Two other items: I rarely post about the outcomes of contests on this blog, and really, I should do that more often. I've been lucky enough to earn two distinctions of note in the last year or so. Last fall, I was listed as a semi-finalist in the Capital Repertory Next Act! New Play Summit, with my full-length play The Magnificent Masked Hearing Aid. Last March, that same script was listed as a semi-finalist in the Actor's Theatre of Charlotte's nuVoices Festival. It's fun to see this script in particular advance at least part-way in contests, as I work on newer material. The play means a lot to me, and the only reason it's getting this far is because of the many hard-working actors, designers, directors, and writers who helped me shape its story. So, thanks to all my collaborators! I'm hoping to get back in the rehearsal room sooner rather than later.
It's been an exciting week for this humble playwright. I am happy to announce that I will be serving as an adjunct instructor for Prairie State College for its theatre programming in the 2014-2015 academic year. This summer, I will be teaching Introduction To Theatre, which involves script analysis, viewing theatre performance, a smattering of theatre history, and a heavy dose of dramatic structure -- and more courses will materialize in the fall. It's going to be a wild ride, and I'm excited to get back in the classroom next week!
Two other items: I rarely post about the outcomes of contests on this blog, and really, I should do that more often. I've been lucky enough to earn two distinctions of note in the last year or so. Last fall, I was listed as a semi-finalist in the Capital Repertory Next Act! New Play Summit, with my full-length play The Magnificent Masked Hearing Aid. Last March, that same script was listed as a semi-finalist in the Actor's Theatre of Charlotte's nuVoices Festival. It's fun to see this script in particular advance at least part-way in contests, as I work on newer material. The play means a lot to me, and the only reason it's getting this far is because of the many hard-working actors, designers, directors, and writers who helped me shape its story. So, thanks to all my collaborators! I'm hoping to get back in the rehearsal room sooner rather than later.
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As I initially understood it, The New 52 was created to streamline years of confusing history, to feature only the iconic versions of DC characters, and to give new readers a fresh starting point for their heroes' adventures. In light of recent reappearances, I am no longer so sure I buy the company's line, if I ever did to begin with; I wailed and moaned about the disappearance of characters I loved -- among them Wally West and Stephanie Brown. Well, now they're back, and my third favorite vanished character will walk back into comics soon: Helena Bertinelli. This should be cause for rejoicing, and indeed, I am pleased to learn Helena will be a super-spy who's better at her job than former Robin/Nightwing Dick Grayson. But with my DC boycott running strong, give or take an issue of Astro City, I doubt I'll be persuaded to pick up Grayson later this year. Why is that? And why haven't I bought or really celebrated the return of any of the other characters I love? I think the answer lies in history, or, using the more dreaded term, continuity. Serialized storytelling is a tough nut to crack, and years of back stories can bog down an ongoing plot, and keep new readers from understanding the hero being championed within a superhero comic. Them's been the breaks, I suppose, as readership gets older and plots get darker, and a body can't figure out what caused Superman to lose his powers for the billionth time. DC had a point in rebooting their continuity, much as I decried the loss of fun legacy characters and marriages and decades-old histories at the start of the New 52. A lot of great things were lost when continuity was thrown out the window, but a lot of cool potential could have remained. Except there was a lot of abandoned history tugging its way back into the DC Universe from the reboot's beginning. Most of what had happened in the Green Lantern and Batman books had still happened, including that one big zombie nightmare, and Batman having five Robins somehow in five years. Add to that Barbara Gordon finding time to be both Oracle and Batgirl, and it doesn't feel like DC wants you to ignore its previous continuity. Perhaps more puzzling was DC's insistence that different books be set in different time periods. For example, Superman told present-day stories about Superman, but Action Comics told the story of his early career. This is certainly a wiser decision than throwing immediate crossovers across all the Superman books, but crossovers invaded anyway, fairly early on in the new continuity. So even if you were reading one book, its story would continue in another. You'd end up just as confused as in a pre-New 52 world, with multiple timelines thrashing you about. Clearly, continuity is still a problem for DC, and the reintroduction of Helena Bertinelli only highlights this for me. Helena started out as an intriguing extension of Batman. She began as a what-if on DC's Earth 2, where heroes are allowed to get married (pre-New 52, of course). Known on that Earth as Helena Wayne, she was the daughter of Batman and Catwoman, and she fought crime under the name Huntress. Here's where a cool and confusing wrinkle sets in. Helena Bertinelli was ALSO introduced as Huntress, but in the mainstream DC Universe, where Batman and Catwoman are nowhere close, and likely never will be close, to putting a ring on it. So, if she wasn't Batman's daughter, who could she be? In the mainline DC comics, she became the daughter of a mafia family, whose parents were gunned down before her eyes. While Batman vowed to pursue justice in the wake of his parents' murder, Helena B. vows revenge, and makes a name for herself in Gotham City through the use of brutal and often murderous tactics. One Helena comes from a stable if adventurous home; the other comes from the same dark place as Bruce Wayne's Caped Crusader. Imagine the different stories that can be told with these two! Imagine how confounding it would be for a new reader to see two Huntresses now, as both Helenas apparently exist in the New 52 mainstream universe! Of course, the creators of Grayson are keeping Helena Bertinelli out of the Huntress garb. She