Ed and Sarah Talk About Comics, Part One!

So, my comics aficionado friend Ed and I have taken it upon ourselves to review a variety of the DCnU books as they come out over the next couple weeks. We've decided, for this first post at least, to share with you some brief thoughts we had about Justice League #1, the flagship title in the revamping of the entire DC Universe.

Below is a synopsis of the book, a look at the art and then our conversation about the book as a whole:

JUSTICE LEAGUE #1

Synopsis: We're five years in the past, when heroes were fresh from the mint. This book begins with an ominous showdown between Batman and some Gotham City cops; he's being chased over roofs for criminal activity of some kind, mostly the crime of being real instead of an urban legend.

But before the cops can gun him down from helicopters or whatever, this happens ...

Well, who else could be behind that little green fire engine that could? Nobody but:

Green Lantern, who can't believe Batman's real, and whom Batman dislikes for drawing attention to himself. As they escape the cops and go after some weirdo monster, mostly they discuss their disbelief in each others' methods and existence. Case in point:

This goes on for a while. Like, for pages and pages, as they debate whether it's better to be a flashy optimistic space-cop, or gritty and fearsome and a scourge of the night.

Then they see that weirdo monster in the sewers, and when it cries out:

... it blows itself up. At least that's what Green Lantern and Batman think it does. Oh, and somewhere along the way, they pick up a weirdo box (better known in pre-DCnU land as a mother box), and wonder what its deal is.

They figure it might be alien technology. And they only know one alien. That guy in Metropolis. So they fly over there in a cool green light jet made from GL's mind and zoom past a young football star Vic Stone, who's got problems getting his superhero scientist dad to come to the big games where scouts want to sign his son for hot college scholarships.

Then Bats and GL land in Metropolis, arguing about who's going to approach this strange visitor from another world. GL decides to saunter right into his quarters and smack him around a bit. Surprisingly enough, Superman isn't having this and punches GL's lights out. Then he stands before Batman and says:

Cliffhanger issue ending!

Sarah and Ed's Thoughts

Sarah Getting the Ball Rolling:

Okay, Ed, after reading the issue a few times, here are my thoughts ...

DC is shifting its Big Three Trinity; no longer is it Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman, their three biggest legacy characters. It's now Bats, Supes and Green Lantern, a character with the most convoluted of all origins. This is not a slam to him necessarily, it only tells me that DC's emphasis is no longer on the wonder and impressiveness of their big three anymore, at least not in this book. Justice League will be all about what sells the best.

This is not to say Wonder Woman isn't confusing, but that's because writers made her that way, to fit their whims or what they thought might sell her books. Hal Jordan's GL is a character who's been twisted inside-out often enough, and whose basic ingredients have been rewritten time and time again, all to make him cool to readers in the moment (he's not fallible to yellow anymore, he never killed a planet-full of people -- a bacteria or something made him do it etc.). He's not timeless like Batman (the avenger) or Superman (the symbol of justice and prime male physique) or Wonder Woman (the epitome of female love and danger). Having him present in the first issue of Justice League tells me this rewrite focuses less on the myth of superheroes and more on the accessibility of superheroes.

Which okay, fine. But accessibility is impossible! Because superheroes don't EXIST in real life. Why make things edgier with heroes on the run and scared of one another in a five years' prior timeline? What does that running-scared story -- that origin story, nonetheless -- tell me about my everyday life?

I have to say this is a safe comic. Barely anything happens, other than establishing the characters' temperaments. Also, the fact that Geoff Johns writes the most ridiculously exposition-heavy dialogue ever needs to not go unnoticed. Especially considering he has to explain where GL's from for almost two pages and also why these characters aren't accepted by mainstream society -- and in both cases, the explanations take up valuable action time.

