Originally published September 20, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1192

There are those inside, and outside, of the industry, who view every superhero story as some sort of passionless, bloodless corporate creation. The conventional wisdom spouted is that those who involve themselves in such endeavors are mindless hacks: Heartless, soulless automotons who don’t care about anything except satisfying the monetary cravings of upper management’s insatiable need for making money.

How could anyone (it is often asked) actually like the day-to-day involvement with spandex clad fantasy figures? It’s a circular, self-contained argument: No one working in comics could really want to be working on corporate-owned superheroes; therefore, anyone working in that atmosphere must be working there against his will and is either to be pitied or held in contempt.

This is bull. It’s the conventional wisdom, but it’s bull nonetheless.

And, unfortunately, we have just lost one of the individuals who was the epitome of the joy that comic book superheroes brings to the fans.

Mark Gruenwald–Grueny–as you all know by now, died with absolutely no warning one Monday morning, falling prey to a statistic I seem to recall about mornings being the most likely time for a heart attack. His passing–hideously and appropriately–was every Marvel cover blurb about mortality, all rolled into one. “Shock follows shock!” “Don’t tell anyone the stunning events in this issue!” “Not a hoax, not a dream! This issue… the most unexpected death of all!”

I’ve just reread the previous paragraph, and I hope it doesn’t come across as flippant, or sarcastic, or as if I’m trying to find humor in the situation. Far from it. Upon learning of Mark’s passing from Bobbie Chase, I was as astounded as were any of you, I’m sure. As has happened in the past in the industry when someone too young is taken too unexpectedly and too soon, all subsequent phone calls I had over the next couple of days took on a sort of hushed, dazed tone. Everyone had heard, like a psychic blast of pain spreading through the industry.

I’d met Mark’s wife and daughter only in passing. I didn’t really know him as a family man. What I knew him from was his work persona, and in that incarnation, I can think of no one who cherished the heroes he shepherded quite like Mark. Mark loved comics. He loved superheroes. He loved his job. His involvement with the heroes and villains of our little comic book mythos traces back to his days as a fan. He came up “through the ranks,” as it were.

Appropriately, the first time I met Grueny was when I was still a fan. It was at a Phil Seuling New York convention. Mark and several other Marvel editors were up on stage, doing a “Marvel Plotting” panel, in which fans were invited to come up on stage and describe a proposed plot to the editors. The editors would then critique it. Mark was the MC, as he often was for these sorts of things.

I lined up with the other fans as people pitched potential ideas. I don’t recall most of them, except that they weren’t greeted with too much enthusiasm (although, truth to tell, one wonders how much fervor the prospect of spider-clones and Professor X going berserk would have aroused in the panel).

And then Grueny got to me, asked my name, and then told me to describe my plot.

I’d love to tell you that a brilliant story sprung fully formed from my brow, knocking their socks off and prompting them to hire me on the spot. But, to be honest, I don’t remember what I came up with. And my start with Marvel was still a year or so in the future. But what I do remember is that Mark looked at me appraisingly after I’d pitched the notion and said, “That’s not bad. That’s not a bad start at all. Keep working on it.”

In later years I collaborated with Mark when we were working on the New Universe, the vastly underrated line of comics which featured–I think–some of Mark’s best work. His love for the genre of superheroes was never more evident than when he was crafting the reality-based, thoughtful adventures of D.P. 7, the adventures of seven displaced paranormals. It was a series that was literally ahead of its time.

My other favorite work of his was Squadron Supreme. With the popularity of Kingdom Come, why Marvel hasn’t re-released this stellar miniseries in trade paperback form is a mystery to me. As well-crafted as KC was, quite a few fans have commented that Grueny covered some of the same ground in Squadron, and did it extremely well.

And every time I had the opportunity to work with Grueny on some project or another, I was always struck by his enthusiasm, his total commitment, and his unwavering dedication to making the work as high-quality as he possibly could.

He found his perfect editorial soul mate in Mike Carlin, his assistant. The Gruenwald/Carlin office was the Marvel equivalent of “Anything Can Happen” day. You’d walk in one time and discover that you were arm deep in wadded up paper. Or the door would be closed for a day and all you’d hear was hammering and sawing. Come in the following day and you’d discover that–for no discernable reason–Mark and Mike had built platforms for their desks. Addressing them now required craning your neck as if aiming supplications at Olympian gods (hmm. Perhaps the reason wasn’t so undiscernible at that.)

That enthusiasm and comraderie carried over even when Mike moved to DC. It was never more pronounced than when Mike, Mark, Ron Marz and I teamed up for the Marvel vs. DC limited series.

Some of my fondest comic-related memories involve sitting in Mark’s apartment, hatching and planning the series. It was a task that Mark and Mike took on with unfettered glee. Again, there is the cynical fan contingent who brushed off the limited series as some heartless corporate ploy. All I can tell you is: Not in that room. There, it was just a roomful of fans and their fictitious cape-and-cowled pals (Fanboyz and the Hood, as it were). There we were with Mark the ringleader, gleefully rubbing our hands together as we assembled all sorts of match-ups that we wanted to see when we were kids. We’d say, “Oh, let’s not forget–!” or “Do you think we can squeeze in–!” or “Let’s just have one panel showing–!”

It was as if Marvel vs. DC was a culmination of all our careers. Everyone in that room–Mark especially, I think–had come into comics not simply because it was a convenient career path, but because of love for and enthusiasm about the genre. And here we were being presented with the opportunity to produce a series that had a “Cool!” rating of about a thousand on a scale of one to ten. Every so often we’d stop and look at each other with a sort of giddy disbelief. We were grown-ups, for crying out loud, indulging in fannish fantasies. And we were being paid for it, too? Too much.

The last opportunity I had to work with Grueny, I am now so glad I took, because he kind of had to talk me into it.

He called me and said, “We’re going to be doing a Hulk vs. Hercules one shot. I’m editing it, and I’d love it if you could write it.”

I wasn’t sure if I had the time or inclination to get involved. But it was clear that Marvel really wanted to do the project, to boost interest in Hercules (making him the Marvel universe equivalent of Thor while Thor was off in the Leefeld Universe). I’d always liked Herc, although I felt his character had been treated somewhat erratically. Plus I felt somewhat possessive about the Hulk, and was pleased that they’d come to me first (or at least said they’d come to me first.)

Mark promised me carte blanche on the plot. So I agreed to take it on. I ran late turning the plot in. Mark cut me a ton of slack. When I finished the plot, I knew I had a problem. It was supposed to be a 38 page book, but the plot ran 44 pages. I told Mark the situation. “Send it in before you cut it; let me read it,” he said.

I did so, and Mark called me the next day and said, with quiet conviction, “This is the best Marvel comic I’ve read in years.” I can’t recall being more flattered. He promptly went to his higher-ups and talked them into yanking advertising for the book to accommodate the longer story, while keeping the price down.

Here’s the irony of that particular story: The theme of the Hulk vs. Hercules story is mortality vs. immortality. That the limits set on one’s own existence are what make the accomplishments during one’s lifetime so worthwhile.

That phone call I had with Mark, where he spoke so highly of the story, was the last communication I had with him. And the subject matter of the comic has a depressing resonance to it now. You look over your own life, and you see what you’re faced with. The stress, the aggravation. The misunderstandings, the miscommunications, the hassles that drag us down from where we want to be. You make the sacrifices here and the cuts there, just trying to keep your head above water. And every so often you just look heavenward and find yourself saying, “God, why am I doing this to myself? Life is too short.”

It is. It’s too damned short.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

Kathleen has been much more diligent in cleaning out sock puppet commenters than I have been; and she usually gets to them first. This is, on the whole, a good thing as she is much nicer than I am. But rest assured, if I find sock puppets commenting before any other admin does, woe be unto them, the day of wrath is come and their foot shall slip in due time.

“There is nothing that keeps wicked men at any one moment out of hell, but the mere pleasure of God.“

Now go see if that groundhog sees his shadow or not. Won’t affect what I do, of course.

Hello,
This is Kathleen on Peter’s web log. As many of you know I am an administrator here on Peter’s site.

Among my any duties are dealing with things in the filter. I try to get to it about once a day and clear it out. Approving those things that just got stuck for some reason and getting rid of comments that don’t have anything to do with anything (Insert a chorus of Spam Spam Spam) here.

Now I have been noticing something that has been going on recently and I am watching it. Peter allows just about everyone to comment on things and allows for differing points of view to express their opinions. However, creating sock puppets to bolster your point/comments is not cricket here. You know who you are and I am asking in my most polite indoor voice to knock it off.

Thank you
Kath the Wife David

And to make this more palatable, I am going to open this thread to Ask the Wife and Ask Caroline questions if you have any. Caroline is excited about this so keep it polite and if your question doesn’t get answered, please understand that either she didn’t really have an answer or it is something I don’t want her to answer for whatever reason.

Originally published September 13, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1191

For the past two weeks, we’ve been bringing you installments of an unused Space Cases script written by Bill Mumy and Peter. The ship’s crew has seen a vision of their imminent destruction and Davenport is dealing with it poorly. Rosie, on the other hand, is facing a crisis of her own.

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): The Christa flies by (stock shot).

INT. GIRLS’ BUNKROOM: Catalina and Rosie.  Cat is endeavoring to study, but Rosie isn’t letting the earlier conversation drop.

ROSIE: When you say I’m “too nice”, what do you mean, really?

CATALINA: Boy, you and Miss Davenport—you’re both really concerned with what others think of you lately.

ROSIE: Could you please just answer the question?

CATALINA: I don’t know.  Too nice as in—too nice.  Too eager to make people happy.  You’d never want to stick your neck out and make Commander Goddard mad at you.

ROSIE: I snuck aboard with the rest of you onto this ship, didn’t I?

CATALINA: That’s because you didn’t want to make us mad at you.

ROSIE: So you’re saying I’m a coward.  I’m gutless.  That you guys are better than me because you’re not worried about stepping out of line.

CATALINA: You’re making too big a deal of this.  I said what I said, OK?  No more, no less.  Take it however you want. (indicates compupad) Now can I get back to this, please?

ROSIE: I’ll show you I’m no coward.  I’ll… I’ll spend the night in The Haunted Corridor.

CATALINA: Commander Goddard said to steer clear of it.

Rosie defiantly grabs her blanket, pillow, and several stuffed animals.

ROSIE: Well, when you’re someone who puts it on the line, you don’t always do what Commander Goddard says.

She marches out.

INT. CORRIDOR OUTSIDE GIRLS’ BUNKROOM: Bova, Rosie and Cat.  Rosie marches out and passes Bova, who’s walking by.

BOVA: Where are you going?

ROSIE: Nowhere.

BOVA: Been there.

She exits without reply.  Catalina steps out into corridor.

CATALINA: She’s heading down to The Haunted Corridor.

BOVA: The Haunted Corridor?

CATALINA: Yeah.

BOVA: (considering this) Hunh.  Well, good for her.

And he walks off leaving Catalina looking with a degree of concern after Rosie.

INT. THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR: With Rosie standing at the entrance.  We hear a steady “Ooowwwwoooo” wafting through it.  Rosie stands there, on the brink, ready to step through, and we fade out.

END ACT ONE

ACT TWO

INT. THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR: With Rosie standing there, as before.  She takes a deep breath and then suddenly she hears a CRACKLING, like electricity, and there’s a LIGHT behind her.  She whirls to see two backlit silhouetted figures. 

Illumination is cascading from the area in front of the taller one’s head.  The duo steps forward and are revealed as Bova and Thelma.  Thelma has light blue bulbs screwed into both ears, providing light.  Bova has a blanket and pillow.

BOVA: Hi.

ROSIE: What are you doing here?

BOVA: I thought you could use company.

ROSIE: It really wasn’t necessary.  But that’s really sweet of you.

BOVA: Don’t tell anyone.  It’ll ruin my reputation.

INT. TEAM ROOM: Harlan, in workout clothes, is practicing karate moves.  Radu looks up from a book he’s reading.

RADU: Now, you see, you do that all the time, and it’s always the same moves.  Why isn’t that boring?

HARLAN: (continuing moves) Because I try to do some other boring thing while I’m doing this, so this seems less boring in comparison.

RADU: What “other boring thing” do you try and do at the same time?

HARLAN: (without heat, just ribbing) Talk to you.

RADU: Why do I bother?

Catalina enters through a Jump Tube.

CATALINA: We gotta talk about this.

HARLAN: About what?

CATALINA: Rosie.  I think she may be in over her red head.

INT. THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR: Rosie, Bova, Thelma are seated on the blankets, the pillows to one side.  Thelma is keeping a low glow going from the light bulbs.  Rosie is just finishing telling a joke.

ROSIE: And so he turns to the other guys and says, “That’s not my arm, that’s my airhose!”

Waits for laugh.  Doesn’t get one.  She sighs.

THELMA: What is the purpose of jokes?

