It was a dark
and stormy night at the offices of Diatribe Comics (really just an “R & D
lab” for their much larger parent company, according to some authorities) and
the editors were in a tizzy.
“These pages are
crap!” said one. “I mean straight up inky shite.”
“I know, I
know,” said the other, putting a coffee-stained styrofoam cup to his mouth
before realizing it was empty, for the twentieth time. “But Franz Mailer is a
legend in the field! We could stamp his name on a dog turd and it would sell
half-a-million copies to his fans!”
His baggy-eyed
pal sighed and almost lifted the cup again before finally remembering it was
empty.
“No you’re
right,” he said. “There’s a lot of blowback out there in fandom. I don’t even
have to go online... I’ve been catching funny looks from short people in long
hallways... You can just feel it in the air.”
The younger
editor mused privately to himself that this was unlikely, as nobody really
seemed to read comics anymore. His colleague was probably just paranoid,
imagining that they were under more scrutiny than circulation figures could
justify. The really horrifying truth was that they could publish their kids’
refrigerator scribblings across the entire line and maybe one guy in
Poughkeepsie would notice--- and HE wouldn’t even be arsed enough about it to
send them a rambling irate email.
But instead of
expressing this, he played along.
“Yes, we’re
becoming a laughingstock. The whole industry is giggling with schadenfreude,
before using these pages to wipe themselves!”
“Actually the
first couple installments were passable, I’d say. If you like that sort of
thing. And with a top colorist going along behind him to make it look pretty.
But this last batch he turned in... It’s like he walked off one of those craggy
piers he’s always drawing and fell in the drink.”
“How long do you
think it took him? Ten minutes per page?”
“If that. I
don’t think he even penciled the thing. Just straight inks. And half-assed inks
at that. He’s such a mad-man.”
“He’s a genius
though. A mad genius. Maybe we should let him do it, in respect to his past
work. You know, if he wants to coast, fine, coast. Rest on your laurels, Franz:
you’ve earned it.”
“Yeah, but
this...”
WHAP! A worn
leather satchel slapped down on their conference table, spilling forth a large
sheaf of bristol board paper.
“Ooh, pages!”
said the editors, gleeful for some distraction from their worries. But would
this bring new ones in their stead?
“Howdy-ho,
gentlemen,” said the gray-haired, fashionably discheveled cartoonist who had
brought the pages. It was Jan Clauson, the European emigre who had spent
several decades inking the top talents in the field, as well as penciling his
own work and teaching young hopefuls at the School of Pictorial Artistry here
in New York.
“You look
worried, mein freunds,” Jan perceived accurately, a slight trace of an accent
still present beneath his polished English.
“Worried ain’t
the half of it!” agreed the editors, “but let’s see what you’ve brought in.
Ooooh! Now this is respectable, Jan... This we can put the ‘Diatribe’ logo on
without fear of desecrating a 70-year-old institution, ya know?”
“Ja, you think
so? Well, mein freunds, Bobby Kippet is no Franz Mailer, and I sometimes yawn
when inking these pages; but I suppose they appeal to this generation.”
Bobby Kippet was
drawing the main chapters of “Dark Viking 3” --- the editors had made sure of
that, knowing already that Mailer was getting too wonky to hold down the entire
book.
“Geez, Jan, I
think he’s great! I can’t see a single thing wrong with these pages! It’s
exactly in line with the script we approved. Bobby is the perfect artist, as
far as I’m concerned. He may not be a GENIUS, like some, but that has its pros
& cons, you know...”
Clauson,
murmuring epithets to himself under his breath, then noticed the pages already
strewn around the large table.
“Are these
Franz’s latest? Can I see?”
“Oh god, if you
don’t mind having your eyeballs melted out of your skull, be my guest!”
“Yeah, have at
it! I’m getting some more coffee --- and then maybe jumping out the window, if
I can get the damn thing open. Modern architecture, I’m tellin’ ya...”
Clauson flipped
through the pages as the editors left the glass-walled conference room. He was
a pretty big Franz Mailer fan himself, with reservations to be sure, but on the
whole a devotee.
And yet... These
pages, even for Franz, were pretty far gone. Would Diatribe actually publish
this? It was almost at the level of some underground experimental comic, like
something Fancygraphics would do. Or even a smaller, weirder zine place. Almost
too wonky for Fancygraphics, mein gott!