I feel bad that I don't have more to say about this narrative or the art, but I legit don't care much about this origin story, when there's little in the way of stakes as to whether or not these heroes care about each other. I assume next issue, Superman and Bats'll fight and learn from their misunderstanding in the way Hal and Bruce didn't. But what does that mean, when we're living in a world where heroes are scarce? I dunno and that's an issue, aka, a problem in a rebooted world.


Ed's Response:

I guess I've never really bought into the idea of the "Big Three." I mean, the book is the Superman/Batman Adventures, you know? So, the idea that they're shifting focus from WW to GL doesn't particularly bother me, nor does it come as a surprise. GL is one of their main properties, especially with the Color Corp and whatnot. I guess my big problem with this whole reboot, and especially this "FIVE YEARS IN THE PAST" conceit, is that I just don't care about these characters with their mistakes stripped away. To me, Hal Jordan was only an interesting character when he was unsure of himself, either be it through his road-trip with Green Arrow, or post-Parallax. Cock-sure fighter pilot Hal Jordan is aggravating, and I found myself hoping Batman trapped him in a yellow room and kicked his teeth in. This complaint goes for Bats, too. After reading the past couple of years of Morrison's work, it's hard to be invested in this sort of clean slate Batman. I vaguely like the idea of GL being a stark contrast to Supes and Bats (both of who are tremendously aware of their power, and their need to control it), while Hal is all "HAI GUYS I FOUND THIS RING AND HAVE NOT SPENT YEARS LEARNING HOW TO HANDLE MYSELF," but I don't feel like it's going to be explored more than "Shut up, Hal." "No, seriously, shut up, Hal."

Pretty much nothing happens here. I think this will read better in trade, but I think it was a big mistake to make this the flagship issue of the DCnU, especially at the price point of $4. How many splash pages were there?

[Editorial Answer: Too many. A lot of people like Jim Lee and he brings a cinematic scope to his work at times. But here a continuing problem pops up, which is the lack of facial emotions in his characters.]

Sarah's Response:

Agreed on your points about this clean slate thing. I don't really care whether or not anyone gets blown up by a mother box because I don't know these characters. I know a lot of people might find the "new yet familiar" approach exciting. I myself have a hard time investing in a story where we learn about the world solely through exposition and not the characters' actions. Because while I love the idea of these guys meeting and having to forge an alliance in theory ... in practice, it gives me the snoozes. Because I no longer know their archetypes or origins, I have no idea of their motivations or their skill sets. I don't know what choices they'd make or why. So why would I spend four bucks and my valuable time on these cookie cutter versions of characters I used to know?

Frankly, I have a hard time believing these guys haven't been heroes for very long (even if in just the public eye), because what they do here is so blah-blah generic superhero stuff, i.e., "Let's handle things attacking us; now let's figure out the mystery; now let's be sidelined by an evil minion, and even more sidelined by another character's surprising arrival (here, Superman)." To me, it all reeks of very calculated plot points meant to not scare people away. Which makes me sad. Because if you're going to go a new direction, why not tell an origin story in a different way?

Ed's Response:

Well, I don't want to sound like I'm hating on the reboot just because it's a reboot. I loved the way Ultimate Spiderman started, the way we got to know everyone involved in the story even before the costume showed up. The stakes were explained, like you mention, through actions and characterization, not through "YOU'RE THE BATMAN. I DIDN'T THINK YOU WERE REAL. YOU FIGHT CRIME." word balloons.

It (the story) does feel really... pat, i suppose is the best way I can put it? Bats is grumpy, Hal is cock-sure, there's a monster! There's a mystery! There's Superman! Darkseid! I'm interested to see how Gotham's super villains are explained away, since Batman is still a myth right now.

I guess I kind of wish all the JL-ers had their single titles come out so you kind of knew the status quo before seeing them all meet? I guess I also wish there was a story here.

Well, that wraps up our first DCnU roundtable discussion. Don't be too sore about it, Bats! We'll be back to talk about other titles later this week!