ROSIE: Sometimes I wonder.  Supposedly, to keep things interesting.  To make you laugh.  For fun.  You know: amusement.

THELMA: Being amused is important?

ROSIE: Yes.

BOVA: (at the same time) No.

ROSIE: Aw, C’mon, Bova.  I’m sure on your homeworld there must be something you guys do for fun.

BOVA: Well, there is an amusement park.

ROSIE: There, you see!

BOVA: It’s called Lineland.  You pay admission, go in—and stand in line.

ROSIE: For what?

BOVA: The exit.

ROSIE: And you think that’s fun?

BOVA: It’s the happiest place on Uranus.

Suddenly they react to something, as they hear a SCRAPING NOISE—then HEAVY FOOTSTEPS—then we hear HOWLING.  Bova’s antennae begin to CRACKLE.  Rosie, Bova, and Thelma look up, and a shadowed figure steps into frame, blocking our view of them.

SMASH CUT TO INT. TEAM ROOM: Catalina, Harlan, and Radu.  Harlan and Radu are regarding Cat curiously.

HARLAN: Look, Ringhead, if you’re so sure she’s down there, you go look for her.

CATALINA: She went because she was concerned about what we all thought of her.  Besides, I… (pauses a beat) You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?

RADU: Say what?

CATALINA: I don’t want to go by myself, OK?

RADU: What about your invisible friend, Suzee?  Take her.

CATALINA: She won’t go.  She’s really terrified of anything she can’t see.

HARLAN: Every time I think I’m used to how strange you are, you open new frontiers of weirdness.  You know what?  For all we know, this is some sort of setup.  A hoax, like Miss Davenport was talking about.  I’ll bet that’s it.

CATALINA: (considers that a ridiculous notion) Oh, puh-leese.

HARLAN: No, forget it.  Hairdo can make up his own mind.

RADU: Radu.

HARLAN: Yeah, whatever.  But as far as I’m concerned, the subject is closed.

FOCUS ON THE JUMP TUBE: Bova slides in, but he doesn’t get up.  Instead he slides straight in, lands on his back on the deck, and lies there like a board.  His eyes are wide, his mouth open, his skin pale.  He’s making inarticulate gargling noises.

BOVA: (in a voice like the voice of the doomed) Rosie…

Harlan, Radu, and Catalina stare at him.

HARLAN: The subject is open.

They quickly go to Bova.  He’s literally scared stiff.  They move him to a chair.

HARLAN: What happened, buddy?

BOVA: G-g-ghost—Rosie—ghost got Ro-Rosie—

RADU: Still think it’s all a joke, Harlan?  Bova isn’t Mr. Laughs.  Practical jokes aren’t his thing.

HARLAN: OK, OK, I’m convinced.

RADU: Should we tell Commander Goddard?

HARLAN and CATALINA: No!

CATALINA: He said to stay away from there.  I don’t want Rosie to get in trouble.

DAVENPORT (OFF-STAGE): Ahem.

They look and see Davenport, her face just barely visible in the slightly open doorway.  Obviously she’s just overheard.

DAVENPORT: I was not intending to eavesdrop.  However, I—

She manages to shove open the side of the door with the double cogs, but the single cog won’t move for her.  She crawls under it and crosses quickly to Bova.

DAVENPORT: I couldn’t help but overhear.  What’s happened to Bova, where’s Rosie, and what don’t you want Commander Goddard to know?

The kids look at each other.

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): The Christa angling through the ether (stock shot).

INT. THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR ENTRANCE DOOR: Harlan, Radu, Catalina, and Davenport step into frame.  They’re all wearing field packs with shoulder-mounted flashlights.

HARLAN: Look, Miss Davenport, since you know, we might as well have Commander Goddard down here in—

DAVENPORT (OVERLAPPING): Instead?

HARLAN: I was going to say “in charge”.

DAVENPORT: This situation doesn’t require the presence of more than one adult.  Or do you believe that I’m simply incapable of overseeing the retrieval of one of my students? (pauses for a beat) If you’re waiting for me to “crack up”, Mr. Band, you’re in for a disappointment.  All of you are.

CATALINA: If you say so, Miss Davenport.

RADU: Right.  Feel free to disappoint us.

She does a take, not quite sure how to respond to that.  And then Harlan activates the doors and they step through, the doors shutting behind them.

INT. THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR: Darker, lighted weirdly, perhaps even a faint sense of mist in the air.  Our heroes move down it slowly.

DAVENPORT: Rosie!  Roooosssieeee! (keeping herself together with effort) How long have we been searching?  An hour?  Two?

RADU: Nine minutes.

CATALINA: Hey, look!

At their feet are several stuffed animals: a bear, a tiger, a lion.

RADU: These are Rosie’s!  She wouldn’t have just left those lying around.

CATALINA: Let me see.  You sure? (sorting through them) Yeah, this is her lion and tiger and bear.

DAVENPORT: Oh my.

HARLAN: (checking for himself) Lion…

RADU: …and tiger…

CATALINA: …and bear…

DAVENPORT: Oh my.

They start slowly down the hallway, murmuring in escalating dread:

KIDS: Lion and tiger and bear…

DAVENPORT: Oh my.

KIDS: Lion and tiger and bear…

DAVENPORT: Oh my.

KIDS: Lion and tiger and b—

Suddenly they skid to a halt and YELL in horror, as they see Thelma’s head lying on the floor, staring forward, eyes unblinking.  Davenport kneels down, slowly picks up her head, looks at her in shock and dismay.

DAVENPORT: Alas, poor Thelma… I… I knew her, Harlan.  A droid of infinite jest and most excellent fancy…

HARLAN: (shouting) Whichever of you ghosts did this—you’re dead!

They pause a moment as the idiocy of this sinks in.

CATALINA: Your point being?

HARLAN: (shouting with less certainty) However dead you are now—you’ll be—uh—even deader!

And suddenly, there is a low moan as they see a SPECTRAL BEING, hurtling through the air, MOANING and WAILING.  It comes right towards them.  Harlan leaps forward with a kick and passes right through it, hitting the ground.  The ghost hovers for a moment, moans, and then vanishes.  Cat and Radu help Harlan up.

DAVENPORT: That was very brave, Mr. Band—foolhardy, but brave.

CATALINA: (dryly) Yeah, you sure showed them.

RADU: We’ve got to find Rosie and get out of here.

HARLAN: For once… no argument…

Suddenly, they hear a GUNSHOT, a ROLLING SOUND, and a DISTANT SMACKING SOUND.

HARLAN: C’mon.

INT. DOOR IN THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR: The noise is coming from within.  But the door doesn’t open.  Harlan tries to pry it open.  No luck.

DAVENPORT: Now you know how frustrated I get sometimes.

RADU: Let me.

HARLAN: (annoyed but resigned) Be my guest, Hercules.

Radu shoves his fingers into the door opening and muscles it open.

INT. THE REC ROOM OF THE DAMNED: (A red-lit version of the Team Room or, if we’re really feeling ambitious, the Starcademy set.) Harlan, Radu, and Cat.  The interior is very, very dim.  There’s some furniture, mostly broken down.  The SOUNDS ARE LOUDER than ever.  The CAMERA WHIP PANS to the far side of the room to reveal an old-style pinball machine.

RADU: What’s that?

HARLAN: It’s an old pinball machine.  My dad showed me a picture once.

DAVENPORT: An ancient pinball machine, on an alien ship?  Insanity.

They move across the room toward it.

DAVENPORT: Don’t touch anything.  Around here, that might prove lethal.

CATALINA: What could have happened down here?  I wish we knew more about whoever was on this ship before we found her.

HARLAN: If they’re all ghosts now, I think I know as much about ‘em as I want to.

RADU: I feel like we could be wandering around here forever and still not find Rosie.

Suddenly, they JUMP as they hear a SHRIEK.  They spin to see Rosie hurtling through the door, dangling in mid-air.

ROSIE: Help!  It’s got me!  It’s got me—(her voice suddenly changes into something out of The Exorcist) You won’t escape!  Bwaa, ha, haa—

Rosie is yanked up out of frame and then the camera angles down to reveal a GHOUL framed in the door with an ax in either hand.  He howls, whipping the axes in threatening arcs. (Music soundtrack is pure Psycho with demented violin strings SCREECHING.)

Our heroes scream in pure terror.  Sure, they have metapowers and have faced danger—but they’re still kids, they’re tighter than violin strings.  They back up, bumping against the wall, petrified, and then—trying to overcome their horror:

HARLAN: Get him!

They try to move forward, but they’re stuck, backs flat against the wall, held there tight.  The Ghoul advances on them, howling, wielding his ax.  The music is going BERSERK, the lights are FLASHING RED.

DAVENPORT: (her finest moment) Let them go!  Do whatever you want to me, but let them go!  I’m not afraid of you!

The Ghoul’s axes are whipping through the air, as he comes closer and closer.

HARLAN: Cat!  Your sonic blast!

CATALINA: Against a ghost?

HARLAN: It’s our only chance!

The camera shoots from the kids’ point-of-view.  The Ghoul charges.

 The camera returns to the main scene, as Catalina draws in a breath to scream and a gloved hand suddenly clamps over her mouth.  Cat’s eyes go wide with terror, as she sees Rosie dangling in front of her, eyes wide and demented-looking, her hand over Cat’s mouth preventing her scream. The camera again shoots from the kids’ point-of-view.  The Ghoul is almost upon them, leading with his ax blades.  He draws back his axes.

The camera returns to the main scene, as Harlan and Radu yell in stark terror.  The Ghoul freezes in place, bare inches from them, and suddenly gives the unofficial Stardog salute.

HARLAN: Huh?

GHOUL: (beat) So are you still bored, Mr. Band?

The Ghoul peels away his grotesque makeup to reveal he is, indeed, Goddard.  Rosie removes an anti-grav disk from her belt and shuts it off.

CATALINA: I… I don’t…

RADU: Commander?!

GODDARD: A little makeup, an anti-grav disk—an easy cure for the same old, same old, wouldn’t you say?

HARLAN: (recovering his wits) You know, that wasn’t funny, Commander.

GODDARD: I hear that a lot.  But what’s even less funny is a crew losing its edge because of boredom.  So Miss Davenport, Rosie and I cooked up a scheme to teach you that in space, you can’t take anything for granted.  Oh, you can move away from the wall.  The static field should have worn off by now.  Miss Davenport, you played along perfectly.  Good going. “Take me instead!” Beautiful.

DAVENPORT: (very sweetly, she even rests her hands on his shirt) Commander, in our “discussion”, you said you were going to arrange a sort of drill to—how did you put it?—“keep Harlan, Cat, and the others on their toes.” You never went into specifics, though…

GODDARD: Your point being?

DAVENPORT: My point being—(suddenly gripping fistfuls of his shirt as she bellows) I didn’t know this was the drill!  Don’t ever do this again!

DISSOLVE TO INT. THE HAUNTED CORRIDOR: Goddard, Harlan, Catalina, Radu, and Rosie are moving down it.

CATALINA: And Bova wasn’t in on it?

GODDARD: Not at first.  I enlisted Rosie to play along.

ROSIE: You know me, Cat.  Always looking for a chance to be nice.

GODDARD: When I came to meet her down here as we’d arranged, I found Bova had followed her down.  So I brought him in on it, too.

CATALINA: OK, OK, you made your point.

RADU: After this, boredom will be a relief.

GODDARD: I admit, I was impressed by your team spirit.  You were scared, but you were so determined to help your teammate Rosie that you kept going.  Good for you.

HARLAN: What impressed me was that fake ghost you cooked up.

GODDARD: What fake ghost?

HARLAN: The one here in the corridor, that came floating through the air.

GODDARD: Mr. Band, I’m not falling for this.

DAVENPORT: And that ghastly business with Thelma’s head.

GODDARD: Thelma’s head?  I told Thelma she could leave!  What are you talking about!  Beheadings, ghosts—Come on, team, this corridor isn’t really haunt—

And then they hear MOANING and WAILING.  They turn and react as they see ghosts from their point-of-view.

These will be computer-generated images, hurtling toward them, coming from the walls, the floors, the ceiling, howling “Get ouuut!”

The camera returns to the main scene as everybody runs for their lives, hightailing it out of The Haunted Corridor

The ghosts hover there for a moment more, then the camera comes in tight on Thelma’s head.  Her eyes are lit up with projection beams, and her mouth is moving, providing the chorus of ghostly voices.

Thelma’s booted feet step into the frame.  Her hands reach down and lift her head out of the frame, snapping her head back into place.  The ghosts have all vanished with the shutdown of her projection beams.  She tries to laugh, not very well.

THELMA: Ha ha ha ha ha. (sighs, shrugs) Humans are so easily amused.

She exits and TWO GHOSTS appear behind her.  They SIGH.

GHOST 1: This is all your fault.  You had to complain about being bored, and now look: we’re stuck with those nuts.

