Month: November 2011 (page 4 of 5)

Crank File: Cross-Over Comics

Every now and again, life catches me off-guard. It’s times like these I need to turn to contributions from you, the audience. If you’ve ever read the Opinions section of the local newspaper, or the comments of an article on the Huffington Post, you know that sometimes the readers contribute just as much as the established writers. Thus, I present to you the Crank File.

Today’s Crank File entry comes to us courtesy of Monica A. Flink. Enjoy!


The trend of cross-overs is everywhere. Music is sampled, fantasy finds its way into modern Earth, and American superheroes drift to Japan to be reborn with bigger eyes and longer eyelashes. Unfortunately, of these things, I cannot find the fortitude to actually recommend the idea of Batman visiting Tokyo, or Spawn having a cousin who looks just like him on the outside but on the inside is a confused Japanese boy who wants to protect his sister.

American superheroes that are manga-sized for our pleasure is somewhat of an inflammatory topic, with both sides of the wall, “It’s crap!” and “It’s genius!” respectively, having good points. But does Bruce Wayne in Japan hold the same joy for Batman fans as Bruce Wayne in Gotham? And does anyone give a damn about the person inside the suit if it is not the horribly scarred Al Simmons? There are both sides to every argument to consider before making up your mind.

If you enjoy comics, you are going to look at the art as much as you look at the story, and the first bone of contention is certainly the difference in artwork. Gritty smears of ink and bright colors are replaced by slick black and white drawings, changing the air of the comic. Eyes are larger, more cartoony, and while one might think that works for the genre, it can also throw someone right out of the story. My biggest problem with the change in art is that the characters we are familiar with no longer look as they should. I find nothing familiar about the Bruce Wayne depicted in the graphic novels Batman: Child of Dreams or Batman: Death Mask.

Part of the love that will drive someone to read a manga version of his or her favorite American comic character is the familiarity. Take that away, and it is like reading something that has just had the Batman name slapped on it, leaving the reader disappointed. Pains may have been taken to match a more well-known art style, but it is still different enough to be noticed.


Where is his face?! That’s not a gritty smear of ink, it’s a lazy-ass smear of ink. Faces, Japan. Americans have faces.”

Aside from the art, the story is certainly something to consider as well. Anyone who has read Frank Miller or Kevin Smith’s stories can appreciate the dark tone and incorporation of canon-defined characters in new plots that keep readers coming back for more. I have found that the cross-over versions of superhero comics lack this distinctly.

It seems that the manga authors wish to write their own stories, and then happen to have Batman or Spawn or Iron Man in them. They brush off the established characters that man fans love and read to see just as much as the main characters, and come off with a story that does not have nearly as much impact because once the story is over, the new characters introduced are left behind or dead, with no emotional attachment required.


“Your lack of Joker makes you unacceptable. Feel free to commit seppuku.”

Even when the manga translations are adapted by someone famous, such as award-winning mystery writer Max Allan Collins, there is something wrong, something disjointed and disappointing about stories that do not include the characters we love, that support a good story. Perhaps it also can also be attributed to the fact that these manga versions of our beloved heroes are also generally one volume long, leaving precious short time to find something to attach to. It is as if they are afraid to hurt anyone’s feelings by making changes to a canon that technically the manga would not belong to, being stand-alone novels.

I suspect my largest beef with the idea of cross-over comics is the fact that I have come to expect a certain level of something special from manga. To put a finer point on it, they miss out on a lot of tits and gore that I really have come to expect from the Japanese, and I personally enjoy. I’m not asking for splatterpunk Batman here (though, seriously, how cool would that be?!) or Spawn pulling a mech out of his ass to use to fight Malebolgia, but keeping it so safe and careful is just too bland to pull off the manga style of art and story.

In the end, I will still buy more of these graphic novels with the eternal hope that someone will find a delicate balance between breaking new ground and incorporating what is beloved by millions. But if they continue to be as contaminated with insipid story lines and half-assed art proclaimed to be “realistic” because yeah, Batman is so damn realistic, then the American superhero manga cross-over graphic novel will be a fad of the past sooner than we think.

And I think every comic lover will be missing out if that happens.


Got something for the Crank File? Email me here.

In Defense of Criticism. Again.

Courtesy leadershipdynamics.wordpress.com

I’ve been down this road before. I’m going to take bits from previous posts, paste them here and update my commentary on the points. I’m doing this because, it seems, there are those who do not take criticism well. I’m not talking about the artists behind a particular work, mind you, I’m talking about the population at large that enjoy those works. Before we begin this little exercise, though, here’s a caveat that I feel should be kept in mind when you read any criticism of public artistic works, be it my criticism or another’s.

