issues or event series. Instead, it will become loose, pliable to the whims of creators and, primarily, sound storytelling. Plot arcs and character developments that creators wish to retain or that publishers want to promote will be available to mold at their discretion, but the canon will be simple: an origin story plus a supporting cast and a rogues gallery, and nothing more. Much like any of the hundreds of variations on NBC’s Law & Order, there is a foundation for the characters and the purpose of the series, but each week, or season, the leads face different criminals. Sometimes, plot threads carry over from season to season. Most of the time, they don’t. That degree of flexibility is essential to making comics as widely accessible as possible, and that is the cornerstone of DC’s new storytelling strategy, for now. The publisher who holds fast to that philosophy, long-term, will see readership grow and witness respectable turnover because the moat of continuity will be drained.

Loosening continuity will also allow creators to use superheroes the way they were intended, as archetypes that could be grafted onto and enliven a variety of narrative genres. Superheroes will no longer be the draw in and of themselves. Instead, Batman may become more of a gritty crime comic with cases dragged from the headlines that just happen to be committed by his creepy rogues. Catwoman may be a weekly heist comic in the vein of Ocean’s Eleven. Imagine Superman as a weekly reflection on immigration and the thrall of the American dream like an HBO series with earth-shattering battles and none of the TV-MA trappings.

This strategy could also work at Marvel. Spider-Man could exist as teen/young adult drama with a running commentary on the loss of innocence as reflected in his aging adversaries. Conversely, X-Men could work as a soap-ish drama rife with racial tension and cover military action. Captain America could be Jason Bourne with a slick jumpsuit and Nazi villains. Not that these series weren’t already steeped in genre tropes, but going full bore could give each series a clearer voice. In addition to inserting superheroes into popular narrative genres, publishers can ease their way into releasing popular non-superhero comics based on westerns, crime drama or spy fiction. Publishers who apply a multi-genre approach to comics storytelling will not only widen the field for consumers who may desire more than flights and tights, but they will open the doors for creators who’ve grown beyond writing superhero stories.

In truth, if the publishers really want to grab an audience beyond the hardcore, they may need to accept that contemporary audiences have, to a large degree, grown out of viewing superhero comics as they did at the height of the Silver Age. Many of the trappings that defined comics of that era simply don’t appeal to a majority of the contemporary audiences. The formatting of comics, the costumes, and some of the more explicitly fantastical elements can work for or against comics. These days, they mostly seem to hinder a mainstream audience’s desire to pick up the latest issue.

Creators should consider how audiences absorb visual information when formatting comics, as a way to make the panels easier to follow. Artists should learn from the lessons and mistakes of the first generation of widescreen comics. Horizontal paneling would be a real draw to audiences who are acclimated to widescreen HD viewing options. Publishers could also provide primers on how to read comics from panel-to-panel like many of the American manga distributors did when manga first hit the scene. Retaining the “Previously in…” sections and character guides at the front of issues will also help. Costumes, one of the most important visual touchstones of the industry, could stand to be toned down. There’s no need to eliminate costumes and switch to civvies for every hero, but give the characters something respectable, modern and realistic to wear so that when it comes time to adapt the characters to film they don’t look like plastic statues. Some of the hottest properties of the past decade—Harry Potter, Twilight, Hunger Games, Vampire Diaries, Buffy, Heroes(I said hottest, not necessarily the best)—have found a way to ground the fantastic in a reality bereft of characters running around in gaudy armor or colorful speedos. In turn, these works do the same job as comics without the packaging that may keep a wider audience at a distance.


With the desire of expanding the audience comes the need to acknowledge that females will read comics. As such, the level of misogyny and objectification of female characters must disappear. Creators will need to cease storytelling that hangs on stuffing girlfriends in the fridge or finding new ways to stick powerful women in bikinis and bustiers. Also, publishers should avoid trying to appeal to female readership solely with rehashes of Twilight or any other romantic twist on the medium. Not every female reader enjoys those type of stories, and many would relish a good superhero yarn as much as the next guy. This shouldn’t be news, but, in an industry where women and minorities are grossly misrepresented on both sides of the page, a reminder seems absolutely necessary. Respect the female audience and they will flock to the stories right next to the male readers. Fail to respect them and risk alienating over 50% of the potential audience.