GHOST 2: That’s right, blame everything on me, like you always do.  Same old, same old…

FADE OUT.

END ACT TWO

THE END

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be contacted at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

On the one hand, I’m incredibly depressed that tonight is the finale of “Chuck.” On the other hand, I feel as if I should be grateful that we had the show for as long as we did. And the great thing about that is that it happened because fans took one of the favorite tactics of boycotters and censors, turned it around, and accomplished something positive with it.

“Chuck” was always a demented, schizo series. In any single episode, the story could ricochet from broadly played comedy to high-stakes espionage.

That didn’t always sit well with a lot of viewers. Mixing genres is a challenge on your best day, and most people didn’t take to situations as tonally diverse as spies dodging bullets in Morocco in one scene and stoned salesmen dodging work in the Buy More the next scene.

Me, I loved it from the pilot episode on. I loved the writing, I thought the cast was engaging. Sure, sometimes the humor and drama pushed too hard against each other or stretched too far away, but I was always happy to just ride with it.

And, as is typical with shows I really enjoy, it was viewer challenged, season after season. It was on the bubble more than Glinda the Good Witch.

Usually when fans attempt to keep a series on the air, they do so by targeting the network. Very iffy.

However when censors or boycotters try to drive a series from the air, they do so by targeting the sponsors. Typically, this gets more publicity and, if not always successful, can still have a chilling effect desired by self-appointed protectors of what you should be allowed to watch.

So “Chuck” fans adopted the sponsor-directed tactics by showing 110% support for “Subway,” which went from being a mere product placement in one episode to a full-fledged rallying point as a way of impressing upon sponsors that, hey, support this show and we’ll support you. Granted, it was one of a number of means undertaken to display support for the program, but it was one of the most visible and highly touted.

So this evening we’ll be watching to see how it all ends while munching “Subway” sandwiches.

Chuck me.

PAD

Originally published September 6, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1190

Last time, we presented Part 1 of Peter David and Bill Mumy’s unfilmed script for an episode of Space Cases. As we left the crew of the Christa, they were attempting to discover the source of a scene showing the ship’s (and presumably the crew’s) demise.

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): The Christa flies by (stock shot).

DAVENPORT (VOICE-OVER): I’d like you all to be brutally honest with me.

INT. COMMAND POST: Davenport, Radu, Rosie and Bova are on monitor duty.

DAVENPORT: It is important to me that, as your teacher, I command a certain degree of respect.  To that end, no matter how difficult it may be for you—I need your candid opinion on how I’m perceived as a contributing member of this crew.  Do you believe I panic easily?

BOVA: Yes.

RADU: Absolutely.

ROSIE: No question.

DAVENPORT: But in a stressful situation, I can be of some help?

BOVA: No.

RADU: Not a lot.

ROSIE: But we like you.

DAVENPORT: Well, that is going to change.

ROSIE: We’re not going to like you anymore?

DAVENPORT: I mean, if that’s how you see me, then I’m going to change that.  No more anxiety attacks from T.J. Davenport.  It’s simply a matter of willpower.  Mind over panic.

Suddenly, an alert goes off.  The kids immediately scramble to their stations.

DAVENPORT: (incredibly chipper) Ah!  Already a test of my new resolve!  I welcome the challenge!

RADU: Screen on!

ROSIE: Shields up and holding!

BOVA: Scanning for—Got it!  We’ve got a quantum singularity, coming in fast!

DAVENPORT: (holding her chipperness) A quantum singularity!  That would be a field of anti-stellar residue which, if it wraps itself around us, can slice us up like three-day-old cheese, even through our shielding.  Ohhh, this will get the old excitement juices flowing, eh?

RADU: Thelma!

Thelma steps into frame, overlapping.

THELMA: Yes?

RADU: Take navigation.  I’m going to maneuver us through the singularity.

He moves quickly to helm, takes control.

EXT. SPACE—CHRISTA WITH THE SINGULARITY (OPTICAL): The singularity is basically an intertwining strand of colored bands, similar to a strand of DNA.  It’s PULSING and closing around the Christa, tightening.  The Christa is maneuvering very carefully so as not to come in contact.

INT. COMMAND POST: Radu, Rosie, Bova, Thelma, Davenport.  Davenport still appears in control of herself.

THELMA: Another 20 degrees to port.

DAVENPORT: So what can I do to help?

RADU: (concentrating on steering) Nothing.

DAVENPORT: Ah, I see.  Nothing.  So I need only stand here and—and—(losing it)—and wait to be cut to molecular ribbons!  We’ll never make it!  We haven’t a prayer!

INSERT: The singularity on the screen, tightening around them.

RADU: Hold on!  This is going to be tight!

DAVENPORT: We’re going to die!  We’re all going to die!

EXT. SPACE—CHRISTA AND THE SINGULARITY (OPTICAL): The singularity collapses in on itself, but, a split second before it does so, the Christa shoots out the top of it to safety.

INT. COMMAND POST: Everyone and everything as it was before the exterior shot.  Davenport has collapsed, her back against the command console, her head between her legs.  And then Harlan slides in through the Jump Tube.  He looks around.

HARLAN: Don’t tell me: We ran into something that could have destroyed the ship?

BOVA: Right.

HARLAN: We got away from it?  Just barely?

RADU: Right.

HARLAN: Miss Davenport panicked?

ROSIE: Right.

HARLAN: (nods, he knew it) Same old, same old.  Nothing different ever happens around here.

Davenport softly starts thudding the back of her head against the command console.

INT. HAUNTED CORRIDOR ENTRANCE: An establishing shot on Goddard and Catalina.  They are standing at a doorway at the end of a corridor.  Goddard opens the door, and it slides open, giving us a forced perspective angle of The Haunted Corridor—lit darker and more menacingly than the normal corridor and seemingly going on forever.  Catalina is holding her detection device outward in the direction of the corridor—and moaning softly.

GODDARD: Let me guess: We lost the lock on it.

CATALINA: Yup.  It seems as if every time we have some sort of power glitch, we wind up tracing it down here to this bottom-level deck and then we lose the track.

GODDARD: I’ve come to expect that from—The Haunted Corridor.

MUSICAL STING.

CATALINA: You keep calling it that, but you don’t really believe it’s haunted, do you, Commander?

GODDARD: Legends of gremlins botching the workings of vessels go back centuries, Catalina.  To say nothing of poltergeists and… (pauses for a beat) All I know is, Thelma’s got no clue what’s down here, and I’d just as soon steer clear of it, energy glitches or no.  From now on, this section of the ship is forbidden to all personnel.

CATALINA: Aye, aye, sir.

He walks away.  Catalina peers in and then we CLOSE IN steadily on her, as she hears a long, moaning HOWL (sound effects).  Clearly disconcerted, Catalina quickly ducks back, and the door slides closed.

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): The Christa flies by (stock shot).

ROSIE (VOICE-OVER): I would love to check out The Haunted Corridor.

INT. GALLEY: Rosie, Bova, Harlan, Radu, and Catalina are having breakfast.  Harlan and Radu are in the process of preparing their breakfasts by dropping fluid onto the foodpogs.

CATALINA: No, you wouldn’t—if for no other reason than that Commander Goddard put it off-limits.  Going down there would mean disobeying a direct order.  You’re too nice for that, Rosie.

ROSIE: Thanks, I guess…

There’s a flash from Radu and Harlan’s plates as they drop the liquid on them.  Both plates now contain food.  Both Harlan and Radu make faces of extreme disgust.  Then they swap the breakfasts.

HARLAN: It mixed up our breakfasts again.  What is that?

RADU: Raw narf intestines.

HARLAN: Why can’t you eat something normal, like scrambled eggs?

RADU: Ah, you mean cooked unborn baby chickens?

Harlan is about to respond, then looks at his breakfast again and slides the plate aside, having completely lost his appetite.  Bova pulls the plate over unhesitatingly and starts chowing down.

DAVENPORT (VOICE-OVER): Since you all seem so bored lately…

INT. CLASSROOM: A wide establishing shot takes in Davenport and the kids, whom Davenport is teaching.

DAVENPORT: …I thought we would discuss one of the frequent outgrowths of boredom: the practical joke and how it applies to science.

HARLAN: I thought science was pretty—you know—serious.

DAVENPORT: Oh, there are some very famous hoaxes.  Screen on.

The screen comes on, and we see the famous fuzzy photo of the Loch Ness monster.

DAVENPORT: For example, one day in the 1930’s, a bored reporter in Scotland claimed, as a joke, that there was a monster in a local body of water called Loch Ness.  Scientists spent decades trying to find it.

CATALINA: (sarcastically) On my world we also heard rumors about strange monsters.  They were called “Earth men”.

DAVENPORT: And then there was the time in 1912 when Charles Dawson, an amateur naturalist, claimed he’d found the fossil bones in Piltdown, England, belonging to the so-called Missing Link.

The image shifts to a picture of Piltdown Man’s skull.

DAVENPORT: The Piltdown Man, as it was named, was supposed to be the evolutionary step between ape and man.  Scientists accepted it for 40 years, until fluorine testing found it to be just a man’s skull and the jaw of an orangutan: a forgery.

RADU: Early 20th-century Earth had a lot of hoaxes.

HARLAN: People were bored.  They had nothing else to do.  Even then, it was…

HARLAN and DAVENPORT: Same old, same old.

DAVENPORT: (continuing) Yes, Mr. Band, you’ve more than made your point.  It’s rather intolerable when someone keeps repeating something.

HARLAN: Like if they keep saying they’re not going to panic any more?

DAVENPORT: (chagrined sigh) Yes.  Rather like that.

[To be continued]

Originally published August 30, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1189

Gather round, kiddies—it’s another ripping installment of:

 Useless Stories

As I write this, I’m in sunny Montreal, where Space Cases is being prepped for its second season (set to begin in October). In that spirit, I’ve decided to show you a script that was written for the first season but—for a variety of reasons—didn’t get used. Written by Space Cases co-creator Bill Mumy and me, it shows the crew of the Christa learning one of the oldest lessons around: that the saying “May you live in interesting times” is the deadliest curse in the universe.

“Same Old, Same Old”

Teaser

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): Focus on a huge computer-generated vessel with smaller ships attached under its wings.  They release and descend forcefully toward a larger ship, firing.

HARLAN (VOICE-OVER): There’re six of them!  And I thought this was going to be tough!

INT. TEAM ROOM: A wide establishing shot with Harlan and Bova.

Harlan is wearing a high-tech virtual reality visor, a control stick in each hand.  Each stick is jacked into the visor through a thin cord.  Bova is wearing a visor as well, but he’s not playing; his arms are folded.

HARLAN: Hold on… quick dive… there!  Got that one!  Targeting another…

BOVA: You’ll never make it.

HARLAN: A week’s worth of dish duty says I get through the whole program.

BOVA: You’re on.

Rosie and Catalina enter.

CATALINA: Harlan!  It was supposed to be our turn for the simulation 15 minutes ago!

HARLAN: I’m in the middle of this!

CATALINA: You’re always in the middle of this, or that, or something else!  When are you gonna start doing something around here?

HARLAN: I do plenty!  And when I’m off duty, I do what I feel like! (into game) Ha!  Did you see that?

BOVA: Just luck.

ROSIE: You know, Cat, we can always come back…

HARLAN: (into the game) Almost there… allllmostt…

Catalina quickly crooks her finger to Rosie and kneels.  Puzzled, Rosie kneels next to her and then Catalina quickly pulls Rosie’s right glove off her hand.

ROSIE: Hey!  Cat, what are you do—

And gripping Rosie firmly by the sleeve, she presses Rosie’s hand against…

CLOSE-UP—Tight shot of Harlan’s foot.  Rosie’s hot hand is against it.  An aura of red promptly envelops Harlan’s foot.

ROSIE: Cat, stop!

HARLAN: (still into the simulation) This is it… I’m gonna… (suddenly feels the heat) Yaaaaaaa!!!

Harlan jumps around, dropping the control sticks.  He hops around like mad and then suddenly realizes—

HARLAN: Aw, no—the ship—

He tries grabbing at the control sticks, which are dangling.  He grabs left and right as they swing out of his way, moving past Bova, Rosie, and Catalina.  Rosie is pulling her glove back on, looking chagrined.

HARLAN: (freezes, “seeing” the end of the game) No!

BOVA: Wow.  I’ve never seen your ship go up in that big ball of flame before.

HARLAN: It’s not my fault!

BOVA: Make sure my dishes are extra clean.

Harlan yanks off visor.

HARLAN: Rosie, this is your fault!

ROSIE: No, it’s not!  Catalina made me!

CATALINA: It’s your own fault, Harlan.  You were hogging the game.

Everyone starts talking at once.

HARLAN: That doesn’t give you an excuse to hotfoot me!  I am so sick of you acting like you own the place—

CATALINA: You think you can do whatever you want to—and I’m fed up with it.  I’m not taking it anymore.

