Well, looks like the Bunnies got their way, as they often do in these dark days. Chris Sprouse has bowed out of his penciling duties and DC has shelved Card’s Superman story until it can hire another artist. I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that story to see print, folks.
Sprouse claims that the media attention was affecting the work, and that he couldn’t abide a decline in quality. I have nothing against Sprouse, he’s a grown ass man in a tough spot, and he’s free to do what he wants. But that story smells like bullshit. I don’t even know what that means, really. Is he implying that he can’t concentrate on the work with the hullaballoo, or that he’s doing so many interviews he doesn’t have time to work? It makes no sense to me.
What I believe Sprouse would tell you, if he lived in a society that would support honesty is that he’s uncomfortable and afraid. He doesn’t want to be the guy who thinks it’s OK to work with The Guy That Hates Gay People. He doesn’t want to have to answer the questions, he doesn’t want to have to swallow hard before he opens his twitter account, and he doesn’t want to be the guy with a front yard packed with villagers carrying torches and pitchforks. Before you accuse me of hyperbole, it wasn’t too long ago the Bunnies decided George Zimmermann needed to pay for his alleged crimes and Spike Lee published what he thought was Zimmerman’s address on Twitter, so that interested parties could…I don’t know…debate the case, I guess? I’m sure his motives were pure. Turns out it was the address of an old couple having nothing whatever to do with Trayvon Martin. No charges filed on that, by the way, but he did pay them some settlement money. So yeah, if I’m Chris Sprouse, I’d want to extricate myself from the situation as well. Weird stuff happens when you cross the Soft and Fuzzies.
Now I’ve got people lining up on my Facebook wall pretending like something wonderful just happened, but really it’s just the return of a new flavor of McCarthyism. Trust me, folks, that’s nothing to cheer about. Not that even 1% of the 99% would even know who Joe McCarthy was, which is exactly why these little bouts of ideological bullying cycle around again and again. Oh, they know about chucking disgruntled birds at pixilated structures and how to text blind with the phone in their pocket. They know the Duck Dynasty guys. But Senator McCarthy, your little war against the Communists has been forgotten – say it isn’t so, Joe!
And just like this new brand of insanity, the old brand originally came from a good place. We had some Russian rats in the pipes, and guys like Alger Hiss probably needed to go. But it starts with Alger Hiss, and then the power starts to make the fevered egos a little too drunk, and by the end of it you’re clapping irons on janitors and blacklisting actors and directors from working in Hollywood. That’s what has happened here with Superman Adventures. It starts with people wanting basic human rights for all, but it ends with little would-be dictators deciding that anybody who doesn’t agree with their point of view shouldn’t exist. So Orson Scott Card is gone now. He’s effectively blacklisted.
So now what? Should DC distribute a liberal test to decide if writers and artists are progressive enough to work there? I saw an article linking to Sprouse’s other projects so Bunnies could reward him for his efforts, which I thought was more than a little odd. If I want a good hamburger, I don’t ask if the cook agrees with me about immigration policy. I ask if the food is good. Apparently in the Bunny Briar, you read comics if the creators agree with you about politics, and you end the career of anybody who doesn’t. It’s appropriate to be worried about the future of America.
I guess the good news is that DC didn’t curl up into the fetal position and cave to the pressure. They did the right thing and explained that what their employees believe in their off time doesn’t really have much to do with them. Not everybody caves to the Bunnies, and there is still hope. But mostly this stuff is just depressing.
So let’s talk about Sex, instead, shall we?
Sex # 1
My take on Joe Casey by now is familiar to Insomniacs. I love the idea of Joe Casey. I don’t want to imagine a world in which Casey is not making comics. Every single blessed time I see a solicitation or a teaser campaign for one of his projects, I say to myself “Oh man, I have GOT to get on board with that!” It was no different with Sex. And every time I dive into the actual guts of the Joe Casey comic, something seems out of synch or intrinsically broken about it. It seems like it will be no different with Sex.The single greatest and most important element of Sex # 1 does not appear in any panel, but the back cover. In the bottom-right corner it says:
I laughed so hard when I saw that…quintessential Casey! There is indeed no shortage of bullshit in this comic, starting with the snarky little “Collector’s Item” tag on the front cover. Just in case you missed how much distaste he has for the collector’s market, it looks like the same tag will be gracing issue # 2 as well. I imagine the joke will continue to get more delicious, and by issue # 8 we will all be tearing up before we even get to page one. Does that (admittedly juicy) little piece of meta assist the reader with processing the tone or themes of the comic inside? Ahhh, no. Not really.