Finally, and above all, creators and publishers must work together to make the fantasy of comics real and relevant. Comics are more than throwaway entertainment. It is a medium with the same inherent power as any art form. Unlike film or television, comics can swiftly respond to changes in the social climate and examine the human condition with the reverence of literature and the bombast of film. It is a medium where imagination can run wild, but it is also one where the fantastic can touch upon the mundane with profound insight. If creators and publishers can look beyond what comics where and push them forward to become more than what they are, they just might save the medium before the contemporary audiences find a cheaper, more entertaining and accessible alternative.

The Dearth of Our Imagination

I returned from my first pilgrimage to Comic-Con inspired, but broken-hearted.

Comic-con was every inch the spectacle of legend. The central exhibition hall of the San Diego Convention Center, a two-block long cage of white-washed steel and glass, was crowded from wall to pillar to post to wall with an ocean of ‘geeks,’ children, tourists, stars, creators and drag-a-longs. The crowds clamored, pushed and tugged beneath towering displays of supersized mechas and movie posters, grabbing and snatching at every free trinket or toy tossed in their general direction. The hallways above the exhibition hall were congested with snaking lines that wrapped around, inside and outside the convention center. Hall H alone was a staggering, humbling sight. The cavernous hall, housing more seats than a small theater, barely contained crowds of thousands who waited hours with baited breath, and sharpened pencils, to squint at the movie stars of the month and gaze at sizzle reels. Among those crowds, the brown and, especially, the black faces were easily outnumbered by what seemed to be a 100 to 1 ratio.

For two days, my girlfriend and I squeezed through the stifling crowds, sliding between bodies to grab swag and wearing out the soles of our feet for a chance to see our favorite TV stars from 300 yards away. As we shimmied through the crowds and stood in ridiculously long lines, I noticed how rare a sight we were. In a moment like this, my girlfriend’s brother would pose the terribly clichéd inquiry, “How does it feel to be the pepper in the salt shaker?” My typical response would be to let the question hang until the silence becomes too awkward to continue any conversation. But this time, I would’ve answered, “lonely and discouraging.” Sure, attendees of myriad ethnicities attended Comic-Con. The diversity of California’s population practically demands it. But, among the rainbow of attendees, people of African descent were notoriously underrepresented. As bad as it seemed, the dearth of black creators and talent was even more distressing.

The minimal presence of black artists at Comic-Con was enough to make one ask, “Do we have any imagination?” Personally, I wondered: Where were the representatives of Aaron McGruder’s Boondocks—a series steeped in as equal doses of pop culture lexicon to rival Scott Pilgrim—? Who was present to discuss DC Comics Milestone Line—one of the most influential collection of African-American superhero creations—? I know we are capable of contemplating and conjuring the same feats imagination as creators of any other culture—despite having less money in many cases—but looking across the exhibit hall would prove that assertion wrong. I passed maybe four or five booths, out of hundreds, with black artists and, even more depressing, maybe one or two booths with black-owned properties. Of the two booths displaying black-owned properties I saw, one was a cheaply-made comic with poorly rendered superhero archetypes and the other was a clear Boondocks knock off, complete with brown-skinned anime characters. Generally, this type of creativity is inoffensive and tolerable, but, in a room where creativity is bursting at the seems, a couple of derivative projects with brown and black characters weren’t going to draw much attention. Perhaps the best example of dismal black attendance on either side of the Comic-Con fence came in the last minutes of our last day at the convention. My girlfriend and I were making our final rounds on the exhibit floor, minutes before the doors were to close, when a stocky black man with a immaculate ‘fro and a wide collared shirt over a canary yellow suit caught sight of us. I saw him approaching out the corner of my eye, hoping he wasn’t some suit trying to drag us to a preview of some hackneyed project like No Ordinary Family or The Cape. Instead, he politely blocked our path and asked “Do you guys know Jim Kelly?” Of course, I knew the legendary Jim Kelly from Enter the Dragon and Three the Hard Way. Since the question was obviously directed at me more than my girlfriend, I replied with a guarded enthusiasm, “Yeah.” He responded, “He’ll be here tomorrow…Come and check him out.” We nodded, feigning enthusiasm and knowing that, even if we were coming the next day, we probably wouldn’t stop to see Mr. Kelly because we’d rather catch the Marvel movie preview in Hall H.