BOVA: (pretty much to himself) Clean, but not shiny.  I don’t like seeing myself in my plate.  It’s like eating food off my face.

ROSIE: Just because I try to be nice to everyone, people take advantage of me.  And then I get blamed.  Is that fair?  Is it?

Radu enters the room.

RADU: Hi, what’s going on?

ALL: Nothing!

RADU: Don’t yell at me!  What did I do?

HARLAN: What didn’t you do?  Always whining about how you’re treated—

CATALINA: You’re as bad as Harlan—the two of you arguing all the time—

BOVA: Nothing, really, except that time you blew steam in my face and I couldn’t see for a day—

ROSIE: Hey, I’m always trying to be nice to you!  I’m getting blamed again—

All ad-lib as Radu argues back and as the volume rises…

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): Focus on the Christa cruising, when suddenly it blows up.

FADE OUT

END TEASER

ACT ONE

INT. TEAM ROOM: The kids look up in shock as they see—

INSERT (ON WALL SCREEN): An image of the Christa blowing up, as per the end of the teaser.

BACK TO INTERIOR SCENE: As the kids stare at each other, the doors to the room open slightly, enough for us to see Davenport’s face.

DAVENPORT: What in—

With a sigh of frustration, she shoves the doors open.  She walks through and they almost slam on her.

DAVENPORT: What in the world is going on h—?

She looks up at the screen and gapes.  The following is done rapid fire.

DAVENPORT: Another warning from the future?

HARLAN: If we’d blown up, how could we send a warning?

BOVA: Alien transmission?

CATALINA: It’s only an internal monitor.

RADU: Hallucination caused by a virus?

ROSIE: I just did a med sweep yesterday.  Ship’s clean.

HARLAN: OK, then it’s probably a mechanical screw-up we shouldn’t worry about.

GODDARD (VOICE OVER): (filtered and on cue) Attention all hands, this is Commander Goddard—do not be alarmed.

INT. COMMAND POST: A wide-angle establishing shot of Goddard and Thelma, who are looking at the screen.  Thelma is standing at the command console.

GODDARD: I was having Thelma run stress simulation visuals on the Christa to evaluate our shield strength.  See how much of a pounding we could withstand before we… (opts not to go into detail) At any rate, she’s just informed me that an odd energy glitch caused the picture to appear throughout the ship.

THELMA: I hope it did not cause any undue stress to ship’s personnel.

INT. TEAM ROOM: With Davenport and the kids.  We see, just for a moment, that Davenport is seated with her head between her legs, hyperventilating.  Harlan steps into frame, looks down at her, and shakes his head.  She looks up at him, but he’s exited.

DAVENPORT: Mr. Band—

She heads out after him—

INT. CORRIDOR: Davenport stops Harlan sternly.

DAVENPORT: Do you have a problem, Mr. Band?

HARLAN: It’s nothing.  Well, look, with all due respect, I just knew you were going to do that.  That when faced with danger, you’d start to panic.

DAVENPORT: I never panic!  I’m just—calm-impaired.  Anyway, this isn’t about me; it’s about all of you.  What were you all bickering about?

HARLAN: Aw, it was stupid stuff.  I think the real reason is we’re bored.

DAVENPORT: Bored? With everything that’s happened to us, how can you say that?

HARLAN: Nothing’s happened in weeks.  It’s been chores, studies, more chores, more studies.

DAVENPORT: Be grateful.

HARLAN: Seven more years of this?  We’ll go  crazy!  We need challenges to keep us on our toes—and not just the same old, same old.  Something new!

DAVENPORT: With all due respect to you, Mr. Band—if you find constant threats of death preferable to routine—you already are crazy.

Harlan shakes his head and walks off.

DAVENPORT: I think I’d best have a little chat with Commander Goddard.

EXT. SPACE (OPTICAL): The Christa flies by (stock shot).

GODDARD (VOICE-OVER): Miss Davenport tells me you people are bored.

INT. ENGINE ROOM: Wide establishing shot of Goddard and Catalina.  Goddard is running a detection device along the circuitry.  Cat is doing a similar thing on the other side.

CATALINA: I guess a little, yeah.

GODDARD: Well, that’s nothing new for space travelers.  I remember one time, back when I was in the Stardogs, we were on a star-mapping assignment.  We were so bored out of our skulls we decided to stay awake.  No reason.  Went 73 hours without sleep.  That’s when we invented the unofficial Stardog salute.

Demonstrates a bizarre “Woof Woof” salute.  Cat stares at him.

GODDARD: Ahem!  I guess you had to be there.

CATALINA: I feel like that was our main problem at the Starcademy.  We were tagged as “misfits”, but we were really just bored with the routine of—(glances at her instrument) Ah!  Commander, I think I’ve got a reading on tracing that circuitry glitch. It’s piping through to—(looks at him significantly)—to the deck just below us.

GODDARD: Oh, no—not again—not—RAPID ZOOM in on Goddard, and MUSICAL STING accompanying as he says:

GODDARD: The Haunted Corridor.

[To be continued]

Originally published August 23, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1188

A great personal tragedy had just struck at the household of Bill Mumy.

Mumy and I were up in his office, working on a script for Space Cases, when Bill’s 6-year-old son, Seth, appeared at the door. Tears were rolling down his face as he sobbed out the heartrending news, “George the Third is dead and Ming ate him!”

Bill was promptly consoling. I, of course, said the same thing that you doubtless said upon being presented with that declaration. Namely: “Huh?”

Apparently, the tragedy had occurred in the Mumy fish tank. George the Third was one of the smaller goldfish, and Ming was an extremely large fish in a tank that was too small to properly accommodate him. And when smaller fish would die (occasionally worried to death by the larger fish), why, then, Ming would consume them. Any remains of the victims would go down the toilet.

So here I am now, a short time later and I’ve just learned of the absorbing of Capital City by Diamond. And for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I’m reminded of the fish-tank scenario.

This isn’t to say that John Davis and Milton Griepp are George the Third or that Steve Geppi is Ming the Merciless. Nor is there any implication that something fishy is going on.

However, years ago, when there were nearly 20 distributors (maybe more), Marvel’s then-sales-manager Carol Kalish kept a wary eye on Steve Geppi. “If Steve had his way,” she said presciently, “he’d be the only distributor.” One of Carol’s major concerns was all of the comics market’s eggs being in one basket. To that end she was particularly aggressive in opening up new and regional distributors, strongly favoring a distributor base of many small fish rather than one large one.

As years passed, it became evident that the direct market was underscored by head-to-head competition between Capital and Diamond. And Carol would say that Steve Geppi was the more aggressive, the more determined to come out on top.

Steve Geppi is a man who seems to get what he wants. A Barks painting at an auction? He gets it. Dominance of comics industry distribution? All his.

It’s now official. The comic book market’s eggs are all in one basket. Carol was right again (as she so often was). And Steve Geppi is now the most powerful—and the weakest—man in the comics industry.

How is it possible for both to be true?

The former is obvious. Steve is now in a position to completely control the ebb and flow of the comics market. If he liked a particular comic book, he could promote the hell out of it. If he didn’t like a particular comic book, he could bury it. If a particular publisher offended him or proved too troublesome to carry, he could effectively put the publisher out of business (unless the publisher has the patience, organization, or wherewithal to distribute itself). He could issue editorial fiats: Diamond, he could say, won’t carry any comic books that are not in keeping with Steve’s personal tastes or preferences. Diamond could also take forever to pay smaller publishers, causing major (possibly terminal) headaches for them. When one person is holding that many cards, you certainly don’t want to go up against him in “guts” poker.

This is not to say that Steve has done any of these things or would do any of these things. Just that he could. Any situation in which one person holds that much power is cause for concern. And we all have to keep our fingers crossed that this time power will not corrupt.

But how is he the weakest, as well?

For starters, as I’ve mentioned in a past column (but it would appear to bear repeating), Steve Geppi has managed to paint a gigantic target on his back. Any zealot, any pressure group, any religious rightists, any politically correct leftists—in short, anyone at all who has an ax to grind about comics has just had his whetstone supplied to him.

After all, if any such folks get upset about a television series, they have to go to an assortment of sponsors to try to get the sponsors to withdraw support. And, if the sponsors blow them off, then a pesky boycott has to be arranged in hopes that the sponsors will knuckle under. It’s involved and time-consuming, involving a barrage of letters, telephone calls, etc.

But not with comics. Not any more. All the pressure groups have to do is lean on Steve or threaten Steve or picket Steve or—most worrisome of all—genuinely get Steve on their side.

How conservative can people be? Well, there’s one cable channel I know of that is family-oriented. So much so that it has a set of guidelines so stringent that it makes the Amish look like hedonists. For instance, one fiat issued by the cable channel to producers was, “No character may say, ‘What th—?’ because it sounds as if the character is about to say, ‘What the heck?’”

Yes, you read that right. No, that wasn’t CBG being prudish. “Heck” is verboten because it’s a euphemism for “Hell”—not a profanity in and of itself, but, rather, a substitute for one. One would have thought that the whole point of euphemisms was that people could know what you were saying without your actually having to say it. And “What th—?”—which isn’t a substitute for anything—is also off-limits.

For that matter, what if legal action is threatened? What if material is of a questionable, potentially actionable nature, for any reason ranging from possible libel to possible charges of pornography? Think about the guys in Oklahoma who had to deal with vice cops coming in and confiscating their inventory. Would Steve Geppi really need the tsuris of carrying a comic book that could bring local cops in, helping themselves to the entire inventory of whatever the exposed local warehouse happened to be?

Most perilous of all, Steve is working without a net.

After all, in the past, if a distributor ran into trouble—if it looked as if things were going down the toilet and retailers were going to be left without product—not a problem! Diamond would be able to step in, buy out the distributor, and continue customers’ service uninterrupted. But if Diamond runs into trouble—who bails out Diamond?

It’s doubtful that anyone in the industry could step in and snap up Diamond, if problems arose. And God help us all if, with absolutely no warning, Diamond cracked. Impossible that people could be caught that flat-footed, you say? I assume you’ve heard about the surprised retailers who called Capital City only to find their calls answered by Diamond.

Not to mention that, if either DC or Image suddenly pulled out, who knows what sort of effect that would have on Diamond’s cash flow? Would it survive? Could it?

For that matter, would DC or Image risk pulling out? For sake of argument, let’s say that DC decided to handle distribution of its comics through the Warner distribution system. If this move caused Diamond to collapse, how quickly would retailers go under before matters could be sorted out? I doubt that a substantial percentage of retailers are working on a generous cushion or margin for error these days. How would DC’s health be affected, if a large chunk of the retailer base crumbled?

You might think that Marvel is sitting pretty. After all, it thought it was completely in charge of its destiny. Not so. Actually, Marvel’s long-term health is now intertwined with that of Diamond, even though Diamond carries no Marvel product. If the distribution network fell apart and Marvel were the only game in town—well, how long do you think that retailers could hang on selling exclusively Marvel Comics? I suspect Marvel would like the answer to that question to be “Indefinitely,” but I think everyone knows the truth.

There’s no way to speak in absolute positives about this latest development in the steady shoe-dropping storm which constitutes today’s comics market. All we can do is talk with guarded optimism. We hope that everything will work out. We speak of Diamond’s positive track record and efficiency. We point out that retailers who didn’t like having to deal with three different distributors now only have to deal with two.

Still—just to put a coda to it all—Ming the Merciless was moved out of the Mumy fish tank, into a larger home which could accommodate his aggressiveness and bulk. And Diamond is a very big fish in a very small pond—a pond in which we’re all paddling around together, hoping that the food chain is suitably conducive to a long, healthy existence.

Because, otherwise, we all go down the toilet.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

Newt Gingrich declared last night, when asked about his ex-wife’s recent interview, “I’m tired of the elite media protecting Barack Obama by attacking Republicans.”

Funny. He didn’t have any problem with the elite media dog-piling on Bill Clinton during the time that he, Gingrich, was involved with the impeachment.

PAD

The guy who walked into the showing of “The Artist” that Kath and I were attending, stood there for four minutes, and then asked in a loud voice, “Is this Mission Impossible?”

Well, it turns out there are people who are more oblivious than he was. I’m talking about the moviegoers who demanded their ticket money back because they went to see “The Artist” and were irate to discover it was a silent film.

No. I’m not kidding.

Artist refunds

Perhaps any theater that has moviegoers wanting refunds for that reason should give them a complimentary DVD of “Clueless.”

PAD

(The following is a very cut-down version of what will be a much longer “But I Digress” in an upcoming issue of “Comic Buyer’s Guide.)

The denizens of the Internet are, for the most part, screaming foul and bloody murder and (of course) shouting for boycotts of any and all who are in support of SOPA and PIPA. Because when you want to show that you’re a firm advocate of free expression and unimpeded distribution of information, naturally the best way to do that is to try and financially punish and shun anyone who disagrees with you.