POST-SCRIPT: I know we didn't spend any time talking over the Vic Stone section of this book. It's pertinent in that Vic eventually becomes Cyborg, a member of the Justice League. But this was a snippet of his story, and I can't tell where it's going, based on the scant amount of time dedicated to it. I felt it best not to comment on it until it develops into an actual narrative.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One: Three Comics Fans Walk Into A Comics Store ...

Reading Nick's post again the other day got me thinking about my experiences with Free Comic Book Day. There are two instances in particular I'm remembering, and I think both shed some light on the importance of retailers in the comics industry. I'll tell you about them chronologically.

Waaaay back in 2008, my boyfriend and I traveled to Deerfield, Massachusetts to spend the weekend with one of my best friends and her boyfriend. Deerfield was her hometown and we had a grand time getting shown around all the cute shops and cool boutiques and rural walkways of the area. One morning, we drove to an adjacent town for no specific reason I can remember, and looking for something to do, we wandered into a storefront that had large posters of comic superheroes plastered all over the front windows.

Upon entering, the store immediately reminded me of the comic stores I avoided when I was a little kid. The walls were painted a dark color and books were stacked everywhere, with boxes upon boxes filling tables with cardboard-supported back issues. Instead of having a delightful, stuffed ambiance like every used bookstore ever, leaving me ready for a browsing adventure, these crammed comics shops usually filled me with a sense of dread. If I ever passed one and looked in the window, I often saw bunches of middle-aged men flipping through books intensely, or searching for something intensely, never looking or talking to anyone around them. Or if they did talk, they were loud and opinionated; I could hear their voices rattling through the glass sometimes. I bought all my "Batman: The Animated Series" comics at Media Play, so scared was I to enter these grim places.

Anyway, L, Z, R (R being my boyfriend) and I entered this shop and started to browse. There was a group of three guys hanging out at the front counter, but I didn't pay much attention, since such shops turn me into one of those intently staring people. I've become convinced over the years that you never look up in crowded comics shops because if you did, all the superheroes in the posters slapped up on the walls would jump all over you. And who wants Wolverine to poke you in the eye with one of his claws?

So, there I was browsing, and I came upon a book I'd been meaning to read for a while. It was Superman: Secret Identity, written by Kurt Busiek and with art by Stuart Immonen. If you like Superman and haven't read this miniseries about a Superman growing up on an Earth without other superheroes, you're missing out! Busiek's exploration of identity and maturation through the eyes of a being with miraculous powers is pretty breathtaking, so I'd recommend it to everybody. Here's a sample of some of Immonen's amazing art and inks to entice you:

All of these panels showcase both the awesomeness and the loneliness of the character as he discovers his powers and tries to deal with them in the natural world. And it's totally worth buying if you're comics fan. But I gush and digress.

I flipped through this beautiful book by one of my favorite writers, and decided today was the day. I was going to buy it. I left my comrades nosing through some back issues and ambled up to the counter where three dudes were standing. One of them had his own nose stuck in a book and didn't really look up when I mentioned I had something I'd like to purchase. The guy actually manning the register gave me a patented dude head nod so I put the book on the counter and looked through my bag for my wallet while he rang me up. The third dude, a guy I very distinctly remember as wearing a black leather jacket over a black t-shirt, and whose black hair was slicked back to high heaven, spotted the title of the book when the register guy put it in a brown bag. He got bug-eyed.

"THAT'S A GREAT BOOK," he said way too loudly.

"Uh, thanks," I said, taking out my credit card to be swiped.

"NO, SERIOUSLY. IT'S -- LIKE -- REALLY, REALLY GOOD."

"That's good to hear. It looks good."

"LIKE, ONE OF THE BEST SUPERMAN BOOKS OUT THERE. I BET YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT."

I sighed, mentally. Oh, here we go. There's a girl in the comic shop, she must not know anything about comics. "Well, I'd heard a lot about it and read about it and Busiek's had a really good run on Superman and Astro City, so ..."

"IT'S REALLY UNDERRATED. IT'S REALLY AWESOME THAT YOU'VE GOT GOOD TASTE LIKE THAT."

