A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 11

Being one of the oldest continuing storytelling mediums, comic book superheroes are in a weird place. Once, old fans cycled out as new fans cycled in. There was an assumption, no longer true, that most comic book readers had a five year attention span toward the medium, and that this was natural and logical. The medium had a tendency toward repetition. Some smaller publishers even managed to survive off of a very small catalogue of content, simply reprinting the same cycle of old stuff as newer audiences came on board.

That’s changed significantly, and not just in comics. There was a time when being obsessed over a 20 year old cartoon was seen as strange. No longer. With the evolution of Fans (casual) to Fandom (obsessive), there’s a constant struggle between the expectations of the old fans versus the new fans. This is a new phenomenon, and it isn’t always pretty.

When I was growing up, this didn’t really exist. Or maybe it did, and I just didn’t encounter it. All I know is that when I grew up reading comic books, there was nobody there to tell me I was doing it wrong. I didn’t pick titles because of some cultural push but because they interested me. At that point, there was plenty of continuity to deal with, plenty of potential fandom lockout, but nobody judged me for my choices. Or if they did, they didn’t feel comfortable vocalizing it.

It’s strange to realize there are forty-year-old men who are upset that they can’t relate to Spider-Man because he’s aimed squarely at a younger audience. It’d be like wanting the Teletubbies to grow up. Spidey was created with a specific audience in mind, and at some point, you were expected to age out of that audience. That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy Spidey’s adventures still, but our perspectives as aged adults will see teen Spidey differently than when we were teens ourselves. And that’s how it should be. It’s not that I find Spidey shallow or vapid. It’s just that a lot of the stuff he’s dealing with isn’t completely relatable to me now. Or honestly, even when I was a teen.

There’s something unsettling to me watching adults expect their toys to grow up with them. Maybe it’s because I’ve never bought into the “Darkness” equals “Maturity” assumption to begin with, but I’ve never been interested in watching Transformers as a clumsy war movie or Batman’s rogues gallery changed into a bunch of necrophiliac rapist serial killers in order to justify my like of them.

“See? The Joker killed a bunch of kids! This isn’t for babies!”

At the end of the day, no matter how seriously fandom wants to treat Batman, he’s a man who dresses like a bat and punches out thematic criminals in a setting that only makes sense in its own pocket reality.

Spider-Man was a character created for nerdy teenagers to relate to.

Transformers are a race of robots from space who change into dinosaurs and cars because dinosaurs and cars are fun.

The thing is . . . and nobody likes hearing this, but we’re all getting older. At some point, you’ve gotta outgrow these ideas. Not necessarily stop enjoying them. I still enjoy many of these things, but I also don’t expect them to appeal to me in the same way they once did. And this is me we’re talking about: A guy whose last novel featured a pulpy heroine who fights her fairy godmother, aliens, and one deadly ninja.

As I alluded to in my Homecoming post, a big reason I think the movie works is because it’s an actual, honest-to-Might Robot King update of the core character, and the core character of Peter Parker has always been designed for young people to relate to. Funnily enough, I found a lot to relate to because, like Peter Parker, I’m struggling to figure out where I belong, career-wise, and how to make the most of my particular talents. But that doesn’t mean it was intentional. It just means that a lot of themes are universal in broad enough strokes.

So it’s hard for me to be sympathetic to a 30 year old who feels left out because Spider-Man and his cast of characters is not intended for 30 year old men (and let’s face it. It’s almost always men here) to relate to. And there’s something especially unsettling about 40 year old men running onto the internet to complain that they don’t find Peter Parker’s teen love interest hot enough to have sex with, but that’s a whole other can of worms to deal with.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

 

Hey, I wrote a thing about a good-ish movie for my Save the Movies podcast site.

You should check it out.

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets

LEE

Shared Universes are fun. As a long-time comic book superhero fan, I am familiar with the convention of a universe of characters, all having their own adventures, both individually and in groups. And there’s something neat about seeing our favorite characters meet, which is probably why so much fanfiction has been created in that genre. And just plain ol’ traditional fiction as well. It’s probably easier to list the public domain characters that haven’t met Dracula or Sherlock Holmes at this point than all the ones that have.

But shared universes also have limitations, and one of those limitations is that, for the most part, they can’t really change very much, nor can the characters that inhabit them. There can be all kind of story justifications for that, but ultimately, there’s a lot of underlying requirements at work.