You are the sole arbiter of how you spend your time and money in entertainment. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. You, me, everyone. Just because a critic or friend or stranger believes something is a pile of dogshit doesn’t necesarily make it so to you. Likewise, said critic or friend or stranger singing the praises of something they believe plated in gold may not make it look that way to you. Enjoy what you enjoy. Tell others about things you enjoy, and tell them about things you dislike, be it a little or a lot. We all learn more the more we share with one another.

Okay? Okay. Here’s what I’ve said before, and how I feel about it now.

From Willing To Explain Why You Suck:

In addition to being comprehensive and funny, Chuck often reminds us that his criticism of a given episode, series or movie is just his opinion. He welcomes discussion and even opposition to his ideas. He […] encourages the audience to think, rather than sit back & switch off higher brain functions in order to take in some shallow, pandering, distracting colors & sounds that call themselves ‘entertainment.’

Okay. Let me make this clear. Not everything you want to enjoy as entertainment is necessarily shallow or pandering just because you like switching your brain off for it. And referencing my earlier statement, just because I happen to think that Attack of the Clones was perhaps the weakest Star Wars film made that I’ve seen doesn’t make it so. If you enjoyed it, great. I know people who didn’t like Thor or Captain America but I thought they were fine films. Guess what these are? Opinions!

Which brings me to Opinion is Not Fact:

Critical analysis and review is everywhere on the Internet. But you will never catch any such entertainer worth their salt telling you point-blank that they are 100% right in their opinion and everybody else is wrong. Go ahead and take a look. Yahtzee, MovieBob, SFDebris, Confused Matthew, Red Letter Media, TotalBiscuit, the Extra Credits crew – none of them end a discussion with “I’m right, you’re wrong, your mom agreed with me last night” in any serious discussion. Some of them may play this sort of thing for laughs, but even the most satirical and cynical of these folks are also intelligent enough to know that anything upon which they might pontificate involves the exposition of their own subjective views.

Sorry, that was a lot of big words. Put simply: None of these people believes they are a holy authority on anything they talk about. Yes, some of them are professional critics, paid to give their opinion based on the years of experience they have weighing objective and subjective criteria of various media, but each and every one of them are human beings, and human beings are fallible, subjective creatures. Yahtzee and MovieBob might not like shooters, but that doesn’t mean shooters are bad. People like those caricatured by MovieBob’s Anti-Thinker may consider retro games to be stupid, but them saying it does not make it so. These people I’ve mentioned know this.

I hope that’s pretty clear. I may not have the audience, appeal or even potential of any of the aforementioned critics, but I would like to think that I have this level of self-awareness. When I say something is good or bad, and I either recommend paying for it or giving it a pass, that’s my opinion on it. It’s not a salient, beyond-a-reasonable-doubt fact. I never mean it to be taken as such. Nor am I so arrogant as to believe that anything I say in the vein of reviewing or critiquing entertainment will or should be taken as gospel. I critique for a very specific reason, one I elaborated upon on the third and final previous post I’m going to mention.

Are you ready? I’m ready. From Don’t Fear the Critic:

Criticism is a powerful force for good. Nothing ever improves without coming to terms with its flaws. Without critics telling us what’s stupid and what isn’t, we’d all be wearing boulders for hats and drinking down hot ebola soup for tea. – Zero Punctuation: Overlord 2

I could make all sort of analogies for criticism. There’s the bonsai tree example, the fat on a steak visual, the sanding of a bat to remove its splinters for a nice clean hit; I could go on. But suffice it to say that the best criticism is one that sees what a work is going for and points out the flaws so that the crux of the work can be improved while things that don’t work can be discarded.

If I say that “there’s nothing here” when talking about a story, or that a part of a game let me down, or something frustrated or confused me, it’s not me saying the entire work is worthless. More often than not I can get the gist of what the original artist or artists were going for in the work, and if there are obstacles between us and that objective that they either did not completely clear or set up themselves through sloppiness, being rushed or just plain laziness, it bothers me. Why? Because I know there are always obstacles between where the artist begins and where they want to be. I review and criticize other works in order to better understand the creative process from my end. And I’m not going to enjoy everything I choose to review. It is impossible to do that. I want to sample a lot of entertainment to find where I fall in the spectrum and where I can go with my work, and on average some stuff will be good while some will be bad. At least in my opinion.