is a super-spy and not a superheroine in their series. Which, fair enough. That's a simple way to solve the problem of having two Helenas running around. But if you want to write stories featuring Helena Bertinelli, can you really disassociate her from her past life as a crime fighter? If you can, why bother calling her Helena Bertinelli, since she's clearly meant to be a completely new, not simply refreshed, person? Why not create an original character, with limitless potential, and leave Helena B. retired? Such questions spoil my excitement at her New 52 return. Initially, I'd wanted everyone who had vanished back in DC's comics, playing the roles I remembered them in: Wally the smart-mouth Flash; Stephanie the second chances Batgirl; Helena the hothead Huntress. But that was all the way back in 2011 and 2012, before it became clear that the New 52 was a sour, humorless exercise in shuffle-boarding. What do I mean by shuffle-boarding? Essentially, DC has built its new universe on a series of incidents that still call back to previous continuity, while editors reintroduce characters as more SUPER-HARDCORE, EXTREME versions of themselves. See: Superman as a murderer, Wonder Woman as his God of War girlfriend, and lesser characters as cannon fodder. Nobody has really changed, just shuffled to the more bombastic sides of their personalities in a cynical cash grab meant to appeal to the lowest common denominator. For example, Stephanie Brown was originally created to spoil her father the Cluemaster's crimes. In Batman Eternal, she is ... still working to spoil her father's crimes, except now it looks like her mother might also be in on his dastardly plots? QUELLE SURPRISE! EXTREME TO THE MAX! What is the use of telling the same stories, with like-minded characters, but with the outcomes slightly altered to provide a cynical rather than hopeful aftertaste? Is DC so scared of its own continuity, its own history, and its own stable of optimistic icons, that the only way to get compelling material greenlit is to ensure its essential hopelessness? Hopelessness has its place in storytelling, but that's where Helena Bertinelli started. She grew from cynical loner to team player, team leader, and friend. The way current continuity is going at DC, hopelessness is where readers start, and where they land. Without variation of outlook and outcome, how will these stories stand the test of time? Potential is the bonus inherent in launching a reboot. But pinning characters with old names, alluding to exhausted back stories, and doling out tragic endgames? That washes all the potential away, leaving only stale crumbs for writers to collect and serve back to us. I want more for readers, though I hope for better for Helena Bertinelli, super-spy. Huntress Artist: Nicola Scott. "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" opened this past weekend to an unsurprisingly big box office, which is lucky for Sony Pictures! The company needs to keep making movies about the old web-head, or his story rights will revert back to Marvel and its own film studio. Sony's 2012 reboot of the superhero's adventures ensured there's money to be money made off Spider-Man ad-infinitum -- he's easily one of Marvel's most popular and recognizable characters -- and Sony is smartly expanding the franchise to cover later films about Venom and Spidey's rogue's gallery, the Sinister Six. How much longer people will flock to see superhero movies is up in the air at this point, but studios doubling down on the properties is a certainty through the 2020s. I found "The Amazing Spider-Man" unnecessary, as its rehashing of Peter Parker's origin story felt unoriginal enough to merit claims the movie was a cash grab and nothing more. Its redeeming factor was the charming romance between Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone (both on- and off-screen). But at the end of the day, I don't have much desire to head to the theaters for "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" because I've seen a bunch of Spidey stories already. I know Peter Parker, I know his world, I know who lives and dies in that world, and I understand that "with great power comes great responsibility." To be fair, the "ASM" franchise has been tweaking the wall-crawler's formula somewhat. In the first film, Peter Parker learned that his separation from his parents was less a tragic accident and more a motivated act of villainy by corporate forces. Such revelations made his own spider-bitten journey towards heroism less the result of a freak accident, and more a moment to be atoned for and reckoned with. Gone was the idea that Peter was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Entering was the thought that his responsibilities were determined long before birth, not chosen as a milestone of maturity. This scenario laid on the guilt for Peter (as if his Uncle Ben's death wasn't enough), giving him more motivation, and grounding the ridiculous idea of being bitten by a radioactive spider in something akin to reality. I find this change puzzling. The power in Spider-Man's narrative has always come from the fact that he was never destined to be anything great. He had terrible Peter Parker luck. Then an accident happened, and he needed to step up and do what he could to help others. This is a common structure for all classic Marvel tales. Bruce Banner is caught in a gamma bomb explosion; he becomes the Hulk. Matt Murdock is blinded while pushing an old man out of the way of an oncoming truck; he gains super-senses and dons the Daredevil costume. The Fantastic Four ride through space dust and get all invisible and stretchy and flame-covered and Thing-like. Contrast these "accidents happen" tales with the prevailing structure at DC, home to more iconic characters. Clark Kent is primed to save Earth because his parents sent him to a planet that would give him powers. Wonder Woman acts as ambassador to man's world because she proved herself the champion of the Amazons. Even in Batman, there exist stories where the mugger who killed his parents was hired to do so by a mob boss with ties to Thomas Wayne. Very little in DC's universe is random, whereas almost everything in Marvel's universe is -- or was, in the sixties when the company rose to prominence. Spider-Man's conceit is not that he is destined to be a hero, but that he is a nobody who becomes a hero. Take that to its furthest conclusion, to a child's fantasy