Carousel: The Circular Nature of Comic Books

In the first season finale episode of Mad Men, Jon Hamm’s dapper Don Draper is trying to sell a version of Kodak’s Carousel home slide projector, which was ostensibly a product in 1960. Making a pitch while he rifles through pictures of his family and himself in better times, Don delivers a monologue so moving that even hapless Harry Crane wheezes tearfully from the room. He narrates, “In Greek, nostalgia literally means pain; the pain from an old wound. It’s a twinge, in your heart. Far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn’t a spaceship, it’s a time machine. It goes backwards, forwards. It takes us to a place, where we ache to go again. It’s not called ‘The Wheel,’ it’s called ‘The Carousel.’ It lets us travel in the way a child travels. Round and round, and then back home again. To a place where we know- we are loved.”

Don was absolutely right, and I don’t just mean about Pete getting punched again and again after he receives his first proper ass-whooping courtesy of Lane Pryce. In explaining it as such, Don has also quite accurately and perfectly described the very nature and continual appeal of comics themselves. Comics represent a place in our heart, a longing for our youth, that we return to over and over because it reminds us of our individual concepts of home. And perhaps ironically (or a bit too on-the-nose cleverly, you decide), the episode itself is not called “The Carousel” but “The Wheel.” Because that’s what life is, it ain’t always a fun ride, but it sure as hell goes back around with its ups and downs. Everything is cyclical, but there is a beauty in the circular nature of life in that the more things change, they inevitably come back around to where they started from. Comics especially so, and more so than pretty much any other medium you can think of. With the caveat that most comics series are continuous and keep going, rather than preserved in amber like a perfect film or show.

Is the fact that comics are, by their very nature, part of a continuous never-ending loop both what draws us to them and pushes us away? I don’t know the answer to that. It’s sort of a chicken or the egg kind of argument, but a self-sustaining part of comics’ very nature. Superman does fight “The Never-Ending Battle,” after all. We like the comfort that they bring us in that there are no endings, that the characters will always be there even when they “die;” but this illustrates the supercilious nature of the books and their worlds, and is the thing that makes the whole endeavor seem so pointless if examined under close scrutiny. Minus of course the simple joy of reading a good story. For hardcore fans- a select group of which I am most definitely not a part of, cough cough- comics are a “safe space” that brings back happy memories, and while friends may desert you, a treasured comic kept in a bag and board will always be there for you in your collection.

I think this principle is true in most popular media, not just comics. Okay, especially comics, but not just. Look at the reaction to The Simpsons going on and on: we hate the newer seasons so much not only because they’re legitimately awful cartoons, but especially so compared to the brilliance that came before in the form of first ten seasons. And then it just never stopped. Had the show in its present form just been a separate thing for the past few years, no one would be upset, we’d just ignore it. But I would argue that’s why The Simpsons’ infarctions become so offensive: in its current form, the show wouldn’t have lasted on the air this long, and taints the legacy that made us fall in love with it in the first place. It’s endured mainly because of the deep love and nostalgia people have for the characters and world, a love cultivated by those extraordinary first few seasons. And the creators seem tone-deaf to this, instead patting themselves on the back for their longevity by seeming to say, “Boy, we’ve sure done a great job. People sure must love that jerkass Homer!” And so they keep going, feeding the cycle that created it. Chicken and egg. Creating something that’s worthy of nostalgia is a double-edged sword, because it also treads on/self-perpetuates said nostalgia to endure.

An example in the opposite direction is something like Breaking Bad. Widely beloved just for being a good show, it’s not based on anything so there’s no source material to compare it to, and it ended after a not-too-lengthy run with a definite closed-ending, and was justly praised for such by its fans. But in doing so, BB became a kind of treasured locked box, one preserved in its greatness for all time- and thus seemingly tamper-proof. If they brought back Breaking Bad: The Return of Walter and it was anything less than stellar, you can bet the torches would come out. And yes, I’m purposely not mentioning the fact that Better Call Saul is not exactly lighting the world on fire, and usually doubles as a good substitute for Ambien. But that show is a great example of one built off of a concept that people have a fond attachment to, yet removed enough that it isn’t going to offend anyone because it won’t “affect” Breaking Bad proper. But you can see how they milk the nostalgia with the frequent run-through of old characters, and it feels phony, more a case of “Hey, there’s Uncle Salamanca!” rather than “Boy, this scene really called for Uncle Salamanca. I wonder if we’ll find out the origin of his wheelchair bell?”