I hope this made sense. I’ve taken flak for putting opinion out in front of the public. So have the aforementioned critics, as have Roger Ebert, Pauline Kael, Charles Baudelaire and the like. I’d like to think that those critics who break into the public domain are doing said public a service, even if it’s just in generating debate. In defending a given work, the defender should at some point be able to cite why it’s worth defending; by contrast, if the work has flaws, they should be recognizable even if the critic does not believe them to be detrimental. We all want the entertainment we enjoy to improve, and by pointing out how or when it doesn’t, we all in effect become critics.

And there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as we abide by Wheaton’s First Law: Don’t be a dick.

Flash Fiction: The Itinerary

Courtesy Michael Reslan

For the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge, Corporate Abuse.


He arrived from his personal trainer’s private facility five minutes early. She had already brewed him the first espresso of the day and had picked out a suit for him. She gave him time to change before stepping into his office. The view always impressed her. It was like the entire city was laid out at his feet.

“What’s first for me today?” His voice came out of the walk-in closet.

“You have a 9 AM conference call with Bob Sanders from the Election Committee, sir.”

“Remind me, is that the committee for the senate or presidential race?”

“Presidential, sir. The senatorial committee won’t be calling until after lunch.”

“Just as well.” He emerged checking his golden cuff-links, the tailored suit ensuring the benefits of his workouts were emphasized. “Did you send out those gift baskets I picked out?”

“Yes, sir. The committee should be getting them today or tomorrow.”

“Always good to grease the wheels a little.”

“If you say so, sir.” She gave him his espresso. He sipped, and gave her a satisfied nod. Little gestures like that indicated a good mood, which in turn had her biting her lip and reminding herself to stay focused on the job for now.

“What’s next?”

“A 10 AM review for the shareholder’s meeting this Friday.”

“It should be brief, our stocks are up. Hand me that red tie, would you?”

She reached into the closet and handed it to him. “It does go better with the suit, sir.”

“Thank you, I thought so.” He began to tie it, regarding his clean-shaven face in the mirror. “Will any of our overseas offices be attending?”

“I haven’t heard any give confirmations, sir. With tensions on the rise, they may be unwilling to travel.”

“Well, the oil refinery people, I can understand.” He frowned, not getting the length of the tie quite right. “But the plant owners from China should be able to make it. It’s not like their workers need constant supervision to churn out their products.”

She stepped in front of him, taking his tie in her hands. She didn’t dare look at his eyes as she fixed it. It might be difficult to form a sentence if she let herself get lost. “I think they’re worried about the public image, sir. Public sentiment being what it is.”

“Ah.” She could feel his smile. She didn’t need to see it. It had an effect on her anyway. “The notion that we owe them astronomical debts. People might think they own this company.”

“That’s the theory, sir.” It’s you that owns them. And me. She stepped away from the tie, smiled and retrieved her tablet. Better focus on this and leave the rest for later. “You still have an 11:30 lunch appointment with the mayor.”

“The usual pre-election shenanigans, I trust. He’s probably worried that all the protesting has put me in a foul mood.”

“Some of the banks are certainly unhappy with the protests, sir.”

He walked to the window, hands behind his back. She watched every move he made. Master of his domain.

“Let the people talk. They like their own voices. It doesn’t change what we do or the reality of the situation.” He turned back to her, and this time she didn’t look away. “As for the mayor, I’ll let him lunch me up. Let him think his re-election is assured so he can focus on the infrastructure bill for the city. Once that’s out of the way we finance his opponent into office, so he can work on the civil rights issues our current mayor’s been ignoring.”

She nodded. Tempted as she was to take down a note to that effect, she knew such things were best left undocumented. She didn’t know how much of this was known to other members of the corporation, but she wasn’t about to betray his confidence. He walked towards her and she turned her eyes back to the tablet. She could smell his cologne, and very faintly beneath it, the tang of his sweat from working out in the early morning.

“Senatorial committee is, as I said, after lunch. Then at 2 is the weekly review of domestic productivity, followed by the CFO going over next quarter’s budget with you.”

He rolled his eyes. “That old codger does love his numbers. Maybe I should shift our funds again, to keep him on his toes.”

She bit her lip. “Didn’t a bank fail the last time you did that, sir?”

“And they were gobbled up by one of the larger ones. Survival of the fittest, my dear. What cannot survive is devoured.” He paused, looking down. “Are those your new Choos?”

She glanced down at her shoes, the skinny heels and the odd but playful combination of leopard print and patent leather. His scrutiny made her blush. “Yes, sir.”

“They look great on you.” He turned away and finished his espresso. She immediately collected the cup and saucer. “I’ll be needing you later this afternoon, perhaps into the evening. I’m sure I’ll have several letters to dictate.”

