Why JOHN CARTER Flopped at the Box Office.

I was kinda looking forward to Disney's JOHN CARTER adaptation. I'd only read a few of the comic book versions, but Edgar Rice Burroughs' seminal sci-fi adventure set the template for every planet hopping hero from Buck Rogers to Adam Strange. Plus, any fanboy can tell you that Dejah Thoris... is hot.

But I didn't go see JOHN CARTER and I probably won't (until it comes to cable, no doubt in a few weeks at this point). Part of it is the mostly awful reviews and word of mouth (although I don't always trust either one of those critical parameters). Part of it is the previews didn't really look all that promising. I was a little bemused by the fact that Disney (a company I hate), due to the failure of MARS NEEDS MOMS, felt that the public just held an overall animosity towards our celestial red neighbor, and thus removed any reference to the planet from the title. Yes, indeed, Disney marketing geniuses, JOHN CARTER is a much better title than WARLORD OF MARS. Idiots. The dull moniker selected by the cowed company makes the film sound like a biopic about an accountant.

But the other night, while catching up on some tee-vee via the DVR, I saw this ad for the film (which aired back when there was still hope that the century-old character could inspire a new generation in his first major media adaptation), and it all became clear.

The movie flopped because people had no idea when it was coming out. When the hell is Frida Y?

It's called kerning, people. And it matters. And in fact, the letter spacing on the whole word is messed up. Look at the distance between the F and the R, then compare that to the I and the D. There's no consistency whatsoever (the Y is kerned at the top "Friday," but the other discrepancies remain). For a design aberration like this to come from a media giant is inexcusable. Who set this bumper, a Thern?

COLLECTOR'S EDITION Excerpt #6: The Return of the Milk Crates

As with most people, the migration from my parents’ house to my own domicile was a gradual one. As I shared houses and apartments with multiple roommates in Lancaster and Philadelphia for a few years, the bulk of my collections remained in my childhood bedroom while I merely brought the essentials along with me. “The essentials” being primarily the pop culture books, a box or two of favorite comics and—most importantly at the time—all of my records.

But since the wall unit my father and I built for my bedroom wasn’t going anywhere, I had to cobble together new shelving for each new apartment. I started using whatever wooden boxes I could find, painted black and turned on their sides, stacked in some kind of uneven mosaic to hold as much of my stuff as they could. Those wooden boxes were supplemented with the standard shelving used by most newly-emancipated young Americans: stolen plastic milk crates.

Over the next few years, as long as I had roommates, most of my books stayed with me in my bedroom, but with each new home, they graduated more and more to their rightful place: The centerpiece of the home, the living room.

Those of you with domiciles large enough to feature a den or separate library are lucky, but even if I had the space, I’d still keep many of my books in the living room. While I find it fairly risible when people use books they would never read as mere decoration in their homes, a library that truly reflects your personality is a key part of an interesting décor (and a great conversation starter, to boot).

Any time I visit someone’s home, the bookshelf is always one of the first places my eyes travel. There are fewer shortcuts to understanding someone’s personality more effective than checking out their library. Oh, I see you enjoy the works of Ann Coulter, Thomas Kinkade and Mary Higgins Clark? I think I’ll just go ahead and declare this friendship incompatible.

But at least those disagreeable titles would still indicate a proclivity for reading. Few things freak me out more than a home that’s bereft of any books whatsoever. Let me share a tale from a life past, when my then-wife and I were shopping for a house in Lancaster, PA. Her uncle, a realtor, was of great help in finding homes within the miniscule budget of two twenty-somethings with low-paying jobs. One of the houses we viewed was being sold by a professional couple with a few kids, and I was struck by how screamingly dull the décor was… there was absolutely no sign anywhere in any room of any interests these people may have had. The only books and videos I saw belonged to the children, the few pieces of artwork on the wall seemed like they came with the 100-year old house. A modern treadmill was the only item in a spare bedroom. The entire home left me with the impression that this couple was about a decade older than I, but as we exchanged small talk, I realized that I had graduated High School with the husband. We were the same age.