Except it kinda does, because it’s a Joe Casey comic, and that means anything goes. In Casey World everything goes into the stew, because if he thought of it, then it fits. Mostly, Sex is about Simon Cooke, the world’s most dull ex-superhero. It’s hard to be exactly sure this early in the game, but it seems like Sex is going to be some kind of perverted Shane trope. Mr. Cooke used to be The Armored Saint, crime fighter and defender of Saturn City. He made a promise that he would hang up his costume to somebody who has subsequently died, though. So now he does….well….nothing, really. But talk.
There is an awful lot of talking in Sex # 1, and a lot of awful talking. Talk about where to set the helicopter down, talk about civic functions and meetings and potential pay increases, talk about things that are happening in other places, and talk about things that used to happen. Nobody in this comic is particularly interested in doing anything here and now, though. There are a lot of dour faces with moving lips, but everything else is limp. In fact, by the time we get to the actual sex of Sex, Mr. Cooke is too distracted by that previously-mentioned-dead-person’s Inception totem to even notice the super hot chick with her face buried in the other hot chick’s fully rendered taint. There’s a lot of talking, but nothing that pops at even 20% of the intensity and energy of the letters page. You’ll hang on every word of Joe Casey’s during the back matter, as always. He is an out-of-the-box, passionate, entertaining cat. If any of the characters actually talked like Casey, you’d never want it to end. The puppets inside of his panels…
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Maybe it’s just a bit too soon. I dunno….”
Yawn.
And for all I know, that’s the bit. There’s always a bit (or five) in a Joe Casey book. Maybe the trick he’s trying to pull off in Sex is showing how dead Simon Cooke and his world are, and then he finds some kind of vitality in the continuously escalating sexual journey he’s about to embark on.
Reviewing a first issue is really like reviewing the first 20 minutes of a movie. Would you give the first 20 minutes of Sixth Sense four stars? You sort of need the end, or at least a grasp of the bigger picture to assess it. I’m admitting I don’t have enough info to properly diagnose what Casey is doing yet or how well he’s doing it….but it feels a little like we’re headed toward a weird train wreck where a really unimpressive Shane decides to fuck a lot of whores instead of picking up his guns to save good ol’ Saturn City again. What a bunch of fuckin’ bullshit, indeed!
There’s other crumbs of oddness. There’s a not-too-subtle phallic arrow on the cover, and then you open the cover and there’s a large building shooting out of the ground at a perfectly erect 45 degree angle. The title of Chapter One is “The Summer of Hard.” I don’t have a problem with any of that. Good God, if you’ve heard my show, you know I don’t have a problem with that. The problem is reconciling the juvenile, playful stuff on the periphery with the stuffy, plodding contents. Am I taking this seriously or not? Sex is like a Deadpool comic inviting you to an insurance seminar that breaks out into some porn at the end. As the credits roll, the director cuts them short, shrugs his shoulders, and essentially admits that the whole thing was an abject failure with good intentions.
How bizarre is that? Then, just up the ante a little further, let’s throw colored boxes around pieces of dialogue. Every page of this comic contain balloons with a word or two highlighted in a rainbow of fruit flavors. It’s painfully distracting. I had some fun trying to decipher what the colors might signify, briefly. Are the light colored words sexy, and the darker colored ones not? Ehhhh, not really. I’m told the average male has a sexual thought every 2.6 seconds or something like that. Could this be Casey trying to indicate a sexual thought with a blip of color? I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past him. That kind of thing is fun in the abstract, but in terms of reading mechanics, it’s like somebody throwing rocks into your transmission. What a bunch of fuckin’ bullshit, y’know? That’s the Joe Casey experience.You know, a lot of artists are intensely afraid that they aren’t actually any good, secretly dreading that someday the world will discover that they are frauds. I’m talking about hyper-talented, top-of-the-game people hide this fear in their hearts. Sometimes I think Joe Casey is afraid to play a story straight, because it won’t be any “good”, and he’ll be “exposed” as a fraud. But if you hang a bunch of sophomoric dick jokes, collector’s mentality meta-commentary, oddly colored word balloons, and an alert at the end about what a bunch of bullshit the comic is, you’re off the hook. The absurdity shields you from real criticism, because either A) it’s just a gag, relax, I’m not writing War & Peace over here or B) it was an experiment the critic was just too lame to “get”. The problem is theirs.
Or maybe I’m just projecting, because that pretty much sums up myself, and I should just leave Joe Casey out of my own psychological foils. But I would really, really love to see Joe Casey write something with all the horses pulling the wagon in the same direction. This comic isn’t that.
I don’t know.
Feel free to add your own thoughts about Joe Casey, Sex, or my misguided armchair psychology – that could be fun, right?
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