Holy Batshit, Batman!

There's very little to say about William Dozier's mid-Sixties Batman series that hasn't been already said. A pop-cultural tour de force that managed to ape its source material, while somehow remaining truer to the spirit of it than anything that has come after. In the interest of full disclosure, Adam West's Batman has been my favorite television program, and "thing", period, since I was old enough to be cognizant of it. I don't know when I first saw it; I know I was very young, and would watch it from the kitchen table of our tiny house on West 7th Street, in Winona, Minnesota, on the even tinier television perched atop the (presumably standard size) refrigerator. The very idea that Batman was a thing outside of an illustration on a pair of pajamas (I surely wasn't old enough to have or know what comic books were at that point) exploded my brain like six packets of Pop Rocks® and a jigger of Coke® taken all at the same time! 

To make a long story short, it's something that I've carried with me into my forties, and, in a sense, it has carried me as well. And as we age, if we're not strictly seeing things through the distorting lenses of nostalgia, we find new facets to the things that we've kept with us since childhood, or pick up on certain themes or nuances that were maybe aimed at a more adult portion of the audience, that we couldn't process at the time.

Of course Batman was nuts. There's all kinds of insanity going on, all of the time. Folks will often site the Season 3 episode "Surf's Up!", in which The Joker, played by Cesar Romero, challenges Batman to a surfing competition. The hope is by besting Batman in a surf competition, he will become surf master of Gotham City, which, in turn, will win him the allegiance of all hip Gothamites, and then, of course the world. Nuts. It makes no sense, whatsoever, but the way it's executed is fun as hell. There's the statue of Khnum that King Tut puts in Gotham Central Park, in the episode "The Curse Of Tut", which Batman describes as "An exact replica of the sphinx at Giza," which it isn't, obviously. Nobody points out what most grade school children know to be wrong, to the greatest detective in the world? And then, of course, there's the sexual tension between Batman and Catwoman, which comes to a (figuratively speaking) head in the two-parter "Catwoman Goes To College" and "Batman Displays His Knowledge." When Batman confronts Julie Newmar's Catwoman in the second episode of the adventure, she propositions him with the line: 

"Batman, let's throw caution to the wind. I mean after all we are two adult human beings and we're both interested in the same thing. Happiness. I can give you more happiness than anyone in the world."

It's not just the line that pauses the Biff! Pow! comic book shenanigans, but the delivery. There's a significant pause between "thing" and "happiness". It has less subtlety than a Desiree Cousteau performance, and may be the single horniest thing I've ever seen put to film. 

Still, all of the wackiness of the most discussed bits of the series, all of the grease paint-coated mustaches, sexagenarian thugs in sweater vests and Bat Anti-Penguin Gas Pills aside, may be trumped by a two-parter from Season 2, featuring a seemingly disposable, and largely forgotten villain called Shame. The episodes are titled "Come Back Shame" and "It's How You Play The Game," and aired on Novermber 30th, 1966 and December 1st, 1966 respectively. Shame is an ornery hombre deftly played by Cliff Robertson, and his game, so to speak, is rustlin' up some specialized engine parts from various vehicles around Gotham City to build a super fast engine for his truck. Why? Well, he plans to steal some prized cattle, and wants to be able to outrace the Batmobile when the Dynamic Duo inevitably give chase. But that's merely a formality before which all kinds of insanity plays out.

First of all, Robin gets shot. Not by colored gas, not with a tranquilizer dart, not with a confetti bomb or freeze gun; he gets genuinely plugged with a slug from a revolver. Granted it's off camera and in the heel of a foot, but for a show that generally reduces the real world threat and seriousness of violence to being trapped in a giant clam, or potentially hacked apart by a massive Calder-esque pop art mobile, the Boy Wonder out-and-out getting a bullet in him seems so out of the rhythm of the show that it genuinely gave me pause on rewatch. Double that with the fact that Batman then puts a piece of metal between Robin's teeth so he won't bite his tongue off when he extracts the bullet with his Bat Pocketknife. Yes, the extraction is done just below frame, yes Robin is rushed back to the Batcave, where he's given Batcillin, which has him hopping on his feet pain-free in one jump cut, and yes, it's obviously an homage to the western films that the writers are playing with the tropes of for the episodes, but, wowza! Not something I necessarily processed when I was watching as a five year old.

Cliff Robertson as Shame.

Secondly, the guest stars. Our main villain, Shame, is played with cowboy cliché camp by Cliff Robertson, who would win an Academy Award just two years later for his performance in Charly, the 1968 film adaptation of the Daniel Keyes story "Flowers For Algernon". His gal pal in crime, Okie Annie, played by Miss November 1958, Joan Staley, is also the female lead in my favorite movie of all time; the Don Knotts vehicle The Ghost And Mr. Chicken, which came out the same year as these episodes. While they do a great job, there are some other folks who pop up which provide a much more perplexing insanity to the show. 

From Joan Staley's 1958 Playboy pictorial. 