“I’ll be right here, sir.” Waiting for you.

He smiled. “Good to know. What would I do without you?”

I’d rather know what you want to do with me… She bit her lip again. “Type your own letters?”

He laughed. “Fair point. But I can’t make decent espresso to save my life. Thank you. I better go get this day started.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Nodding, he walked out the door. She cleaned up his office and sat at her desk outside. It’d be a day of taking phone calls, making appointments and sorting information. Tedious work. She didn’t care.

The most powerful man in the world, a man who for all intents and purposes owned the country, needed to have these things organized and coordinated so he could maintain his level of control. He needed his itinerary laid out like his suits. He needed her.

And she, for entirely different reasons that made her knees weak, needed him.

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Oldboy

Logo courtesy Netflix.  No logos were harmed in the creation of this banner.

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/oldboy.mp3]

There’s an old French proverb that tells us “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Can you just leave it out in the open, though? No, of course not, it will rot and small animals will make off with it if that were the case. Such urges are bottled up, kept deep inside, for the right moment to release their dark and depraved impulses upon the world. Cautionary tales like Moby Dick teach us to be careful how far our thirst for vengeance takes us, while those like The Count of Monte Christo show us the magnificent lengths to which the truly driven can go to exact their revenge. Oldboy does both.

Courtesy Tartan Video

Oh Dea-Su is a middle management worker and a bit of a drunkard on his way home to his wife and daughter after a run-in with the local cops. He is plucked from the street in a moment his friend is looking in another direction. He is thrown into a small room, barely a studio apartment, with a locked and heavily fortified door featuring only a small slot for meals. He has a TV, desk, bathroom facilities and writing implements. This is his home for 15 years. Then, one day, he is mysteriously released, given new clothes and a few clues, and given 5 days to sort out who locked him up and why. He’s been gassed, dragged around, poked, prodded and who knows what else. Nobody’s spoken to him in 15 years. As you can imagine, he is… a little upset.

Director Park Chan-Wook lists Alfred Hitchcock as one of his key influences. The construction of this film shows that in nearly every frame. Composition and angles are so precise and pitch-perfect for a given scene, and no shot goes on for a moment longer than it needs to. It reminded me a bit of Hitchcock’s North by Northwest, replacing the espionage and mistaken identity themes with a need for vengeance so all-consuming it verges on complete madness. Much like last month’s Hannibal Lecter, we are shown creatures that, after so many years of torment and loss, can only barely be considered human. They look like us, move like us, even talk like us at times… but there is something very wrong, here.

Courtesy Tartan Video
Totally still a human being.

Underscoring the disturbing things that lurk in human skin that we see in Oldboy, we also see quite a bit of visceral harm done to human bodies. Like the view of the human soul, the sight of the violence is unflinching. However, this is not to say that it’s gratuitous. On the contrary, in the vein of both Hitchcock and Hannibal Lecter, or at least Silence of the Lambs, the violence drives home the point of the story instead of existing for its own sake. The lulls between the violence also serve a purpose. When we see Oh Dea-Su staring straight ahead, saying nothing, we know the sort of beast he’s become is lurking just beneath the surface, all too eager to lash out at anything in his path.

Perhaps the most disturbing thing of all about the central character in Oldboy is that he begins as a thoroughly ordinary man. You’ve probably seen or worked with or even befriended people like him in the course of your life. Fifteen years in captivity makes him nearly unrecognizable. This ordinary man is twisted and pressed and pushed into becoming something different, something at once far more dangerous and far more diminished. He can perpetuate all sorts of chaos yet holds onto his humanity by the slimmest of threads. And it could be any one of us.

Courtesy Tartan Video
Do I make a hammer time joke? Or say that the director nailed it? Decisions, decisions…

Fascinating, disturbing, at times funny and others soberingly heart-wrenching, Oldboy is a masterpiece of a suspense film. It’s psychological aspects dig quite deep, its thriller beats never fail to deliver and its cast never feels unnatural or over-the-top in their performances. It’s dark storytelling at its most basic and very finest all at once. While at times its violence and events feel like something from another world, it’s so grounded in its setting and characters that not only could this happen to any normal human being, it could be happening right now. There’s an immediacy to it, an intimacy, that gets right into your head and sits there daring you to take a closer look at what it’s saying. Don’t let the violence, the foreign language or the occasionally manic oddness of Oldboy put you off. If you’re at all interested in film-making, psychological suspense or a stripped-down unflinching examination of some very dark corners of the human condition, this is the film you’ve been waiting for.