I looked to the back of the store. There was L, Z and R. And no one was lifting their heads up at this guy's voice. I thought his tone was really kind of endearing in its enthusiasm, when I got right down to it, and I wanted others to witness it for themselves.

"YOU KNOW, IF YOU EVER WANTED ANY GOOD RECOMMENDATIONS, YOU KNOW, THERE'S CARDS RIGHT HERE WITH THE STORE'S NUMBER AND STUFF ON HERE. IF YOU WANTED TO GET IN TOUCH."

He stared at me without blinking, like he was trying to tell me something.

Wait a minute. Was this dude hitting on me?

"YOU KNOW, IF YOU WANTED TO TAKE ONE."

"Thanks, but I don't really live in the area."

"OH. WELL, IF YOU'RE EVER BACK HERE ..."

"Sure."

By this point, my card had been swiped and my brown bag was ready to go. But the register guy hadn't handed it back yet. He had put his hand over its brown surface so I couldn't just grab it from the counter, and I wasn't sure why, but he seemed to be sizing me up with his eyes. Then he finally spoke: "I've got something for you."

"Oh, yeah?" I said. "Well, I really just wanted this, so--"

He waved my words away with a hand and walked out from behind the counter to one of the black wire racks nearby. "No, you like good comics, you deserve something extra." He plucked a thin issue out of the racks and handed it to me. The cover read something about the DC universe and a crisis and it was labelled zero and it wasn't something I'd ever pick up for myself in a million years, even though it had Superman on the cover bestriding a sky full of stars. I looked up at the register dude. He looked back at me solemnly as my hands closed around the book.

"That's for Free Comic Book Day," he said. (First I'd ever heard of the event, which had been earlier that month; he explained the concept to me, which I thought was rad, because -- free stuff!) "Right now this issue's supposed to be fifty cents. But you're cool, you can have it for free."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yeah. Like the man said, you've got good taste."

I shuffled over to the counter, slid the issue into my brown bag and creased the opening shut. "Gee, thanks, guys," I said, trying not to answer their serious and genuine offer of street cred with a giggle or something else they might deem inappropriate. It was actually kinda nice they made a fuss over something that cost fifty cents (something that at this moment I realize I may have given away or tossed in the trash within a year or two of receiving it).

What I'm really saying is that it's nice they made a fuss over me. Lots of times, girls in comics shops raise eyebrows of all varieties, but for once I didn't feel put-off by loud talking or serious study of books. These three guys just cared A LOT about what they were reading, and what's more, they cared a lot about what I was reading and they wanted to help me read more (the book I'd gotten for free was a preview for events that would affect the next three years of DC comics; it put me ahead of the curve on continuity). That doesn't happen often, even in used bookstores. And it's worth mentioning now, because it shows the marks of smart businessmen, who are vital to the comics industry ...

... Even if I did return to the counter with R a few minutes later when he wanted to purchase a trade and I mentioned that he was my boyfriend eighty times in two minutes, just to make things clear to Mr. Loud Talking Leather Jacket. Because I'm a spaz.

Anyway, moving forward. It's 2010 and I'm working in the tourist industry in Philadelphia. Now in the tourist industry, you always work weekends; it's impossible not to work weekends. That's when people want to see stuff. So I was in a pickle on Free Comic Book Day that year; I had to work that weekend. And it might not have been important to me, except I'd found a home at a lovely comics store on South Street called Showcase Comics (sometimes referred to as Atomic City Comics, depending on what sign you look at).

This shop is one of the friendliest places I've ever frequented on a regular basis (now semi-regular; I go back on breaks from school; they still recognize me there). The staff is charming and fun, more than willing to show off the low-budget ninja movies they're making on the side via their big screen TV, and yet ready to help you search for anything you could possibly want if you look lost. When checking out, they will strike up great conversations about what you've purchased, what's comparable to it, what they like about the artist or writer, and also how you found the artist, writer or story. When I came in week after week to buy a new Astro City trade (seriously, I bought the entire available run of that book in about three weeks), they understood my excitement and argued the pros and cons of what Busiek was doing with the series, instead of looking at me like I was a happy-spending, obsessed freak.