First of all, most shared universes revolving around recurring characters, who by default are resistant to change anyway. Recurring characters, especially those intended for long-running, can’t change very much for risk of alienating their audience. This is why most major recurring characters really only have any lasting character growth in their origin, if even there. Peter Parker’s actions cause his uncle to die (spoiler alert) and becomes Spider-Man to make amends and cope with the guilt. Tony Stark realizes how many people his weapons have hurt and elects to build a suit to, uh , hurt bad guys? (It makes sense in context.) Captain America becomes a supersoldier and punches Nazis.

Perhaps this is why we so often become obsessed with origin stories. For any long-running character, it may be the only chance to tell a story about a real change. Once Peter decides to be Spider-Man, once Tony dons the armor, once Steve Rogers is supersoldierized (TM), they’re pretty much done in terms of major character and story development.

There’s a deeper dilemma with shared universes though, and that’s the universe itself can’t change, and they definitely can’t change in service of one or two characters in that universe. As much as the MCU might be on the verge of disaster (and superhero universes are always on the verge of disaster), it can’t actually fall apart or change or be destroyed. I loved Dr. Strange, but I didn’t expect that Dormammu would succeed in claiming the earth. It would’ve been a weird way for the MCU to end. And in Guardians of the Galaxy 2, I would’ve been amazed if Ego’s plans had come to fruition.

This necessary character and plot stasis means many conventional storytelling assumptions are rendered null and void by shared universe necessities. It doesn’t make stories set in those universes beyond criticism, but it does mean criticism can come from well-meaning places and established “good” writing rules can be…well, I don’t want to say wrong. That’s too strong a word. Maybe, missing the point?

A common complaint about weak writing is that it’s static, but like all such rules, it only applies up to a point. The MCU isn’t perfect, but what it has managed to do is create an onscreen shared universe with dozens of characters, each of which has proven surprisingly commercial. It does that by knowing exactly what works about the formula.

ASIDE: Formula isn’t innately a bad thing. Only poorly executed formula or, personally, formula that doesn’t appeal to us.

So the MCU’s formula is the classic comic book story formula. There’s a situation our heroes finds themselves in. They struggle to overcome that situation. They succeed. There are some character moments, but ultimately, we know that our hero will succeed and that they probably won’t be significantly different than they were at the beginning of the story. (Origin stories aside.)

One of the conflicts between fans of Raimi’s Spider-Man versus Spider-Man: Homecoming is the struggle between a dynamic character-centered story and a plot-centered story with some incidental character moments. It’s not that Spidey’s character isn’t important in both. It’s how centrally important they are. Raimi’s Peter Parker is the center of the trilogy, with everything revolving around him. Homecoming‘s Peter Parker is at the center of the story because his actions shape it, but his person isn’t really changing. He knows he’s Spider-Man. That struggle is over, and now, he’s accepted who he is. His struggle is about how to be taken seriously as Spider-Man, not whether he should be Spider-Man.

The other thing one must accept about shared universes is that they don’t always make sense. Not conventionally. This is because they are usually shared by creators as well, who have their own ideas. It is true to point out that Ant-Man, as established by his own film, wouldn’t have much incentive to join Cap’s side in Civil War, knowing that he’d be a wanted man and that it would put his relationship with his daughter in jeopardy. And why does Iron Man recruit Spider-Man, a green kid who has no connection to any of the other heroes at this point?

Because it’d be cool. That’s why.

It’s not a great reason, and good creators will try to justify it somehow. In this case, Ant-Man might easily be convinced to do something dumb because it’s “the right thing”, which is why he went to prison in the first place. And Iron Man might see Spidey as having potential and think a fight against heroes gone rogue would be a good place to test the kid, where opponents are less likely to go for the kill.

But, really, that’s all justification. The real reason is because it’s awesome to watch Ant-Man fight Black Widow and Captain America go toe-to-toe with Spidey.

None of this excuses every complaint, and there are plenty of examples in comics themselves of this not working, of characters acting in unusual ways because a writer had a different interpretation or needed them to do something out of character. For a shared universe to work, there has to be some central vision that makes it fit together somewhat, and the MCU has so far managed to have that.

