Pittsburgh is ready for it’s close-up in Batmaster 3, even if it means sucking the joy out of what was once a welcome escape.
For those of you who don’t know, I run a museum of cartoon art in Pittsburgh. In many ways, it’s a dream job - and that dream is sometimes a nightmare. So let’s just get it out of the way: I don’t give a shit about the filming of The Dark Knight Rises (or Magnum Rex, as it’s known in these parts).
I do, however, care about Batman.
People have a lot of preconceived notions about what I do, and most are at least polite when commenting. I’ve gotten used to it, the museum being a culmination of what some may see as unorthodox career choices. I spent several years out of college drifting aimlessly through service industry jobs while moonlighting with various projects self-crafted to maintain sanity. My best attempt at a bohemian lifestyle was slinging drinks in between spurts of music and writing and eventually teaching, first a brief stint at a community college and then some bliss as an art instructor for young children. I was a single, twenty-something, straight male who spent most of my time hanging out with three to six-year-olds. I loved the job and the kids, but while my friends were burning through their long dark twenties with drugs, promiscuity, and unpleasant but profitable entry-level positions and grad school, I was worrying about how to present a paper-mache project to an autistic child whose sensory acuity made for a weekly window into Armageddon. Those years eventually bled into a few contacts and a stake in the fledgling museum. I supplanted youth with youthfulness.
While my museum position carries a perception of hipness and fun, it’s full of all the tensions of any other job. And it’s ego-less. I’ve become used to the blank stares every time I try to expound upon the complex social and philosophical implications of cartoon art that I toil to unearth each and every day. Ultimately, I’m a grown man who spends much of his time reading, watching, talking and writing about cartoons. Despite all the overcompensating monologues about Derrida, I’m seen as a man-child; a socially-functional geek. Most “normals” simply assume I spend all of my money on Spider-Man collectables.
I’m a professional comics apologist. As Warhol cleverly illustrated, familiarity often dilutes one’s willingness to observation and introspection. Instead of a carefully executed piece of imagination, skill, and vision, most people are just going to see a banal soup-can because they’re more interested in the soup than the marketing psychology and label art. The opposite is true of the serious comics fanatic who has allowed their juvenile whimsy to escort them into a sophisticated adult intellectual life. Study is more accurately identified as obsession. To the geek, the execution of physicality, dialogue, and panel construction can become a transcendent moment of perfection capable of being preserved, re-examined, and shared. Most fans don’t even feel the need to intellectualize the artform. They unabashedly like the stories and characters, artists and genre cliches. They like the look and feel of comics and what they represent, regardless of whether that feeling is a daily intimacy or nostalgia.
And they love to talk about the comics. Sometimes to a fault.
I am certainly interested in the history of comics, the genre artists and the evolutions. However I am not very interested in the translation of comics to film, a conversation that has become a more and more dominant obstacle in my job. I was a kid raised on T.V. and movies, but my affection for comics was always related to the art work. I could get stories from other media. What I wanted from comics was a window into design, a textbook on how to draw that thought or movement. I drew incessantly as a kid; bizarre, impish animals, caricatures, and robots, all owing to my love of Looney Tunes, Chuck Jones, Filmation and Hanna-Barbera. Outside of the Transformers and Star Wars machinary, I never drew other people’s characters. I seemed to have identified that as plagiarism early on, and the comics provided hours of close scrutiny and textures the television shows couldn’t sustain. I read X-Men well into my teen years and then had a shocking realization: the art and the stories were just awful.
It was time to put away childish things.
When the boom of superhero movies hit the screen, starting with Tim Burton’s Batman in 1989, I was more excited about the Prince score as I was the prospect of Jack Nicholson as the Joker. It was all a big farce, despite the violence and dark shadows. I had yet to read Frank Miller or Alan Moore, but in my heart, I knew this Batman was a disgrace. As with all of his film’s, Burton couldn’t help but satirize emotion (has he ever made an authentic, resonant movie outside of Ed Wood?), a slight bumble at the time that nonetheless morphed into the repugnant, joyless sequels by Joel Schumaker.
The comic book movies kept getting worse until Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man. Here was a director who seemed to understand that the emotional heft of the Spider-Man pathos allowed for plenty of camp mythos. Instead of the wooden, embarrassing black-leathered X-Men of Bryan Singer’s disgraceful adaptations, Raimi’s Spider-Man films showed a reverence to the comics and a playful inventiveness that cemented them in Hollywood bombast. There was no need to recreate the comics panel. Raimi’s Spider-Man was never meant to be taken seriously, but instead gave you the option of dark psychology in between rousing flights of fancy.