To boot, the store's selection was (and still is) great; the manager clearly had his head to the ground and adjusted his selection layout based on what was popular, but didn't let the upcoming comic movie of the summer take over the whole place. They also had racks of indie comics, back issues, memoir comics, an amazing trades section and a great little section for kids. And everything was painted white or bright primary colors! Plus, for a while, they had the X-Men arcade game from the 1980s!

I loved this store and its staff, I always felt safe in the family-friendly environment they created (there were always lots of kids running around, many belonging to staff members, who were basically all adults with family, etc.), and I loved being able to talk about comics stuff with professional people. So missing out on FCBD was a bummer in Philly, because it meant I wouldn't be able to talk about what was hip and happening with some of the most knowledgeable people in comics I had access to. Not that I knew any of the staff members' names; I was always too timid to ask. But on FCBD, I felt like I should be spending part of my day with them.

But I couldn't; I had to make that money, son. So instead, I went in on my day off, which was probably some random day like the next Wednesday. I wandered into the store, picked up whatever I felt like buying, etc. The manager was at the counter, and he looked up when I stepped over to pay. He smiled and said, "Hey, we missed you this weekend."

"Yeah," I said. "Had to work. I bet it was a madhouse in here."

"You bet. Every year, this thing gets more popular. We ran outta books! Kids're just ripping stuff off the shelves, you know."

"That's awesome," I said.

"Yeah, well, like I said, you didn't come in. And when I didn't see you, I saved some stuff for you."

"What?" The whole point of FCBD is to give away a bunch of crap in order to get people to buy more crap. Why save something for someone who isn't going to show and doesn't want to buy Green Lantern comics? That's losing you money.

"I mean, there were some little kids that came in this week who missed the free books, and I mean, they're little kids, so they had to get into the stash first, but ..."

The manager turned to the back rack of comics behind the counter and pulled out three or four books for me (a Spiderman, a Green Lantern I ended up giving to R, and some other things I can't remember exactly). He slipped them into my brown bag as he continued to check me out.

"Hey, we gotta look out for our own, don't we? I mean, you're a regular, we gotta keep you up to date."

I was a regular, I'd never been a regular anywhere before that ever.

"ManmynameisSarahandIthinkyouguysareawesome."

"What?"

I stuck out a hand for a shake, which he took, and I slowed down.

"I dig this store so much and I think you guys do a great job."

"Oh. No problem." And he handed me my comics.

See, both the Massachusetts store and the Philly store have something in common. The free books didn't matter, marketing-wise or industry-wise; more often than not, they were filler. But both these memories mean something to me because of the gesture involved in each. We can get mad at DC and Marvel for not giving their audiences what they want because they're corporations, but when it comes right down to it, retailers are the first line of defense in their arsenal, and they should give retailers more credit and give them better stock, as Nick suggested.

Because I've been to the comics store in my current grad school town once. R and I went in on one of my breaks and the sales people sat back by their gaming tables the whole time, never said hi, never wanted to chat, nothing. They stared at us like we should leave, so we did. And I've never gone back there. And I never will.

Running a good business means being good to your customers. And when you're working in a niche market like comics, the little gestures, the little kindnesses pay out for you in the end. I know they meant everything to me. These two stories are yarns I still tell years down the line, and they're part of what makes me love comics culture, despite my constant anger and frustrated expectations at major comics companies in general. The people are what make things go, however.

It's good to remember that once in a while. That there are people out there who love what you love and see the possibilities that you see in something. And it's worth reaching out to them the same way they reach out to you.

