As a lifelong Star Trek fan, I’ve enjoyed a long tradition and it’s time to revisit it today. The tradition goes like this: I look at the current state of Star Trek and say, “Paramount can’t possibly screw this up any worse than they have!” And Paramount responds, “Wanna BET?”
Now they’ve outdone themselves, tapping Quentin Tarantino (!) to direct the next Trek movie and erase any lingering vestiges of what the property once represented. But at least we get this awesome fan trailer, which is likely as close as I’ll get to seeing the film:
Okay, so (1) this page hasn’t been updated since last summer, (2) there were only seven entries for all of 2017 and (3) over half of those were related to obituaries. I get it, I’m bad at blogging.
The irony is that I’m always miffed at the state of blogs in general, or at least the ones I used to enjoy visiting. Basically, they’re either neglected, shut down or vanished. For instance, I used to enjoy visiting Bat-Blog for a daily dose of all things Batman, but it was abandoned two years ago in favor of the author’s Facebook page. I get that it’s easier to post to Facebook than a blog and you’ll reach many, many more readers that way, but I’ve been off Facebook since December 2013 and Batman news isn’t nearly enough to entice me back.
After my pals and I shut down the old “Mr KissKiss BangBang” James Bond fansite, I frequented our former rival, CommanderBond.net, where content slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether, leaving only a message board. I guess it doesn’t help that almost nothing’s happening in the world of Bond (how many different spins on “is Craig coming back” are even possible?), but still…
It’s anyone’s guess what happened to Silver Age Comics or Blog Into Mystery, neither of which has had content posted since May 2016 (the same month as Bat-Blog: maybe they all made a pact to move to Facebook together?) Some blogmasters make a conscious decision to pack it in, posting a goodbye message as a coda to the enterprise, but other sites end unceremoniously and mysteriously in mid-mission, leaving us to wonder if the owners just lost interest, were hit by a truck, won the lottery, or what. Hanging out on these sites can get spooky, like one of those movies where someone finds an abandoned ship drifting at sea, with food still out on the table, the crew’s clothes packed neatly away and no sign of a struggle.
Garfield Minus Garfield may have joined that cyber-Sargasso; at this writing, it’s four months dormant. Letters of Note hasn’t posted anything in six months, though in this particular case I’m guessing the huge success of the spin-off books and celebrity live readings have made the blogmaster too busy or too rich to bother anymore, or maybe he just doesn’t see the sense of posting content for free when it could be worked into a format people will pay for.
There are a few bright spots, though. MAD cartoonist Tom Richmond seems to post at least weekly with new art or anecdotes. Several years into his Wild About Harry blog, John Cox keeps miraculously producing fascinating tidbits of Houdini history like a never ending chain of handkerchiefs from a magician’s pocket. And incredibly, Ross Pearsall’s “Super-Team Family” site has been churning out fun and wonderful faux comic book covers on a daily basis (even weekends!) for over 2,100 days and counting.
So who am I going to throw in with, these champions of consistent content or the quitters and Facebook defectors? Well… I’m going to at least TRY to produce more content this year, not so much because I think the world is dying to read it, or I’ll ever have the following the other sites do, but if nothing else because generating some content makes it easier to complain about the folks who don’t. And I love to complain. Also, this site started as a way to document all the cool and funny and charming things my kids do, and though they’re no longer rugrats, they’re still as fascinating and fun (to me, anyway) as they ever were. And if I don’t document their shenanigans somewhere, it’ll be lost for good. Just a perusal of past posts proves that: there’s lots of stuff on this site I wouldn’t remember at all if it were left up to my tired brain.
So anyway, this site is back in business. Wish me luck.
The city of Los Angeles arranged a nice tribute to Adam West yesterday, flashing the bat-signal on the side of City Hall.
The cool part is they got the symbol right: there have been several iterations over the years, but this one matches the one on West’s costume (on the show, the shape of the projected signal was different, but why quibble?).
What makes it doubly awesome, though, is that LA City Hall doubled for the Daily Planet starting with the second season the old “Adventures of Superman” TV show, making for a cool, if probably unintentional, cross-reference. Wish I could’ve seen it in person.
This is shaping up to be one lousy year. Mere weeks after the death of Roger Moore, I’ve lost another childhood hero, Adam West.