Now I don’t pretend to understand all the ramifications of SOPA. I’ve read a lot about it. Read position papers on both sides. I’m fairly convinced that, yes, SOPA goes too far in its current language. It should not be passed in its present form, and–if it does go forward–will likely be scaled down to something more manageable.

But oddly enough, I can’t find it within me to work up much outrage over it. I suppose I should. I’m a freedom of expression guy.

And yet, here’s what I keep coming back to…

And I address this not to the corporations on either side, fighting for their personal interests. And not to the congressmen who are punting SOPA around like a political hacky sack.

No, I’m talking to the owners of the various pirate sites who decided it was fine to post my novels for free downloads.

I’m talking to the guy in Florida who decided that he was going to unilaterally create his own online library and was blithely offering copyrighted comic book material to millions of people before the Feds nailed him.

I’m talking to the denizens of a website whose cavalier disregard for restrictions on how much of a comic book one could reproduce caused their entire site to be shut down and their response was—with a complete inability to accept the results of their own actions—to blame me for it.

I’m talking to everyone on the Internet who is the first to download the latest anti-virus ware to protect their own computers and digital property, but have zero trouble feeling a sense of misplaced entitlement that enables them to rationalize swiping other people’s intellectual property or enjoying it at no cost.

And if you’re not among those people…if you are, for instance, one of the fans who writes to me to inform me about pirate sites because you understand that theft is theft…then you’re off the hook, and you can kick back and watch me talk to everyone else.

Ladies…gentlemen…guys…gals…

What the hell did you think was going to happen?

All you have to do is look at the recent history of advancing technology when it comes to copyrighted material. Every single time something comes along that involves reproduction of intellectual property, the owners of that property seek legal relief.

Now it’s easy to say that IP corporations are simply clueless. Sure, they screamed over, for instance, videotaping programs off televisions…and then they found ways to cash in on it. So what are they whining about now? They should just find ways to make money off the complete disregard for their copyrights, and all will be well.

Here’s the problem with that: they shouldn’t have to. The IP holders are being victimized here. They are in the right, and the pirates are in the wrong, which is what pirates typically are because if they were in the right, they wouldn’t be called pirates, they’d be called the navy.

There are plenty of Internet users who, while screaming loudly in protest, also endorsed the piracy, supported the piracy, enabled the piracy, felt their own actions weren’t piracy, and now refuse to accept the consequences of their own actions. Again.

If Newton’s Third Law of Motion is that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, then David’s Third Law of Commotion is that, for every Internet action, there is an unequal and opposition reaction. Which is why Bill Maher can make a fairly mild joke on Twitter about Tim Tebow and the result is that the opposition declares him today’s public enemy number one and starts shouting it’s time to boycott HBO.

All people had to do in order to prevent anything like SOPA from ever coming into existence was respect copyright laws. You don’t bitch that copyright law is outdated. You don’t declare that the rise of the Internet means that everyone, everywhere should have free access to everything. If you felt that strongly that copyright law should be changed, then you do what you’re supposed to do: you go to your elected officials and seek redress of grievances. You don’t just sit on your ass in front of your computer screen, announce that you can do whatever you want, and declare that anyone who disagrees with you is clueless and should just piss off. Because you know what? Maybe they are clueless. But they’ve also got high-powered lawyers who are going to seek redress of grievances, and suddenly you’re staring down the double cannon of SOPA and PIPA and wondering how it all went wrong.

Here’s how it went wrong: you let it happen. You made it happen. The Internet presented a wonderful power of communication that is unprecedented in the history of mankind. But with that great power comes great responsibility. And you just stood there and watched the bad guys go running past you, and you smiled under your mask of Internet anonymity and said, “Not my problem.” And suddenly Uncle Ben is worm food and you’re bellowing, “Hey! Not fair!” Well, “fair” and “unfair” can be, and often is, disputed. What is indisputable is that it was avoidable. All you had to do was condemn piracy. Instead you supported piracy (and probably still do) and declared that everyone else with a vested interest in copyright, who didn’t appreciate their material being stolen and never seeing any compensation for it, was just a dipshit.

You all think you’re John Connor in Terminator 2, fighting the good fight for the future. No, you’re not. John Connor is the copyright holder, confident in his rightness. The Terminator is his lawyer. And you’re one of the swaggering jocks getting the crap kicked out of him while John stands there smugly, his arms folded, saying, “Are you calling moi a dipshit?”

How can Internet denizens avoid the government trying to clamp down on piracy and, in doing so, threatening the freedom of the Internet? I’m reminded of the moment in the film Liar, Liar, where Jim Carrey’s lawyer character—compelled by his son’s birthday wish always to tell the truth—is informed that a recidivist client is on the phone. The client’s been arrested (this time for knocking over an ATM), and is asking for legal advice. Carrey grabs the receiver and shouts, “Stop breaking the law, asshole!”

One has to admire the common sense brevity of that advice.

PAD

Originally published August 16, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1187

It was about six or seven years ago, when I was first probing the possibility that I might become a full-time writer.

It was not a decision that I was making lightly. After all, I had a secure “day job” at Marvel as the direct-sales manager. There was no particular reason to go anywhere—no reason except that writing the comics seemed to be developing into a more fulfilling job than selling them. And, if I became a freelance writer, it meant no more commuting, no more staying late at the office. I could spend more time with the kids. Yes, there seemed to be any number of practical reasons to try my hand at being a full-time writer.

Nevertheless, I had a great deal of trepidation.

I was writing Incredible Hulk at the time and was picking up other work here and there. It seemed a solid gig, but, then, so had my tenure on Spec Spidey, and I’d been fired off of that with no notice whatsoever. So anything was possible, and I was concerned that I was going out on a limb, putting all my eggs in one basket, and whatever other appropriate clichés you can come up with.

So I made some tentative inquiries at DC Comics.

I couldn’t possibly have accepted any work for it. As a Marvel staff employee, working for the opposition was strictly forbidden. It would have represented a potential conflict of interest. Still, there was no harm in asking—inquiring what, if I became a full-time freelancer, the chances would be of my picking up some writing work at DC. (Wisely, I didn’t suggest whacking off anyone’s hand and putting a harpoon on it. They might have considered that just a touch radical.)

To my astonishment, I was offered a mini-series immediately. I wasn’t in a position to sign a contract, start working for it, or in any way begin any sort of work for DC. But there was a tacit understanding that the offer wasn’t going to go to anyone else for a few weeks.

And during that time, I informed my boss, Carol Kalish, that I was going to embark on a career as, God help me, a freelancer. So that within a few weeks, I could officially being my first work for DC Comics as a free-and-clear freelancer.

The point of the foregoing?

The project was a four-issue limited series about The Phantom.

The Phantom, the seminal character who helped define what superheroes would be all about. The Ghost Who Walks, hanging out in the jungle like a purple-clad Tarzan, striding through century after century due to a familial vow that one man had made: to dedicate his life to fighting villainy in general, piracy in particular, and on behalf of the innocent everywhere. And he dedicated not only his own life to this ambition, but those of his sons. Over the centuries, the gods and genetics were kind to this oath, despite the likelihood of one of the following scenarios occurring at some point during the succeeding 20-or-so generations:

• A Phantom who produces only female offspring  (although a daughter did briefly take up the mantle of The Phantom, as I recall, when her brother was incapacitated).
• A Phantom who has low motility.
• A Phantom who can never find a woman interested in giving up civilization for the questionable destiny of shacking up in a skull-shaped cave with a guy in purple tights and a bunch of pygmies.
• A Phantom who marries a woman who turns out to be barren.
• A Phantom who is killed before he can reproduce. (It is a dangerous profession, you know.)
• A Phantom who produces a son who rebels. Just imagine 20 generations of sons who obediently fall into line. Not a single one of them says, “You want me to put on a purple costume with diagonally striped jockey shorts, which I wear on the outside, and fight evil? Forget it. I want to be a doctor/actor/TV repairman/bum. I want to be my own man, not bound by some promise made hundreds of years ago. There are no pirates anymore, so let’s get with the program, OK? For pity’s sake, Dad, I want to live my own life, not yours.”

None of that ever gets said, so the Phantom line continues unabated, year after year, century after century. And, of course, to the outside world, The Phantom is this legendary, unkillable guy. The Ghost Who Walks.

It’s a heroic ideal so overwhelming that 20 generations have been swept up in it. It’s the greatest philanthropic endeavor in civilized fictional history. The family business consists of truth, justice, and The Phantom’s way.

Curiously, the Phantom comic book I wrote (drawn in best piratical style by Joe Orlando) is one of the comics works of mine that I see the most rarely from the fans. Hardly anyone brings it for me to autograph. (The only things I see less frequently than The Phantom are probably the issues of What Th–?! with the Batman gag I did with Todd McFarlane and the Lone Wolf and Cub spoof I produced with James Fry. Although the Classics Comics Illustrated Cyrano de Bergerac I produced with Kyle Baker is also something of a rarity, as are the Blasters Special with James Fry, the early issues of The Marvel Universe Handbook on which I worked as a researcher, and the first issues of Marvel Age. Jeez, haven’t thought about those in ages.

The point of all the foregoing is that I have some attachment to the character and, consequently, I was looking forward to the movie. Although, frankly, I didn’t have much in the way of hopes for it. I didn’t think that a guy in a purple leotard (albeit without the distinctive striped shorts) would play on screen. I didn’t know Billy Zane from a hole in the wall. And I know it’s ridiculous to judge a film by its promotion, but I have to say the slogan “Slam Evil” which appeared on the posters had to be the least imaginative promo line I’d ever seen. “Slam Evil?” That was the one they went with? (Although, considering some of my experiences with people in the decision-making hierarchy of show business, it might well have been that the rejects were actually far superior. One never knows.)

Good news and bad news.

The good news is that I was dead, albeit happily, wrong. The makers of The Phantom have performed a rare, almost miraculous feat: The have crafted a film that is faithful to the spirit of the source material, while at the same time producing something that has a style, an energy, and—most importantly—a sense of fun all its own.

The very first thing to appear on the screen is the phrase “For Those Who Came in Late.” Every so often, Phantom creator Lee Falk would run a origin strip to tell new readers (an inevitable development, considering the strip’s half-century-plus tenure) The Phantom’s backstory. That’s what they did here, using the exact words that Falk always opened the recap strip with.

Some people have subsequently groused that the film shouldn’t have been so up-front. That the mystery should have been played up, particularly since one of the thugs in the film has killed the previous Phantom and so is disconcerted when he suddenly finds himself face-to-mask with (apparently) the same guy.

I can see the point, but I also respect and appreciate the decision to do it just the way the comic strip does. It really helps set the tone for those in the know.

Billy Zane pulls off the near-miraculous feat of making The Phantom believable, rather than ludicrous. Physically, he cuts an impressive and striking figure in the purple tights, never losing for a moment either his confidence or his dignity. His piercing eyes, square jaw, and determined expression really sell the notion that this guy has dedicated his life to fighting evil. He seems equally at home in the jungle and during the city sequences in which, as Kit Walker, he goes to New York City (clad in the traditional raincoat, hat, and funky sunglasses to substitute for a mask) in order to track down the bad guys. These are bad guys who are interested in acquiring three mystical skulls which will enable them to command world-conquering forces.

Kristy Swanson is introduced as the Phantom’s main squeeze, Diana Palmer. Adventure films haven’t seen a heroine this rough and tumble and no-nonsense since Princess Leia (at least Leia of the first film; once she started developing an interest in Han Solo, I thought he lost some of her zip).

Since the movie is set in the 1930s, their relationship has a Nick-and-Nora-Charles, Tracy-and-Hepburn feel to it, with the kind of rat-a-tat style that was so much a part of the period.

The moment which completely sold me on the film comes when Diana is bound and helpless in the cabin of a boat, being guarded and lorded over by a slightly kinky henchwoman. The Phantom gets the drop on them, literally, when he comes crashing in through the ceiling. After having released Diana, who not only takes the rescue in stride but actually seems blasé about it (as if she takes for granted that she’s going to be rescued because she’s privileged), the question remains of what to do with the henchwoman.

“Tie her up—” instructs The Phantom briskly.

Diana hauls off and belts the henchwoman into the middle of next week, knocking her unconscious with a single punch. “—or don’t,” The Phantom concludes.

I thought that was great (egotistically, I suppose, since I’d done similar sorts of riffs in writing of my own, wherein the hero just kind of shrugs it off, as circumstances abruptly change around him and his intentions become moot). One of the big problems in so many action films lately—particularly comic-book related ones—is that all the dialogue sounds exactly the same. All of it is filled with the same kind of macho, swaggering puns, as if some sort of generic How-to-Write-Heroes book was circulating and everyone was taking their cues from it.

And the film had the presence of Treat Williams as the villainous, skull-acquiring schemer. Williams hasn’t been this over-the-top since he danced on a dining room table in Hair. And he doesn’t need bizarre facial makeup or a garish suit in order to sell his villainy. An evil Donald Trump: Not only was he evil, but he reveled in his own evilness with a zealousness that was almost endearing. He didn’t have to rationalize or justify himself. He was The Bad Guy, period, and it’s just so good to be bad.