There’s nothing wrong with disliking the restrictions of a shared universe or of characters themselves. I lost interest in the X-Men years ago when I realized that they were forever stuck with being “feared and hated” because that’s their story and they’ll keep telling it. I’ve never found Spider-Man in the comics to be engaging because he’s trapped in a second act of self-pity and tragedy that got old fast for me.

But there are decisions going on behind the scene and restrictions in place, and they’re probably not changing any time soon.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Let’s talk about DRAMA. Or MATURITY. Or DEPTH. Or whatever you want to call it. Let’s talk about in storytelling specifically because that’s my job.

As you’d no doubt expect from me if you read this blog with any regularity, I have a different definition of Drama and Maturity (both capitalized) than a lot of people. I’ve already admitted I’m not a fan of downer endings, and I don’t think that being Sad or Dull equals Intelligence or Sophistication.

Lot of capitalization going on there, but I’m talking about big concepts here. Concepts nobody really quite agrees on.

Recently, I’m seeing this dynamic play out in the critical discussions of Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man films versus the new Spider-Man: Homecoming, and it’s a pretty solid place to have the discussion because of what the films have in common and what makes them different. A lot of people love Raimi’s films. Well, maybe not the third one. But for a lot of folks, they’re still considered among the best in the genre.

I’ve never particularly cared for them. There are a lot of reasons why, but the ultimate answer to me, more than anything, is that they’re dour, accidentally silly films that I can’t take seriously. Their version of Peter Parker and his universe is primarily weak melodrama, and most of the motivations, scenes, and characterization I find goofy rather than thoughtful. Just one guy’s opinion. People will disagree, but they seem like films filled with pathos and drama and “With great power…” themes, and I’ve never found them truly enjoyable. Worse, I’ve never even found them very interesting.

Part of this is personal preference. I don’t generally like stories about sad people being sad. I don’t find Peter Parker to be particularly compelling, and, as I’ve said before, I find that it is the exact version of the character meant to appeal to angsty teens who think the world is unfair to them, despite how awesome they are. That this speaks to a lot of adults isn’t something I dismiss, and maybe I never was an angsty teen, so maybe I just don’t have the tools to relate to it.

Also, I never believed the relationship between Peter and MJ. Like ever. It’s so cloying and Sincere (yes, capital S) and Tragic and just something out of a bad romance novel. (Not a good one, by the way. There are good romance novels that make us believe the characters love each other.) Aside from the fact that he’s Spider-Man and she’s Mary Jane, I don’t know why they’d want to be with each other.

And Aunt May. By The Mighty Robot King, don’t get me started on Aunt May in the Raimi films. What a terrible person, constantly undercutting her nephew, constantly raining on his parade. Sucking every moment of joy from his life with lectures and faux thoughtful caring moments.

I mean, I really, really hate Aunt May in those films.

Homecoming eschews all that. This version of Peter Parker is a smart kid managing a decent life. He’s not perfect, but he’s certainly no underdog, no loser. (And, really, in this day and age does it make a lick of sense for a smart kid like Peter to be considered a “nerd”?) His relationships are interesting. His dilemmas are less tragic and more about finding balance.

Most importantly, he seems to actively care about helping people. Raimi’s Spider-Man couldn’t wait to be rid of the mantle, hated every second of it. I get that being Spider-Man isn’t supposed to be glamorous, but again, I always felt Raimi’s Parker was simply an idiot who couldn’t manage his life, not a poor unfortunate soul.

Homecoming‘s Spidey isn’t the same loser, and while there is something intrinsically appealing about Superhero-as-Loser, this is kind of a one-dimensional view after a while.

The conflict though is that a big part of what made the Raimi films popular was their “SERIOUSNESS!”. It wasn’t a seriousness I found compelling or believable, but many people did. Homecoming isn’t interested in that kind of drama. It has humor. Its version of Spider-Man is still a more grounded hero, but one that is less lovable loser and more badass in training.

It’s easy to dismiss Homecoming as a Lighter film. (There are those caps again.) And if you’re definition of Drama is of dour folks being sad, it definitely is.

What is probably not shocking to anyone who has read anything I’ve ever written: I don’t define Drama like that, and I think it is a mistake that so many do.

I’ll even go a step further: I think it is a little bit childish at time to mistake humor or happy endings for, well, childish things.

Not every time. Plenty of stories are depressing and tragic and unpleasant and work well. Heck, Spidey’s been many of those things for much of his career and worked fine. But I’d still say that a Spidey movie that is about a more grounded, more capable Spider-Man with less bad luck isn’t inherently less valuable or even less thoughtful than one that he is.