world. If Peter Parker starts out as a nobody, that means Spider-Man could be ANYBODY, including the reader. That is what makes Spider-Man attractive, that is what makes his popularity endure. He's less about how the pieces fit together, and more about how the chips fall where they may, and he'll do the best he can to rescue a situation. That concluded, it's been interesting to track the PR campaign ramping up to the "ASM 2" release. Despite the essential changes already made to Peter Parker's story, the producers feel a strong loyalty to Spider-Man as a brand. In a recent interview, producers Avi Arad and Matt Tolmach vowed that only Peter Parker would don the footie pajamas and head sock in their series of "Amazing Spider-Man" movies. This promise was made after the two were asked whether or not Miles Morales, the Spider-Man of Marvel's Ultimate Comics line, would ever appear in their films. For those who don't know, Miles Morales is an African-American/Latino teenager, who received spider powers by accident after his felonious uncle deposited a stolen radioactive spider near him. Miles is scared when his powers emerge and hides his new-found abilities from his family. He only takes up the mantle of Spider-Man after witnessing Peter Parker's death. Upon his debut, Miles received praise and scorn. Some on the Internet cried "tokenism." Others appreciated Miles' sympathetic worries and guilt. In light of the 2008 presidential election, Marvel EIC Axel Alonso felt it was time to bring more diversity to comics, and believed starting with a flagship character made the most sense. I, for one, find Miles a great character; he is serious like Peter, and has two tons of integrity. His perspective is not one you see throughout mainstream comics. He lives in a predominantly non-white New York, and the pressure on him to succeed academically is enormous, far outweighing what Peter ever experienced. His tough relationships with his parents and amoral uncle were a big draw into his world for me, as was his relationship with his best friend Ganke Lee, a rabid Lego and superhero fan. Miles exists in a world that doesn't trust anybody in a costume, and his troubles are doubled when he crosses universes and meets the adult Peter Parker we know! The meeting of the two Spider-Men planted a corporate crossover seed I can't believe hasn't been harvested yet. What is the hold-up? That miniseries sold well; clearly, comics can support two Spider-Men. Why can't the movies? Shouldn't it be imperative they do so? Ultimate Spider-Man scribe Brian Michael Bendis recently pointed out that he hears stories all the time about how children of color were never allowed to "be" Superman or Batman when playing at superheroics with friends. They could, however, play Spider-Man, because his body is always covered head to toe; no one in the public knows his ethnicity in the way they know Superman's and Batman's. Again, Spider-Man can BE ANYBODY. So why would the producers shy away from that possibility, disastrous Clone Saga aside? There's a whole potential audience out there that would love to see a person of color as Spider-Man. And just because the brand's always been sold with a white dude, that doesn't mean it needs to stay that way. The make-up of America is changing rapidly, and our stories need to change with that make-up. If the fantasy inherent in Marvel tales is less about determinism and more about potential, there's no reason Miles Morales shouldn't get a shot at the big screen, too. Spider-Men #1: Brian Michael Bendis, Writer; Sara Pichelli, Artist; Justin Ponsor, Colorist; Cory Petit, Letterer. I had an eye-opening conversation with a colleague recently. I have been struggling to draft a script about comics artist Joe Shuster for two years, and all my attempts to write it have been frustrated by false starts and ill-conceived endings. By last month, I had begun to suspect the script unwriteable. But I also wondered whether the flashback structure I'd chosen to tell the tale simply needed adjusting. My initial work on the project was all monologues, and I'd been avoiding using direct address structure with this play. Perhaps the play needed an actor talking to, connecting with, the audience? So I turned to my colleague for feedback; he had read a large chunk of my most recent draft, and I thought he might offer some solid perspective, as he is someone who uses direct address a lot in his work. I asked him, "When do you know your play should be a monologue play? Or a direct address play?" He pointed out several earmarks one might go by, but most tellingly, he commented that when he's watching a direct address play, in which the protagonist talks to the audience, he expects that the character speaking is trying to hide something from the viewers. Why else would he/she directly approach the viewer? And in trying to convince the audience of the narrator's false perceptions, the truth is revealed. Therein lies the power of interacting with the audience. Theatre is meant to take place in front of an audience, and the story is meant to take place in the audience's mind; the story impacts the audience, not just the artist. Doesn't seem like that intense of a revelation, but this conversation spurred me to remember who I am working for, who I am meant to be communicating with in my work. Nothing happens in a vacuum, and it's good for an artist to remember that. Certainly, it makes me more generous and more focused in my writing. Until I inevitably forgot how to write again. But how could I forget the audience in the first place? Actually, I have been thinking a lot about audience lately -- except I've been thinking about it in terms of comics. In light of recent attacks on female fandom, and threats of physical harm to those who dare to speak out about sexism in the comics community, I found myself wondering how I can be part of a community when a vocal, violent minority doesn't want me as a member. I have always been proud to work in the theatre, which is a collaborative art form that demands acceptance in the best and worst circumstances. Comics are different. Misogyny is rampant in comics fandom, as it also is in gaming culture, and publishers (read: DC Comics) have catered to the idea that their best buyers are men who want their fantasies catered to above all else, including diversity and strong, inclusive narratives. I've been despairing for weeks about what women endure on the Internet and