Mention should also be made of Patrick McGoohan, appearing as a genuine ghost: the ghost of The Phantom’s father, slain before the film’s action takes place. The scenes between the two of them helps to underscore the lineage that The Phantom carries with him. In a way, it’s representative of all those who have gone before and all the emotional and family baggage that The Phantom carries with him.

The bad news is: no pygmies. That surprises me. In a movie summer where one of the big protagonists is a guy with a hunchback, and in a film where the lead runs around in purple tights, the filmmakers thought that the movie-going public couldn’t handle pygmies? Geez.

The film is chock-a-block full with daredevil antics, frenetic action, a couple of screaming unlikelihoods, and an “I-Can’t-Believe-I’m-Seeing-This” sequence in which The Phantom and Diana, trapped in a plane that’s heading toward a final impact against a mountain, transfer from the hurtling plane to The Phantom’s galloping white horse pacing them just below the landing gear. I heard mutterings in the theater afterward that it was too much like an Indiana Jones film, the mutterers apparently oblivious that Indiana Jones is merely a rehash of The Phantom and a few other 1930s and ’40s movie serials. Indy is the copy; The Phantom is the genuine article.

Just as this film is the genuine article: one of the most faithful and fun comics adaptations ever.

What’s the bad news?

It tanked at the box office, and I’d be very surprised if there were any more Phantom films. Which is a crying shame. After 21 generations, The Phantom has finally come up against insidious forces even he can’t overwhelm: the summer movie-going glut and an apathetic public which couldn’t be sold on giving the film a chance.

“Slam Evil.” Cripes.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

No, I”m not talking about “The Devil Within.” I’m talking about the actual process of going TO movies thanks to audience cluelessness.

Some of you may have read about when I took little Caroline to see “I Bought a Zoo” a couple weeks ago. In a packed theater, we had a group of little old ladies seated behind us, who felt compelled every so often that it was necessary to provide a commentary track if the track was being recorded by Captain Obvious. EX: A teen boy looks longingly at a girl. “He likes her.” And I worked hard to ignore it because it didn’t seem to be bothering Caroline. But then, forty five minutes in, a cell phone started ringing. Instead of flipping to voice mail, it just got louder and louder. It was from right behind me. I turned around. One of the pocket books was literally vibrating. Low and angry, I whispered to the woman right behind me, “Would you please…turn off…your cell phone!” She looked at me, bewildered, and said, “It’s ringing?”

So two days ago, Kathleen and I went to see “The Artist” (more about which I’ll write later.) We’re sitting there, we’re watching this brilliant film unspool, and then about halfway through this guy walks in. Indeterminate age: my age, maybe older. He’s holding one of those tickets you print out from an online ticket service. He stands there for about four minutes, just to the side of where Kath and I are sitting, staring at the screen. Then he turns TO US and says, in full voice, “Is this Mission Impossible?”

I stared at him, stunned. I might, MIGHT be able to understand the confusion if the film were Tinker Tailor or maybe Tower Heist. But The Artist?” Or if he’d stuck his head in and thought this might be a trailer. But he stood there look enough to know he was watching a film. I said, “No! It’s not!” He looked back to the movie, then me. “This ISN’T Mission Impossible?” I pointed at the screen and whispered, “It’s a black and white silent movie! What do YOU think?” Pause. He asks, “Is this theater 4A?” “I don’t know!”

He left.

We’re taking Caroline to see “Beauty and the Beast 3D” today. We’ll probably have two people talking to each other on the phone in the theater asking if they’re watching Schindler’s List.

PAD

Originally published August 9, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1186

Independence Day is one of those rare beasts. It’s a “Yet” film.

It’s the kind of movie where people don’t ask you if you’ve seen it, or if you plan to see it. They say, “Have you seen Independence Day yet?” Of if you’re simply asked, “Have you seen Independence Day,” the inevitable response is, “No, I haven’t seen it yet.”

But you will see it. It’s a given. It’s a mandate. It’s a fact of life. Death, taxes, and Independence Day.

Have I seen Independence Day yet? My standard response at this point is: Yes. And I saw it on broadcast television thirty years ago when it was called War of the Worlds. And I saw it in the theaters about twelve years ago when it was called Return of the Jedi.

At the San Diego Comic Con, a lot of people asked me if I had seen Independence Day yet, and if I was going to do an article about it. I hadn’t planned on it. I didn’t see the point. The reason to review films is to (a) express opinions about them in an entertaining way and (b) provide a sort of “consumer” service as to whether a film is worth someone’s time.

But Independence Day is a Yet film. Opinions are beside the point; it’s not a movie that’s seen, it’s a movie that’s experienced. And consumer service is likewise immaterial. The film’s PR juggernaut has created a social atmosphere wherein you are made to feel completely out of the loop if you haven’t already plunked down a few bucks and plopped into a cushioned seat so you can watch the White House get blown to smithereens.

I went, though. It’s a Yet film and I regret that I am not strong willed enough, individualistic enough, or outright contrary enough to pass up a Yet film.

But seeing it was something of a movie going experience, I’ve decided it might be entertaining to–at the very least–describe the entire package.

I was part of a foursome which ventured to experience Independence Day at the multiplex in Horton Plaza. We buzzed over there in my rented Chrysler convertible Sebring… a car that I do not hesitate to recommend, because not only was the pick-up great and not only is it fun to ride around in with the top down (for that open road, Thelma and Louise feeling), but apparently it looks like a much flashier car than it is. Several people came up to me at the convention and said, “I heard you were tooling around town in a Mercedes.” A fan recommended that I reply to such queries with a disdainful sniff and say, “That’s completely ridiculous; don’t you people recognize a Rolls Royce when you see it?”

For those who have never experienced Horton Plaza, it’s an outdoor mall that seems to have been designed by Escher. At one point we were standing on a level looking up at the movie theater. We took a stairway up to try and get to it and discovered ourselves on an upper level looking down at the movie theater. “You can’t get there from here” was likely coined in that mall.

I was accompanying CBG editor, Maggie Thompson, and her Krause co-workers John Miller and Joyce Greenholdt. We had swung by the mall around 7 PM and purchased tickets for the 10:30 PM show. Mania for the film was such that simply walking up and buying a ticket for the next show was a notion only slightly more ludicrous than, say, the thought of spotting Jim Shooter at Buster Brown purchasing a pair of elevator shoes.

Upon returning for the performance, we managed to get in on time only because Maggie boldly spearheaded a subtle “cut on line” maneuver. Even with tacky line jumping, the best we could do for seats was about third row from the front.

As we entered we spotted other convention attendees. Joe Quesada (for whom the Spung Killcruiser “Keh-Zada” on Space Cases was named) and a group of associates were staked out somewhere in the middle, and they called out to me that they were going to be watching for Coca-Cola. This made me mildly nervous. A live, on-the-spot test of the omnipresence of Coke in movies. Never had I hoped that the Real Thing would show up in a flick, because I figured I’d look like a cluck if it didn’t. (Not that I don’t routinely look like a cluck anyway…)

I needn’t have worried. As noted in a previous column, Coca Cola made the first of its multiple appearances ten minutes into the film. I was off the hook.

But I almost didn’t see it, because I’d practically gone flash blind by that point. Throughout the first half hour, the film makers chose to have a fairly bizarre means of scene transition which consisted of a blast of white light smashing onto the screen. Presumably it was supposed to make viewers jumpy, startle us, fill us with unease, make us think of the impending possibility of the last thing we’d see before being completely annihilated by nuclear blasts. It was, in short, supposed to put us in the right frame of mind for Armageddon.

My eldest, Shana, saw Independence Day with some friends back in New York and watched it from a balcony. She thought the flashes of light were cool. And they very likely are, if you don’t happen to be sitting on top of the screen. Us, we were busy having our retinas and corneas turned into styrofoam packing chips. I warn you now: If you’re going to see Independence Day and think that there’s any chance you might be close-up to the front, for God’s sake bring sunglasses and keep them snug on your face for the first half hour. Sure, you’ll look like an ad for stereo equipment, but your eyes will thank you.

The plot to Independence Day doesn’t unfold so much as it does unravel, with building speed and greater flamboyance. In most films, the creators strive to sustain the audience’s willing suspension of disbelief. Not so with Independence Day. Independence Day heaps one implausibility upon another, ignores plot hole upon plot hole, and dares the audience to walk out, knowing that you can’t and won’t. It’s the filmic equivalent of a jack-knifed tractor trailer. You stay riveted to the sight even though you know that virtually anything else you could be doing around then would be a more constructive use of your time.

John Miller was literally writhing in his seat as a space ship one quarter the size of the moon went into orbit around the earth without having any effect on earthly tides. When we learn that the aliens are attacking because they want our “resources,” John was muttering, “What’s wrong with Jupiter?” When, in an updating of War of the Worlds in which the aliens succumbed to earthly viruses, computer whiz Jeff Goldblum hits upon the preposterous notion of defeating the aliens with a computer virus, John sagged forward in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and audibly sobbed.

The absurdity of Independence Day‘s plot is already achieving legendary proportions. On the computer boards, Dean Kanipe of North Carolina listed “40 Things I Learned From Independence Day.” Among them:

12. Any bonehead with an RV can get to Area 51 by driving across the Salt Flat to the gate and flashing a captured alien to the guard.

16 Both F-18s and B-2s must close to within 10 km of a target 20 km across before engaging with both air-to-air missiles and aerial launched nuclear cruise missiles.

18. Any bonehead with rudimentary aviation experience can be taught to pilot an F-18 in 5 hours.

19. Any bonehead with F-18 flight experience can learn to pilot an Alien fighter in 5 minutes.

20. Aliens with anatomy that includes tentacles and clawed feet use flight yokes just like ours.

22. Aliens are stupid. When one of their fighters approaches the carrier, they don’t bother to communicate with the pilot.

23. Aliens are even more stupid. They pursue their targets into canyons walls and closing blast doors.

24. Aliens are unbelievably stupid. While unarmed and unarmored, they do things to piss off people with hand guns.

25. Aliens are just too stupid for words to express. An alien air traffic controller can look at a fighter that has been human-modified for 20 minutes and is only 50 feet away and not

notice the welded-on missile rack until the missile is fired through his work station.

36. In 10 hours, one man with a Macintosh Laptop can code a virus in C++ that will take down a completely alien computer system.

37. Even though the Mac isn’t compatible with most other Earthly operating systems, it can interface with an alien computer.

38. Alien network security is nonexistent.

39. Rather than attacking a planet when they first encounter it (i.e., 1940s), aliens wait until the planet has developed just enough technology to possibly defend itself.

Let’s face it, folks. Independence Day makes Santa Claus Conquers the Martians look like a documentary.

And as Independence Day rakes in another million with every passing moment, one realizes that it simply doesn’t matter. Plot is irrelevant to Independence Day. Sense is irrelevant. Coherency is irrelevant. It’s like a film made by the Borg. You don’t go to see it. It comes to be seen by you.

Complaining about Independence Day‘s plot is incidental because the plot is incidental; a distant consideration compared to the publicity machine and the special effects, both of which were amazing. This film became such a pre-release part of the public consciousness that the makers of A Very Brady Sequel released a trailer a couple months ago that was a parody of Independence Day. Now I ask you: How many films have been recognizably spoofed two months before their release?

It’s like Disney World’s Space Mountain. One doesn’t come out of Space Mountain saying, “So there we were in these little rocket-like rolling things, getting a nice slow tour of what the future would be like. And then, all of a sudden, we’re hurtled into blackness at high speed and go twisting all over the place. Why? What’s the deal with that? It makes no sense at all!” Of course it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t have to. Like the Monty Python litany of rules, including (I think) Rule 5 being that there was no Rule 5, the internal logic of Independence Day is that there is no internal logic.

Make no mistake: The cast members seem like they’re having a good time. This film was being touted as the one that would catapult Bill Pullman (Casper, Spaceballs), cast here as the President of the United States, into leading man status. Unfortunately for him, the film is stolen by Will Smith as a cocky fighter pilot who longs to kick E.T.’s butt (a goal which, if the film continues at its current box office clip, will be accomplished in every sense), Goldblum in frazzled scientist mode, and Brent Spiner in a bit part as a wacko scientist who seems to have wandered in from a much more original movie. If they ever make X-Files: The Movie, they’ve got to sign Spiner up to reprise the character. (Along those lines, that’s what Independence Day needed. A cameo of Scully and Mulder, looking up at one of those giant ships with Mulder saying, “Okay, now do you believe me?”)

In short, even as you watch it, you know the film is ridiculous. You know the film makes no sense. You know it has plot holes that you could fly one of those giant ships through with room to spare. You know it’s derivative. Derivative? Will Smith’s being pursued by the alien fighters is almost a shot-for-shot riff on Han Solo keeping one step ahead of the tie-fighters in The Empire Strikes Back.

