The Long, Strange
History of Phase II
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Good Things for the
CBLDF
Second Quarto: The
Interview
I’d like to apologize for leaving Paul
Gravett of Escape magazine out of the
cast of characters at our press reception at the Savoy in 1986. Escape,
to me at the time, was a fanzine—an observation for which I profusely
apologize, as it would certainly be far more accurate, both in terms of its
contents and its influence, to describe it as an “early magazine about comics”
(which puts it in very select company: the only other one I can think of was
Joe Brancatelli’s Inside Comics). But Escape
was still “in the family”—the comic-book community. I did a number of comic-book community
interviews on the tour. The press
reception at the Savoy was intended to be for real-world (or as I like to think
of it now, “real world”) media.
I don’t really have too much to
contribute to this portion about the actual interview that Neil conducted with
me at the Savoy. It is an unpleasant
truth of this side of the journalism game that your own interviews are
completely unmemorable, consisting almost in their entirety of taking very
complicated memories and cutting out all of the really valuable parts in order
to give the “right-sized” answer (magazine answers being longer than newspaper
answers and newspaper answers longer than television answers but not quite as
long as, say, public radio answers).
After you’ve done enough of them, you develop an inventory of stock
answers of varying lengths that you trot out in response to recognized
stimuli. Here’s the “why an aardvark?”
question and it’s for a magazine piece.
Cue track F-8: that kind of thing.
I’m quite certain that I would’ve been less fastidious in my answers
with Neil than I had been with Dave Dickson for the reason that I wasn’t sure
why (exactly) Neil was there or for whom (exactly) Neil was doing the article,
so there was no way to “get his range”. With Dave Dickson I just tried to make
comic books sound as much like rock ‘n’ roll as possible, under the assumption
that that was the angle from which he would be coming at the story for a music
magazine. As I recall, I don’t think
even Neil knew who he was doing the
article for at the time and I have no idea if it was ever published in any form. In “300 reasons…” he describes himself as
being, at the time, a “starving journalist”.
A starving journalist is usually
wondering how he can “spin” the material in such a way as to sell the
piece to a high-paying market while asking general enough questions so that, if
need be, he can change the piece to fit, say, The Ladies Home Journal if it’s rejected by, say, Esquire. Because the questions would, as
a result, have been generalized and all over the map, my impression would have
been that it was just as likely (under the circumstances) that Neil was just a Cerebus fan using the possibility of an
article as a means of getting to “hang out” with Dave Sim and talk about the
book. Someone who is as completely
un-famous as I was (and am) in
a general sense—but exponentially more interesting to a small group of people
than his level of fame would indicate—is particularly susceptible to this. Had a half-dozen Cerebus fans told the Forbidden Planet publicist that they were
freelance journalists who wanted to write an article, I’m sure he would’ve
brought them along to flesh out the crowd and would’ve thought nothing of it.
I’m not famous enough for a publicist to consider the propriety of imposing on
me in that way.
I finally got to the point, years later—with
those occasional flickerings of interest which flare very briefly and then
extinguish themselves in the journalistic darkness which surrounds Cerebus (post-1994, anyway)—where I would just ask them how much
space they were being given and I would then tailor my participation to the
space in question. If you’re attempting
to describe a 26-year project in 800 words, there is nothing I can say that is
going to be particularly helpful and it seems more sensible to just offer to
write a quote to fit whatever the subject is.
This, of course, runs afoul of the perception most journalists have of
themselves as a combination of detective and therapist…
(A perception which holds that if I spill
my guts to them for two hours, their journalistic expertise will allow them to
select the two or three phrases that will most clearly define forever who and
what I am—the interest in my work taking a distant second place to my political
opinions. I am in good company with Whistler and Wilde in that, to date, the universal
journalistic assessment against me, at least in my own country, is one of
lunacy.)
It is usually more accurate to say that
the average piece of journalism is written in the journalist’s head by the time
they show up for the interview and the hour or two hours of interviewing is
most often taken up with trying to lead you into saying things in proximity to
what they already have you quoted as saying in the article which, in their
minds, they’ve already written.