In that spirit, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone in these two stores I mentioned, though I doubt they'll ever read this blog. But if they do, they should know they made one comics fan happen one day or another, and she's tried to spread that enthusiasm on to others. Trick of the trade, you know.

POST-SCRIPT: On that note, I tell you with extreme excitement that in the next few weeks, I will be doing round-table reviews with my learned friend and fellow comics fanatic Ed. We aim to read a gaggle of the DCnu 52 books, like JLA 1, Action Comics 1, Batwoman 1, etc., etc.

I'm looking forward to it, even if this company decision causes me a lot of pain. Talking out this new direction should be fun for us, and I hope it's fun for you. Stay tuned for the first set of reviews!

Seeing the Strings

Hello, friends and lovers!

Sorry for the long hiatus from this blog. I'm currently in graduate school and several projects have taken precedence over my comic book musings this quarter. Plus, I'm in the process of courting a guest writer to join Metropolis Is Actually Chicago for at least one post -- and courting takes time ... not to mention flowers, copious text messaging and pleading over beers. In short, I've been otherwise disposed these past few weeks and I apologize. I'm going to make it up to my two followers (and potential visitors) by doing a long post now, one concerned with comics' relationship to theatrical performance. Hope it proves fun for you guys!

I am in school for playwriting, but my obsessive relationship with comic book heroes started about the same time my love of theatre popped up. I attribute this to my glorious joint discovery of MGM musicals and "Batman: The Animated Series." (Age eight was a great year for Sarah Bowden.) In both outlets, I saw miraculous things happening. On "Batman," guys made out of clay and men with literally frozen hearts were constantly trying to take over Gotham City with giant robots, somehow fueled onward by the walking drug addiction metaphors and morality tales their masters represented. And only Batman had smarts enough to stop their schemes! In "Singin' In the Rain," we got to see a speech therapy lesson turn into a show-stopping musical number. Heck, I got to see a guy ask a girl out through a ten-minute romp in a make-believe meadow, complete with fog! I could not believe how much fun dancing and beating people up looked like. And I wanted to be a part of both.

My parents quickly took me to see all the great musicals available in the local theatre scene: Guys and Dolls, South Pacific, Oklahoma!, My Fair Lady, etc. Meanwhile, every afternoon I would park it in front of the TV to see what adventures lay in store for Batman; my parents even shucked out the cash to let me buy "Batman: The Animated Series" comic books. This gateway drug led to the purchase of regular Batman books, along with Spider-man, the X-Men and New Kids On the Block comics (which mostly involved Danny, Joey, Jordan and ... uh, the other one being chased by girls). I think my mom supported my interest in theatre more than my fascination with the Caped Crusader and his print pals. But at heart, I think both things were fulfilling the same need in me, so she needn't have worried.

Let me explain by way of giving an example:

This past weekend, I saw a theatrical adaptation of the graphic novel Skyscrapers of the Midwest in Columbus, Ohio. Now I've never read the novel, but a colleague thought I might be interested in seeing its stage counterpart because I'm my program's resident comic nerd. It's not something I'm particularly proud of for a lot of reasons (primarily because I love Shakespeare and Maria Fornes, too, and nobody ever seems to talk with that side of my personality these days), but I can't hide my love for comic artwork and stories, or what I view as the important cultural contribution comics affect under the guise of "trash reading."

Anyway, I went to the play and found it to be maybe too close an adaptation of the graphic novel, i.e., there wasn't much in it that was inherently dramatic. By dramatic, I mean, there was little in the way of onstage conflict between characters (conflict being set up in the following example: A wants a grapefruit, but B's blocking the kitchen door; A needs to get B out of the way to get what A wants, and so uses a series of tactics to get around the obstacle B is presenting). There was not much of a plot or consequences for what was going on in Skyscrapers. And not many of the scenes were tied together in a narrative way. The play was more like a series of graphic short stories or vignettes. Which is fine, but it means very little happened that I could understand or describe in a tangible way to someone who hadn't seen it. Everything just felt important with a capital I, as opposed to engrossing or enlightening. (Basically, I felt stupid for just not getting how the images onstage stacked up.) And in my book, that's the hallmark of deadly theatre; theatre that doesn't let me know what it means by telling a good story is excluding me as an audience member. That condescension and withholding is a large part of the reason the general public doesn't like theatre or only goes to musicals, which entertain them and give them an obvious story to follow. I say all this not to slam Skyscrapers, which is an original work (rare to see these days), and should be applauded its excellent production elements and solid ensemble cast. I say all the above to prepare readers for what was actually special about the play: its brief translations of comic booky-ness into something that lived onstage.

