Peter Jackson's King Kong

It took me a while but I finally committed to sitting down and watching Peter Jackson's 2005 remake of the classic monster film King Kong. It wasn't that I was purposely avoiding the flick, it just happened to hit theaters during a lull in my film-going. After finally seeing it, though, I can honestly say that it's too bad I missed the chance to catch this epic while it was on the big screen.

King Kong is a legend. That goes without saying. The icon that is this majestic, gigantic gorilla caught the public's attention way back in 1933 and entered my life during my early childhood (the late 80s, early 90s). It was the 1970s remake where I first met him, though, while I was sitting in front of the television along with my family one holiday afternoon. It was another in an unofficial tradition of monsters movies during the holidays. Back then we watched everything from the Creature of the Black Lagoon to Godzilla while a turkey roasted or gift wrapping crinkled.

Kong, unlike the other movie creatures, went straight for my heart. He was an innocent animal doing what instinct demanded. It wasn't his fault that he was massive or that human beings were (and still are) flawed, selfish creatures. He lived his life free amongst the other wonders of his jungle island home. Men, as they are wont to do, trespassed in his domain and denied him the simple things he, an animal, wanted.

Peter Jackson's version of the story is especially fantastic for creating a Kong with the most pure and bestial of wants and desires. We see a creature (brought to life through the skilful motion-captured performance of Andy Serkis) that is just that. From his stance to his physicality to his behavior, Jackson's Kong is a pure animal. The performance and rendering of Kong is so magical and so convincing that my wife and I were brought to tears as we watched the poor beast's life get torn apart by greedy, destructive men. This component of the film above all others made me a fan of this version.

Other wonderful things exist within the movie which are obviously the products of the brilliant imagination of Jackson, the contributions of his fellow writers, the astounding Weta Workshop, and the dedicated acting of the cast. The film feels like the original Kong if modern film-making technology was made available to the old-time producers. It has action, excitement, adventure, mystery, and so much heart. I was constantly reminded of pulp adventure tales for their period feel and all-out wonder, Indiana Jones because of the rough and tough fellows who journeyed across the wilds of Skull Island, Lovecraft because of the nature of the mysterious, fog-shrouded Skull Island and the base and savage people who worshipped an unnatural, bestial god, and everything I felt about that big old gorilla way back when but only more so. I can't imagine a better remake of a classic than this film.

Out of five I'm giving it four. Check it out, especially if you're like me and are behind on the good stuff.

Post-vacation reflections

Waking every day knowing that the time you have till your head once again hits the pillow is yours to command is a beautiful thing. It's unfortunate then that most of us live in an ugly reality which consists of a lack of almost all control, overwhelming depression, and utter despair. The only beauty, if we can find the time or heart to seek it out, lies in the aesthetics of objects and ideas which satellite around our internal realities.

My wife and I spent the last week away from our jobs celebrating the blessed anniversary of her birth. We experienced the beauty I mentioned in the above first line every morning. The beauty we realized inside ourselves seemed to harmonize with the beauty of those things which surrounded us. Breathing felt easier. Happiness seemed to approach us without being sought out or imagined. If we let ourselves spend time forgetting what awaited us after the break we could almost taste true freedom.

Thinking about this as I dropped my wife off at work this morning sent a javelin of sorrow through my heart, whose guard was still down from the joy of off-time. It was like I released my wife into the hands of slavers who would later come to take me. This got me thinking, though. What really separates the feeling of airy freedom from the shackled misery of a nine-to-five work schedule? Is it just the sale of time from our lives to a cold, inhuman company, or is it that we poorly manage the free time which surrounds our sold time, blinding ourselves to a freedom that could potentially be present every day?

Even as I write this I realize how much more time is required to truly give these questions proper thought. Back to reflecting and reasoning. The human brain chugs on. May freedom find us again soon regardless of what my reflections reveal.