It’s a product that’s used, and commodified. Be careful, for with that comes the wrath of a thousand fans if you err. The same thing has happened with the newest Star Wars movies; boy, if ever there was a fan’s childhood not to tamper with, it’s that one. People have based their lives around that world and their love of it. But in making the newer sequels, like it or not the directors and writers are going to bring their own specific idea of what makes it good to the table, and that idea will be inextricably linked to their own childhoods and the way they think it “should” be.

The entire thing can be explained far more powerfully by someone other than my own long-winded self. On a Star Wars message board talkback, which has unfortunately been deleted along with the site, commenter “DocPazuzu” writes about The Last Jedi: “I finally realized something today, the day after seeing The Last Jedi, a day spent reading reactions to the film which are shockingly polarized. Those of us who grew up with the original trilogy, watched the films on the big screen in ’77, ’80 and ’83 and then countless times during the following decades on TV, VHS, Laserdisc, DVD and blu-ray — for us, and for a great deal of the younger generations, we can never, ever go back to watching the classic films as purely movies anymore. They’re pop cultural touchstones, overwhelmingly influential and formative experiences which have accompanied us throughout our lives and made their presence known in areas and situations sometimes far beyond the realm of movies or science fiction. While watching them, we’re not just thrilling to the well-known adventures of our beloved characters, we’re also utterly tuned into every aspect in which Star Wars has had an effect on our lives. It’s hardly even watching a movie any more, it’s like something communal or liturgical, a shared experience even if you’re watching it by yourself. If you were there from the beginning, you know the feeling: you’re never truly alone while watching the original films, even if there’s nobody else in the room with you.”

He continues, “It doesn’t matter how good or bad the new Star Wars movies are because in our lives they can never be fairly compared to the originals. They simply lack the cultural baggage and formative weight that those movies have accrued over the decades. This is an argument I’ve heard the prequel defenders use over the past ten or twelve years. In essence, they’re correct — no matter how good or bad the prequels may be, they can never get a fair shake against the “true faith”, as it were. The same goes for the newest Star Wars films. They’re just as disadvantaged as the prequels when it comes to comparing them to the originals. What you CAN do, however, is compare the prequels and the new films in a much more pertinent and relevant fashion since they both lack the pop cultural assets of their illustrious progenitors.”

I think ol’ Doc says it better than I possibly can. We love something for whatever reason because it touches us on a deeper level, and creators feel the exact same way as consumers. It’s the inherent comfort, but also a problem when they do not get this aspect of the appeal. On the comics’ side, Grant Morrison is one such creator who very, very much gets it, able to look at the artificial and unchanging nature of the worlds and books yet able to find ways to derive joy from that; not wink at the readers to point out how stupid the whole thing is and how immature we are. Grant is aware that comics are just flat pages stapled together with no inherent meaning, but he even embraces that notion, saying that we the readers have the power to be able to turn backwards and forwards much like Kodak’s Carousel, masters of time and space over the worlds we observe. He thus implies, through his work, the charming notion that the DC Universe (to name one) must be real because it holds this much power, and our world is just another dimension of existence in one big multiverse. It involves us as readers and excites us, because it validates both our passion AND the world of the books we buy.

The best creators can do this because they understand everything is circular, passed from one generation to another, and also why it is so. Other creators, not as much. DC has had more success when they embrace the legacy aspect of their comics (“Rebirth”) than when they try to ignore it and tell you to forget the big tapestry of 80 years (“New 52”). Those who violate the central tenant of comic books, that they are a wheel but also our collective safe place or “home” we return to, do so at their own peril. A creator in charge of a comic is essentially “god” of this artificial world a la The Truman Show. The problem is when a creator is not self-aware enough to get this and just thinks their preferred version is the “right” one, and have the power to set about making this the viewpoint that they want everyone to agree with. It both validates their instincts as artists and confirms that the version from their youth was indeed the best. I get this, it’s a powerful impulse. To have your nostalgia confirmed, like a pope. But it travels a very slippery slope, and leaves us treading on very dangerous ground that can run right over our favorite characters and the comics we love. Just ask poor ol’ Spider-Man.