at conventions, and my anxiety only grew as the Chicago Comic & Entertainment Expo neared. See, I would be attending, hoping to meet some of my favorite comics creators. And I didn't want to feel like I shouldn't be there. This past Friday, I attended C2E2, and I was impressed at how included I felt there. I got to meet some of my comics heroes, artists and creators I respect and admire, whose work I own; I had several delightful conversations about form and structure and artistic choices throughout the day. But more importantly, perhaps, I spoke with other comics fans, male and female, who shared their enthusiasm for the form with me, and who wanted to talk about my opinions as well as theirs. They clued me in to why I should be using Comixology, and debated the finer points of Green Arrow, and who the better Flash is (Wally West, obviously); I reunited with some old friends, too, whom I didn't even know were big comics fans when we first met. I even met an actor waiting in line at a signing -- art unites people at all levels! Being able to experience something together meant I formed a bond with other fans, and getting to meet specific artists only made me feel more connected to the form as an audience member. Comics creators appreciate fans because they have forums to connect with them. As a theatre artist, I must also trust my audience, and must interact with them the best I can, whether it's through direct address or any other theatrical choice. POST-SCRIPT: I have so many memories of C2E2 to share! It would be untenable to recap the whole experience here. However, I will do some bullet points here, as you really should know how wonderful the artists of the comics industry are, for realsies. Meeting Nicola Scott: This woman draws the most powerful-looking ladies in comics, and she was my first stop at Artists Alley. Her Lois Lane in Birds of Prey is my favorite depiction of the character, and I told her so. She laughed and asked why. I said because she looked so human in comparison with all the female superheroes. Scott responded that she loves Lois, and she and Gail Simone and Greg Rucka had been trying to get her a solo series when the New 52 relaunch was announced. My eyes bugged out -- the concepts were so cool! One involved Lois being an awesome globe-trotting adventurer! The other would've been a Daily Planet book, about the Daily Planet staff reporting in Metropolis!!! I CAN'T DESCRIBE HOW SAD I AM NEITHER OF THESE BOOKS EXIST. I hope I made it clear to Nicola Scott how much I appreciate the hard work she and her crew did to try and make this work happen. It's so cool she even told me about those pitches. Meeting Dustin Nguyen: If you don't know Dustin Nguyen's work, pick up the Stephanie Brown Batgirl series. I brought out my copy of its third volume to be signed by the artist himself. I said that he drew one of my favorite series ever, and he was psyched to see I'd brought Batgirl with me. He pointed out his work on the book was the result of a great collaboration with writer Bryan Q. Miller, and he asked if I was happy Steph was back. I looked at him with giant anime eyes and said, "Yeah. Are you?" He looked back just as excited and said, "Oh, yeah." Meeting Mark Waid: I was lucky enough to snag an early spot in the Marvel booth line when Mark Waid was doing an hour-long signing for them. I shook his hand and presented my favorite Daredevil tale (which I wrote about here). I told him how impressive I found his work on the character, especially when it came to showcasing his irradiated perceptions. He said thanks and signed my book. I further referenced how much I related to Matt Murdock's struggle between keeping his super-powered potential secret and living an honest life (as I wrote about here). He looked up and handed my book back, with a smile on his face, like he immediately knew what I was talking about; he thanked me again, and said he was really, really proud of that aspect of his work on Daredevil. My saying that meant a lot to him, he said. ... And I nearly died, as I moved away, and he wished me a good rest of the con. Meeting Greg Pak and Aaron Kruder: These two make up the writer and artist team for the really fun recent run of Action Comics. They were seated next to each other, so I thought I'd stop by their tables to tell them how much I dig their work on Superman. (I've browsed through their books, they're quite good.) Somehow Pak and Kruder make me see the Clark inside Superman in a way that's not been allowed in his rebooted adventures. They both mentioned the difficulty of portraying one person as two distinct personalities, but I appreciate the humanity they're letting shine through in the character. They also want to give Lana Lang a showcase, and they sure are! She kicks a lot of butt in this book. You should check it out! Giving A Thumbs Up To Dan Jurgens: This guy drew my childhood Superman, and he created Booster Gold, The Greatest Hero You'll Never Know! I swung by his table to thank him for his work, but he was clearly working on a commission sketch or something, so I gave him a thumbs up and a "Love your work, man!" Meeting Chris Samnee: This guy! He is an amazing cartoonist. Check out Daredevil every month for proof. I asked him to sign the volume of DD that I'd already gotten Mr. Waid to sign. I told him how much I loved the attention to detail he and Waid gave Daredevil's super-perception. He piped right up, saying, "Of course! I mean, you'd think a guy who's supposed to be blind wouldn't be able to actually SEE things with radar sight!" Good to know if he ever saw my thesis, or my previous posts about Daredevil, he wouldn't be offended. I asked how much time he and the rest of the creative team take to find new ways to express Daredevil's radioactive senses. He said he's actually been doing it through mostly inserting sound effects lately. I told him how much I loved that, given that I am hard of hearing. He then flipped to the front of my book and drew a little Daredevil face with a thought bubble saying, "Thanks!" It's adorable, and so is Chris Samnee. Meeting Gail Simone: This was quite enjoyable, and quite a saga. I met Gail right at the end of my day at C2E2. I had a great time chatting with other fans of her work in the long line near her table, and she is such a nice person, any nervousness I felt about meeting her was silly. I had reserved a printed, limited edition Birds of Prey script from her via Twitter, and