But comics geeks must have their pound of flesh. Suddenly, all of the superhero movies – and more than two dozen sub-par comics adaptations that don’t feature men in tights – required grim authenticity and a moody anti-hero, the likes of which they were experiencing in the increasingly violent and myopic pages of Image and Vertigo. Even Superman - the clown-prince of peace, balance, and infallibility - fell prey to the ambitions of Singer’s dubious vision of “what modern audiences want”. Hack auteurs like Zack Snyder have taken the whole “the book was better” ethos to a new level of cinematic guilt. Snyder’s panel-for-panel recreations of 300 and Watchmen have made for truly terrible movie-going experiences with each new film feeling like a cinder-block tied to the foot of good taste. How are we supposed to get people to read the book when the product attached to it is so damn nasty? Or should we expect the layman to understand any of the comic culture being very examined in works like Watchmen when they are completely unaware of conventions Alan Moore is satirizing? Should we expect moviegoers read at all?
Here in Pittsburgh, we’re being treated to a potentially lethal dose of comic book movies this summer. The museum’s first exhibition of superhero comics art accidentally coincided with one of the ugliest parade of comics adaptations yet. Each day, my staff and I are forced to weather an endless stream of inquiries with no polite answers:
“Have you seen (Thor, X-Men, Captain America, Green Lantern) yet? What did you think?”
“I want the book that movie was based on. Do you have that one?”
“I saw that Watchers movie. Do you have that?”
“Who do you think the new Spider-Man should be?”
“Who’s Joss Whedon?”
“Why does everyone like Jack Kirby so much?”
“Do you have anything drawn by Stan Lee?”
Yes, Hollywood has made it safe for housewives, businessmen, grandmas and miscellaneous audiences heretofore completely disinterested in the genre to share their personal experiences, revelations, and disappointments with the superheroes we have gracing our walls. Everyone now seems to be packing varying degrees of newly-minted superhero philosophy, trivia, and cultural ephemera, violating the realms usually exclusively inhabited by creepy modulations of The Simpson’s all-too-accurate Comic Book Guy. It’s not that I’m an elitist or even unamused by this constant badgering. It’s great to see so many people turned on by the comic book experience. But my inner-Comic-Book Guy is exhausted.
The honest answers to these questions: I don’t really like the superhero movies. I haven’t really read superhero titles since I was thirteen. I don’t think comics should be adapted into movies. I like the small-press comics better, and even with them, I’m pretty picky. And if you don’t know the difference between Joss Whedon, Stan Lee, and Jack Kirby, you may have to read a few more books and watch a few more movies before I can offer any insights.
Furthermore, I’m not Oprah. I can’t choose a title for you and swear it’s going to change your life.
But the real story in Pittsburgh this summer has been the filming of Christopher Nolan’s final Batman film, and honestly, it’s the real reason for my comics fatigue.
Like Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy, the Nolan Batman films have been the rare exception to the rule of general comic-book movie detritus, and it’s easy to see why. Nolan, while not a particularly gifted filmmaker, is a sharp, intellectual craftsman. His projects, however uneven, all share the same stylistic tensions and psychological insights that align him more with the subversive delights of Hitchcock than the mish-mash of populist imagination and ennui that typifies directors like Spielberg and his acolytes. Nolan’s previous two Batman films took the characters to places we didn’t want them to go, creating a recognizable but no-less shocking world in which there were real stakes, real arguments, and real villainy. His clever manipulation of the Batman image in the drug-induced passages of Begins was enough to convince me that Nolan understood the comics rather than just mimicked the tones. And then there was his masterstroke handling of The Joker, as much a testament to the writing of the character as Heath Ledger’s brilliant performance. Nolan was able to make the Batman films darker and challenging without losing the fun. While I could still do without the 20-minute chase scenes, Nolan was still able to make a two-hour-plus comic book film that left us wanting more.