Our apathy for black projects or seeing an aging black actor was likely informed, in some part, to the apathy our people show towards aspects of pop culture that don’t include music or sports. Despite the fact that the world is falling at the feet of the comic and video game gods, we don’t seem to care to contribute. However, we’ll gladly consume. We’ll buy movie tickets, video games, toys and a select few will purchase comics, but we rarely have a presence at the creator’s table and, at times, it seems that we don’t care to. Now, I won’t decry the hard work of the black creators who are stretching their imagination and creating uniquely creative work that demonstrates we are on par with the best creators of any color. Unfortunately, these creators are buried beneath the rappers, athletes, actors and quasi-celebrities who most of America associates with black “creativity.” Making matters worse is the reluctance of some creators, even the best, to avoid creating material so ingrained in “our” struggle that it turns off the mainstream consumer. I believe everyone should tell their story their way, but if we persist in telling stories with decaying neighborhoods, discordant romances and preachy drag queens, and we only stretch our imagination to evaluate the same issues of racism, poverty, and urban despair that have been repeated ad-hoc for decades then we risk alienating mainstream audiences who are far more engaged in the fantastic than the tragicomic. We don’t have to sacrifice the spirit of our stories and the integrity of our voices, but a little variety wouldn’t hurt. There are infinite ways to address these issues with imagination and ingenuity, from metaphor to allusion. If we, as creators, don’t embrace creative approaches to our material and start dreaming a little bigger then we’ll be stuck selling the same stories to the same people. With African-Americans making up a small percentage of the country, how far will that strategy take us?

To be fair, I’m sure a number of black creators and talent would have willingly attended Comic-Con to sell their stories and promote their projects. I’m also sure that there’s a sizable community of African-Americans and individuals of African ancestry from other countries who would love to have attended the convention as witnesses to the glut of creativity, but couldn’t for a myriad of circumstances. The truth is not everyone’s going to make the pilgrimage every year, but that shouldn’t stop those of us who love this stuff—the comics, the movies, the video games, the genre shows, the anime, etc.—from trying, at least once. And, for those of us who dare to create pop culture art or tell a wildly inventive story—myself included—it is imperative that we make the pilgrimage at some point, so that we can share our creations with an audience that will devour them without hesitation. Let’s just be sure to bring something fresh and original that will blow the geeks out of the water and show them that creators of color can dream as big and as bright as the best in the business.

Kicking The Iron Man's Ass - Humanity in Kick-Ass and Iron Man 2

Half an hour into Iron Man 2, I checked my cell phone clock, slouched in my seat, and leaned on the arm rest. Iron Man 2 blew into theaters last Friday, with the requisite mixed critical reaction and fanboy fervor, and it was easily the most tedious superhero flick I’ve seen in a while.

I’ll admit I never cared for Iron Man/Tony Stark and his “struggles” as the smartest, richest man in the Marvel-verse—in fact, I actively despised the clown after he inadvertently precipitated Captain America’s “death” —and cared little for the corporate intrigue of the first film. Yet, I enjoyed Robert Downey Jr.’s performance as Tony Stark, mostly because of the sheer force of his personality. Once I saw the commercials for the sequel, I expected more of the same: a great performance by Downey and a middling story of corporate espionage peppered with mecha battles. I was right. Iron Man 2 dropped below my expectations with pitiful pacing, dues ex machine plot and action figures for characters. Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov (Black Widow), Ivan Vanko (“Whiplash”) and Justin Hammer weren’t real characters; they were toys.

A week before Iron Man 2 was released, I had the pleasure of catching a film that actually treated comic book characters like human beings: Kick Ass. Kick Ass, distributed in comic form by Marvel’s creator-owned imprint, Icon, was a fun, memorable flick that put people before and “super” heroes. In Kick Ass, the story of normal people who pursue super heroics in the “real” world, each character had a life before heroism, or vigilantism as the case maybe. Whether it was Dave Liezewski’s (Kick Ass) mundane existence as a teenage nobody or Mindy McCready’s (Hit Girl) all-to-brief childhood, I believed these characters had a life—one I could relate to--beyond their absurd exploits. These characters also had clear goals. Big Daddy’s quest for revenge and Dave Liezewski’s grab at gallantry may be obsessive and misguided, but at least they were more realistic than Tony Stark being stingy with his super armor. Admittedly, both flicks strain plausibility, but the characters of Kick Ass ground the film in a semblance of reality that encourages the audience to care and cheer for the characters despite their suicidal stupidity. In Iron Man 2(IM2), the audience is told to love the super kewl characters because of their hipper-than-thou dialogue and feats of computer generated derring-do.