To say nothing of Independence Day‘s climactic strategy, involving a small squad of rebels who must gain entrance to the bad guy’s base and take out a force field generator so that a much larger squadron of rebels in fighter planes can then attack the newly unshielded giant killer space vessel and blow it up by striking at the vessel’s vulnerable point.

This is not to be confused with the climactic strategy of Return of the Jedi, in which a small squad of rebels must gain entrance to the bad guy’s base and take out a force field generator so that a much larger squadron of rebels in fighter planes can then attack the newly unshielded giant killer space vessel and blow it up by striking at the vessel’s vulnerable point.

Throughout the film there will be sequences so familiar to you that you’ll find yourself uttering dialogue from other films… and it’ll fit. Hell, they even do it in Independence Day. At one point Jeff Goldblum’s escaping alien ship is being pursued by a gigantic wall of flame as the space station he’s in is in the process of exploding. Londo outracing the same thing in Return of the Jedi, of course, but–getting confused as to which film he’s in–Goldblum mutters, “Go faster, must go faster,” as he did when being pursued by a T-Rex in Jurassic Park.

Independence Day doesn’t seem as if it was written, but rather fabricated around a campfire by a group of people playing the old game wherein you tell a story to a certain point, and then the guy next to you is supposed to keep it going. And you continue around the circle until you have something resembling an end. Independence Day has that same ragged, fly-by-the-seat, making-this-up-as-we-go feel.

And yet, all of the foregoing boils down to the old gag of, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?”

Did I have a good time seeing Independence Day? Did I enjoy myself?

Yes.

But I think it was less for the film itself than for the company in which I was in, and the circumstance in which I saw it. One gets swept up in the entire movie-going experience: The adrenaline rush of images forty foot high, the THX-1138 sound system, the friends you’re with, the energy that derives from the audience which gives the theater a life of its own.

I think what I liked was seeing the film, but not the film itself. This may seem like an odd distinction, but I can only point to Aliens, which I saw in the same theater under similar circumstances years ago. There was that same in-the-theater high, that same adrenaline surge that makes the moment entertaining. But the difference was that I loved that film, saw it many times after that, got it on laserdisk, etc. I didn’t notice huge holes while I was watching it, and I didn’t come out of the theater and say, “What a rush, but nothing about it made sense.”

Even the abbreviation for the title makes no sense. Why do they call it “ID4?” A clumsy attempt to combine Independence Day and the 4th of July? Or a gambit to sound like T2?

Oh well. There’s already talk of a sequel. Maybe it’ll be set in the year 2040 (presuming it takes the aliens another few decades to show up for a return match) and it’ll be called War Day. Then they can abbreviate it as WD40.

That’s oil, folks.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705… at least, until the aliens show up.)

Originally published August 2, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1185

Thank you:

As is the case, I suspect, with many of the writers presently working in the industry, there is a fanboy within me who’s always bubbling away just below the surface. And the point at which he really comes slopping over comes when I have the opportunity to work with artists who drew the comics I read when I was a fan.

That’s why fans are always surprised when they ask me what artists I’d like to work with, and I respond with names like Steve Ditko, Kurt Schaffenberger: folks like that.

I still remember the thrill I got when, for instance, I wrote a fill-in issue of Wolverine and I learned that Gene Colan was going to be drawing it. Colan was one of my all-time favorite artists. I ended up working with Gene on two issues of Wolverine. And all I could be was grateful and amazed that I had the opportunity to work with a gentleman whose work had meant so much to me.

Thank you:

We were running behind schedule on Peter Parker, the Spectacular Spider-Man. Editor Jim Owsley (in the days before he became Christopher Priest, not to be confused with Christopher Priest who has yet to become Jim Owsley) said to me, “We need to do an issue where we can have several different artists working on it: three, four pencillers, each doing a few pages all at the same time. That way we can get caught up.”

I thought about it a moment and then said, “Well, we could do a Rashomon story, I guess.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a Japanese movie about the subjectivity of truth,” I said. “Basically, it’s a story in which the same incident is told from several different points of view. It’s a format that’s been used countless times since.”

And that’s what we wound up doing. I constructed a story in which Peter Parker, Mary Jane, and J. Jonah Jameson each describe to Robbie Robertson a bank robbery which has just occurred at the Rashomon Bank and Trust. (Hey, if you’re going to crib a story structure, you should make some effort to acknowledge it.)

It meant that we could use four different artists: one to draw each of the point-of-view stories and one to draw the framing sequence.

Since this was back in my days as Marvel’s sales manager, I was in my office when Owsley came in, plopped down, and flashed a large, toothy grin. “Do you know how good I am to you?” he asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Guess who’s going to draw the framing sequence.”

“Who?” I asked.

“John Buscema, pencils; John Romita Sr., inks.”

I couldn’t believe it.

I know that in later years, submarine crew members in Crimson Tide would come to blows over the bizarre question of who was the definitive artist for The Silver Surfer: Jack Kirby or Moebius. Aside from the fact that I’d never heard fans arguing over it, I had always considered John Buscema to be the greatest Surfer artist, period. With all deference to Kirby and Moebius, it was Buscema’s rendition that gave us an alien being with the soul of a humanitarian.

And John Romita—jeez. In the days before he needed the qualifier of “Senior,” many was the time when I would haul out his early Amazing Spider-Man work, just so I could gaze at that immortal meeting between Peter Parker and his future wife, Mary Jane, the latter uttering those immortal words of egomaniacal self-assessment: “Face it, tiger, you just hit the jackpot.”

I can’t really put across for you what it felt like to see the finished Buscema-Romita pages with my dialogue accompanying their artwork. If I were a better writer, I could. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Thank you:

I knew what I wanted to do for Star Trek Annual #3. I wanted to do a romance story, featuring a look at the long-lost, secret love of Mr. Scott’s life.

And I wanted to tell the story backward.

“Backward?” asked editor Bob Greenberger.

“Backward,” I said. I had just seen a play on Broadway by Harold Pinter: a story in which we see the history of a romantic triangle, except the sequence of events is told in reverse order. The play had, in fact, bored me stiff. During Pinter’s trademark lengthy pauses, I kept wanting to scream, “Somebody say something!”

But the format of the play intrigued me, and I wanted to adapt it to the long form of the Star Trek Annual. Although I did insist on putting “Based on a concept by Harold Pinter,” in the credit box. For all I knew, Pinter himself had seen someone else do the same thing and got it from that person, but my first exposure had been from Pinter’s work, and that’s whom I credited. Although it did prompt some befuddled fans to ask, “Harold Pinter is doing work for DC now?”

So Bob called me up and said, “Guess who I got for the annual.”

Bob wasn’t much for preambles and “Who loves you, baby?” intros.

“Who?”

“Curt Swan.”

Curt Swan.

Curt Swan who had been, for me, the best Superman artist. I’d never quite taken to Wayne Boring’s rendition. Schaffenberger’s work I adored when he was drawing Lois herself, but when it came to drawing The Man himself—no one, for me, could beat Swan.

And I said, “Swan? Me with Swan? Awwww, go on!”

OK, actually, no, I didn’t. But I was running our laserdisc of Hans Christian Andersen for Ariel the other day, and “The Ugly Duckling” is fresh in my mind.

Actually, what I said was, “You’re kidding!”

“No, really,” said Bob.

That Star Trek Annual remains one of my favorite single-issue comics. With a lesser artists or even simply a different one, the story would simply not have worked. I wrote that issue full script, panel-by-panel breakdown, full dialogue for every panel described ahead of time, because that was the way Curt wanted to do it. He was more comfortable with the full-script format, because that was the way all comics were done when he first started in the business. He was a gracious and wonderful individual, highly flattering and praising of the script. His likenesses of the Star Trek actors were meticulous, and he was able to render convincingly the characters at all ages. We showed Scotty as young as 12 years old, and the face was convincingly that of the future Montgomery Scott. And I would later find out that Scotty’s lifelong love, Glynn, shared her name with James Doohan’s genuine childhood sweetheart, with whom he hooked up (albeit not romantically) in later years.

I wound up buying a couple of pages from that annual at an art auction at the Chicago Comicon a year or two later. I faced virtually no competition for it: Seeking out full-page drawings from the latest hot artists, the audience had zero interest in a two-page, meticulously rendered sequence wherein Mr. Scott informs his wife that he’s going to be returning to service on the Enterprise. I later caught up with Curt at a convention and he signed them to me.

I worked with him on a second Star Trek Annual, as well, set in Kirk’s first year at the Academy, and it likewise looked wonderful.

But the first one had that romantic air about it that only a Curt Swan could really pull off. Because romance and beauty seem to be in danger of becoming lost arts in mainstream comics, with women the objects of lust rather than love.

And now Curt is gone. John Romita Sr. has retired. John Buscema has pulled out of Marvel. Gene Colan has health problems.

And I’ve been so damned lucky to have the honor of having worked with these men. I don’t think I really fully realized it until recently. And I never really had a chance to say “thank you” to them for gracing my life with their presences, as a fan of their work both from the outside looking in and the inside looking out.

Thank you all.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to a Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. Independence Day is setting box-office records, on the way to $75 million by next Sunday. And it is obvious that it owes its success to its high mark on the Cokemeter. It registered  not only a 10 (10 minutes in, Jeff Goldblum recycles a can of Coca-Cola) but a 20 (20 minutes in, a can of Diet Coke is in a diner), and a 90 (90 minutes in, a Coke can is shot).

Check THIS out.

“The Camelot Papers”

GOP candidates insisted that no, no, they had nothing against gays, and were all for gay rights…as long as it didn’t entail actually giving them any. Santorum, as you might have surmised, encapsulated the hypocrisy with this nugget in last night’s debate:

“But just because you don’t agree with someone’s desire to change the law doesn’t mean you don’t like them or you hate them or you want to discriminate against them.”

Here’s the thing: people in opposition to gay rights are the ones desiring to change the law, and have done so. What else was DOMA (signed into law, to my eternal shame, by a Democrat) except institutionalizing discrimination? You want to defend marriage? Outlaw divorce. Or the Kardashians. But insisting that marriage can only be defined as a man and a woman? I’m sorry, I missed where in the Constitution that that’s anyone’s goddamn business, much less the government’s. I find it interesting that, for instance, defenders of the Second Amendment are quick to say that any infringement on their rights to buy an Uzi opens the door for the government to come in and confiscate all their guns. But nobody seems to wrap their noggins around the concept that allowing the government to dictate that people can’t marry someone of the same gender can easily be precedent for the government to dictate who can’t marry who based on psychological testing. Or who can’t have children, or how many children you can have. In some parts of this country there are still judges declaring that blacks can’t marry whites, and yet we’re okay with the government creating laws saying men can’t marry men and women marry women? Really?

But no, it’s the GAYS who want to change the law. No. They don’t. They want to have access to the rights that the Constitution already guarantees them and that their opponents are trying to take FROM them. That’s not abuse of a process. That’s simply justice.

PAD

Originally published July 26, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1184

Finishing up stuff from my sojourn to London…

* * *

I speak to the girls at home. They’re going to be bringing the newly found stray cat, Pandora, to the vet within the next day or so. She certainly has no problem with appetite: She’s inhaling any food that’s given her. Hopefully the vet will give her a clean bill of health.

* * *

I’m going to be spending the entire day Tuesday embarking on publicity stuff that Simon and Schuster U.K. has arranged, to try and beat the drums for the Star Trek novels and the upcoming Jimmy Doohan autobiography. Kristian Ayre, meantime, the Space Cases cast member who came along for the ride, is planning to spend the entire day sightseeing. He’s completely pumped with energy, still flying on the adrenaline surge from the Wolf 359 convention over the weekend.

I do a series of interviews at the offices of Simon and Schuster U.K., and also a couple of signing appearances: One at Dillons Books (I think it was called) and one at Forbidden Planet.

The Dillons Books one goes smoothly enough. The fans seem interested and pleasant. There’s only one bizarre aspect of the signing. A guy shows up, olive skinned–from India, by the look of him–and he proceeds to stand there and tell me how lousy my books are. In several cases it quickly becomes clear that he’s based his appraisal of an entire book on having skimmed the first couple of pages.

If there were no one else around it wouldn’t be quite so bothersome. But other people are waiting in line, and he just stands there telling me what a lousy writer I am. Finally I tell him to step aside so others can come forward. And as they’re getting books signed, he proceeds to harass them in a pleasant, faintly distracted tone of voice, demanding to know what they could possibly see of value in the work.

If he wants to bug me, fine. But he’s upsetting other customers and, unfortunately, the store clerks seem oblivious. Finally, after he’s annoyed half a dozen people and is in the process of driving one poor woman nearly to distraction, I round on him and say, “Do you know why I do these signings?”

“No.”