Comic books are inherently theatrical. Like in good dramatic writing, comics use your mind to complete pictures. They take you places you've never been before; they show you one thing and then turn that thing into something else entirely -- right before your very eyes. And they do all this through a unique combination of style and substance we playwrights term the "artist's voice." This is more or less my program's definition of theatricality, and comic books play with perspective, conflict, dialogue and philosophy in a similar manner. Comic books are inherently theatrical.

I've been saying this for years, but had yet to find a good drama proving this, until halfway through watching this play. "Watchmen" made an okay movie, but it didn't transport me as easily as it did Dr. Manhattan. Spider-man: Turn Off the Dark is a mess of stage show, from what I hear. It assumes that rigging people to fly and then flashing them in front of audiences' faces will make up for lackluster storytelling and match the visual delight of impossible web-slinging acrobatics on the page. (Newsflash: it won't. Look at Peter Parker fly through the Manhattan skyline in his books. His anatomy and movements make no sense half the time; if you think artists are depicting his movements realistically, then you need to get your eyes checked. Or get a refund from Julie Taymor, who really sold you some shit. Because I cannot see the value in taking the cartoony zip of Spider-man and planting it dead onstage; seems to suck all the life out of the character to me if he can't do the impossible and bend like a graceful pretzel. Frankly, it takes some of the strange wonder out of his spider powers for me. If you can't find a way to translate that wonder to the stage, count me out of ever seeing your musical.)

In comic book art, you never see the strings. Onstage or in spectacle-obsessed amusement park rides, you ALWAYS see the strings, and they will NEVER BE ANYTHING BUT STRINGS. That's what makes such fare less enjoyable than the comic-reading experience -- you're never fully in it, there's no magical transformation of the spectacle. Unlike in the wonderful world of superheroes, where people are resurrected from the dead every five minutes, everything is what it appears to be. Unless theatre artists use those strings I mentioned to their advantage. If they allow those strings to ignite your imagination, engage you in filling in the blanks and learn something while you do it, they've achieved good theatricality.

Skyscrapers showed me two good theatricality moments, and proved itself worthy of my time:

1. The first time we the protagonist's little brother (Randy, I think?), he was carrying a stuffed animal Tyrannosaurus Rex. He held it out and asked his older brother, "Do you think Rex could beat He-Man in a fight?" The protagonist wouldn't answer, and so Randy went on to spin a tale of what the fight looked like and how Rex triumphed. End scene. The next time we saw Randy, he was taking a bath before services on Sunday morning. And with him was Rex, whom he again complimented for his imagined feats of derring-do. Only this time Rex was a man in a man in a T-Rex mascot head and claws, gussied up in a pair of sweatpants, tail sticking out the back, and a Team Adidas jacket from the 1980s. And he was washing Randy's hair. And as Randy plotted to blow up church by carpet-bombing the building, Rex climbed into the bathtub, turned it into an airplane, by extending his arms out like wings, and threw invisible dino bombs out the side window. A nearby Foley artists provided the whistling sounds for the bombs and ridiculous action movie explosions projected onto a screen provided context for what Randy imagined the destruction of the church, the elementary school and the house of "that kid Kirby I hate" to be.The audience LOVED every single second of this sequence. Not just because it was ridiculous, but because it showed us how Randy viewed the world, after exposing us to what the world actually looked like, in his conversation with his brother. In the boy's mind, Rex is a kung-fu king who beats up wolves and Satan and blowws up buildings. To the rest of the world, Rex is a doll, and Randy's running around the house, screaming about his fighting prowess. In the span of two scenes, we see one reality replaced by another, magical one. The carpet-bombing scene wouldn't be nearly as sweet if we didn't see Randy's aspiration to it in the He-Man scene. Without that first scene, we wouldn't understand what the second scene means to Randy. And that context is what makes good theatre. Images are built on top of one another to help an audience draw a conclusion about a person's perspective or goal (here, proving Rex can fight).