Hell Yeah...superheroes and the world of super-tomorrow

I've been fooling around on the Mike Allred message board for a few years now. Through it I've had the fortunate of meeting some incredible comic folks, taken part in some shameful internet debates, and helped deliver the virtual baby of an Australian author of one hundred one-page stories. (the baby thing isn't true but the rest is, unfortunately) It was one of those incredible comic folks who contributed to a certain eye-catching comic released this last week.

Teaming up with wonder-scribe Joe Keatinge, Andre Szymanowicz provided the nifty artwork for a new kind of superhero series, Hell Yeah. The title has the same attention-grabbing quality as the hit book Kick Ass (a hit in sales but certainly not in quality content, says only me apparently), but unlike Millar and Romita's bloody work it isn't a book about mega-violence and intense adult content. Hell Yeah features superheroes, yes, but these aren't your average vigilantes who adventure night after night to save mankind or to fuck shit up. Taking over the world in a manner similar to the Canamits from the Twilight Zone episode "To Serve Man," the heroes, who first came on the scene to save a seemingly ordinary soldier during the Gulf War, have made it possible for everyone to prosper and have neat powers. The whole world over has apparently become super in only twenty years time. Of course by the book's end the reader realizes that as nice as this might seem there is of course something very wrong.

This book would appeal to fans of stories which deal with hero-worlds where everyone has some incredible ability but something is horribly wrong in the higher echelons of society. It's not a new idea, but the story has potential to go off in one of a number of surprising directions. At this time, with only one issue available, it is of course too soon to tell. I'll definitely be picking up issue two.

The artwork is highly stylized, which is something I love to see in any comic. The medium needs more artists like Andre who embrace the story and deliver it to the reader through THEIR pencil, pen, and/or brush. There's no phoning it in or attempting to borrow the look of some other comic book artist. Mr. Szymanowicz holds up his end wonderfully from the first page to the last. The only issue I have is with whoever set the artwork for print. There are pages where you can see pixels on the edges of Andre's line work. Sloppy job, Image editors!

I'll admit that the story is not my cup of tea, but I believe that there is a huge audience for this kind of book. They need to know about it, and they need to support it. Hell, there's even a page featuring Jonathan Ross! Out of five I'm giving this book a four. Good job, Mssrs. Keatinge and Szymanowicz.

The man with his hand in the dream bag...

Bob Burden. An unassuming name, but perhaps a title for a king. Maybe even a mayor. Certainly, he's someone with an ear to the old trail and a mind's eye on the LSD-painted fancies of the blurred generational consciousnesses of the Twentieth Century.

I don't recall when I first met Mr. Burden's work, but I know when I met Mr. Burden himself. It was out in Chicagoland where I found myself attending a major-sized comic book convention. An old acquaintance, now lost to seemingly endless aftershocks of emotional tempestuousness and the perpetual clashing of bruised egos, and I found ourselves out that way with the youngest member of a certain well-to-do local family. There was music and bad food on the way down and West from the scabrous streets of Gun Ru. When we arrived we were whisked into the convention hall, past stormtroopers and bikini babes, by friends dealing their own works of independent comic bronze. My how my eyes grew when I beheld the floor of that media-crazed, costumed wonderland.


I knew heading in that Bob Burden was scheduled to attend the event so I quickly wandered off in various directions given by sources dressed in all manner of sci-fi and superhero costumes in hopes of stumbling upon the legend himself. Not too long in I found a large Gumby Comics display ripe with Burden-vibes. Standing before it was a moustachioed huckster claiming to be the publisher, offering apologies for Bob's tardiness. Not too long after he bellowed claims of Bob's eventual arrival did Bob Burden himself mosey over, seemingly jet-lagged from what must have been an early AM flight out of Atlanta, GA (his base of operations, I believe). A tall fellow, he stood slouching slightly, in a grey sport coat, his eyes drooping from apparent fatigue.

The moment came, as it always seems to, when all my planning, all the valid, well-worded questions I had composed vanished into the ether, surely to inconveniently revisit me later in the day on the drive home. Unfortunately for me this came just as I approached the man who had not even had time to round his table to take his seat. His publisher, constantly making promises with Bob's time, thrust us together, shouting that Bob would be glad to sign everything and anything. I winced for Bob in that moment.