I picked that up from her delightful husband while observing how awesome a nearby little girl in a Batgirl tutu was; I pointed out I wished I had been her when I was little. Gail replied that when she was kid, all she had was, like, a towel and safety pins. (Good to know we sported similar capes.) I laughed and swallowed hard and thanked her for all her work, specifically her work on Huntress and her struggles with faith. I was describing how much I loved her prayer in the relaunched BOP series (I've written about it on this very blog). And to my horror, I got all choked up, and couldn't talk. I've never done that to someone I admire before, but Gail Simone was super chill about it, and said she appreciated my thoughts, that she tries to include as many points of view as she can in her work. She signed my BOP trades and my printed script, and we talked a bit about how precise panel descriptions need to be for references and clarity in comics scripting. I wandered off in a daze -- only to realize at 11:30 pm that night I FORGOT TO PAY HER FOR THE PRINTED SCRIPT. I panicked and tweeted at her to see what could be done, as I was only attending the convention on Friday. The next morning, I hit on asking a friend to pay her the cash on my behalf, but they never crossed paths. I was running out of ideas, when Gail tweeted that I should come to her Chicago signing at Third Coast Comics on Monday evening. I was on a mission now. I needed to make things right. At the signing (P.S.: Third Coast Comics is a friendly store -- check it out, Chicagoans!), I stepped up and she recognized me right away, which is impressive, given how many people she'd met over the weekend. I passed over my money and did a fist pump without explaining what the money was for, which was probably confusing. But then I explained myself and felt like a total superhero, having righted a wrong. If you ever get to meet Gail Simone, you'll want to give her cash for her work. She is one cool lady. BEWARE: Below be spoilers for the "How I Met Your Mother" series finale, which aired last night! I am a playwright by nature and training. Hence, the stories I tell are usually finite, and hopefully the fate of my work remains largely under my own control. The same cannot be said for television or film, where production companies or networks may have sway over a final product, whether or not that means editing a film into something different than its creators intended, or prolonging the life of a television show far past the twists and turns the show was intending to take are accomplished. I don't really understand the struggles it takes to get a TV show to air, nor how to plan potentially infinite seasons. The stories I tell tend to have endings that I work towards, and I achieve them (even if the endings end up changing; they often do). So while I can't understand what Carter Bays and Craig Thomas went through in crafting nine(-ish) years of stories for "How I Met Your Mother," I feel like I got a glimpse into their creative ambitions last night during the series finale. If I had my druthers, I would design an entire class around the narrative structure employed in "How I Met Your Mother." A random and numerous amount of episodes display strong storytelling technique. A random and numerous amount of episodes display great character work, stunning set pieces, or emotional moments. But I also think the show provides fantastic lessons about long-form storytelling that any writer could learn from -- starting with how endings function in a story intent on proving both the journey and the destination are of equal importance. Last night's final episode was dissatisfying for a lot of people, for a number of reasons. I know many people who are extremely angry about the show's ending. I know others who were moved to tears. I remain somewhere in between these two states. I have always enjoyed this show, I've shared it with some of my closest friends. In a way, this show's ending was a final goodbye to my twenties, which ended earlier in March. So I have investment in the story, for personal as well as entertainment reasons. That doesn't mean I am immune the writers' missteps. For example, I dropped out of the show once seasons six, seven, and eight began to drag their heels on dramatic developments between the characters. I couldn't help but feel the amount of story the writers had to tell didn't gibe with having forty-some more hours of TV time. More importantly, I began to feel the "why today" was outweighing the show's "present" events. The whole show serving as a flashback was fine, but fans were chomping at the bit to know why Future Ted was even telling the story of how he met his kids' mother. The series began with Ted declaring he'd tell his disinterested kids this story, and that was that. This simplicity is not sustainable over nine years. A couple seasons, sure, but if writers don't start answering questions that pop into viewers' heads, the audience will provide answers on their own. Most viewers I know figured the mother was dead in the future, which is exactly what we learned last night. We were told by Future Ted that the mother died, and he is telling his children their story as a look back at their meeting and life together. Except the story wasn't about the mother. The kids (from a section filmed allllllll the way back in 2006 or 2007) speak the truth when they inform Ted that the story had little to do with their mother and everything to do with his one-time girlfriend and best friend Robin. They spur him on to start dating her, as apparently she's still been in this family's life, and Ted's life in particular. (Mind you, we're told this; we've seen none of it in an hour raging from filling in the blanks on career prospects to Barney becoming a dad and finally evolving into a non-creeper.) Ted runs to Robin's place with blue french horn he stole for her in the first episode, back when they wanted different things, twenty years before. Again, a lot of people are mad that the "How I Met Your Mother" creative team chose to undermine its starting premise (the mother is NOT Robin, as stated at the end of the show's pilot, when Past Ted is convinced he'll marry her), only to have Robin be Ted's endgame after all. I didn't mind their winding up together as an ending, as the actors were great together, and the writers wrote some of their strongest material because of their relationship. Also, writing 101 -- if you