Good comics do this, too. I could toss off a million examples (Batwoman: Elegy and Blankets are the first two that spring to mind), but I'd prefer to stay in the realm of theatre and demonstrate how, unequivocally, Skyscrapers moved from creating one nice bit of theatricality, to PROVING why comic books on the page have all the theatricality a person could ask for ...

2. During the first act of the play, a storyline was told in comic panels on the projection screen. An abusive deadbeat (who looked like a cat) bedded and abandoned a casual hook-up, who then followed him to his house, where he was working on his truck. As a series of panels appeared parallel to one another onscreen, actors offstage provided the voices of the boy and girl (theatrical in itself because we had to match their voices with what was happening onscreen without explanation). The girl begged him to forgive her for being needy in the wee hours of the morning and the boy shrugged her off. She touched his arm, and then the screen went completely white-blank. The male actor offstage screamed in pain. The panels returned. The boy was holding his hand. The actor yelled that the girl had broken his fingers. The actress apologized. The screen flashed blank again. The actress screamed in pain. Then the panels returned, showing the girl holding her head and running to her car so she could escape the maniac who just socked her in the head with a wrench.

It was in watching this sequence that I was able to define EXACTLY WHAT it is that makes comics theatrical. The play demonstrated it in those white flashes. What makes comics theatrical on the page, and therefore useful on the stage as drama, is that little strip of white space between each panel. That little strip allows your mind to create the images that move you from one panel to the next. We didn't need to see the boy hitting the girl; we created that image in our heads, we found the meaning of the white space ourselves and didn't need it spoon-fed to us. We understood what was going on between the panels because the artists gave us just enough clues to participate in the work. I can't think of another reading medium that asks for that level of engagement and participation from its audience. And that involvement is why I'm mad about comics.

But how does that realization relate to my love of theatre and the old-timey musicals which ignited that love, you may ask. I think it has everything to do with the white space translation I just talked about. Every song in a musical stands in for dialogue. In "Singin' In the Rain," Gene Kelly doesn't just announce he's in love after dropping Debbie Reynolds at her front door in a rainstorm. No, dammit, he sings about it! He dances about it! And he never, ever flat-out announces he's in love. He allows us to draw that conclusion. He talks about being ready for love and having the sun in his heart. He commands the rain to keep pouring because he's in the middle of a happy refrain, all relating to love. And we learn something about him because we're smart enough to see the guy's besotted in more ways than one.

Even as a kid, I never thought what made musicals special was all the flashy tap numbers and eye-popping costumes. What made musicals special was the fact that I could imagine what the characters were supposed to be doing while they were singing and dancing. The songs were the white space between the panels, the getting from point A to B; they moved the story and expressed the unspoken, but they weren't what was literally happening to the characters in the moment. I liked that in-between space. And I liked translating the emotions depicted in song on my own, then running to my parents to discuss my observations. Soon that led us to seeing straight plays together, and led to my long love affair with subtext and staging techniques.

Because theatre's always been a vehicle for getting me to think about what's in front of me, and expressing myself. It's my chosen field because theatre empowers me to think, respond and act in relation to the world around me. So does the white space.

See? Mom didn't need to worry about my brain rotting from comic book violence and ridiculousness. Like those MGM classics, comics books helped me get to where I am today, questioning the value of art and the world surrounding me.