The Dark Knight Rises has been filming here in the streets of Pittsburgh for the last month. This is the biggest non-sports related story of the year, and one that will only conflate as we approach the film’s release next year at this time. While none of us may even be able to feed ourselves by next July, I’m sure the majority of Pittsburghers will have squirreled away some cash to go see the city star as Batman’s squalid, corrupt, and teetering Gotham. Tens of thousands of people auditioned to be criminals, nurses, businessmen, and athletes, flooded Heinz Field to see the Gotham Rogues, and laser-lit the facades of downtown skyscrapers with flickering bat-symbols. The local press is overflowing with daily bat-bits and people are lined up six rows thick behind barricades hoping to capture twenty-seconds of Christian Bale to upload onto their You Tube pages. Many of the bat-freaks are tourists who planned their summer vacations around the shooting schedule, and every one gets a second look on the sidewalk to be sure they aren’t a secondary cast member on the lookout for a slice of pizza.
The filming has it’s perks. The museum’s business is booming and the occasional visit by Anne Hathaway is nothing I can get too upset about. But one gets excited about the occasional celebrity because of the randomness of it, because a very distant human entity that flutters through dreamy cinemascapes is in fact flesh and real and wears pants like you and me and here it is, biologically functioning in front of you. I don’t harbor any fantasies about the star’s day to day, or the potentiality of my own celebrity. It really just comes down to having a pretty girl in the museum, and we all like pretty girls. Now, if Jeff Bridges were to walk in the front door, I might ‘lose my shit,’ more because I have spent my whole life engrossed in his movies, having deduced an actual him from the medley of roles he has played over the years. One feels that one can “know” someone like Bridges, that the experience wouldn’t be so fleeting. So the question is really this: do we crave celebrity because of gaps in our own lives, because of a misplaced need for beauty and acceptance, or do we respect and envy the life of an artist – the perception of money, talent, and escapism? Either answer leaves us unsatisfied, just like the people who groan outside the barriers that “nothing is happening” on the location shoots they’ve mobbed. And dare I ask: what does watching Batman, a 70 year old popular archetype, teach us about the real Christian Bale?
Then there are those people crawling about on the sidewalks, scooping up bags full of paper Gotham snow, anticipating the gold-rush moreso than claiming an ironic souvenir, completely unaware of comic or movie. The same people that won’t pick up litter off of a busy sidewalk quibble over faux snow drifts in the middle of summer. Ah, the magic of Hollywood! The death of America!
Everyone’s a little bat-crazy, and it’s making me miserable. It isn’t enough that the Marvel and DC canons have provided the world with the most ridiculous and sustained soap operas in the history of mankind. Now the haggle comes over which slice of the mythology pie the Hollywood studio will choose to exploit, and how accurately the fan boys can decode the snippets of information they are witnessing into a Magnus Rex synopsis. Unable to simply sit back and absorb the wonder of the processes we get to observe - simply by living our day to day lives, simply by walking to get coffee in the morning – every asshole on the block has pieced together their own plot for the film. The local media is going apeshit, determined to convert as many spoilers as possible into ratings gold. The media, you can turn off. The fan boys, you cannot. The guy shoveling up bat-snow? You can’t even neuter him.
I do not want to know a single detail about The Dark Knight Rises. I don’t care what the costumes look like, I don’t care who the actors are, I am unconcerned with third-act script revisions. But the gravity of the project and the immaturity of the masses have combined to create the biggest assholes known to man, bigger than a Steeler fan in a Ben Roethlisberger jersey. These weaselly little fucks insist on recounting for anyone and everyone the smallest bat-item they’ve observed to the biggest spoilers they’ve read about. They foam at the mouth like rabid dogs, desperately licking their own nuts in vain attempts to self-satisfy or perhaps cleanse themselves of their own filth taking it back into their foul little mouths. In an attempt to be better, more knowledgeable, about something so insignificant, they go about ruining the experience for everyone, perhaps because of a need to unconsciously force everyone to share in their own personal, pithy miseries. And of course, the saddest thing is the idea of claiming knowledge and control over something that doesn’t exist yet.
Pittsburgh is a city of contradictions (as most decent cities are). The demographics almost take pride in the wide gaps between the haves and have nots, intellectualism and ignorance, a hard, gritty work ethic and trifling industry. As the city becomes the du jour locale for bad Hollywood contrivances, Pittsburghers may or may not get used to the delays and closings and celebrity sightings. Probably not. It is safe to say that we may never experience anything quite like The Dark Knight Rises, nor should we want to. Imagine what it would do for the Yinzer ego if we had to endure a two month headache for an Alpha Flight movie.
If you don’t know, don’t ask.
