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Thursday, September 9, 2010
Attack of the Hollywood Clones
I'm late turning in this column, which is terrible of me considering that deadline is one of an editor's bywords, and lateness is a horror that I've experienced all too often. It's just... well, not to get too confessional here, but I've been feeling pretty unenthusiastic about the comic book industry lately. Not the medium, mind you, but the industry. The reasons are sundry and boring and whiny, so I won't get into them. The point is, I've been kind of down. But, then, last week, I got a phone call, and it reminded me that there are people in the world who still see the comic book industry as vibrant -- or ripe for plunder, at the least. I will reproduce the conversation as best as I can remember, with some streamlining. The first person to speak is me:
"SLG Publishing, how may I help you?" (Yes, I answer the phones in the office.)
"Hi, there! How are you?"
"...I'm fine, thanks."
[Phony-sounding laugh.] "Hey, I have a question about a comic you publish. Maybe you can help me."
"Sure, what comic is it?"
"[Comic that SLG published a few years ago.] Is it still available?"
"We don't have the individual issues in stock, but we have the trade paperback that collects them."
"Is there anything that collects all of them together?"
"Yes. That's the trade paperback."
"OK. There are four volumes of it?"
"There are four chapters in the trade paperback -- they were individual issues. But there's only one collection."
"And it's 104 pages?"
"I'm not sure of the exact count, but that sounds right."
"And what is its full title?"
I tell him.
"And if I ordered a copy, when could I get it? I'm in Los Angeles." (Emphasis his.)
"You'd get it within two weeks, though it will probably be less than that -- we're in San Jose, so it'll take less time to get to you."
"You're in San Jose?"
"Yes."
"Then why can't I get it faster?"
"Well, we have a lot of orders. It depends how many orders there are in front of you in the queue, but you will get it within two weeks, probably less as I said. If you'd like I can check with--"
"Oh. Well. Maybe I'll call you back."
Can you guess what species of person this was? Six years in the comic book industry have given me the ability to name his tune almost the moment he asked how I was. (It took until the next sentence for me to rule out "telemarketer.") SLG prez Dan Vado, who has encountered more than his fair share of these guys in his more than twenty years in the business, could identify him after overhearing only my side of the conversation. The giveaways? The pretended interest in how I'm doing, the forced cheeriness, the ignorance of comic book industry terms, the asking questions without listening to answers, then asking a series of kind of inane questions, the expectation that all would be dropped to fill his order, the artfully inserted "I'm in Los Angeles." Yes: This was One of Those Hollywood Guys.
It's not right to lump individuals into a depersonalized mass, but, being morally imperfect, I have done so with Those Hollywood Guys. Those Hollywood Guys aren't just any person from the movie industry. They're a specific subset whose cologne can't hide the smell of their eagerness to find the next break-out "property," the next big thing. Those Hollywood Guys are the guys who come up to the booth and want me to tell them which of our comics sell the best. They're the ones who want me to explain the premises of every graphic novel we publish because for some reason they are incapable of reading back covers. They're the guys who say things like, "Oh, I won't be interested in that. I can tell just by looking at the cover." (True story!) They're the guys who want to tell me that they think that Vasquez guy's work could really "be something." They're the guys who cruise the publisher booths in the convention center, smile big smiles, and leave you feeling somewhat used and smarmed on after they leave. And they're back the next year, either the same guys or convincing clones of them. Because Those Hollywood Guys are the guys looking to make their name in their industry by raiding another, and everyone knows that comics and graphic novels are hot properties these days.
Hell, I know that. So I generally try to be helpful and friendly to Those Hollywood Guys, just like I would be to anyone else who comes to the booth and wants to know more about our comics. (Unless they're, you know, crazy or treat me like a booth babe.) Maybe Those Hollywood Guys go from booth to booth thinking about how Those Comic Book Guys are all the same. But we still smile and shake hands and exchange cards and generally try to make use of one another. It's all just one of those business games -- Those Hollywood Guys are talking to me because the comics we publish can benefit them; and I'm talking to them because what they hope to do with the comics can benefit our artists and raise the profile of the company. Did you hear about the Warner Brothers Rex Libris option deal? That's what playing this game -- in that case, establishing valuable contacts -- can get you. Or it can get you more than optioned; once in a while it can get you an actual movie. (A movie in which you have absolutely no creative control, but hey, it's a movie -- something people actually pay attention to, unlike comics.) You have to figure out rules and strategies, and it even can become a source of diversion during the slog of a long convention. One year at Comic-Con, Dan and I experimented with talking to Those Hollywood Guys in their own language, using high-concept descriptions. Our line: "It's like Gilmore Girls meets Beetlejuice!" It never failed to impress them, but it did not, alas, lead to a movie deal.
Still, despite my consciousness of the play in which all are participating, there's something about Those Hollywood Guys that bothers me. The constant buzz of activity -- the passing parade of humanity -- at conventions sometimes makes me get a bit contemplative at conventions, wondering about the inner lives of convention fixtures. I see Lou Ferrigno packing up his things at the end of the day, and I wonder, “Is he happy?” I look at the line of fans winding around the booth and remember my own days of girlish enthusiasm, back when I would do things like wake up early to be first in line at Tower Records for Siouxsie tickets. I shake the hands of nervous artists asking for portfolio reviews and breathe a sigh of relief that I'm not in their shoes. But I just don't feel that kind of empathy for Those Hollywood Guys. It's not just because they're so interchangeable, lacking in individualizing attributes or quirks, though that's part of it. The artists all draw differently, all react differently to critiques and suggestions; the fan girls smile with unaffected, honest excitement (though sometimes their fervor becomes a little too... fervent); Lou Ferrigno -- well, he was Hulk, after all. But Those Hollywood Guys? It's hard for me to see the person behind their Hollywood-ness. I suppose like most of us, they're muddling through, trying to get their job done as best they can. But they put on such fronts that they hide anything human and relatable.
I met a guy from a movie studio at APE this year, and it was a very different kind of encounter. First, I saw that he had printed out descriptions of the books he was interested in from our website. When he asked me questions, they weren't vague "What is this about?" type questions or intrusive "How does this sell?" ones. He wanted to know who the audience for particular books is and whether I thought the stories would lend themselves better to animated or live action movies. The company he worked for gave their people cards on which they had to write their name and perhaps draw a little doodle, should they want to. He laughed nervously as he drew his little face. It made him a person, not just One of Those Hollywood Guys. It wasn't just because of that little glimpse of humanity. It was of his recognition of my humanity that was one of those details that make all the difference.
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April 22, 2008:
February 4, 2008:
November 20, 2006:
A Comic-Con without the Captain