My wife and I ended up buying the house, which meant I was now officially too much a contributing member of society to get away with using milk crates as furniture. So I asked my Dad to help me make new shelves, two-and-three-level units that would again start with my basic schematics, then become enhanced by my father’s superior woodworking skills. The men in my family were never really into sports; I never played catch with my Dad. He was 35 when I was born, so we never hung out the way that so many younger fathers did with their kids. As such, working together in his woodshop, building these pieces, was maybe the closest bonding we did. I knew I wanted to commemorate each piece, so I took to writing the date and occasion of manufacture on the back of every one, a tradition I continue to this day.

The house was big: Three stories with a basement and a mudroom on the back. Sadly, the living room was one of the smallest spaces in the home, and so most of our books went upstairs in an office space next to the bedroom. My comics and nerdier books were placed on shelves that circled the studio space I made in the attic. We spent months setting up the house, but in the end, it was a waste of time. Nine months after we moved in, I—alone—moved out, into an apartment by myself for the first time in my life.

It was of some consolation that I was finally able to set up my living space exactly as I saw fit, and so I did. Unlike the sizable but cramped house in which I’d just resided, my new bachelor pad was a sprawling—if bland—converted warehouse space, and there was more wall expanse than even I could handle. But figuring out how to spread my shelving and its contents around the apartment was a lovely distraction during a horrible time in my life.

The apartment may have been big, but the town was way too small. So at the end of my lease, I left Lancaster for Hoboken, NJ, just across the Hudson from New York City, a longtime goal finally met. Of course, my living situation changed again, and in two huge ways. First of all, I was squeezed into a small railroad apartment less than half the size of my last Lancaster digs, and secondly, I was back to sharing it with a roommate.

Luckily, it was a good roommate. Unable to afford to make the move by myself (having no job and no money is not the optimum way to move to New York), I had convinced my good friend Rob to make the journey with me, and we both welcomed the challenge of the big pond. Pond? Hell, ocean!

It may have been a giant leap forward as far as my life overall went, but I was suddenly again living like a teenager. Much of my stuff was left in storage at my parents’ house back in PA, and I once again found myself stacking milk crates as shelving to house the 1996 version of “the essentials.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
from the forthcoming book, COLLECTOR'S EDITION: Confessions of a Pop Culture Obsessive-Compulsive
by and © Karl Heitmueller Jr.

The REAL debut of the nascent Superman of the New 52

© 2011 DC Comics

When DC Comics rebooted its universe last year, there was some discussion in the media about the Last Son of Krypton’s attire in the new ACTION COMICS #1 (not quite as much as surrounding his armored duds in the new SUPERMAN #1, but still…). Written by Grant Morrison and drawn by Rags Morales, the series placed Superman at the outset of his career, still learning how to use his powers to help the citizens of Metropolis and the world. To emphasize the character’s farm boy, working class background, the book depicted Supes clad in a short-sleeved T-shirt with the Superman S-shield, a red cape, jeans and work boots, causing many to equate him with a Super Springsteen.

Some people pointed out that it was merely a variation on the costume that the last version of Superboy had been wearing in the comics for some time (as well as on the TV cartoon, YOUNG JUSTICE). But I recently stumbled across an even earlier precedent, although one of which the folks at DC (at least the current regime) may not have been aware.

© 1975 Playboy Enterprises

The May 1975 issue of PLAYBOY Magazine features a piece of humorous fiction by Robert S. Wieder entitled, “Clark Ghent’s School Days.” It’s a rather uninspired bit of satire written from the perspective of an orphaned nephew of John and Martha Kent… er, Ghent, who was sent to live with them and witnessed the discovery and growth of the babe from Krypton. The piece portrays Clark as a dimwitted simpleton whose powers cause more problems (for himself and those around him) than they solve. Peppered with some discomfiting racist and homophobic bits, the piece isn’t Twain-timeless, and is really best left in the back issue dustbin. Except for the accompanying illustration.

Drawn by Neal Adams (misspelled as “Neil” in the credit), who by then was one of DC Comics’ main cover artists, the illustration shows Clark—looking like a cross between Superman and Li’l Abner—spying on a bevy of naked girls in the Littleville (get it?) Girls Gym. Instead of using the much less-destructive x-ray vision, however, Clark uses his heat vision to burn a hole in the wall, allowing other passersby to get a glimpse of the sundry pulchritude on display.