But the Dark
Viking always was an edgy, experimental “universe.” Clauson had inked the
original back in the eighties. Although in those days Franz was still BECOMING
a legend, and was closer to his hungry, striving days, aching to “draw well,”
like a pro... ARTSY, to be sure. Franz was always artsy. Brilliant sense of design,
passionate about ideas and storytelling. But not so entitled and complacent as
this latest chapter...
The editors came
back, buoyed by a new round of java. They were full of pep and... What was that
twinkle in their eyes? It was not entirely to Clauson’s liking...
“Hey, Jan... We
were thinking...”
“Ja? That is
novelty around here, yes?”
“Hahaha... Good
one, Jan! Now listen, you must see this ship is coasting dangerously near the
breakers here. You saw his latest?”
“Now, MAYBE the color
can work some miracles there. Photoshop is a wonderful, wonderful thing...”
(Clauson had
mixed views on Photoshop, but kept silent.)
“Anyway, we
can’t see publishing ALL the remaining chapters that way. Suppose it gets
WORSE! So, we need you to be...”
“Ja?”
“Our Aquaman.”
“Aquaman?”
“Ja... I mean
‘yes,’ Aquaman. You know, save us from the eddies! Drag this ship back into the
tradewaters, or whatever it’s called... I’m an editor, I should know.. But
anyway, rescue us, Jan!”
“And how am I to
do that, gentlemen?”
“You inked him
before.. Why not ink him again? Take his pencils as rough finishes and clean
them up. Make ’em more like the old Franz. You can do that, can’t you? We’ll
pay you for pencils as well, but (in the interest of being discreet) maybe just
credit you as inker... The fans, you know, they want as much Mailer as they can
get...”
“Wellll....”
“Come on, Jan!
Do it! Do it... for Diatribe.”
“Let me see. I
call Franz. I talk to him. I see how he feels about it. These days, I think he
likes to ink himself, maybe.”
“But you’ll
call? You’ll see what he says? Fantastic! Now look Jan, feel him out, but this
is what we want. Be delicate, be discreet, but it may be the only way this
thing sees completion. Otherwise, hoo boy, I hate to think... we might have to
bury it, cut the print run in half, totally stop promoting it, not collect it,
etc.”
Lighting crashed
as Clauson turned to leave. The editors glowed maniacally for a brief moment,
like characters in some hardboiled pulp fiction, who’d just been spared by the
arrival of Mike Hammer, the dark knight of detective fiction. They raised their
foam cups high and laughed with relief, a sweaty sheen on their scalps, as Clauson
weaved his way out through the maze of empty desks and cubicles.
* * * * *
The links were
still wet from last night’s rain.
Clauson had
called that morning about having lunch, and Mailer’s assistant had informed him
that Mr. Mailer was already out on hole nine, at an exclusive country club
frequented by many of New York’s media and publishing elites. Of course
cartoonists were small fries in this world, but among cartoonists, Mailer was a
whale. His concepts had been made into motion pictures, featured in news
stories, and hyped as revolutionizing the comics medium. And, evidently, earned
him enough to take the day off and knock around a little white ball for sport.
Well, he had earned it thought Clauson (though a workaholic himself, who could
never bear to be away from the drawing table for too long.)
He found Franz
somewhere out on the back nine, utterly alone, concentrating intently at...
something? He was holding his niblick frozen as though he’d just swung it,
looking off in the distance.
“Franz?”
No response.
Clauson gingerly picked his way through the wet grass, pointlessly: his shoes
had been soaked through instantaneously, from the first step onto the course.
“Franz? It is I,
Jan...”
Why wouldn’t he
look up? The funny little man (though a genius) stood as if in a trance. Still
frozen, he finally said “Hi, Jan.”
“Franz! Mein
gott, I wondered would you talk.”
“Well, it’s not
often you get a hole in one.”
“But, Franz...”
“Yes, I can’t
see the ball anywhere out there, so I assume it went in the hole.”
“Franz. Is at
your feet. Ze ball, she is here.”
Anger flashed
across Mailer’s face as he finally looked Clauson’s way. Then he looked down
where, indeed, lay a dimpled white ball.
“That’s not it!
I like to hit multiples. You’re looking at a multiple there. The ball I hit is
in the hole, Jan.”
“Ah I see,
Franz. My bad.”
“Anyway, I’m
done here. I’ve had enough of this damn snooty patrician’s sport. What was it
you wanted to see me about?”
“Well, Franz...
Is somewhat delicate. Is about DV3.”