As related in an earlier post, I first encountered Mr West’s Batman in a television airing of the 1966 feature film starring the cast of the TV show. It’s fair to say it blew it my young mind, with its outlandish sets, gadgets, vehicles and costumes. It was, in essence, a comic book brought to life. A couple of years later, the show itself turned up in syndication and watching it became a highlight of my daily routine.
I would’ve been about 9 when I saw the movie, maybe 11 or 12 for the series, so I may or may not have caught on at first that it was all a gag. Not that it would have necessarily mattered: I knew Get Smart was played for laughs but I still viewed Max as a hero, and when Uncle Arthur put on a Superman costume and flew around the neighborhood on Bewitched, I didn’t think “that’s hilarious” (as the laugh track seemed to encourage) but rather, “Wow, I wish my Superman suit made ME fly.”
Similarly, even if I realized that the central joke of Batman was what a square the caped crusader was — that he was a postmodern lampoon of straight-shooting, tea-totaling heroes like Clayton Moore’s Lone Ranger (with a similar delivery) — it wouldn’t have mattered to me.
There’s a really great post at NPR that sums up my own experience with the Adam West Batman; like that author I was a kid devoted to law and order and rule-following. As a toddler I lectured strangers on the perils of smoking and chastised my grandfather for improperly disposing of litter. Neighbors said I wouldn’t get out of my pedal car until I’d properly parallel parked it next it to the house. Naturally I’d be a sucker for a hero who ordered orange juice in a nightclub and refused to start the Batmobile until Robin had fastened his safety bat-belt.
As has been noted endlessly everywhere, Adam West’s portrayal of Batman was aimed at two audiences; kids who took him deadly serious and their parents who chuckled at his cornball earnestness. The interesting thing, for me, is that even though in the short run the bread and butter of the show was in that older audience, who after all were the potential customers for the show’s sponsors, in the long run it’s the younger audience that’s defined the show’s legacy. For years, I’ve frequented a message board devoted to ’66 Batman and its members aren’t the least bit self-conscious about declaring this Batman as their personal hero. His straight-laced morality may have been the butt of the joke in ’66, but it’s made him a role model to generations.
I believe this is the genius of West’s approach; it would’ve been easy to aim for full-on comedy with the role and make Batman an utter doofus…and maybe that would’ve helped the actor keep the character enough at arm’s length to have shed the image when the show was canceled…but by adding that layer of earnest sincerity, he ensured the longevity of the show through the younger fans. Because as sure as we may have been in ’66 — and are today — that we’re above corny ideals like “fair play” and “good citizenship” and the like, the truth is every generation is hungry for heroes who understand there are such things as “right” and “wrong” and are willing to step up and do what’s right. The Lone Ranger and Hopalong Cassidy generation got that kind of hero straight up and without irony. Kids of the 60s and 70s happily settled for a Batman who was cut from the same cloth even if Mom and Dad did laugh at him.
After the show was cancelled, Adam went through a long rough patch, career-wise, having been typecast as a caped crimefighter at a time when live-action superhero projects were rare as hen’s teeth. People only wanted to see him as Batman, so with a family to feed he packed up the cape and cowl in a traveling case and made the rounds of car shows, county fairs and mall openings, playing the Caped Crusader well into middle-age. In the time-honored tradition of kicking a guy while he’s down, he was mercilessly parodied for this and held up as a kind of cautionary tale for actors nervous about taking on similarly iconic roles. But to his eternal credit, he never gave up and never lost his sense of humor, poking fun at himself and turning his public persona into sort of 24/7 in-character performance: “Adam West” the kooky eccentric. It won him a new generation of fans and gave his career a second wind as a celebrity spokesperson, voice artist and frequent guest star “as himself” in the grand tradition of Hollywood legends who end up “famous for being famous” long after we forget what they were originally famous for. If anyone ever had a reason to resent Batman and want to bury him, it was this guy, but he remained a fan and champion of the character until the end, which was awesome.
It’s hard watching these icons of my youth exit the stage one by one, and I know it’s not over yet. But if there’s any comfort to be had, it’s from knowing that as long as there’s reruns and DVDs and Blu-Rays and Roku and Youtube and whatever comes next, they’ll live on, forever young and vital and handsome and courageous. Somewhere out there right now on a screen somewhere in the world, the Caped Crusader is racing into action in the Batmobile, figuring his way out of a nefarious death trap, stopping for a lecture on traffic safety or good nutrition. And that’s as it should be.