© 2011 DC Comics

But check out the duds on Mr. Ghent. Look familiar? The S-shield is the only thing missing (especially since in ACTION COMICS #4, Superman changes into a white super-tee instead of the previous blue version).

For those paying attention, I’ve been less than enthusiastic about the latest comic book incarnation of my favorite fictional character, although Morrison has written some great Superman stories. I may well pick up the first trade collection of ACTION (I only bought the first two issues out of curiosity) when it comes out. Too bad DC would never include this illo as a bonus feature in the book, and not just because of the boobs. Everybody’s so grim and gritty over there these days. Even Jimmy Olsen rarely smiles anymore.

No—ahhh-CHOO—excuse!

My cousin Andrew and his girlfriend Sharon (collectively and affectionately known as the Butzwingers) gave me this box of Puffs tissues as a semi-gag Christmas gift (relax, they also got me some other stuff, they’re not cheapskates). Everyone had a nice giggle and then we all took turns blowing our noses and moved on.

But take a closer look at this thing. The artwork is… horrible*. Check out the beheaded superhero figure specifically… it’s not just the bad anatomy (what is that right hand supposed to be, an oven mitt? It looks like a vuvuzela!), it’s beyond simply sketchy. The explosions, the lettering, everything looks so rushed that I have to wonder if it was printed from quick, preliminary mock-ups done by the Puffs art department. Maybe they never bothered to contract final, polished artwork. Or maybe someone asked their 10 year old who loves Spider-Man to draw it? It’s only stupid comic book art, who cares?

Apparently, this was produced for the Canadian market (as bi-lingual sound effects—the other side has a scrawled, “Vlan” being French for “Bang”—and provenance on the bottom indicate), but it also made its way onto a supermarket shelf in central Pennsylvania. A cursory Internet search brought up nothing about this box, and I can only speculate that maybe it was some kind of test that escaped into the wild.

Regardless, there’s no excuse for packaging this ugly. However this thing came to be, dear Procter & Gamble, I hereby offer my services if you ever want to produce another comic book inspired package for any of your many personal hygiene products. I’ve got some great ideas for Tampax.

*Aside to Andrew and Sharon: I still appreciate the gift!

Contradicting Cagle

Time was, pre-Internet, if you wanted to comment on an article in a publication (be it magazine, newspaper or comic book), you had to write or type it out on what we used to call “paper,” fold the letter, place it in and envelope, attach a stamp and toss that puppy in the mailbox, hoping that the editor would see fit to publish your thoughts either rebutting or endorsing the impetus. While modern technology has made the effort far more, well, effortless, the whole business of getting worked up over something you read is a timeless tradition, both honored and dismissed. This is, of course, something I have done a handful of times in my geeky life.

The brilliant comedian Paul F. Tompkins caps off his 2007 album, IMPERSONAL with a bit entitled, “Letters to Magazines.” In said piece, Tompkins points out the inherent silliness of penning glowing endorsements to periodicals, particularly the pop culture pabulum known as ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY.

Tompkins does, however, grant a slight pass to those with a bone to pick, adding, “I can maybe understand it if you’re mad at the magazine… there’s something in there that got a bee in your bonnet!... ‘Dear Magazine, I am most displeased!’ …I hope they print it, you have struck a blow for all of us!”

Such was the case with a letter I sent to EW in December in response to an “Editor’s Note” from the magazine’s managing editor, Jess Cagle. The painfully middlebrowed Cagle (another recent issue found him extolling the many virtues of Tom Cruise) puffs up a cover story interview with Steven Spielberg, projecting his anointment of Steven’s godhood onto his readers with the following incendiary (to me, anyway) declaration: “Most of you have stories of being… profoundly touched by the work of Steven Spielberg—arguably (well, who would argue?) the greatest filmmaker in history.”

Resisting the urge to rip out the page and wipe my ass with it (the toilet being, I would wager, the most popular place EW is read, worldwide), I instead went straight—well, some minutes later, anyway—to the computer and fired off the following response:

Dear Mr. Cagle,

Regarding your statement wondering who would argue that Steven Spielberg is the greatest filmmaker in history: I’ll take that dare. Spielberg’s short-sighted philosophy of a simplistic black-or-white morality works fine in the context of a cartoon like RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, but badly undermines the gray complexity of human behavior in more serious films like SCHINDLER’S LIST and AMISTAD. Furthermore, his cloying sentimentality (first displayed in ET, a film that has not aged well) can at times evoke the emotional depth of a greeting card.

Spielberg—perhaps even more than George Lucas, as Steven’s taken seriously—is the epitome of the shift from the explosive auteurism of 70s cinema to the glossy sheen of the modern blockbuster (even SAVING PRIVATE RYAN was only visually impressive). Forget Welles, Hitchcock and Hawks, Steven Spielberg isn’t even in the same league as David Fincher, Wes Anderson or (especially) Christopher Nolan, three directors capable of producing crowd pleasing cinema with a real emotional richness. Hell, THE DARK KNIGHT had more to say about human nature than THE COLOR PURPLE.

If you ask me (and you kinda did), Spielberg peaked with JAWS, his only true masterpiece.

Karl Heitmueller Jr.

I was not shocked that the letter wasn’t published (Come to think of it, they’ve never printed any of my letters), and it’s not even a very original thought. Hell, entire books have been published laying the blame for the state of modern mainstream cinema at the doorsteps of Lucas and Spielberg. But for America’s pre-eminent entertainment magazine (such as it is) to make such a definitive declaration just pissed me off. And, thanks to the democratizing power of the Interwebs, I have now gotten that off my chest. Take THAT, Jess Cagle!

And I hope Paul F. Tompkins approves.

COLLECTOR'S EDITION Excerpt #5: The Motion Picture Log

It was the dawn of the Eighties, or the end of the Seventies, depending upon how you look at those things. In January of 1980, having just turned 15, I decided that I needed to start chronicling my motion picture attendance. I felt that my keen critical analysis demanded to be put to paper, that future generations would benefit from my unique perspective and razor sharp deconstruction of the art form of film. So I took a hardbound 6x8.5” sketchbook, grabbed some markers and started The Motion Picture Log.

From the start, I took the Log very seriously. As with commercial books, I left the first page blank, followed it with a hand-lettered title page and a disclaimer about accompanying photos being © the respective production companies and used without permission (the photos were mostly clipped from New York Times ads procured at the Paper Shack, but more on that elsewhere). The next page held an official introduction:

The following is a list of movies I have seen over a period of several years. The entries go as follows: Title; Date, Price of Admission; Theater seen in; Number of times I saw it; Who I saw it with; The cast; General notes and what I thought of the film; Rating; And my rating of the film...
* - P-U! Awful! Terrible!
** - Eh! Pretty bad, not awful.
*** - Average
**** - Good film. Worth money.
***** - Fantastic. Great film.
Note: I am not Gene Siskel. This is not meant as a guide for the general public. This is merely a reference book for me to remember things I’ve always found the need to with movies. So what are you reading this for???

Ah, the grammatically challenged self-absorption of the teenage geek. If memory serves, a prototype volume also listed what snacks were consumed, but I guess I was at least prescient enough to realize that I wouldn’t give a crap whether I had Sno-Caps or SweeTarts with my popcorn in years to come. After a year and a half, I realized that my incisive five-star system wasn’t wide ranging enough, so I switched over to the numerical grading, penning this addendum to the introduction:

--- New 1-10 rating: Read like the movie was a girl.

At least I didn’t switch over to a grading system that utilized the names of objects of lust at the time (“This movie was a total Jan Smithers!”).

The first movie entered in the first volume was STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE (which may have dictated the formal “motion picture log” tag instead of the more colloquial “movie diary” or “flick journal”).

For the record, I saw STAR TREK on January 5th, 1980 with my pals Bill and Jeff at the Wonderland Cinema in Lancaster PA and the ticket cost four bucks. I noted the cast (it wouldn’t be until 1984 that I’d start listing the director), film rating and gave it a short review. “Great job on all cast members - esp. DeForest and the Enterprise!” Awkward syntax aside, I feel proud that I was one of the first cineasts to note the burgeoning acting ability of the federation starship. Who can forget the NCC-1701’s heart wrenching turn as the blind gospel singer in THE COLOR PURPLE?


STAR TREK: TMP rated four and a half stars. I often waste time trying to determine the protocol of things that are entirely open. It’s MY frickin’ Motion Picture Log, I can rate movies on a sliding scale of bacon to rocking chairs if I want, but I seriously debated whether or not “halves are allowed.”

When I moved to the 1-10 grading system, I retroactively re-graded the films in the log, and the movie was given an 8. Which now seems a tad high. I think I’d bump that down to a 7 or perhaps a 6 and a half (if halves are allowed). And in fact, at numerous places throughout the Motion Picture Logs, initial ratings have been crossed out and replaced with one reflecting second thoughts.

My Pauline-Kaelocity continued. The Kristy MacNichol / Tatum O’Neal virginity flick, LITTLE DARLINGS evoked this passionate critique: “Eh! Some of this film was good, but other parts stank.” Upon viewing THE SHINING, I noted, “Although it isn’t an exact adaptation of Stephen King’s novel, it is fantastic.” Which is funny because I’d never read the book. That summer I saw THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK five times (despite having the climactic twist spoiled in advance) and I deemed the “sfx well up to par,” which was really pretty low in 1980.

In that first year, I also included “Interludes.” The first one came early in 1981, after two screenings of CADDYSHACK, where I wrote three and a half pages worth of memorable quotes from the comedy, including “Thank you very little,” “No one likes a tattletale, Danny…. Except of course, me,” “Hey baby, you wanna earn 14 bucks the hard way?,” “You want your fat?” and my personal favorite, “Don’t sell yourself short, judge… you’re a tremendous slouch.” What I couldn’t predict at the time was how superfluous this transcription was… to this day, myself and millions of other dorky men (and a few women) can practically recite the whole of CADDYSHACK verbatim.

The second “Interlude” tried to make up for the oversight of not starting the Motion Picture Log at a younger age. Omitting kiddie fare such as BEDKNOBS & BROOMSTICKS, I retroactively rated as many pre-Log movies I’d seen in a theater as I could remember, bestowing solid 10s on JAWS, NATIONAL LAMPOON’S ANIMAL HOUSE, SUPERMAN: THE MOVIE and ALIEN, while the lowest grades went to WHEN A STRANGER CALLS, SGT. PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND and THE SWARM.

It’s also worth noting that a large percentage of the movies in the first volume were seen at the Park City Cinemas, situated in the bottom floor of one of the secondary arms of the local mall where my friends and I hung out every Friday after school. The Park City Theater had two screens, one dedicated to discounted second-runs of mainstream fare, the other showcasing what the marquee out front referred to as “Two Adult Hits.” For those of you born after Jimmy Carter left office, lemme explain. In the days before home video and the internet, most people got their porno fix at actual movie theaters, frequented primarily by businessmen on lunch, unemployed guys with nowhere else to go and taxi drivers trying to impress Presidential campaign volunteers. It was always hilarious to watch the men buy their tickets and hide their faces as they rushed behind the black curtain into the no doubt stickier side of the cinema (they almost never paused for popcorn).

For those of us still in High School, the cool thing about the Park City Cinemas was that its mere presence and cheap ticket price ($1.50 in 1980) meant that we went to see almost anything that was playing. Sometimes it was something we’d already seen (like SUPERMAN II, which got bumped up to six times listed in the Log), but every so often we’d plunk down to view something that our little teenage sensibilities might not have otherwise: ORDINARY PEOPLE, FORT APACHE, THE BRONX and ABSENCE OF MALICE being three examples. Of course, I didn’t like any of those movies (saying about ORDINARY PEOPLE, “Okay – not great, in my opinion.”), but at least I saw them!

Some of my reviews took on a poetic simplicity. In regards to HALLOWEEN (in re-release), I decided “Best victim, but kinda dense: Jamie Lee. Jerk: Donald Pleasance.” I called BRUBAKER “realistic as hell,” and who should know the penal system better than a teenager from rural Pennsylvania? Well, at least I had the cinematic good sense to realize, even back then, that SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT 2 was “not nearly as good as the first one.”

My review of CHARIOTS OF FIRE, over three decades later, evokes a stinging regret, not because I didn’t appreciate the film, but because it reminds me of how rude my friends and I were at the showing. I wrote, “We were pretty much in stitches at some of the performances… there’s really not a lot to say about this; It was good and we were unusually obnoxious. So much so that at the end, a man in front of Chris turned around and stared at him and a woman commented ‘obnoxious kids’ when she left. Heh. Sorry, but oooo, we were soooo funny!!!”

No doubt. Yeesh.
________________________________________________________________________________________
from the forthcoming book, COLLECTOR'S EDITION: Confessions of a Pop Culture Obsessive-Compulsive
by and © Karl Heitmueller Jr.

Talk to the hand... lettering

Of all my beefs with modern mainstream comics, computer coloring and lettering are near the top. I’m not enough of a purist / luddite that I think those two steps in the comic art process should still be done by hand; certainly computers have made those jobs not only easier, but given the artists a much broader palette in which to work. The problem comes from a frequent lack of judiciousness on the part of the colorist or letterer.

A lot of times the color artist gets so excited about the full spectrum of colors and effects that there’s no restraint, resulting in overdone, garish, distracting color, enhanced with gradients, flares and all kinds of effects. The resultant busyness is exacerbated by the lack of panel-separating gutters and margins in modern comic books, creating an overall cluttered look to the page.

Lettering, as I’ve stated before, just looks better to me when done by an artist with a pen. The organic expressiveness of hand lettering is far more appealing to these jaded fanboy eyes than the rigidity of fonts, even dynamic ones.

Still, I get why captions and dialogue balloons are done using typeface. I can even see the appeal of computer lettering for sound effects. But I have a hard time understanding when computer lettering is used to illustrate writing that is done by the hand of a character in the story.

I picked up a few of DC Comics’ new first issues from their rebooted universe, and the results have been a very mixed bag (see my 50 WORDS OR LESS… blog for reviews). BATGIRL #1 is one of the better entrants, and I’m happy to see Babs Gordon back on her own two feet. The story (by Gail Simone) is promising and Ardian Syaf and Vicente Cifuentes’ art is pretty damn great… except for a few details that stuck out like nipples on a batsuit.

The very first panel shows the villain (a guy named The Mirror who seems to be straight out of FINAL DESTINATION) holding a list of names of people who somehow escaped death. The list is handwritten, but instead of the names being drawn, they’re typeset (presumably by letterer Dave Sharpe) in a font that approximates loose handwriting. It’s jarringly unbelievable (and probably took more time to type and lay out than if it would’ve just been scrawled in ink).

But even less convincing is a scene later in the book wherein Barbara Gordon’s new roommate shows how much of a rebel she is via a hand-painted scrawl of “FIGHT THE POWER” on the living room wall. The words were supposed to have been painted with a wide paintbrush, but are obviously, painfully printed on the wall with a font. WHY? Why wasn’t this done with a brush pen on the original artwork, or, if it’s going to reappear in later issues, wasn’t it created on paper, scanned in and saved as a Photoshop file that can be re-placed in the future? It doesn’t look like it was painted on the wall; it looks like the roommate (as yet unnamed) bought some giant vinyl letters at Staples and placed them on the wall after carefully making chalklines so they’d be straight. Not very anarchic.

Conversely, on the very next page, we see a nameplate on a desk that, for some reason, IS hand-lettered, to ill effect! Here’s an item that SHOULD’VE been done in a font for bland uniformity. It’s an odd juxtaposition.

Technology is just a tool, as much as a pen, ink or a ruler. It’s a relatively new tool as far as the comic book medium goes, and as with any new tool (or toy), there’s as much an art in deciding when to use it as how. Don’t make me quote Jeff Goldblum in JURASSIC PARK. You know what I mean.