I’m saying that while Raimi’s films have their fans, I don’t think they are actually better than Homecoming. Or, more accurately, I don’t think they’re smarter or more interesting by default simply because the camera likes to focus lovingly on Tobey Maguire’s tearful serial killer stare as he is incapable of handling a complex problem with any sense.

I know, I know. I’m wrong. And in the most basic regard, I can’t disagree. While I enjoyed Homecoming, it sure as heck does miss a lot of Spidey’s Greatest Hits. We don’t have to watch Uncle Ben die again. We don’t have to listen to Aunt May give him another speech about responsibility. We don’t watch him disappoint everyone around him at every turn because of his Spidey responsibilities. In short, if you’re looking for the same Spider-Man you’ve gotten over and over again, you’re not getting it here.

And if someone finds that disappointing, that’s cool. That’s sensible. If you go into Homecoming expecting the same old beats, you’re going to walk out disappointed. Disappointment doesn’t equal failure on the film’s part though.

There’s some great drama in Homecoming. Peter is struggling to find his place in the world (like any young person does), and scrambling against too much responsibility. He feels constantly underestimated, leading him to make mistakes. He has doubts and concerns, but this Peter Parker also has a sense of self and moral center. (I still argue that Raimi’s Peter’s entire motivation is self-serving and shallow, from crimefighting to his relationships.)

What’s missing from Homecoming is Tragedy. Capital T Tragedy. Spidey makes a decision, and there are certainly going to be consequences, but there aren’t any shots of him walking toward the camera, forlorn, alone, forever separated from a regular life by the burden of awesome power he carries.

Okay, so, again, for the record, I don’t really like the default Spider-Man themes that have defined the character for ages, and so, I’m not going to be the best guy to defend the Raimi films. This is acknowledged.

But even without Capital T Tragedy, I think Homecoming has a lot of great ideas, a lot of thoughtful themes. I felt much the same way about Civil War and Dr. Strange and many (though not all) of the Marvel films. So why do they so often get dismissed as mere candy? Is it their commercial success? That’s part of it. Is it there humor? Oh, yes. A thousand times yes. Is it the fact that they are fun? Yes.

I’m not going to argue that they’re all-time classics, but I will say that they get what I feel is an unfair rap now and then.

I’ll also say that it’s something I’m probably sensitive about sense I feel my own work gets that same unfair rap too.

Everybody has preferences. I much prefer Adam West’s version of Batman to Nolan’s grumbling downer. (The Dark Knight ranks among my own most overrated superhero films.) I’m not saying which is better because it’s all pretty damn subjective in the end, but I will say that to equate Tragedy with Depth is a big pet peeve of mine. But what the heck do I know? I’m just some guy who writes about space squids and everyday gods. I can rail against these definitions all I like, but they aren’t changing anytime soon.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Everything has a language. By that, I mean everything is a history and usually can only be truly appreciated in context of the history around it. This history forms the linguistics of understanding something on a deeper level. And I do mean EVERYTHING. From plumbing to architecture to sculpture and stories, if you don’t engage in the larger context around something, you might enjoy it, but you won’t understand it.

I was struck by this when I read a post recently asking: “If you meet someone who has never seen a movie, what movies would you introduce them to first?” The answers, well meaning, were almost always film classics like Casablanca or Citizen Kane or The Godfather, etc, etc. The problem with these answers is that all these movies (and more) are complex studies in filmmaking. Regardless of how one might feel about them, each relies on a reasonable understanding of filmmaking language to really understand.

I’m reminded of Farenheit 451, where when our protagonist and his wife try to read a book for the first time, they are literally overwhelmed by it. The basic language of writing, of ideas, is impossible for them to grasp. So much so, that it is a distressing, anxiety-ridden experience.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about this Language Gap. It’s obvious in so many regards. I know almost nothing about mechanical engineering, so when someone tries to share a basic idea in that field, something anyone remotely familiar with it would understand, I’m at a loss. It’s not that I don’t want to understand. It’s that I can’t. I don’t have access to the mental tools. Pop culture is the same thing.