Still, it’s hard not to feel it’s a dark day in Gotham, with that red phone beeping away unanswered.
I’ve been taking the death of Roger Moore pretty hard, considering I never met the guy. But after all, he’s been a part of my life as far back as I can remember. Basically, he was who I wanted to be when I grew up.
As an awkward, buck-toothed beanpole of a kid living in a succession of middle-of-nowhere small towns, I was completely in awe of this impossibly handsome, witty and sophisticated jet-setter who got to do the coolest things in the most wonderful places with the most interesting people in the world. Early on, I decided that was the life for me. If my off-the-rack Sears Toughskin leisure suits were no match for Roger’s bespoke creations from Cyril Castle or Douglas Hayward, and our Country Squire station wagon was a far cry from a Lotus Esprit, at least I could manage an approximation of Roger’s hairstyle, and after hours of practice in front of the mirror, raise one eyebrow at a time.
Looking back, I wonder if I could sense somehow that the “Roger Moore” I beheld was himself a construct, the invention of an insecure, pudgy and often sickly kid from working class South London who grew up idolizing screen heroes like Stewart Granger and David Niven with dreams of following in their footsteps. Young Roger George Moore taught himself to speak with a precise and measured upper-class accent and comport himself with the manners and grace of a true English gentleman, to the point where it was hard to imagine him not having been born into the peerage. No one batted an eyelash when he played a full-fledged English Lord in The Persuaders, and when he was eventually knighted in real life, it seemed a logical development. Even before I knew his biography, his carefully constructed public persona inspired my efforts to mimic the traits I most admired: an unflappable sang-froid under even the most stressful conditions, an air of class that never strayed to snobbery, pride in appearance that stopped short of vanity, the ability to weather reversals with humor and elan, to succeed by wit and wisdom where muscle was not sufficient.
Obviously, I tended to blur the lines between Roger Moore and James Bond since I knew the latter better than the former, but the great thing was that when Roger showed up on talk shows or interviews, he was a match for his fictional roles; dressed to the nines, debonair, cultured, witty and charismatic. For me, Roger Moore WAS James Bond and vice-versa. Critics would dismiss his performances as not “acting” at all, saying he was just being himself. Oddly, they seemed to be suggesting that was a bad thing. Personally, I cherished the notion that somewhere out there in the “real” world was a guy every bit as cool as he seemed on screen.
Some have complained that Roger’s version of 007 was too unflappable, too flippant about the chaos exploding around him, but for me, this was the whole point of Classic Bond, the foundation of his portrayal: Roger’s Bond wasn’t immune to fear or pain, but he worked to remain their master. His seeming indifference to danger was the key to surviving perils where indulging in panic meant courting death, and more than that was a strategy designed to drive his opponents nuts. He remained nonplussed by their efforts to intimidate him, bored with their demonstrations of strength, bemused by their grandiose speeches, because he refused to grant them the satisfaction of knowing they were getting to him.
There are, if you look for them, plenty of moments when panic threatens to take hold, when Roger’s Bond realizes he’s in the soup and he’d better think fast: Trapped on a tiny island surrounded by hungry alligators, clinging precariously to the side of a mountain as a villain kicks away the pitons holding him up, spinning to seeming doom in an out-of-control centrifuge. In For Your Eyes Only, he’s tied to girlfriend du jour Melina as a motorboat prepares to pull them across a coral reef and tear them to shreds. “I didn’t think it would end like this,” says Melina. Looking her in the eyes, he answers calmly, “We’re not dead yet.” With only the girl to hear him, and no villains to impress, he shows what’s at his core, not flippant disinterest but the dogged determination that he WILL, he MUST survive, or that if he must die, he’ll at least not give the enemy the satisfaction of breaking him. This was old school, stiff-upper-lip English hero stuff, and I ate it up.
