A Review of Life

Originally published August 13, 1999, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1343

This is the all-review issue, I’m told.

Let’s review life.

It seems only appropriate. The things that writers produce (sometimes with the aid of artists, sometimes solo) are supposed to be representations of life. They’re wildly idealized, of course. A world where superheroes try to right wrongs, and villains scheme to no avail. Or a place where story threads interweave, and there is a coherent whole that sometimes you can’t see while you’re in the midst of it, but once you’ve stepped back a bit, then the previously tangled skein makes all kinds of sense. And then the story ends, and ideally the boy and girl wind up together, or good triumphs, and in any event, everyone lives happily ever after.

But these are representations, as noted. One stepped removed from life. A copy of a copy, and as is always the case with copies in succession, each one bears fainter resemblance to the one before.

Life.

I watched TV as a child, and saw the images of John Kennedy, Jr. saluting his father, the image that has been pasted on newspapers in recent days. The thing I mostly remember about that time, aside from that picture, was that all the grown-ups were crying. I’d never seen grown-ups cry before. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to, at least to the best of my knowledge. When you were a child, you cried. That was okay, that was to be expected. But once you were an adult, you left behind aspects of childhood—and crying was one of them.

But there were adults crying. My grade school teacher, upon hearing the news, looked like she was fighting back tears. That alone scared me. At home, my mom and dad—my mom especially, with her eyes red. I could see that she’d been crying. Tears, fright—these weren’t the things that grown-ups were supposed to do. They were towers of strength. They were the ones who assured you that the thunder and lightning couldn’t hurt you, or that the creatures under your bed were simply products of your imagination. They were the editors of life. They were in control of it, guided it, shaped it. They were who you looked to for support. They were the center of life.

The reviews came in on the performances of the adults. “Did not rise to the occasion.” “Overly sentimental.” As for the incident that provoked the outpouring of utterly un-adult behavior—“Contrived.” “Out of left field.” “Overly violent.” “What was this supposed to prove? That no one—not even the most powerful man in the country—is safe from the homicidal intentions of assassin(s)? What is the point in that?” Indeed… what is the point?

Life. Coming up short, not looking particularly positive. Thus far it would seem to rate two stars, maybe a 2 and a half at most.

A princess. Now that’s a classic. You can’t go wrong with that story. A young woman meets a prince, they get married, live happily ever after. There’s a story for you. Nice. Simple. Elegant. Nothing fancy. Unadorned and straightforward, impossible for even the most inept author to botch. Unless, of course, the author is the Almighty, who seems to be omnipotent, omniscient, all-knowing and all-powerful, but utterly inept at telling a story that comes out right. For the princess and the prince, why, they can’t sustain the union. Under the glare of the press, the deterioration is played out on a world stage. The marriage splits apart. Oh, but wait—the princess appears to have bounced back. She may get to be happy at last. The story turned out not to be about happily-ever-after, but instead the story of how one can achieve all their dreams, lose them, but recover and still live a fulfilling life. Well… that’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Oh. Wait. Her car gets smashed up. And the princess (along with several others) dies.

Life. The reviews come pouring in: “Senseless.” “Idiotic.” “A total waste.” “Stupid.” A comic book with those sorts of notices doesn’t make it six issues. A play with those reviews puts up closing notices by the weekend. A one-hour TV drama? Forget it. By the time you get to the station break you’re going to hear, “The Princess Hour has been canceled. We now return to Jake and the Fatman, already in progress.”

Life. Don’t talk to me about life. So spake Marvin the paranoid android, who certainly knew what he was about. As the old saying goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

JFK, Jr. John-John. First act of his life: the golden child who loses his father, thus setting into motion the second after of his life. He grows up into the most eligible bachelor in America. Third act: He meets and marries Carolyn. Perhaps this is the third act of her life as well. Every woman in the country who had her own little “But if he met me he’d know we’d be perfect for each other” mantra going on in her head, why… they envy Carolyn above all others. She married John, Jr., the only son of the Camelot legacy. They would give anything to be her.

Bet that’s changed. Bet there’s a collective sighing of relief by all the women who might have snared the opportunity, and the bachelor, for their own. And the point is—the point of the story, why that’s… uh…

“The only way this story makes any sense,” one review must say, “is if it is to serve as an instructional film for would-be pilots to emphasize why pilots who aren’t instrument savvy shouldn’t take off at nightfall—a hazy nightfall, just to make it a bit more difficult.”

“What purpose is served by this calamity,” another review would say. “Yet another Kennedy dies… it’s becoming a cliché. Aren’t there any original families in Washington?” “The father dies young and thirty-five years later, the son dies young? The details of the story change, but the basic refrain remains the same.”

Life. Can’t be quantified or qualified.

It defies rational thought. It laughs in the face of formula. Unlike fiction, it cannot be deciphered or predicted based solely on what’s gone before. It makes no sense. It’s unfortunate, it’s asinine, it’s onerous.

Thumbs down on life. Well, yes—I suppose that’s what they call ‘suicide.’ Long term answer to a short term problem.

What to expect from life, then? It’s abysmal fiction. It follows no rules, takes characters out of the story with no warning and no point. People act out of character. Good people do bad things.

William Goldman, in the final analysis, put it best: “No one ever said life is fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.”

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