Staring at him as he eyed what I was holding I thanked him for his work in shaky speech and asked if he would please sign my copy of his Mysterymen graphic novel. He produced a green marker and proceeded to sign not only the item I brought but also a copy of his Gumby collaboration with the amazing Rick Geary. Hell, the man even picked up an Art Clokey postcard (one of many at the table) and sketched out a sheepishly smiling Flaming Carrot for me on its back. As he worked the green, felt-tipped marker he wore a slight smirk, though his eyes remained exhausted. My geek mind was blown, to put it crudely and to incredibly understate the joy I felt from witnessing that moment. As if signing and sketching wasn't enough, the dear fellow, tired as he seemed, stood beside me, after putting the finishing touches on Flaming Carrot, to pose for a photo.

Looking back I must say that I truly cherish that moment. Of all the convention experiences I've had since I can't think of one that really tops it. Meeting one of my heroes was for me a time in my life when I realized that reality and fancy can merge for a moment to make me a believer in life's miraculous potential. There was a concern that I was asking too much of the man, but I was too engrossed in a struggle to process what had just occurred at the time to make an effort to be conscientious. Besides, nothing I asked could compare to the outrageous fan-fellow who stood next in line. As I walked away from Mr. Burden I heard his publisher repeat what the next admirer asked but with an answer to their query. "Could Bob sign all of your individual Flaming Carrot collector's cards? Sure he can!"

Flaming Carrot, the Mysterymen, Invincible Man, and many other titles and side projects were all spun from a mind that thrived though surrealism like a devout catholic would through the catechism. Bob Burden has a tendency to delve into the odd corners of the shadowy realm of the dreams of humanity and pull out the most random items for his, and maybe our, amusement. They talk of a woman breast-feeding a dictionary. There's rumour of a diaper-wearing spider. Hey, who's that man wearing flippers and a fire-topped carrot mask?! Burden's mind houses many interesting, perhaps insane things. I won't touch the dictionary to find out until it's had its fill, though.


If I think back, beware the wavy lines of yet another flashback, I can remember my uncle taking me to see Mysterymen in theaters. There was a time prior to that when I found ads proclaiming the happenings surrounding the exploits of the "Dreadnought of chicanery!" Mr. Burden's iconic character, Flaming Carrot, has been woven throughout my developmental years like so many strands of quality wool in the sweater of my being. The Carrot and other products of the Burden-mind have attracted my attention for what feels like ages now. I've gone on at length to any and all who will listen, and some who won't, about the many curious characters, references, odd-looking panels, and in-jokes scattered throughout the man's books. Will you take my advice if I say you should read some, dear reader?

To really describe what you'd find in the Carrot's adventures or the Mysterymen or Robot Comics or whatever else Mr. Burden has produced would take a lot of time and some effort on your part to think six directions at once and still possess the ability to hold your place in the moment. Then again I could just be vomiting so many words out until I feel that maybe you'll have found your way to a local comic book shop and done your own digging through the bagged and boarded jungles. I have faith that in time, if you've read this far and still find the energy to continue on, you will find your way into the black and white, newsprint pages which issued forth from the genesis grounds which house themselves in the sketchbooks of one of the greatest fellows to work in the medium of comics.

Till next time, amigos!

The Shifting Sands of Culture and Popular Interest, or A Trekkie's Realization

I work in a call center. It's the kind of job that requires a whole lot of sitting and mindlessly talking into a foam-covered microphone which is tethered to my head (talk about a yoke of bondage). Sometimes it's nice to have a little escape from such an environment while strapped in for a long shift. For me that comes in the form of a book or magazine, preferably one with pictures and short blurbs of text because it's hard to focus while being yelled at by over-entitled monsters.