A comparison the of Kick Ass and IM2’s characters shows just how crucial grounded, relatable characters are to the effectiveness of films that demand suspension of disbelief. Kick Ass protagonist Dave Liezewski becomes "super" hero Kick Ass for reasons both selfish and altruistic. As much as Dave’s interest in being a superhero is bolstered by his desire for girls and popularity, he also genuinely wants to protect people, even at risk to his own safety. Tony Stark became an amplified version of this character type in the first Iron Man, as he gradually evolved form an arrogant hot shot to a hero who wanted to protect the world and erase his sins. But, in IM2, Stark regressed to the being a petulant prick due to an inability to cope with internal and external challenges. All of Stark’s character growth in IM1 is nullified by his actions in IM2. Stark is more interested in protecting his precious suit from antagonists that may never exist in the really real world than protecting the helpless from real-life terrorists. Conversely, by the end of Kick Ass, Dave Liezewski has moved from being teen with a power fantasy to honest-to-God hero when he helps Hit-Girl get her revenge on the D’Amico mob. Adding to Dave’s human-centered heroism is his resolve after being brutally injured. He doesn’t magically invent an element to save his life; he lies in the hospital, heals and returns to crime-fighting once he’s healthy. Kick Ass’ return to the streets may be based on delusional obsession, but positively rebounding from injury after a long recuperation is all-too-human.

Kick Ass’ humanity is echoed in the exploits of Big Daddy and Hit Girl. Big Daddy and Hit Girl are the opposite of IM2’s Ivan Vanko and Natasha Romanov. Big Daddy, like Vanko, is man trying violently and decisively avenge himself and his family. Both characters want to make powerful men suffer, but where their stories differ is the quality of the motivating offense and their physical response. Ivan Vanko builds a exoskeleton with electric whips to show the world “he can do what Stark can do better.” Big Daddy builds his body and gun collection while turning his daughter into a weapon in an effort to kill the man who sent him to prison and “killed” his wife. While both responses are ridiculously disproportionate, Big Daddy doesn’t care about embarrassing his opponent; he wants the guy dead. Vanko wants to shame Stark, with Stark’s death being a bonus. Both characters build “arsenals,” but Big Daddy treats himself and his daughter as the ultimate weapons as opposed to Vanko’s Gundams. Vanko balances equations and tinkers with toy robots before fighting Iron Man in a suit, that will surely protect him from nuclear attack. With little more than a bullet proof vest and some sturdy leather, Big Daddy and sidekick/daughter Hit Girl put their own bodies on the line to attack their enemies, a fact particularly evident in any scene featuring Hit Girl.

Compared to Natasha Romanov, her closest analogue in IM2, Hit Girl is a paragon of human heroism. Trained in the “art of death” by her father, Hit Girl is efficient and ruthless, yet charming and exuberant. She may move, bouncing around like a ninja slash the bad guys—in a far more effective and less-showy manner than the hipper-than-thou Romanov—but, on her off-hours, she’s a kid who loves her Dad and her toys. Hit Girl’s father may be certifiable and her toys—guns, knives and jetpacks—are surely dangerous, but its her genuine glee and warmth that reminds the audience—especially when she’s being beaten by a man three time her size—that this a “real” 11-year old child. Natasha Romanov, on the other hand, is a fembot. There’s no humanity behind her eyes, no life to her story. She’s a fully-poseable cheesecake maquette doing tricks that pale in comparison to Hit Girl’s more efficient, practical carnage. In IM2, Natasha is given one clumsy scene to demonstrate her “skill” and make the audience like her. In Kick Ass, the audience falls in love with Hit Girl because see her story and watch her drop every thug in a room more than once.