I’m pretty sure that’s Neil’s tape
recorder on the table between us.
I would’ve taken that as a good sign. When someone interviews you for an hour and
all they have is a notebook that they scribble little notes in, you can pretty
well count on being misquoted extensively (partly because of bad penmanship:
what they thought they wrote down as
opposed to what they actually tried
to write down). With the “tape
recorder-free” journalist you just repeat two or three phrases twelve times
each and hope that that’s what they use because it will be all that they
remember but most of the time they just make up your quotes to fit their
thesis, whatever it is.
I’ve gotten into trouble with journalists
who have asked me about being interviewed by Neil because I always tell them,
“It was pretty clear that he wasn’t going to be a journalist, because the
questions he asked were too good.” I
actually don’t mean any offense against journalism in saying that—journalism is
what it is—what I’m trying to indicate is that, from the questions Neil was asking,
he was as much (if not more!) trying to figure out if writing comic books was
something he would want to do for a living (maybe I’m not a starving journalist
at all, maybe I’m a starving comic-book writer) as he was trying to figure out
why I was writing them so that he
could explain my reasoning to the readers of his magazine piece.
“I remember asking him
what he’d do if there was something he wanted to write about, something he had
to say that didn’t fit into Cerebus.
“I’d use a big hammer,” he
grinned. “I’d get it in somehow.”
See, that’s not a journalist question, that’s a comic-book
writer wannabe question. What Neil
was actually asking was, “I have a lot of ideas for different kinds of
stories. That’s why I wouldn’t want to
do one story for twenty-six years. Why
doesn’t it bother you that you can’t tell different stories because you’re
telling this one big one?” It wasn’t a
“lock” that that was “where he was coming from”—he could just have been an
“extreme empathy journalist”. The
“extreme empathy journalist” tries to imagine being you and then asks himself the most obvious question that
comes to mind while he’s play-acting being you (which is really kind of
intrusive although the extent to which that’s intrusive isn’t apparent unless
you’ve been on the receiving end of it, which I assume Neil himself has been
many times by now and I assume he has found it as intrusive as I had). So, on the one hand, I was answering the
“writer wannabe” question if that was what he turned out to be. (i.e. “The
scope of a three-hundred issue story allows for a greater range of ideas than
you’re picturing, as a result, tangential but relevant stories can be made to
fit in direct proportion to the extreme length”) while also scaring the
“extreme empathy journalist” if that was what he turned out to be (i.e. “You don’t
strike me as someone who likes the idea of big hammers.”) in the same way that
a pitcher will intimidate a hitter who is “crowding the plate” by throwing a 95
mph fastball “inside” (it’s euphemistically known in baseball as “chin music”).
It seemed to have worked on both counts.
Sandman is the second-longest
sustained narrative in human history and Neil developed a lot of interesting
ideas in the seventy-five issue story that didn’t, in any conventional literary
sense, fit the core of the narrative—“Dream of A Thousand Cats” being a good
example—but which in no way diminished
the core of the narrative (quite the contrary: many of the seemingly unrelated
diversions are some of the Sandman narrative’s
greatest strengths)—and as for scaring the “extreme empathy journalist,” two
pages later in “300 Reasons…” Neil writes
Dave Sim is the
conscience of comics. It’s a lousy, thankless job, and if he wasn’t doing it we
wouldn’t have to invent him. We’d
probably just be pleased he wasn’t around to bug us. Remember: Jiminy Cricket was squished by a wooden hammer by the
end of chapter four in the original Collodi novel of Pinocchio. Were
there a wooden hammer large enough, and did he not live out in Kitchener, and
were there no fear of societal retribution, Dave would probably have been
squished long since.
As Alan Moore once,
rather famously, remarked (with a jovial smile upon his hirsute kisser and, I’m
sure with no small measure of collegial writerly affection),
“Neil...‘Scary-Pants’ …Gaiman.”