There’s a scene in Man of Steel where a young Clark Kent stands in a field, hands on hips, towel wrapped around his shoulders like a red cape flapping in the breeze. It’s meant to be iconic, and for us, the audience, sure it works. We know who Clark grows up to be. But on a storytelling level, it falls apart because who the heck is young Clark pretending to be? We, as the audience, have had this image seared into our popular culture. Even if you haven’t ever read or seen a Superman story, you probably recognize the character and the pose. But why would Clark Kent find this appealing? What about this makes any sense in the cultural language of a fictional character where Superman has yet to appear?

It doesn’t, but it’s easy to miss for the audience because the language of that pose is so second nature.

“Use the force, Luke!”

Without Star Wars, that line makes little sense. Though now, it’s so ingrained in our culture that even people who have never seen a Star Wars film understand what it means. It’s become cultural default, something that can be used without worry about losing the audience. There are millions of such additions that we don’t even notice.

“Beam me up, Scotty.”

“Autobots, roll out.”

“Hulk smash!”

“Play it again, Sam.”

And so on.

The thing about language though is that it’s really easy to forget that you’re using it. It becomes such a default understanding that we eventually expect everyone to share our understanding. You’re reading this sentence effortlessly, but for someone without the right tools, it’s just gibberish.

So it is with all language, including the language of storytelling.

There’s a reason we start kids with simple media. It’s not because kids are stupid, but because they need to develop the tools to understand. We all start on the ground floor and climb our way up, step-by-step. Most people only climb as far as they need to function comfortably, but that’s a post for another day.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Saw Spider-Man: Homecoming this weekend. It was pretty good. I’d venture to say great perhaps.

What’s interesting to me about Homecoming versus any other Spidey film is that this is the one that actually seems like a logical update of the character. I’m not talking about the diversifying of his supporting cast (though that is a great thing) or the integration to the current Marvel cinematic universe (though the story uses the setting in a very smart way, which I want to give kudos for.)

No, I’m talking about the Peter Parker: Unpopular Nerd stereotype that defined the character so much during his formative years. When Peter Parker was formed, the idea of the unpopular smart kid who everyone made fun of and bullied was pretty basic. Flash Thompson, jerk jock, and Gwen Stacy, the pretty, popular girl who would never give Peter the time of day, were also of that mold. But time’s change. And a kid like Peter, his unpopular and bullied nature doesn’t make a whole heck of a lot of sense.

Sure, there are still problems with bullies, and smart kids can be unpopular. I’m not saying you can’t write a story about Peter Parker being an outcast and make it work, but it is a lot harder than it used to be. When one of the most popular characters in movies right now is a genius engineer billionaire, it’s hard to cast Peter Parker, smart kid, as unpopular by default. Homecoming wisely sidesteps this by focusing not on the popularity problem, but on the responsibility issue. How does Peter balance the two sides of his life? Not very well, which makes sense. It’s not because everything goes wrong, but because it’s just a hard thing to do in the first place.

I’ll admit I’ve never been a big Spider-Man fan to begin with. I like a lot of the ideas behind the character, but in execution, I’ve always found Spider-Man stories contrived. He’s a kid where everything goes wrong for him. He isn’t supposed to be the “cool” superhero. He’s not rich or well-respected. He’s a low level superhero who doesn’t get much respect. But in practice, I’ve always found him to be pathetic and rather self-centered, which fits with a character originally aimed at teens who felt overwhelmed and underappreciated by the world around them. It’s a great character hook and a great emotional theme to explore. But at its most extreme, it can feel pitying and egotistical.

I’ve often felt that Spider-Man’s thematic elements could be easily interpreted as “Man, I’m so cool, but nothing goes my way and nobody gets how cool I am!” which is an appealing idea, but strikes me more as egotism than reality. Because you probably aren’t that cool.

But Spider-Man is. Peter Parker is as well. That doesn’t mean he can’t have issues. Some of my favorite scenes in Homecoming are in the beginning, when Spidey is just patrolling the streets, fighting low level crime, doing backflips to impress strangers, and getting in shouting matches with other strangers. It’s delightfully without glamour. Spidey isn’t Iron Man, Captain America, or Thor. He’s not that type of hero.

Watching Spider-Man attempt to interrogate a criminal, his frustration, the lack of respect the criminal gives him, it’s all perfect. Funny and delightful and yet, a great character moment because Spider-Man isn’t a badass. He’s a kid with amazing powers, but he’s not intimidating. He doesn’t even look intimidating, which is what works so well. And the fact that he gets information by simply helping someone shows that his real power isn’t the image of who he pretends to be, but who he actually is.