keep telling us somebody ISN'T ENDGAME, after a while it's you protesting too much, and I know you'll prove your own point wrong after a certain amount of time. The original tagline for the show was "A love story in reverse," which I never understood until now. That being said ... the audience is right to be upset. I respect a lot of what Bays and Thomas and the whole directing, writing, and production team have brought to the table with their series (Robin Sparkles, y'all!). And doing a finale where you kill the mother, divorce a couple who just got married last episode, and show how another couple struggles to get their careers on track is pretty courageous, for a sitcom. But winding us back to the start of the series wasn't satisfying to me, and it should have been. Because Bays and Thomas were attempting an audacious perception shift; they were trying to change the entire meaning of the story Future Ted's been telling in the last five minutes of the show. But attempting is the key word here. It wasn't a successful shift for me. Dramatic conflict is generated by presenting the audience with two images and then bouncing them against each other, until one wins out. Perception shifts replace one way viewing of the final image with another. The point of a good perception shift is to reveal that what we learn post-shift makes more sense than what we'd been presented with before the shift. Think Oedipus learning he murdered his father and married his mother; it's surprising, but the clues tell the tale. The reason people feel robbed by Ted choosing Robin at the end of "How I Met Your Mother" is that the writers didn't give us enough information to put the pieces together ourselves. If we could track back that the reason Future Ted's spent so much time chatting with his kids about Robin is because he's trying to move on with his life after his wife's death, then we'd all be satisfied. But we only for sure learn the mother was ill in the finale, and we've never been shown the twenty years of friendship Robin and Ted fostered, so she could still be seen as a viable candidate for his heart. An entire season could have been dedicated to the Mother's relationship with Ted, rather than just Robin and Barney's wedding weekend. We could have seen twenty years in twenty-two episodes -- not in flashes and glimpses -- but in goal-driven stories that show us grief and recovery and hope. If the show was about time, and being at the right time and place to make a choice, then the creative team needed to show us that time, and give us the chance to watch action unfold. This would only support the ambition that the story the show's been telling is not the one you think it's been telling. Good narrative structure is like a magic act. Most times it involves misdirection, a "Look over here while I stick a rabbit in this hat to wow you with at the end of the show!" But you need to do more than make us look in the other direction. You need to thread through information that will let us accept the shift, that the rabbit has been in the hat the entire act. By spending an entire season on Barney and Robin's wedding, by giving so much weight to every single hour, it became difficult to focus on what mattered and what didn't in the show. The mother was clearly of importance, but so was Ted letting go of Robin in order to pursue the mother after the wedding. The two issues were never put into direct conflict, however, so the trajectory didn't see to accommodate where we landed. That may have been the point, to watch how small moments lead to big choices, and life gets in the way and changes your plans sometimes. I guess I just wish we'd seen it all happen. Still, I can't argue with the ambition driving the final moments of this episode. I applaud it, even if the execution was lacking for me. For what it's worth, I still felt it. And again, working out a satisfying end for a show where one of the stars wanted minimal screen time, where the show's network wanted to extend the show by a season, and where the end was filmed back in the mid-2000s ... well, that's gotta be hard. If anything, at least now I know what the writers intended the show to be. What I cherish more is the lessons I can glean from the ambition driving this whole enterprise. "How I Met Your Mother" photo: CBS website. I often wish I had been a better student when it came to studying science. Discovering how the world works or building a new world, to the best of one's ability, is thrilling and to the benefit all. Had my talents pointed me in another direction, I would have loved to be a marine biologist or an astronomer or a paleontologist. Sadly, my mind doesn't work the way a scientist's does; I like to think I possess the same sort of curiosity, but I am better at weaving together words than revealing or refining the building blocks of life. I am fortunate to know a bunch of amazing scientists, however -- many in my own family, and many of them chums. Thanks to my time as an undergraduate at Beloit College, I gained close friends who are biologists and geologists, and their continuing knowledge keeps me clued into the world. Case in point: while studying theatre in Wisconsin, I played the role of an aspiring scientist in a feminist revision of Cinderella called The Ash Girl; I was actually one of the ugly step-sisters, and the tragedy of my life was that my mother cared more about me marrying for money than gaining professional fulfillment. I got swept up in the greed and received a toe amputation in return for my gold-digging. Mostly, I was playing a buffoon, but my most telling line in the play amounted to something like, "I don't want [balls and gowns and carriages, etc.]; I only want a microscope." It was easily my biggest laugh line, but I found it showcased my character at her most honest. All she wanted was discovery and study; all she got was pain (though she received a sort of happy ending, in which Cinderella's fairy godmother sent her to the woods to collect rocks and never see anyone ever again). As an amateur scientist in the play, I made reference to things I didn't understand, particularly pertaining to geology. I took some of my dialogue to my friends, who were more than happy to explain pronunciations and provide photographs of chalcedony (the word I butchered best) and topaz and jasmine. And when I proclaimed those rocks by name the night they attended the performance, I was never prouder of representing