Yesterday before my shift I spent a couple of hours searching local dens of randomness and obscurity for a copy of a Star Trek magazine or reference guide. I was driven to this by the realization that I have a life of love for Trek but really nothing more to show for it than toys and some random novelizations. The mission objective was very clear: get Jonathan some Star Trek textual mind candy so that he won't blow a gasket at work and lose his job because he called some upper-middle class lady in Ohio a cunt rag (trust me, she would have had it coming).

The first stop was a little overstock discount bookstore which at one time housed a plethora of Trek books. I walked in feeling more than hopeful and maybe a little bit giddy as my eyes adjusted to the florescent lighting and my nose to the smell of the ghost of a spurt from an aerosol air freshener which faded away to reveal the familiar odor of aging paper. My feet took me to part of the store where I was sure the books still lay. There was a terrible sinking feeling when I discovered that not only were the books missing from there long-time home in the back corner but the store had absolutely nothing related to Star Trek. They didn't even have a single, crummy novel about how Kirk gets cloned or Picard's Mirror Universe self enters our universe and wreaks havoc (stories I know some fan is dying to tell). Walking out I found that my hope had diminished but it had not yet expired.

On to the next field I thought as I found my hunter's spirit causing my heart to furiously pound. Time was running out as I pulled into yet another parking lot and shot from my car into the bowels of yet another book store. I dug through the new book section. I pored over the used book section. There was a surprising lack of Trek in both. The magazine racks were my last hope and I rushed to them to dig. There was plenty of Entertainment Weekly-like magazines for geek and pleb alike, but there was not a cover that bore the two words I desperately sought. Realizing the time, I shuffled back to my car and allowed internal combustion and the marriage of tire-to-asphalt to whisk me away to a boring night at a hellish job.

Later that night I spent time reflecting on my disappointment and something greater, and personally far more disturbing. Star Trek had become another faceless science-fiction series. In spite of the most recent film and its short-lived marketing boom, the franchise had disappeared from all but the most specialized and geeky of shelves. The last store I ran through had maybe five novels on the series shelf of the science-fiction section. Their magazine area had mostly comic related entertainment rags and, for once, Doctor Who Magazine (this would have blown my mind ten years ago, hell, even back when I was five!). How crazy is it that I can now find Doctor Who material almost everywhere I go but Star Trek is hidden away behind dusty boxes and under mysterious tomes? The popular focus has really shifted, though it's good to know that the genre of science-fiction in general wasn't crushed under the wheels of this most recent change. It still astounds me, and probably always will, just how much things have changed. I grew up in an era of Trek conventions and people who dressed up like they were in Starfleet. Now everyone is wearing a TARDIS shirt or even boasting about their love for Battlestar and Cylons. Really?!

It's amazing to me as I look back on the things I loved as a child and follow them up to the current. I remember the years and years, and there are still days and days, of geeking out in front of a television, now a computer, and soaking up the wonder that beamed out from the screen. A screen which displayed scenarios and portrayals which swelled my heart with love for the genre SF. Star Trek held that screen most often. It is a series that will always hold a special place in my heart and will never truly die. Then again it's possible that I'm being overly dramatic and I just ran around yesterday in a section of the universe that wished to hide Trek from me and just make it available everywhere else. Perhaps it was my own personal corner of that mischievous region known as the Twilight Zone. There are probably stores out there that have so much Trek lining their walls and covering their shelves that it's painful to behold the innards of their establishments. I could take some of that pain right about now.

Anyway, work was work and I eventually arrived home again to restore my humanity, my sanity, and to apply the escapist's balm that is Star Trek. The familiar music, the continual hum of the engines, and the characters and alien species I deeply care for were there to welcome me back. It was my day's equivalent to a stop into Ten Forward to break up the monotony of yet another period of pulling seemingly endless duty. I kicked back and resumed the soaking in of SF entertainment, unconsciously aware of my honoring a tradition I've kept since I was a little boy who clutched at action figures as epic adventure tore across the tube. Maybe I'll dig out my Enterprise D this weekend and play with it while watching season one of The Next Generation. No, not maybe. Definitely!

Turtles, Turtles, Turtles...A Life-Long Fanaticism

They're mean. They're green. They're fighting machines, as they used to say.