Even the idea of Peter being irresponsible is explored in an updated way. Everyone knows he is, but at the same time, he’s still a good kid and everyone knows that too.

The theme of  being a sort of working class hero runs throughout the film as well as the questions of who Spider-Man wants to be. Frankly, I love that we didn’t get another “Do I want to be Spider-Man?” moment in this movie. He wants to be Spider-Man. He just hasn’t figured out how to make it work yet. He’s still adrift and uncertain, but he also knows he wants to help people.

There’s a scene in Raimi’s Spider-Man 2 that always makes me cringe. It’s this moment when Peter has lost his powers (though this is all in his head), and he watches a man getting the hell beat out of him in alley. He simply walks away, as if it isn’t his problem. I hate it. In that moment, Peter Parker proves what a self-centered, uncaring person he is. It is only later, when someone he personally knows is threatened that he regains his powers. It is only when Peter Parker thinks something will affect him personally that he gives a damn.

That is the definition of a selfish person.

At his worst, Spider-Man represents that sort of maudlin selfishness, that “Poor Me” attitude that we can all fall into. It’s part of the reason I don’t really like the Raimi films. They aren’t about a heroic character, but a weak character with poor judgment and selfish motivations. For many, this is why the character ultimately speaks to them, and, hey, whatever. Different strokes.

But Homecoming‘s Spidey is a great update. It’s funny where it should be, meaningful where it should be. Its portrayal of the conflicting difficulties of youth, of finding yourself in a world you aren’t quite sure of, is spot on. And it manages to make Peter relatable without making him selfish or excessively sad, which is in itself something I often find missing from the character.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

I saw two movies this holiday weekend: Baby Driver and The House. My review for Baby Driver is complicated. My review for The House isn’t.

The House is a goofy movie full of silly characters in exaggerated situations. Its premise is absurd, though it knows this. It’s goal is to make you laugh simply by doing weird things that follow their own logic. There’s nothing overtly complex about it. It is unlikely to be viewed as a comedy classic, but I liked it unambiguously, which is not something I can say about Baby Driver, a movie that I struggle to rate.

This is where we get deeper into strange territory because The House, while funny, lacks ambition. It lacks even the quotable absurdity of Anchorman or Taladega Nights. There are some very funny moments, but this is unlikely to be a movie that you’ll recall in much detail afterward, aside from a few scenes here or there. And since the film wasn’t a commercial success, it’ll most likely remain obscure until perhaps it gets on Netflix or cable, where it might find its place in reruns.

But is The House a better movie than Baby Driver?

Sort of. I mean, I liked The House without ambiguity. I didn’t love it, but I enjoyed it for being exactly what it was. I found the direction satisfying and the characters, absurd as they might be, likable and engaging. If we’re judging on pure enjoyment, I’d say The House wins in that category.

But Baby Driver, while flawed, is also a movie swinging for the fences. It falls flat in some places for me, particularly the third act which feels too much like a generic Crime-Caper-Gone-Wrong flick, despite the style and direction. Baby Driver might not be great for me, but it does have ambition, which I can admire. And I wouldn’t call it a bad film. It’s good, bordering on great. But that potential greatness works against it. When Baby Driver feels generic, it suddenly feels very generic by virtue of all the interesting ideas around the generic parts. Whereas The House is consistently above average throughout, which makes its lack of greatness not feel so irritating.

It feels unfair to judge a good movie aspiring to be great in a negative way while lauding a good movie aspiring to be good. Everything’s relative. I don’t have an easy answer here. Just highlighting the weirdness of criticism.