As a kid, it irritated me when adults said, “I liked him better as The Saint.” I hadn’t seen The Saint at that point, but I knew it was a TV show, so the clear implications were that (1) no matter what Roger did, Sean Connery would always be better, and (2), Roger’s talents might have been good enough for TV, but he was clearly out of his depth in movies. Eventually I did get to “meet” Simon Templar and I realized those old folks may have been on to something: I found that on the whole I liked Roger better as the Saint than I liked anyone as James Bond. Where Bond was largely amoral and professional about his job (which was, in the end, to kill people), Templar was motivated by a strong personal sense of right and wrong (if not strict adherence to the law). Bond was, for all his glamorous trappings, a glorified civil servant who had to show up at the office in the morning and take orders from a boss. Templar was a “free agent” who went where he pleased and involved himself in cases when he felt like it, and for his own reasons. That archetype of the hero motivated by a personal sense of right and wrong as opposed to patriotic duty was a better fit for Moore, more comfortable as the “knight errant” than the “blunt instrument” of a government agency.
When he transitioned from Templar to Bond, Roger brought along this sense of moral authority, the sense that he is in the game to right wrongs and deal evil-doers their just desserts. It’s not a motivation that particularly applied to Connery’s Bond, who just did what he was assigned as ruthlessly as required, not because it was “right” or “justified,” but because it was his job. It also doesn’t apply to Daniel Craig’s current take on 007, who we sense would just be out killing someone else if he wasn’t killing bad guys. More so than any of the other Bonds, Moore’s is a “crusader,” an approach that plays to Roger’s strengths as a performer even though at times it runs counter to what the character’s about. Sometimes it helps a scene, as when he kicks a killer’s car off a cliff in For Your Eyes Only (we know he deserves it) but sometimes it doesn’t, as when the script for Man With The Golden Gun has himslapping around Maud Adams; with Connery, it might have worked, but when Roger does it, he seems caddish and cowardly. Later in Golden Gun, the high-priced hitman Scaramanga compares himself to Bond and touches a nerve: “When I kill,” Roger-Bond responds icily, “it’s on the orders of Her Majesty’s government, and those I kill are themselves killers.” It’s a rare and odd moment of Bond trying to justify what he does for a living, and it’s hard to imagine Connery’s Bond offering the same defense.
Over the course of Roger’s 12-year tenure, Bond morphs to fit Moore’s screen persona as much as, or more than, Roger conforms to the Bond template, until, by the end, he’s chivalrously hanging from airplanes and blimps to rescue damsels in distress. With Roger at the wheel, the role is incrementally steered away from “ruthless assassin” to something closer to “white knight.” Fandom remains divided over whether that’s a good thing.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and by the time of A View To A Kill in 1985, even I was ready for Roger to move on. Unfortunately, what he went on to was a series of progressively awful films until he pretty much threw in the towel on acting, but on the up side that left him free to devote his time to his charity work as a goodwill ambassador for UNICEF, championing the cause of underprivileged children around the world and becoming at last a hero in real life, as well.
Often mocked — sometimes not so gently — for being such a powerful avatar of the 70s, with its outlandish fashions, fatuous pursuits and general goofiness, over time Sir Roger became something of a national treasure in the UK. When Timothy Dalton succeeded him as Bond, many fans were eager to embrace a more serious approach to 007, and it was easy to put down Roger for the same things that had sold all those tickets just a few years before. But the further his era slips into the past, the more fondly it seems to be remembered. It’s difficult to look at where the series is today, under the often grim and intensely physical Daniel Craig, and draw a through-line to Moore’s Bond, but certain vestiges remain. If anything, his legacy is more obvious in non-Bond films like Tom Cruise’s Mission Impossible series or The Kingsman films with their over-the-top sensibilities and lack of pretension. I’d say if any franchise approximates what the Moore era was to Young Me, it’s Marvel’s superhero films, with their emphasis on dazzling spectacle, their embrace of humor, and their skill at transporting audiences to impossible but engaging worlds for a couple hours of pure, unapologetic escapism.
This has turned out to be a ridiculously long post, but like I said Roger meant a lot to me, even at a distance. I’m fast running out of childhood heroes and Roger was at the top of the list. Given the shenanigans most celebrities are prone to, it was great to have a hero who only ever went up in my estimation, never down.
In closing, I like to remember Roger in a scene from Vendetta for the Saint, one of the best stories from the series and one of two adapted for theatrical release. Near the middle of the film, Simon Templar is being manhandled by mob enforcers at the behest of a dying Mafia don, who’s just ordered his execution. The expiring villain says, “Goodbye, Simon Templar. We will never meet again.” “I know,” answers Simon, glancing heavenward with a wry smile. “I’m going that way.”
Godspeed, Sir Roger, and thanks. May your halo never droop.