One of the most divisive comic stories of the modern age (okay, not so divisive at all, everyone hated it) is Spider-Man’s “One More Day” anti-saga, the tale which finally split up the webbed one from his wife, Mary Jane, for good. At the end of his rope after Aunt May is shot by a sniper (I would think the appropriate sentiment would be “restrained jubilation” at this plot turn, but no), Peter and MJ “sell” their marriage to Mephisto/Satan, and instead of a devil’s bargain taking away everything he has in return, Peter is instead magically restored to a better, more single status quo where he’s a hip, unmarried, goofy-ass slacker dude who has no responsibilities. And he lives with an un-shot Aunt May, who can dote on him and make those damnable wheatcakes again. Um, okay? Orchestrated by Editor-in-Chief Joe Quesada, the contempt towards fandom was so palpable, that it turned many readers off of Marvel for good, whom the editorial then tried to deem as “suppressive personalities” or their own version of such, which I guess in this case would be would be “Non-True Believers.”

Many fans despised the comic, made only to prop up a new status quo, not necessarily BECAUSE it split Petey and MJ up; but because it did so in such a ridiculously artificial way, that it felt like Quesada was thumbing his nose at the readers by and large- and pointing out the artificial nature of the whole concept. Writer J. Michael Straczynski himself actually renounced the comic and wanted his name taken off the last issue, as Joey Q had re-written his script to take away all logic he had tried to infuse in it, and Peter’s resulting decision. When telling The Q that it made no sense, JMS was allegedly told, in reply, “It’s magic, it doesn’t have to make sense.” And this is what Quesada never got, and seems to still have not gotten: audiences will accept a lot, as long as you serve them a genuinely good story and make the telling of it believable. But when you show your outright disdain for the readership by making as half-assed a comic as you can just to get from point A to point B, it rightly enrages said audience because it shows how silly and pointless the whole thing is. We know it doesn’t “matter,” but it can FEEL like it matters more than just the whims of an Editor-in-Chief that are implemented by force. We saw how the cheese was made, the man behind the curtain, the emperor having no clothes, a peek that we weren’t comfortable with into what was really going on, and we did not like it.

That story was bad enough (I actually don’t mind- and even quite appreciate- the first three parts written by Straczynski, but that’s a review for another day), but then Quesada had to rub salt in the wound by doing a follow-up, “One Moment in Time,” that tried to EXPLAIN the first “One More Day” story, and against all odds ended up outdoing it as the worst Spidey tale of all time. It did so because what we already knew became even more obvious: Marvel doesn’t care about what the readers want. Quesada, it seems, was not content to just let his awful editorial edict lie and move on; it seems he was impassioned to force us to retroactively praise his decision, and confirm that his instincts were indeed spot-on the first time, and it was we who were wrong. Now, I’m not saying Joe had any other intention than trying to make up for his past blunder to the audience with a more palatable story, but he went about it by doubling down on the wrong things and seemed to convey the opposite.

The events of THIS story, too convoluted to get into here, explain how Peter and MJ were never married to begin with: by one change made, they simply don’t meet at the altar, end up living together as an unmarried couple, and the events of “One More Day” are magically undone not by Mephisto but by Peter resuscitating Aunt May through the magic power of “love.” He then goes back to Dr. Strange yet again and has him erase his secret identity from the minds of everyone BUT Mary Jane, who is so furious at this that she breaks up with Pete for good. So they give up on each other anyway, when the whole point of OMD was supposedly to avoid this. Disregarding the fact that the characters never behaved in this manner previously, MJ then tells Peter he has to find someone who can deal with his baggage, but it’s not her. Freed from the burden of a relationship with his former wife, Peter happily swings into the sunset narrating that she has finally “set him free”- and that this feels truly like “A Brand New Day!” Ugh. A pity the book didn’t come with a free razor blade for the readers like those digital code stickers Marvel used to half-heartedly pluck in the back.