I liked both films. I just find it a lot easier to like The House, which doesn’t mean I’ll feel the same way in another month or two. Opinions evolve, and perhaps Baby Driver will grow on me while The House fades in my memory. Maybe the opposite will happen. Or maybe I’ll stop thinking about these two particular movies soon enough.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

My feelings on Baby Driver are complex. It’s not as simple as good / bad because there’s a lot to love about the movie. I give everyone involved full credit for sincerely creating a great movie in many regards. But by the end, I found myself disinterested by the substance under the greatness. I found myself disappointed by certain choices. Not that those choices were invalid, but rather, they were unappealing to me, as an audience. And, when the very last moments of the story actually manage to make me actively dislike your protagonist, well, that’s kind of a big deal. Baby Driver isn’t a failure. Even disliking many of its elements, I admire that it’s a movie with a clear aesthetic vision, with some great acting, some great direction. Many of the flaws I found with it are as much a product of the crime genre as anything else, so it’s a bit difficult to say anything terribly negative about the movie. But, jeepers, I just didn’t end up liking it that much, and the more I think about it, the less enamored I am of it.
It’s a weird criticism to say that a movie is good when I wished it was great. It’s reverse of the “Better than expected” defense, i.e. “That didn’t suck as much as I expected.” I don’t find that invalid, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to criticize something when you outright love or hate it or if you’re indifferent to it. But how do you discuss something you both enjoyed and wished was better?Baby Driver: I loved about half of it!Feel free to use that on the DVD release, Hollywood.Keelah Se’laiFighting the good fight, Writing the good write,LEE

You get a lot of advice when you pursue a writing career. Almost of all of it is well-meaning, but much of it is discouraging or confusing. I’ll be the first to admit that after years in this business I often feel like I understand it less and less. The Dunning Kruger Effect in full force perhaps, or perhaps I honestly don’t know much. But I do feel confident that much of the advice given is bad or outright wrong. So let’s talk about that.

PIECES OF BAD ADVICE TO WRITERS:

 

1) YOU NEED TO BLOG:

No, you don’t need to.

Full stop.

All right, so maybe a little more explanation is in order. I hear, more and more often, that if you want to make yourself appealing to the publishing industry that you need to create a strong social media presence. The reasoning varies, but it most often seems to stem from the notion that publishers want you to have an established following when they agree to take you on. There’s some basic truth there. No agent or publisher is going to be upset if you run the most popular blog on the internet. Breaking in a new author is difficult. Difficult for the author and the publishers, and anything that can help make that a little easier is always appreciated.

But you will not create the most popular blog on the internet.

The great promise of the internet is how accessible everything is. The ability to publish (i.e. to make public) our random thoughts and cute cat photos is amazing. I’m writing this now, knowing that at the end of it, I’ll click a button and it’ll be available for anyone with an internet connection to read.

Maybe two hundred people will.

I’m not complaining. I’m just pointing out the truth. I’ve been a published author for over ten years. I’ve had some social media presence since MySpace. I’m on Facebook, Twitter (@aleemartinez). I had a Tumblr page. I have this blog. I’ve been internationally published in multiple countries and managed to make a living solely as a writer (with some help from my wife and family during the lean times). And nobody reads this blog.

An editor I talked to pointed out that there’s no noticeable correlation between book sales and social media activity. Some writers do it regularly and sell well. Some don’t and still sell well. My blogging activity is sporadic, but there were a few months when I endeavored to post something at least twice a week. I worked hard to create an interesting, thoughtful blog. And there was no noticeable effect on my sales.

Like most well-meaning advice, the problem here is the idea that it’s easy to create a popular blog. It isn’t. And even if it were popular, it doesn’t necessarily lead to higher sales. There are success stories, of course, but they’re mostly an illusion. A billion people are blogging. Some are going to be successful at it. The vast majority aren’t.

I’m not saying you can’t or shouldn’t have a blog. Go ahead. If you like doing it, do it. It can’t hurt. Probably. Although it should be noted that anything you post on the internet for the public can be read by the public. This means that if you post a bunch of negative posts about how everybody in the publishing industry sucks and no one understands your genius, you’re probably doing yourself more harm than good.

REMINDER: Stuff on the internet can be read by people. Please, don’t forget that.

My feeling on blogging is that it’s completely optional. It might pay off. It probably won’t. If it gets in the way of your actual creative writing, don’t do it. If it doesn’t, and you like doing it, do it.

That’s really all there is to it.

 

2) IF YOU DON’T READ, YOU SHOULDN’T BE WRITING

This is a tricky one. Never let it be said I’m afraid of controversy.

You should read. Reading is good for you. Reading in your genre (and outside your genre) is immensely helpful.

But…

We’re all busy. Sometimes, you have to make a hard choice between finding time to read and finding time to write. And sometimes, you’ve gotta put down that book and work on your own.

Confession time: I don’t read nearly as much as I used to. And when I do read, I tend to read a lot more non-fiction.