Josh Loomis can’t always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it’s unclear if this week’s film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain… IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

How to Survive Living with a Writer

Courtesy floating robes
Courtesy Floating Robes

One of the most popular posts ever over at terribleminds is this one, entitled “Beware of Writer.” He also penned a sequel that’s just as worthwhile to read. But let’s say you’ve ignored his advice. You’re going to fly in the face of common sense and good taste and actually shack up with one of us crackpot writer-types, in spite of the tiny hurricanes of impotent rage and the nigh-constant smell of booze. Here’s a couple things to keep in mind that may help you keep from running screaming into the night.

Writers are Finicky Bitches

In addition to being very easily distracted (if you didn’t know, we are), writers can get new ideas all the time, at the drop of a hat. It’s not uncommon for a writer to have a few projects at work at any given time. Let’s say our subject is working on a novel and some poetry, and all of a sudden gets an idea for a new tv series about puppet detectives. It’s not enough for us to be distracted by video games or movies or pet antics or offspring or bright flashing lights or loud noises. No no, we need to distract ourselves on top of all of that.

Writers either drift in a slight miasma of barely cognizant perceptions as they indulge in their distractions, or they’re frustrated by efforts to reassert their concentration on something they’re righting. It can make a writer seem bipolar. And if they really are bipolar, woo boy you talk about fun times!1

Surviving this as an outsider requires a metric fuckton of patience. Either you will be asked to participate in some sort of odd habit, or you will be all but ignored as something new distracts the writer. You can go along with it or rail against it, but the important thing is to remind the writer that they should, at some point, write. Yes, you may get bitten over it. That’s what the rolled-up newspaper is for. Aim for the nose.

Writers are Masters (and Mistresses) of Excuses

You’re going to catch a writer not writing. This can be like catching a teenager with their pants down and making them explain the nature of the self-examination they seem to be enjoying. You just need to keep in mind that procrastination is perfectly natural and lots of writers do it. There are even some writers who encourage other writers to procrastinate.

Before I stretch that metaphor any more uncomfortably, the important thing to note is that writers will tell you all manner of tall tales in an effort to avoid your scrutiny. Especially if said writer’s bailiwick is fiction. I mean, come on, these people lie for a living. Or at least as a primary hobby. Of course they’re going to tell you space monkeys invaded in the middle of the night and that’s why the lawn hasn’t been mowed or the dishes remain unwashed. Damn dirty space simians!2

Just as writers need and, if they’re responsible and good, want to be told when something they write doesn’t quite work, writers also need to occasionally be called on their bullshit. “Space monkeys? I don’t see any poo on the walls other than your own. It’s time to shut off the Internet and make some more of that word magic happen, pooplord.” Your exact wording may vary, but you get the idea.

Writers Do, In Fact, Want to Write

So let’s say you’re keeping a writer focused on the now. You’re getting them to help out around the house. They’re watching the kids. They’re cooking meals. They’re renovating your siding and keeping you in whatever it is you like to do when you’re not working. Guess what they’re not doing?

If you guessed “writing”, you just won a bigass shiny No-Prize! Congrats!3

Take a look at any writer pontificating on the need to write, and you’ll see something emerge. There’s definitely a deep-seated compulsion there. On top of any other madness or psychosis, a writer needs to write. Yes, the writer may procrastinate, putter around, put off writing because writing can suck a big fat one from time to time, but at the end of the day, writing is at the core of who that person is, otherwise – Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? – they wouldn’t be a writer.

So do them and yourself a favor. Take the kids for an hour. Put the video game down yourself. Mow the lawn or wash a few dishes. Just give them space, and a little bit of time. If it’s been a while since they’ve written, you bet your ass words will happen while you’re tending to chores.

Or you could not, and they’ll resent you in a deeply personal way. Your call.

I think this may be the biggest key to surviving life with a writer. Giving a little measure of time to write, moreso than calling them on excuses or distractions, relieves the pressure in their minds and helps them get closer to their goals. And the writer will love you for it.


1 I can’t say anybody acted all that surprised when I was diagnosed as bipolar. There was plenty of relief that legitimate psychosis wasn’t involved, though. Not that the doctors could detect, at least. Suckers.

2 They’re rude as hell, too. Coming in the middle of the evening and keeping me from finishing a blog post with their howling and poop-slinging and I was researching League of Legends champion builds and got distracted from finishing this last night I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t bap me with the newspaper again.

3 Actual contents of No-Prize may vary, from “absolutely nothing” to “sweet fuck-all.”

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