Rounding out the main characters of both films are antagonists that toe the line between friend and foe. Kick Ass’ Chris D’Amico (Red Mist) and IM2’s Justin Hammer both enter their respective films as ineffective jokes. Through betrayal and subterfuge, , they morph into dangerous villains as the films progress. The difference between these two villains is the nature of their threats, particularly in relation to the loss of human life. While Hammer is satisfied with stealing government contracts and Iron Man suit from stark, Chris takes part in a betrayal that truly threatens the lives of Kick Ass, Hit Girl and Big Daddy. By putting human life in the crossfire, rather than contracts and magic suits of armor, Kick Ass demonstrates that it deals in absolute, far from the vagaries of IM2. The villain’s response to the unveiling and, subsequent, foiling of their schemes highlights this principle. Chris is shocked, hurt and betrayed when his father threatens the heroes, and, later, is so angered by the death of his father that he sets forth on a path towards bloody vengeance. Justin Hammer, on the other hand smirks when he gets caught for allowing Vanko to turn his military robots into Iron Man-hunters. He even quietly went to jail rather than disappearing. Judging by the endings of both films, one could anticipate that in future sequels Justin hammer will return to take Tony Stark’s company while the Red Mist will return to take Kick Ass’ life. Those assumptions are indicative of the fundamental divergence between these two films: the weight of the human element.

The human element--prevalent in Kick Ass, yet lacking in IM2--grounds the fantastic in reasonable reality, encourages audience investment through character development and raises the stakes by putting lives, not companies or magic armor, in danger. The more attention a film pays to character the less likely it is to require contrived stakes. IM2 deals solely in contrived, inhuman stakes. None of the characters are ever in any real danger, so nothing matters, save plot progression. And, that’s what Marvel cares about: the mighty march to the Avengers epic. The characters in IM2 don’t serve an engaging story that delves into their core and examines the motivation and consequence of their actions; they serve a plot that teases the Avengers. Until Marvel executes its event film, and puts character first, creator-owned comic book movies will—much like their printed counterparts—capture audiences by telling stories about characters worth caring for.

Tankobons and Trade-waiting

I am abandoning the monthly comic format.

Okay, maybe that’s too absolute. However, I am one of the faithful converted. I am a trade-waiter. My appreciation for monthly pamphlets is waning. After twenty years as faithful, though inconsistent, collector of monthly comics, I am beginning to collect more manga tankobons (graphic novel collections of weekly or monthly manga) and wait for trade collections of comic story arcs. Admittedly, I wanted the cliched “more bang for my buck,” but my decision is as much the result of personal choice as market phenomenon. Here’s my reasons for the switch:

1. Cost-The country’s in a recession and inevitably luxuries get cut first. I’ve always been a thrifty comic shopper, keeping my average monthly comic expense between $20-$25. It’s not bad, but the price of comics is climbing. Two weeks ago, I paid $3.99 for a 22 page comic, and I’m young enough to remember when 22 pages only cost you a buck-fifty. If all the comics I purchased on a monthly basis were $3.99, my monthly expense would creep closer to $50. Conversely, I can trade-wait or purchase manga for between $8-$15. For that amount of money I’ll get six months (six weeks in manga), on average, worth of story as opposed to five minutes of story from a $4 pamphlet. The major publishers could make monthly comics more attractive to us new media users by offering itunes-style downloads for about $.99 (Marvel has already started digital distribution, but most of the newest issues are only availble in print copies.)

2. Content- As an artist and writer who has written an unpublished graphic novel, I appreciate the work that goes into a monthly comic. If only was complete enough to hold my attention for my than five minutes. In the age of writing for trade (structuring comic story arcs for collection in a trade paperback), a monthly comic is only equal to about, on average, 1/6th of a story. Remember when you used to get a complete story every month, I do. I didn’t have a problem trade-wait style story arcs, also known as decompression, until Marvel’s House of M miniseries (awesome art, meh story.) The pacing was plodding and the delays were even worse. By the end of the series, there were roughly two month shipping gaps between issues. The shipping gaps highlighted the pacing problems. One thing I appreciate about manga tankobons is the amount of content in one volume. Most tankobons are about 200 pages, and easily collect a good chunk of the major story. Depending on the series, reading one tankobon is more of an accomplishment than reading a collected story arc from a monthly.