knowledge; honestly, it was a way to pay forward their helping me understand the world better. I don't imagine anybody went home that night and Googled chalcedony. But a girl can dream, can't she? So what was the point of all me blathering on about my teeny tiny not real contribution to science education? I suppose I've been thinking a lot about science in relationship to narrative lately. You could say it's because I finally got around to seeing "Gravity," or because "Cosmos" has been on (and it's amazing), but I'm betting it's because I finally started reading Lazarus by Greg Rucka and Michael Lark. Lazarus is set in the near-future in a United States divided between wealthy corporate families. Science has excelled to the point that each family has a "Lazarus" protecting them. A Lazarus is a genetically engineered human being who essentially cannot be killed, and commands each family's military. The series centers around Forever, the Lazarus for the Carlyle family. She doesn't realize she is not related to her father, brothers, or sisters, and her struggle to defend the family -- which has enslaved a large chunk of the country -- while feeling remorse for her actions provides the main conflict for the book. It's a great read. one that Rucka doesn't clutter with a lot of world-building. Those interested in world-building can find a timeline at the end of many issues, but you get the gist of the secrets being kept from Forever just from the art and the script alone. What I find most interesting is Rucka's inclusion of scientific advances after the letters column; by doing so, he is able to draw a line between his concerns and the way our world is advancing towards the nightmare scenario he's depicting. It's pretty heady stuff, and I enjoy it quite a bit. Rucka seems to have found a balance I struggle with in writing about technology and science (as I often do when it comes to disability). By centering his discussion of scientific abuses and advances in the protagonist, he makes Forever into a symbol of where we could go if we twist knowledge to selfish ends. Her condition is also the lynchpin for the stakes of the series; once she discovers she is not one of the family, imagine the havoc she will wreak. He doesn't manipulate science (as is done in some moments of "Gravity") to bring about problems; he uses what we're attempting and learning to force characters to make choices. Of course, the Lazarus world is further along than we are, but by acknowledging that at the back of the book, Rucka -- to my mind -- avoids accusations of misusing science to tell a good story. Of course, as an artist, I want to be responsible when I write about hearing implants or ADD medication. I don't want to draw false conclusions about science in practice. But I don't want to spend too much stage time explaining every single facet of a part of technology. Whatever I use needs to be valuable to the characters, as it was to that poor ugly stepsister in The Ash Girl, as it was to my geologist friends. If science is valuable to the characters, it becomes valuable to audience, and everyone's world might be expanded in the process. Lazarus cover art: Michael Lark, artist. Outside of Ellen's massively retweeted celebrity selfie, the most viral moment of the Oscars was probably John Travolta's flub while saying Idina Menzel's name. I suppose I could link to the occurrence, as I often link to things for extra context, but given the amount of "how Travolta would mispronounce your name, yuk yuk" generators popping up on Facebook, I feel like everyone has heard about it. Don't get me wrong, I think peeling back the veneer of celebrity perfection tends to be more helpful than harmful, but here ... I guess I wonder whether the flub doesn't deserve a little grace. Or at least a pass.
Not just because these things happen, but because John Travolta is both reported to have and not have dyslexia, and discussion of whether or not it's okay to joke about his mistake is leading to a weird Internet justification circle-jerk about him working on being better at his job, if he is in fact dyslexic. We spend a lot of time on the world wide web both celebrating and decrying political correctness, but Travolta's flub provides insight into why it's important to treat mental disorders seriously. Because if you don't, victim-blaming abounds (even if the subject in question isn't actually dyslexic). The fact is that sometimes working on what you have to say in public won't actually counteract a mispronunciation, and this would be an easy thing for most to admit if dyslexia wasn't involved. If the Travolta who presented at the Oscars on Sunday was officially and completely known to not be dyslexic, then all the name generators in the world wouldn't seem suspect to me. As it is, they do, because highlighting a simple mistake in the face of a bloated awards show seems like easy pickings -- and because people's insistence that the mistake is on him, regardless of genetics or brain chemistry, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. People who have dyslexia or any type of learning disability (full disclosure: I have ADD) already have enough to deal with, without being told their failures are that much more weighty, because they have a disorder. Anyway, that's just how this whole thing is striking me. It may be a personal reaction, but I find the situation annoying. Others may not see this as a travesty, and that's fine (there's certainly other things going on in the world that deserve greater attention). But can we all admit that the joke has unintended bite in its well-tended justification? If we're honest about that -- what we're saying, and why -- then we can learn something from it. I was elated upon finishing last week's Ms. Marvel #1, the debut of Pakistani-American superhero Kamala Khan. The book, scripted by G. Willow Wilson, with art by Adrian Alphona, and edited by personal favorite comics wrangler Sana Amanat, proved to be one of the strongest first issues I've ever read. In twenty-some pages, the creative team confidently introduced me to the characters and conflicts Kamala will be dealing with throughout her adventures, while also subtly nodding at the political and cultural identity questions that seem set to fuel her origin story. Excited to see how comics fans across the world were reacting to the new Ms. Marvel's introduction, I took to the Internet, discovering mostly positive buzz about its YA