Like other pieces of advice, it comes from a good place. It makes sense. Study the art form you want to master. Study the masters. Study the amateurs. Study the failures and the successes and think about what makes them work and what makes them not work.

But…

If you spend all your time reading out of some obligation rather than creating your own work, you could end up in a very discouraging place. I’m a big believer in learning by doing. Study is important, but reading every great author in the world won’t make you a great writer. An artist must create, and that can mean sacrificing time devoted to the works of others you admire and enjoy. It’s counter-intuitive, but it’s how it works sometimes.

However…

There are silly reasons to NOT read. Don’t NOT read because you’re afraid of other creators’ influences on your work. Don’t NOT read because no one is as great as you are. Don’t NOT read because you have nothing to learn. Because you do. You’re never done. You should always be striving to be better.

But if you decide to write rather than read, don’t feel bad about that. It’s just a matter of time management. Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices and maybe the latest 1000 page Stephen King doorstopper could be put aside in pursuit of your own artistic goals. It’s not bad. It’s just the way it is.

 

3) WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

Write whatever the hell you want.

Just do it well.

It’s as easy and hard as that.

 

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Comic book superheroes are weird, both within their own stories and on the outside world from which they’re created. One of the weirdest things is to realize that any superhero with any history has been handled by multiple creators, leading to multiple interpretations and often a spectrum of what defines those characters. This can lead to some confusion among any character that has been around for more than a decade or two. Fans and creators will often latch onto whatever element they loved about the character and assume stories about that are more valid and worthwhile. This overlooks the truth that fictional characters aren’t real, and that they behave how creators want them to. As much as we might like to consider these characters as real people, they have no will or personality of their own. They exist and behave with the intent and design of people behind the scenes.

This is why every decade or so these characters tend to change as the creators, the audience, and the culture around them changes. We can argue all we like about which version of Batman is the definitive version, but there is really none. Whether we’re talking about Miller’s grizzled old Dark Knight Returns, the noir-ish detective of Batman: The Animated Series, or the underrated action hero The Batman, we’re talking about interpretations that appeal to us. And it’s easy to mistake our preferences for the best version.

It gets weirder with characters that come with extra baggage. As many different versions of Batman that we have, most every agrees with the basic premises of how he operates, where he lives, his methodology, his abilities. But what about stranger characters.

For decades, Marvel’s Thor was a magical alien. It was accepted that the Asgardians (along with many other similar extradimensional aliens) had come to earth in the past and allowed themselves to be worshiped as gods. They were not, however, gods as we expected. They were simply a different life form with magical powers and superhuman abilities. The current trend is to actually view them as incarnations of mythological concepts and ideals. No longer aliens, but something more mystical. It is, however, a rather new interpretation. Or an old one if you want to look at it like that.

I’ve always preferred the magical alien version because it avoids stories I just don’t find interesting. I’m not interested in how Thor is worshiped. I just enjoy stories of Thor fighting aliens and fire demons. But that’s a preference, not a default.

But there is no character quite like Dr. Strange who suffers from interpretation fluidity. It doesn’t help that his powers are vaguely defined to begin with. Thor might be magical, but his basics are simple enough. But Dr. Strange is Sorcerer Supreme, the most powerful wizard on his world, and that’s about as vague as it can be. Strange has to interact with superheroes on a regular basis, and that his powers change depending on the needs of those stories.

It’s why a character like Strange is so wildly inconsistent, and why any version is going to make someone unhappy. I tried the new title, and I didn’t find it particularly engaging because it comes with all the “Magic has a price” expectations that I’ve never found interesting. Others will disagree. But I much prefer the version we ended up with in the recent movie, who is all about study and practice and often uses a more martial arts based form of sorcery, which is why, unsurprisingly, Dr. Strange is one of my favorite of the Marvel films. (Minus the whitewashing problem, which will always be a black eye on an otherwise enjoyable movie.)

It’s a mistake to even bother thinking of definitive versions of characters that are passed from creative team to creative team. As much as people might laugh at those old comics where Batman fights weird aliens or Superman concocts a mean-spirited prank to “teach Lois a lesson”, those stories informed those characters and were how they were written for decades. And Dr. Strange has been everything from a mysterious master of the occult to a more traditional power bolts and shields kind of hero. It’s fine to have a preference, but it’s often silly to assume the superiority of our own favored version.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE