The Slightly Tardy Adventures of the Superfisters
What is it with all this meta-comic stuff we've been reading lately? Last week it was recycled romance-comics, then before that it was tales of comic-cons, and also an alternate universe where superheros run around in Hollywood like it's no big deal. We've got similar stuff this week with "Superior Showcase," by Nick Bertozzi, Mike Dawson, Dean Trippe, and John Campbell. The book features three fun vignettes: one features a "Super Mart" with super-powered staff and customers (Doctor Calamity is caught stealing an ice cream sandwich; the manager cries, "ingenious fiend!"); another features a former crimefighter-turned-college-professor (there's a strained relationship with his son and a villain luring him out of retirement -- y'know, the usual stuff); and also our favorite story, Butterfly, about a disillusioned sidekick.
Butterfly starts off with an argument between Knightbat and his teen sidekick, Nightbird, both of whom bear a blinding resemblance to another superhero duo (and we're not referring to Superhorse and Supermonkey). Like many a teen before him, Nightbird storms out -- NOBODY understands me! -- with Broken Wings' "You Crushed my Soul" playing on his iPod. His redemption comes in the form of a young, enthusiastic boy who dresses up as a butterfly for Halloween and then discovers he can fly (perhaps, it is hinted, because his absentee father is none other than that doofus, Superdupe). When the lads are attacked by patronizing Hipster Ghosts ("they come out when they sense something sincere might happen"), Nightbird leads an attack while Butterfly strips them of their powers through his sheer force of earnestness ("smile when you're happy!" he yells). And thus, the sidekick gets a sidekick. We love every moment of it.
After the jump: some more hipsters who could use some vanquishing; and some hobos who could use a shower, but decide not to.
The first time we opened Any Easy Intimacy, by Jeffrey Brown, we saw two panels, both featuring forlorn 20-somethings gazing out of a window onto a rained-upon park bench. One of them murmurs, "Rain ... how ideal. How appropriate." Then we had to take a break for a while, so we could finish barfing up eighty gallons of LiveJournal poems written by pre-teens about how unfair love is. Here's the story: a guy and a girl like each other but they aren't sure if they REALLY like each other and sometimes they cheat on each other sort of and then the girl leaves but she comes back and the boy still really likes her and sex is weird and what's your favorite Wes Anderson movie Royal Tenenbaums is probably the best and hey also the Magnolia soundtrack is good and most of my friends go to art school and sometimes I cut myself do you want to make some peach tea and this houseplant is a symbol of our relationship because EVERYTHING THE THE WORLD IS SO GODDAMN PRECIOUS, AND ALL WE CAN EVER TALK ABOUT ARE OUR TWEE LITTLE FEELINGS, LIKE WE'RE THE FIRST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD WHO EVER FELT SAD.
Moving right along.
Here's why "The Homeless Channel" by San-Francisco-based Matt Silady is successful, even when it's being smug and preachy, and yeah, even a little boring: it got us thinking about homelessness. And ultimately, it seems, that's what the goal of the books is. Not telling a compelling story, not dazzling us with intricate artwork or crisp dialogue -- just thinking. Thinking about homelessness.
The conceit is this: a rag-tag bunch of media pros, bursting with moral superiority and social obligation, convince major corporations to back "The Homeless Channel," a TV network devoted to round-the-clock programming about homelessness. (We can only assume that the disbelief that this premise evokes is intentional.) A pure-of-heart producer with a sister living on the streets is paired up with a straight-laced network suit, and it's so Screwball Comedy you can see it coming from a mile away: a scene where, mired in chaos, their hateful argument climaxes in passionate humping.
But "The Homeless Channel" doesn't really go there; and in those rare moments that the book IS about the characters' relationships, it feels ingenuine. Because the foundation of the books is fantasy-enactment; not only does the book show us a world in which the homeless are given a voice, but a voice accompanied by incessant explanation, indulgence, and a bit of worship. To many of the characters in the book, homeless folks are like royalty, entitled to do whatever they please and above reproach. It's the SYSTEM that's the problem, man! Give us a break.
And see, there we go again. As soon as we start talking about this book, we fly off the handle -- but we're not flying off the handle at the book, we're flying off the handle at the problem it addresses. "The Homeless Channel," despite being a little dry and didactic, gets our angry-juices flowing. Maybe you're angry at the network executive who thinks the station should air infomercials, or maybe you're angry at the homeless girl who refuses to take a shower because she can't afford to rent an apartment (if you're not rich, what's the point of not stinking?) ... but the point is, you're getting riled up.
You do like getting riled up, don't you?