It was garbage, but truly insulting garbage. If the absolute goal was for Peter to leave the marriage with that sentiment on the last page, there’s probably a way to do it. This was not that way, and insinuating it was earned or a natural response by any human being ever, was the worst kind of doubling down on the previous misstep. Here was Quesada’s hubris blundering yet again: he just could not realize that if he had said all of the previous comics happened, the characters just forgot about it, or even if they had rebooted or some such, it wouldn’t have stung so much. But he tried to say that these stories we cherished were worse than merely forgotten by the leads; they simply never were, and we were wrong to hope he’d reinstate them at all. The implication is, we were the idiots- the muggles, if you will- who fell into this trap by caring so much about a fictional universe in the first place.

And damned if Quesada didn’t do all this by falling into the same trap himself. You see, Quesada is quite obviously fond of the status quo of the Spidey from his youth. He wanted to take us back to that time, where Peter was young and carefree and had girl problems and single-guy woes and inexplicably hung out at the Coffee Bean every spare minute, because he probably genuinely believed that was the character at his finest. But what Joe didn’t realize was that he thought this was Spidey at his greatest because that was HIS Spidey of HIS youth, not because of anything inherently great about the era or its trappings. The original version of “Make Spidey Great Again,” which ultimately led to calls by fans to “Drain the Marvel Swamp.”

A good writer can make Spidey good no matter what his marriage status is, and a bad one can ruin him just the same. It was as silly and superficial as saying Spider-Man only works if he’s circumcised; well, I’m sure a good writer could make it work with him being uncut as well, hard though that may be to wrap our minds around! The Spidey of my youth was married to MJ; does that mean I need to see him like that forever? Of course not, but I also wouldn’t double down and re-marry him if I had the power to, under some misguided pretense that I’m returning him to greatness or former glory for the next generation of readers. But couldn’t some other writer, who grew up in a similar era with a married Spidey, implement his own will? Well, we haven’t found out, because Dan Scott has written Amazing exclusively since 2010 and we’ve only gotten his viewpoint; while at the same time, Marvel is still run by the same Gen-X creatives hired by Quesada who grew up during the same era, so we’ll never know. Slott even somewhat gloated on the CBR message boards that the marriage is never coming back, ever, because the kids of today are growing up reading HIS unmarried version of Spidey. Never ever ever!

Scary though that notion is, I think the sentiment brings up something Dan doesn’t want to admit: perhaps he and his editors of like-mind have run in place for so long, simply because they don’t WANT new blood to have a chance to “ruin” Spidey; they’re waiting until someone from said Generation Z takes over the book and perpetuates this same unmarried Spidey archetype forever and ever. In other words, they’re hedging their bets to prevent a dissenting generation from ever having a chance at bat. My goodness, there’s so much fear of a married Spider-Man here! These things are cyclical, and they are indeed making a conscious effort to cycle out of a Spidey that does not gel with how they think he SHOULD be, which is the Spidey of their bygone years. And they likely have no ill intent, merely thinking that their view is what’s best for the character. But doesn’t everyone?

In response to the hideous “One Moment In Time” story, a truly eloquent and well-written rebuttal, or more aptly a personal account, was penned by long time Spidey reader and fan, Matthew Kleinert, titled “Saying Goodbye to Spider-Man.” You can read it in whole at: https://www.bleedingcool.com/2010/09/15/saying-goodbye-to-spider-man-by-matthew-h-kleinert/ but I wanted to highlight the most thoughtful and indicting section, which is pretty much the entire 2nd half. Mr. Kleinert writes: “As my adolescent life became increasingly unappealing, I found myself escaping more and more into the life of Peter Parker. It did not matter if the stories were “Marvel Tales” reprints, new issues bearing a hefty $1.50 cover price, or those rare, musty gems that were stumbled upon during a treasured Saturday at the comic shop while my long- suffering father waited patiently in the car grading papers. Every outlet into the world of Peter Parker was a lifeline; every glimpse of that world was a sign from God that if I refused to surrender to the contempt of my peers and my own self-loathing, I would make it through the day. I would end up a winner, like Peter.