“What about it?”
“I was just up
at the Diatribe offices last night... You know, we were wondering... It’s up to
you of course, but maybe the approach we used for DV1 was better in some
ways...”
“Ya think?”
“Ja, maybe... I
think. You know, what if I ink your pencils, too? Might help to UNIFY the book,
if I ink yours and Bobby’s.”
“Jesus. How’d I
get roped into this, that’s what I wanna know.”
Franz lit up:
Camels. Low-tar.
“I mean come
on,” Franz continued. “Bobby’s a sweet kid and all, but so by-the-book. He’s
probably really earnestly doing his best, he just doesn’t have the flare or
panache... well, like I do, not to brag but...”
“No no, is true
Franz. I fall asleep on those pages. I’m too old to be inking such things, but
is my dutiful nature. It’s a job.”
“I mean I was
excited at first... But now; yeah, you saw my last batch of pages up at the
offices? Five minutes a page. Tops.”
“Only five?
Impressive, ja, I guessed ten...”
“It’s not just
the kid, Jan. It’s everything. World’s changing. I can’t take my own bullshit
as seriously as I used to. I used to be a BELIEVER, you know? In superheroes,
ha ha. In the industry, the medium, in art. Now... I don’t know what it is... I
still like a good juicy brush stroke, a wiry pen line.. But I feel the wheel
has turned, the meaning has gone out of things...”
“Ja... Well,
then I ink, okay Franz?”
“Yeah.. Sure..
Yeah, I don’t know what it is.”
“Actually,
speaking as an artist, Franz. I’m okay with the last batch myself. Very rough,
yes; but it’s honest, you know? I can appreciate that. But from an editor’s
point of view, I can see it might be beyond the pale.”
“Oh yeah. Sure.
Yeah, and it’s my ‘handwriting’ anyway, you try to clean it up, that’ll be its
own form of ‘butchery.’ But very subtle butchery. Less obvious to the unstudied
eye.”
“Ja, those big
eyes Franz... in some ways is an abomination to merge with my ‘handwriting.’
But these are subtle points...”
“Indeed. Well,
thank god anyway. The sooner I can wash my hands of it the better. Hey, let me
ask you...”
“Ja?”
“Is my
bloviation fooling anybody? All my narrative pontification and
pseudo-profundities?”
“You are meaning
ze caption boxes? All ze little musings sprinkled here and there, coming from
who-knows-which character?”
“Yeah, yeah.
Does it seem ‘deep’? Clever, at least? Do I still have it? I mean that’s what
superhero fans of these years demand, I guess...”
“To be honest
Franz, I don’t have a clue what any of it means.”
“No? Well, good.
Maybe I’ll hide behind that. If people don’t ‘get it,’ they might think it’s
profound.”
“Ja, is
strategy...”
“The truth is, I
DO have one or two ‘big ideas’ buried in there... you know, these alien
humanoid super people could represent the Jewish people... Or on another level,
the aristocracy. Or, a meritocratic elite. There’s a lotta ways it could go.
Half the time I don’t know what I even think about it. Just trying to spin a
lot of BS around it so people don’t know WHAT to think.”
“Right, some
kind of allegory.”
“Exactly. Keep
’em guessin’.”
“Good plan.”
“I was just
worried, maybe my bloviations had gotten to about the same level as my DRAWING.
But no, that’s easier to fake your way through. Always. Especially in a damn
superhero comic.”
“Right.”
“Ever since the
80s, you know. Used to have to have real stories, but now it’s just a few
bloody fight scenes, and a shit-ton of caption boxes about some vague global
concerns or personal soapboxing by the hot writer du jour... Or, by me...”
“Absolutely.
Well, I should be getting back to ze old inkwell...”
“Right you are,
Jan. And me... Hmm, I still haven’t looked at today’s Wall Street Journal.
Maybe there’s one in the clubhouse...”
As Clauson
squooshed off onto the pavement, dreaming of getting back to his office and
finding fresh socks, the clouds remained but the day brightened slightly;
exactly the sort of overcast lighting that gave every person and object a crisp
delineation, such as Bobby Kippet favored. It would not be the hardboiled
expressive lighting of a Mailer/Clauson outing, not today. They would do things
Diatribe’s way, and it would be mediocre, and it would be met with
indifference, neither love nor hate; and they would move onto the next project,
where passion might (or might not) once more infuse their pens and brushes, as
it had in the glory days of the 1980s.
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