leanings, its goofy humor, and its incisive character beats. But I found another common bit of praise, too. Something puzzling. In multiple reviews, I noticed that the emphasis was less on what makes Kamala a stand-out comics character -- being a Muslim woman of color and second-generation member of an immigrant family, for starters -- and more on what makes her universal, i.e., her writing of fan-fiction, her emulation of Captain Marvel, and her desire to be accepted by other teenagers. True, her character-DNA more easily links her to the dweeby Spider-man than some unknowable supreme being, and that's a good thing. Reinforcing the mysterious Other is the last thing Wilson and company intend to do with this book; as I see it, their mission is to tell stories about a teenager who happens to be Pakistani and Muslim, while examining how her cultural and spiritual traditions might conflict with her superheroing, even as her background is written off or stereotyped by the dominant (read: white) culture. However, reviews continually reassuring me that Kamala's tale is relatable to readers who are not exactly like her? That's a troubling trend. Comics culture struggles with many, many things, from to racism to sexism to ableism to harassment (to name just a few syndromes). It seems to me that couching one's response to a book in relief that specifics can be transcended in favor of only the universal might create more problems than are solved. Perhaps relatability is how minds are most often changed. Perhaps in showing one person's struggles with identity, without getting into the nitty-gritty of unique experiences, somebody hesitant might pick up Ms. Marvel #2. But without championing the specifics, I wonder what that journey is worth. If you don't note Kamala's struggle to resist bacon in the book's opening pages, how can you understand her growing frustration with the obedience expected of her as a Muslim woman? If you don't recognize Kamala's rebellious streak in the dinner table scene with her father, mother, and spiritually-focused brother, how can you believe she'd wish to be part of a different, BAM-POW! culture in the book's closing pages? If you don't see how politically charged and excitingly problematic it is that she's shape-shifted into Captain Marvel (a blonde, busty white woman) by book's end, then I'm not sure this book will ever thrill or entice you. A wise writer once told me that specifics make a story universal. Artists should resist the urge to write all things for all people, and what makes Kamala's story interesting to me is what makes her different from me. I am not a woman of color, I am not a follower of Islam, I am not a second-generation American. But I connected with Kamala's desire to be accepted for what she loves and what she believes she can achieve, if given the opportunity. Of course, getting to be Captain Marvel at the issue's cliffhanger will pose new challenges to Kamala, and I hope, lead her to reassess and appreciate her singular heritage. That seems to be where the creators are heading, as Kamala immediately regrets wishing herself in the good Captain's shoes, after a creepy unexplained fog engulfs her and gives her superpowers (comics, everybody!). When did it become passe to want to read about someone else's experiences, and identify with those who are different because of the differences we all share? No two people are alike, and I'd never want drama or my comics to state otherwise. Between DC's recent white-washing of previously POC characters, and the engrossing discussion of race and theatre production on Howlround, I know that I, as an arts consumer and artist, must resist the urge to rely on some community-enforced code of universality in order to champion creative work. I don't have to control or caveat a narrative in order to enjoy it. No one should have to do that. It's good to acknowledge that Ms. Marvel is smart, funny, exciting, and relatable. It's also good to acknowledge that the series' creators are giving us something we've never or rarely seen before. By celebrating the specific, we celebrate the universal. But only if we make the effort to understand the specific first. POST-SCRIPT: I unfortunately wrote this without delving into how cool it is to see a community of people represented in superhero comics that rarely get the spotlight. Kamala, her family, and her friends Bruno and Nakia all arrive fully fleshed out, and I hope their stories soon become essential reading for some. POST-POST-SCRIPT: All my rambling aside, track down Ms. Marvel. It is a wonderful book, a perfect example of a comic that's meant to inspire young women to examine and appreciate what makes them special. Seriously, it looks to be a great, important story, meant to appeal to non-comics readers and aficionados alike. Check it out. Ms. Marvel sketchbook art: Adrian Alphona, artwork. Sooooooooooooooooo, this seems like a strange place to write about this, but I feel like my complete support of the Affordable Care Act and what it's offering Americans should be known, especially given how public it's become over the past weekend. A while back, I was given the opportunity to speak with the Chicago Sun-Times about signing up for health insurance; provided is the profile that was written about my experience. I can't speak for everyone, obviously, but my experience with signing up was pretty easy, despite one small bump. It's definitely something everyone should look into, if only to see what insurance options are available.
I am honored to announce that I have had a piece published on Howlround this afternoon. For those who don't know, Howlround is an online meeting place where artists can interact and discuss theatre and teaching practices, along with a host of others subjects. Entitled "A Place In The Conversation: Portraying Disability Onstage," my post was adapted from a thought-piece I wrote earlier in January on this very blog, and it was a blast to work with Howlround to bring questions about putting disability onstage to a wider audience. So, give my Howlround essay a read, and get involved in the discussion! I'd love to read your thoughts!
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Playwright News & Musings on Comic Book CultureCheck this page for updates on Sarah's writing and thoughts on a great many topics, including but not limited to superheroes and disability. Archives
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