“To meet and chat with fans of my work. You’re not a fan of my work. Why don’t you leave these people alone?”

And he gets this weird smile on his face. I’ve never seen anything like it. There is contentment, satisfaction, and something else… something really creepy that I can’t put my finger on. It’s as if the smile doesn’t touch his eyes, as if some part of him is disconnected.

Without another word, as if he’s accomplished what he wanted to do–as if he’s proven something to himself, found some answer he was seeking, had an effect that he desired–he turns and walks out of the store.

The next people in line comment on how spooky he was, and thanks me for getting rid of him. The rest of the signing goes peacefully enough, but every so often I glance in the direction of the front door. For all I know he’ll come back in, armed this time. And when I leave the store I keep a wary eye out for him on the street, but there’s no sign of him.

I know it takes all kinds, but geez.

* * *

The appearance at Forbidden Planet thankfully goes without incident. It’s a respectable turn out.

Then again, if I get any kind of turn out I’m usually happy. I remember a comic store I did an appearance at some years ago. It was raining that day and no one showed up. I said, “Sorry I didn’t pull the crowds in.” And the store owner said, “Well, no one came because it’s such lousy weather out, no one wants to go out in the rain to get autographs.”

Uh huh.

Some months later I did a second appearance at the same store. The sun was shining, the sky was cloudless, birds were chirping… and no one showed up. I said, “Sorry I didn’t pull the crowds in.” And the store owner said, “Well, no one came because it’s such a gorgeous day out; they don’t want to spend it standing in line to get autographs.”

Uh huh.

After I finish the signing at Forbidden Planet I start cruising the store looking for Neat Stuff. Nick Landau (the store’s owner) sure maintains a very impressive place. I’m particularly taken by the amount of Wallace and Gromit stuff, most of which will not–unfortunately–fit in my suitcase. (And there’s no plush Gromits in existence; someone is asleep at the switch in the U.K. And if you have to ask who Wallace and Gromit are, my explaining it here will simply not do it justice.)

When I get back to the hotel around six, I ring up Kristian’s room and ask him what he did during the day.

“Well,” he admits a bit sheepishly, “actually I didn’t wake up until 4 PM.”

“You slept the whole day?” I ask incredulously.

So there went a whole day of sightseeing potential out the window for him. Some of it was made up for, though, for that evening we have dinner with the Landaus, and they’re kind enough to give us a quick sightseeing tour. We drive past Big Ben, past the Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Tower Bridge, the Tower of London. I find myself looking for Basil of Baker Street hanging from Big Ben, for the Bird Woman from Mary Poppins feeding the pigeons on the steps of St. Pauls.

Then I realize how silly that is. It’s not like Disney owns the United Kingdom.

Yet.

* * *

Wednesday is a relatively free day, my day to walk around, souvenir shop, catch a view of a couple of things of interest. I take in Madame Tussaud’s world-famous wax museum. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but I have to say that the pictures I’ve seen in the past don’t begin to do the displays justice. The Arnold Schwarzenegger statue is not particularly effective, I think, which is interesting considering that it’s the only one they charge you to have your picture taken with. But the other displays which decorate a sort of indoor “garden” are absolutely astonishing. At one point I get out of the way of someone who’s trying to see one of the statues, only to realize that the person whose view I’m trying to accommodate is in fact another one of the waxworks. Celebrities ranging from sports figures to Dudley Moore to “Patsy Stone” from Absolutely Fabulous stand throughout (although I think it’s absurd to have Patsy without the show’s focal character, Edina. It’s like having Laurel but not Hardy.)

I also swing by Baker Street. The actual 221-B Baker Street, literary home of Sherlock Holmes, is part of a large bank building. At the time of the original Holmes stories, there was no 221-B. Baker Street didn’t go up that high.

There is, however, a touristy 221-B Baker Street about a block or so down. Actually “touristy” doesn’t quite do it justice. It’s a meticulously crafted representation of Holmes’ Baker Street digs, where you can walk around, pick up his violin, sit in a chair and imagine conversations with Holmes or Watson sitting opposite you (depending on whether you fancy yourself a great detective or a perpetual, wide-eyed sidekick.) The place is incredibly cluttered with paraphernalia. There’s everything one could imagine there, up to and including a hypodermic for Holmes’ drug habit. A truly obsessive Holmesian could probably spend the entire day there just figuring out which items were mentioned where.

* * *

Pandora is pregnant.

This is the news I get from home, my family having taken the latest stray-cat acquisition to the vet. Apparently she’s several weeks along. This explains the cat’s incredible neediness for affection. It also explains why she keeps licking everyone in the family; in full nurturing-mother mode, she’s treating everyone in the family as if they’re kittens, “cleaning” them in the same way that she would her offspring.

It also explains why she is so clearly housetrained, so obviously accustomed to being around people, so affectionate, and yet abruptly without a home. Obviously her pregnancy was discovered or intuited by her previous owners. Perhaps she was in heat and they were endeavoring to keep her in, but she got out of the house and then returned with a smile on her face and a tom in tow.

She’s a small cat, barely a year old. A birth presents risks. We could have her spayed, the pregnancy aborted, but spaying a several-week-old cat presents risks as well. Taking her someplace far away and dumping her (as her previous owners apparently did) is not an acceptable option. Sure, she’s been a resident of the house less than 72 hours, but the decision was made to take her in. Doesn’t matter if it was made a few days, months, or years ago. One has to stick with it.

Finally we decide, via long distance conference, to let nature take its course. It’s something that none of the kids has ever experienced, and will probably be exciting for them. Then all we’ll have to do is find homes for them at the end of September.

Anyone in Long Island, New York, need a kitten?

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

…environmentalists, seismologists and the media are going to have to stop calling it “fracking.” I can’t get through a single article that talks about “fracking earthquakes” or “fracking wastewater” without breaking down laughing.

Fracking “Battlestar.”

PAD

Originally published July 19, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1183

Continuing thoughts, observations and this ‘n that from merry olde England…

* * *

I’m in the heart of London… a first for me. Standing on a street corner, I look to the left, see no cars coming, and step out into the road. I nearly get run over as I’m reminded that people drive on the left in these parts.

* * *

I overhear some folks chattering away who are, by their demeanor, tourists. They’re from Germany. I’ve encountered quite a few Germans since I got to England, both at the convention and now here in London.

I’m reminded of Peter Jurasik’s appearance at an SF convention in Germany, an account of which was making the rounds at the Wolf 359 convention in Blackpool from which I’d just come. Jurasik, who plays Ambassador Londo Mollari on Babylon 5, appeared on stage in full Londo make-up and did an in-character question-and-answer with the audience. One of the first questions the Germans asked was why the Centauri (Londo’s people) were giving the Narns (their ancient enemies) such a miserable time. The Centauri, after all, had begun a war, levelled the Narn homeworld, and more-or-less enslaved the populace.

Peter-as-Londo defended his actions, bellowing in his Eastern European accent, “The Narns are barbarians! They should be exterminated! They do not deserve to be treated like civilized beings!”

This drew more challenges from the audience, with the fans still feeling that Londo’s actions were unwarranted and unconscionable. He had, after all, spearheaded a war against the Narns.

And Peter-as-Londo, in what has to get the Most Gutsy Convention Appearance Award, bellows at an audience full of Germans, “What, earth people have never started a war? Never tried to exterminate each other? I believe you yourselves have started a war or two in your time, yes?”

From what I was told, there was dead silence. “Londo” had flat out nailed them, making them think about what Londo stood for and about the kind of baggage that Germany carries with them. It was several minutes more before the audience started responding to him again; in the interval they just sat there stewing after Londo had knocked them down a few pegs.

Wish I’d been there. That must have been something to see.

* * *

Kristian Ayre (Radu from Space Cases) accompanies me to London, where I’m scheduled to do a couple of store appearances and a bunch of interviews, all set up by Simon and Schuster U.K. in order to promote my Star Trek books. Kristian, who was born in England but hasn’t been back for some years, is taking the opportunity to sight see for a day or two. We go to check in to our rooms at the hotel, the splendid London Metropol, and the desk clerk looks at teenaged Kristian and myself and says, “Father and son?”

“No,” I say.

At which point she looks at the two of us very suspiciously. And suddenly I find myself explaining to this complete stranger that I co-created this TV show that’s going to be on in England in October and Kristian is one of the cast members.

“How nice,” she says, but she still seems suspicious.

* * *

I’m standing at a street corner. This time I look to the right. You don’t catch me twice. There’s no cars coming. I step off the curb and almost get mowed down by a car whizzing past from the left. I hadn’t realized I’m standing at a one-way street running the other way. I seem to remember my mother telling me something about “looking both ways before crossing,” but the advice is a dim and distant memory. As I will be before too long if I don’t watch myself.

* * *

Both Kristian and I are big fans of the series Red Dwarf. After a three year hiatus, the show is up and running again, and is filming while we’re in England. Deciding to take a longshot, I use my few contacts with the BBC and inquire as to the possibility of our coming out to visit the set and meet the gang. We are, after all, the “new kids” in town, as it were. Space Cases owes a great deal to Red Dwarf which is, after all, the only other half-hour comedy adventure around about folks trekking through space.

Much to my utter astonishment, the Dwarfers are happy to meet with us. We cab out to the studios where producer Jo Bennett as offered to take us out to lunch at the studio commissary with the cast. Kristian and I are left in a small office while we wait for everyone to finish a rehearsal. During that time our will power is tested mightily, because we are surrounded by scripts for the upcoming season lying all over the place. But we want to respect the confidentiality of the series. Through sheer mastery and self-discipline (not to mention a certainty that we’ll be caught) we don’t so much as sneak a peek at a single script.

The first two cast members we encounter are nearly unrecognizable as “civilians.” Danny John-Jules, who plays the Cat, and Robert Llyewellyn, who plays the android Kryten, speak with British accents as opposed to the faultless American intonations with which they speak in the series. It’s rather disconcerting. To say nothing of the fact, of course, that Robert isn’t covered with the Kryten make-up, and Danny is far scruffier than his slick and pristine Cat persona.

Jo brings us down to lunch, where we are joined by Craig Charles (Lister, the last remaining human), Chris Barrie (Rimmer, his insufferable hologram associate), series co-creator Doug Naylor, and a couple of other writers and additional visitors.

Craig seems as irreverent and chipper as his fictional counterpart. He tries on my Babylon 5 watch and then loudly announces, “I hope you weren’t expecting to get this back.” (I was and I did.) He lights up a cigarette and then says to Christian, “Would you mind not eating while I’m smoking?”

Chris, meantime, is nothing like the perpetually weak-kneed Arnold J. Rimmer. Indeed, he seems more evocative of Rimmer’s other-dimensional alter-ego, “Ace” Rimmer, with a steely, confident gaze and a handshake that grinds your knuckles together.

The series faces several new challenges this year. First, co-creator Rob Grant has left the series. Although Doug has a hand in every episode, he’s only fully written two of the episodes for the new season. Furthermore, the usual Dwarf season is six episodes; this year (and next) will be eight. This will give them sufficient number for the series to be syndicated in foreign markets, which means that Red Dwarf will be that much more likely to show up on a station near you (as it is, it’s only sporadically shown on some PBS stations.)

Also, this is the first year that they will not be filming in front of a live audience. There will still be a laugh track, however, so the actors will have to allow time during their performance for laughs to be added. It sounds like a daunting proposition to me, but then again, I’m not an actor (just ask anyone who’s ever seen me act.)

I don’t get near enough time to talk to Doug Naylor as I’d like. There’s a number of questions I’d have liked to ask him, but he seemed both a little distracted and a little reserved during lunch, and I wasn’t sure how to approach him on what I wanted to know. Ah well. Maybe next time.

Overall, a great bunch of folks. Not a smeg-head in the bunch.

* * *

I saw two shows while in London. The first, recommended by Joe Straczynski, was “Buddy Holly.” Yes, that’s right. I flew thousands of miles to England and saw a show about an American icon featuring a cast of British actors putting on American accents. On the one hand I’m still annoyed with myself that I did so; on the other hand, boy, was it a fun show.

Two days later, though, I go to see the most appropriate thing to see on the English stage. No, it wasn’t The Mousetrap. Agatha Christie generally bores me. No, it wasn’t an Andrew Lloyd Webber play. They’re all on Broadway. No, my friends, I saw the Bard, as performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company (noted for such alumnae as Patrick Stewart). Their current production is “Julius Caesar.” I’ve only seen a few of Shakespeare’s plays on stage, so my frame of reference isn’t vast. I thought that what I saw was superb, but I’m no expert. Just settle for a layman’s opinion that it was a worthwhile evening of entertainment.

* * *

I prepare to cross a street in London, and instead of looking left or right, I look down. There at my feet, the words “Look right” have been painted. Apparently London has been made idiot-proof. Too bad they don’t do that in New York. Instead the signs would read, “Look right, ya jag-off!”

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He’ll wrap up this diary next week.)