I've been an enormous fan of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since I was a wee lad munching on frozen, store-bought, TMNT marketing-labeled pizzas and watching the first live action film. I had every piece of TMNT merchandise my parents and finances would allow. Every Saturday morning I'd watch the cartoons, then I'd play with my action figures until mid-day. Occasionally, if I was lucky, I'd find old issues of the various Turtle's comics and read and reread them. I loved, and still to this day, love the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!

Now, in the present, I find a new series of comics from publisher IDW. The Mirage books of a few years past are still accessible, but as far as I can tell Mirage is no longer printing new Turtles material. Peter Laird has stepped into the shadows and Kevin Eastman has stepped out to properly hand off the green dudes to a new creative team and a different publisher. A creative team that just so happens to be writing some of the best Turtles material in years!

As of the time of this writing IDW has released five issues from the Turtle's regular series and two Micro-Series books featuring Raphael and Michelangelo. The main series is wonderfully written and the artwork has an action to it that fits perfectly along with the characters. We're given a new kind of TMNT from the very beginning, but we are not forced to wade through issue upon issue of exposition. The characters are there, we're moved from the present to the past with well-planned flash backs, and even though it's new it instantly feels familiar and right. Up to the most recent issue we're given only hints and snippets of information that basically tell us that the Turtles and their mentor Splinter were not vagabond animals or lost pet shop critters. There's reason given to all the changes as they're presented, there's mystery without a lack of substantial storytelling, and each new issue gifts us with a neatly styled extra piece of an incredible puzzle. Even though we know the guys, Splinter, Casey Jones, and April we're still left with a single question. That question, not quite on par with the enormity of questions such as "Who killed Laura Palmer?" but still massive, is "Just where did Splinter, with his deep and ancient memory, and the four ready-for-action Turtles actually come from?"

Every issue is a must-have for me, not just because I'm a huge fan but because the guys at IDW are publishing good comics. It feels like the Turtles have been given a new home with creators who not only care about them, but want them to be at their best in the four-colored world of comics. Everything appears to have been given great detail and attention. It even appears that the creative team on the current book is looking to include and validate as much of the random Turtle-verse from over the years as possible. We've seen images of characters exclusive to the cartoon. We've been given reason for why each Turtle has their own color. Now we wait for the answer to the above question, and we're left to wonder about the now feudal Japanese Hamato Yoshi and his four sons.


So many questions. So much quality storytelling. I can't wait for the next issue. There's no reason why you, if you enjoy comics, should not be reading this series.

For the IDW Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles up to this date I give a five out of five. Pick it up when you can and enjoy it!

Cool Stuff - The Geek Goes Mad

Ever since I can remember I've collected things. There were items I'd hoard because my little mind was overjoyed at how awesome they were. Other things were pushed on me by adults who thought that a young boy should collect certain boyish collectibles (baseball cards and such). In the end my geekiness won out. The inner child is still at large today snatching up what time, money, and resources allow. Nothing pisses my wife off more.

Recently while Christmas shopping for my wife I accidentally discovered a relic of my geekdom, the finding of which I'd liken to the finding of the Excalibur in a pond somewhere in the Midlands of England. Inside a dusty display case at my local comic book shop sat a Madman Yo-Yo. There it was, the weapon of Frank Einstein, the creation of the ultra groovy Mike Allred (who along with his awesome wife Laura was kind enough to grant me an interview for my new book). I knew I had to have it.

So here I sit now attempting to distract myself from work on my current comic project. I already ordered a Madman mask from the sweet folk at Graphitti Designs. I just bought this incredible Yo-Yo, and I have a camera conveniently lying close by. The following photos are the product of when these things combine! (I'm sorry?)

Some Madman collectibles I've acquired over the last few years. I have the original action figures. They're off in a case somewhere.

Just for fun I decided to try it all out.

Here's a version I colored to match the skin tone of Frank. I did an incredibly sloppy job, but it was a lot of fun! (Also, a nice distraction from work)