In first college and then law school, I found life changed more suddenly and dramatically than I would have thought possible. Although I still don’t quite understand how it happened, I found my Tourette Syndrome under control and women showing an interest in me. Where before I was literally without a friend in the world, I now had the enviable task of choosing which group of friends with which I would spend my evening. At the same time, JMS and Mark Millar were masterfully writing tales of Peter and Mary Jane Watson Parker as mature and grounded late 20-somethings who triumphed over the trials life put in their way by drawing on their love for each other. All was right with the world.

When “One More Day” hit the stands, I was not particularly bothered by it on an emotional level. While I was disgusted over the decision to end the marriage in the hopes of making Peter more marketable (It is no coincidence that sales plummeted when “Brand New Day” reduced Peter to a pathetic hard-luck loser just as they did when John Byrne had Peter sleeping on the streets), the methodology was so mind-numbingly absurd that it failed to elicit emotion[al] reaction. However, where “One More Day” failed to weigh on my mind, “One Moment In Time” has succeeded in leaving an indelible scar on my soul. Please, do not think me prone to hyperbole, but that storyline has legitimately made me question the passion for comic books that I have had for the majority of my 27 years on this Earth.

Where J.M. DeMatteis’ magnum Spider-Man opus “The Gift” (Amazing Spider-Man #400) celebrated the indefatigable bonds of love between Peter, Mary Jane and May Parker, “One Moment in Time” reduced them to a maudlin caricature of what had gone before. I am not going to rehash the plot points of “One Moment in Time,” as I assume anyone who has actually read this far into this self-indulgent little essay has a general familiarity with what occurred. Suffice to say, the wedding never happened, and at story’s end, Mary Jane “frees” Peter from the “burden” of their failed relationship. The personal poignancy of the story is made all the worse by recent events in my own life as (knock on wood) I have found my own happy ending. I am practicing law by day, while spending my nights and weekends with my own, personal Mary Jane Watson.

For three years now, I have been blessed with the love of one of those beautiful “popular girls,” something I would have thought impossible in high school. Imagine, then, my difficulty in reading a story where, in Peter Parker’s post- Faustian world, his once greatest source of strength has been perverted into a burden. Apparently, Peter need no longer feel guilty when he has drunken one-night stands, let alone casual sex with two woman in the space of five issues (Yes, this actually happened in a Spider-Man comic).

As I come to a close, I am reminded of Alan Moore’s message to comic book readers while writing as Dan Dreiberg. He tells us that we must never fall into the trap of letting habit replace passion. While my love for stories like “Kraven’s Last Hunt,” “The Child Within,” and Mark Millar’s nameless run on Marvel Knight’s Spider-Man will never fade, my passion for the ongoing adventures of Peter Parker has been replaced with the monotonous habit of reading comic books for the sake of reading comic books. I began this essay with a quote that I now return to: “Today. Today. My best friend. The best person I’ve ever known-set me free.” [says Peter at the end of the storyline] During what I can only pray was the darkest period of my life, Peter Parker was my best friend. I grew up with him, and now it is time to say goodbye. In a sense, he was the best person I have ever known, and with the conclusion of “One Moment in Time,” he has set me free.” And I say to Mr. Kleinert’s insightful essay: I think the Marvel version of the mic drop here would be, ‘Nuff Said!

Like all characters of fiction, sometimes we too in the real world need to learn when to pack it up and let it go, much like Mr. Kleinert, who moved on. I hope he did find happiness beyond the comics, off with his own Mary Jane. I was going to say I had a hope that one day I’d see him having a fine drink on the banks of the Arno and we’d do nothing but nod at each other, but I think you get it. However, I hope he didn’t cave and come back to Spider-Man. I wouldn’t begrudge him if he did, however touching his moral stance in his essay might be. But the rest of us are often not quite so “lucky,” as to escape the traps of our own nostalgia. I’m working on it; I guess we’re all works in progress. To borrow one final quote from a popular entertainment I have loved, in the film Magnolia, a repeated phrase used again and again by several characters is, “And the book says, we may be through with the past; but the past ain’t through with us.” They are obviously not referring to The Good Book (unless there was a scripture I missed called The Book of Frank T.J. Mackey), but that begs the question, to what book are they speaking of? For all intents and purposes, they may as well be referring to all the comics books of our lifetime that were there prior to when we were born, and will continue long after we’re gone.