I had an awesome bedtime story told to me tonight:
Indiana Jones teams up with John Henry and Rosa Parks to travel to the future and rescue That Actor Mommy Likes (Manu Bennett) from a fortress full of zombies and save New York City from the zombies’ master, Killer Croc — who likewise had access to a time machine and apparently exists in some sort of bizarre symbiotic relationship with Davey Jones reminiscient of Etrigan and Jason Blood).
SPOILERS: Rosa Parks drowns wrestling her thousandth crocodile, John Henry gets eaten by the boss, Indiana Jones saves the day, and Manu Bennett marries Mommy. (Okay, I sort of threw that last bit in there myself.)
If someone wants to view the world through gender goggles then that’s their business, but I imagine it must make for a rather sad and unfulfilling existence.
And instead of criticising violence against women in mature-label comics books (and related media), how about coming out in support of REAL victims (+/- vaginas) of ACTUAL violence?
I guarantee people living under the constant threat of ISIS butchery don’t sit around arguing about the shot that shattered Barbara Gordon’s spine (28 years after the fact) or about The Killing Joke being made into an R-rated feature. And when they hear the term “women in refrigerators” what comes to mind is neither “gender violence” nor Green Lantern comics from the mid nineties, but whether their wives and daughters can be accounted for, and how long it’s been since they’ve seen the neighbors.
Having a first grader in the house sure is tops, baby. I mean, who else is about to listen to me lecture ad nauseum on Batman villains or be blown away by the suggestion that absent the paternal guidence of one Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne could have easily become Gotham City’s answer to Lex Luthor?
If I didn’t have a kid of my own, I’ve no doubt the local vice squad would be keeping tabs on me for loitering in front of elementary schools: “Pssst… hey, kid… you like Batman? Huh? The Dark Knight, yeah? Ever read a pre-Final Crisis Detective Comic? No, don’t look ’round, don’t look ’round.
Few would argue that any Batman writer has ever understood the Dark Night (et alia) better than Frank Miller. Yet looking back over the years, I have to say that Jeph Loeb comes a close second. And while there are panels from Dark Knight Returns that make me want to kneel, I have to say that The Long Halloween remains my favorite Batman story, and indeed one of the greatest ever told — the 20th century’s answer to Oedipus the King.