It’s worth noting
that, even as I was terrifically amused by Alan’s observation I thought it
unfair in those exact areas of proximity to Neil Gaiman’s inherent niceness it
addressed thereby (in my view, inappropriately), creating the illusion that
Alan was addressing Neil from a higher vantage point. Which, even at the time, I didn’t think was the case. Whatever faults you may want to attach to Sandman as a creative work, at this
point it is—apart from Cerebus—the
most ambitious work attempted in the
comic-book field in terms of not only length but theme, structure and
complexity against which Alan would have From
Hell to offer (and, to a lesser extent, Watchmen)
both of which, in my view, would fall short of the mark in those areas about
which Neil was inquiring in the 1986 interview and which, it seems to me, Neil
applied to his own extended narrative when the time came. In the case of both From Hell and Watchmen, the
relentless and single-minded forward momentum of the narrative had to be
sustained because of the length. Simply
put, neither graphic novel is in Cerebus or
Sandman’s category: neither is long
enough to allow for tangential narratives which complement and enhance the
overall structure of the work (a good analogy might be that a twenty-foot
length of two-by-four is more flexible than a five-foot length of two-by-four
and it is that flexibility which allows for tangential development) and are
therefore, different kettles of graphic-novel fish entirely. Of course if your frames of reference are
purely commercial, then Watchmen and Sandman beat Cerebus hands down. Or, at
the lunatic extremes of commercial assessment, From Hell beats all three
because it was adapted into a movie and the others haven’t been. It depends on how you define success.
As depicted in the Second Quarto, the experience of the interview skewed my perception
of Neil from the outset as an interview is going to do (I wrote recently about
running afoul of Howard Chaykin a number of years ago where he informed me that
he couldn’t take my criticism seriously because when he looks at me what he
sees is a teenager with long stringy hair and zits. Same idea, er, except for
the “stringy” part and the zits). The four
images of Neil-the-starving-journalist overlap the principle image of Neil and
make for a more-than-somewhat ridiculous composition. It is the author of Sandman,
or—perhaps more relevant to the subject—the New York Times bestselling author of American Gods (the principle image having been adapted from that
novel’s dust jacket photo) with four little starving journalists stuck onto
him. I’m actually quite pleased with the way it worked out: If you are close
enough to see what it is made up of, it’s actually quite dignified: Neil, as I
first met him—who was certainly a most distinguished-looking individual as
starving journalists go—framed in a tight photorealistic illustrative
composition of the four-times-repeated image coupled with Neil Gaiman, the best-selling
author he would become. But if you take
a step back it becomes ridiculous. Neil is wearing himself like a pair of
Mickey Mouse ears. The point that I’m
trying to make is that this always needs to be factored into my thinking about
Neil: I always have to observe closely in order to perceive accurately. The size of the starving journalist relative
to the best-selling author he has become is critically important to accurate
perception: the increase in stature is in no way exaggerated. In my most accurate assessment these images here are as big as he was
then and that image there is as big
as he is now. There was, to me, an
intrinsic necessity in depicting—through the repeated image—the multiple
aspects of the starving journalist I met: Neil, Dave Dickson’s friend and
journalistic peer; Neil, Roz Kaveney’s literary protégé; Neil, the inquiring
graphic novelist in utero; Neil, the Cerebus fan. These are aspects of Neil
Gaiman that I was privy to, however briefly, that his legions of admirers are
not. In any conventional sense, that can’t—nor, in my view, should—be
discarded But in this instance, as a
result of knowing “pre-Neil,” distance not only doesn’t imply overview, it
results in an opposite effect. Whenever
I see Neil I can never “not see” the sort of nerdy young fellow that I first
met. As on the occasions when Neil
would say to me, “I’m so proud of you.”
And I would—very much amused—correct him: “No, Neil. I was in the
business before you were. I’m proud
of you.”
And it’s quite true. I am proud of Neil,
proud of the graphic novelist who was the first person besides myself and
Gerhard to attempt a marathon graphic novel, proud of his commercial success
and proud of—and what is more a direct beneficiary of—his status as a
breakthrough person who has served to legitimize the comic-book medium both by
his triumph with Sandman and by his
success in the world of television drama, short stories and novels which have
led so many people TO Sandman and
through Sandman TO the comic-book
medium.
Even though when I look at him from any
distance, I see these little starving journalists sticking out of him.
Next: Third Quarto