Staley with Don Knotts in The Ghost And Mr. Chicken. Staley
famously had to wear a brown wig for the role because her 
naturally blond hair made her "too sexual."

First of all, the infamous window cameo–in which a celebrity pops out of a window to have a back and forth with the Dynamic Duo, as they scale the side of some building–is Werner Klemperer, in character as Colonel Klink from the television series Hogan's Heroes. One might think ABC, the network behind Batman, was trying to cross promote television programs, since Hogan's Heroes was on the air at that time, but oddly enough, Hogan's Heroes was on CBS, a rival network. Even more head-shaking, is the fact that Klemperer doesn't appear as himself, undoubtedly a household face, if not name, at the time, or as some other random business man or Gothamite, but as the Nazi Colonel who oversees a Prisoner Of War camp! Batman pauses to caution Klink/Klemperer to be careful not to get caught by Chief O'Hara, and "sends his regards to Colonel Hogan", which is its own mindfuck, because Batman is definitely rooted in "present-day" 1960s, and Hogan's Heroes is inarguably set in 1940s wartime Germany. Wouldn't Batman aid in the capture of a Nazi colonel? Even an escaped one? The allusion that the second World War was still going on, or at the very least that the Nazis were still in power and operating P.O.W. camps in 1966, in nuttier than a goddam squirrel turd! And the fact that Batman acknowledges he's aware of both Colonel Hogan and his status as a prisoner in Klink's camp, is equally bananas! He traveled to Londinium in Season 3, is Batman above traveling to Germany to liberate American soldiers? The whole thing is asking for a suspension of disbelief light years beyond a man escaping a shark attack with handy can of Bat Shark Repellent. 

Minner (center) with Jan & Dean.

In addition to Klemperer, we have actress Kathryn Minner, aka The Little Old Lady From Pasadena, herself. That's right, the white haired granny that had a minor period of fame as the face of a Dodge commercial campaign from 1964 to 1969, and appeared on the cover of the 1964 Jan & Dean album "The Little Old Lady From Pasadena", which featured the hit single of the same name. In the second part of the two-parter, "It's How You Play The Game", we see Minner hagling with Laughing Larry, a used car dealer who happens to be in cahoots with Shame. And yes, she gets to mention "I had to come all the way from Pasadena!" before speeding off the lot. It's true that surf and hot-rod culture were still percolating in the pop consciousness in 1966, but twangy surf guitar and songs about carburetors were more or less giving way to fuzzy frat rock and stream of conscious psychedelia at this point. I don't know if Dodge was a sponsor of Batman at the time, but it seems like such an odd inclusion to shoe horn into an episode, especially since the Jan & Dean tune was considered something of an oldie at that point.

Minner buying a new hot rod from Laughing Larry.

Perhaps the oddest, or at least most annoying inclusion into the mix, is a little boy named Andy Stevens, who wanders in and out of the affair, begging Shame to come back (hence the title of the first part). The tiresome tyke is played by a child actor named Eric Shea, who did a fair amount of work afterwards in television shows and Disney pictures through the early Seventies. His wandering in and out of the thick of the two episodes, shouting out his lines as a sort of comic relief character that, I guess, adds a soft touch to Shame, showing he's not just a cold-blooded cowpoke, makes relatively little sense. And, believe it or not, Andy's transistor radio is a major/minor plot point. All in all, these two episodes aren't just a Mad magazine parody, they are the parody plus the Sergio Aragones margin doodles all crammed into two 22 minute television show episodes. 

Andy decides he doesn't want to be a cowboy any longer,
he now wants to be an upstanding citizen, instead.

Add to all of that the fact that the final showdown at the Gotham Corral finds Robin riding one of Shame's henchman like a bucking bronco, shouting "Giddyup!" makes for a truly surreal viewing experience. No to mention Bruce and Dick lingerie shopping for Aunt Harriet!

Looking at the credits for the episodes, it's hard to suss out exactly why this two-parter seems so much more intensely nuts than others. They were directed by veteran series director Oscar Rudolph, who directed 36 episodes of the show, and the scripts were written by series regular Stanley Ralph Ross. Weird choices were made, to be sure, but I stand by my claim that whatever shenanigans The Joker, The Riddler or Catwoman may have gotten our Caped Crusaders up against, it ain't a ping in the spitoon compared to Shame.

* On an unrelated note, the magic of home video technology has finally allowed me to answer one of the lingering questions about the Batman series that I've had since day one: What the heck are we seeing when they do the spinning scene transitions? The red and black one appears to be the ignition button for the Batmobile, and the multi-colored one appears to be an image of Batman and Robin looking down at something. Now if I can find out why the hell there are always clouds of smoke wafting into view from the left-hand side of the screen every time the Batmobile pulls up in front of City Hall, I can die unburdened.

Finding Hugh Walpole

I had been thinking about going swimming. It would have been the first time in Lord knows how long since I'd been, but the weather wasn't having it. Initially, the weather report had read full sun and eighty-some degrees. Well, in northern Minnesota, the weather seems to be a different animal than is found anywhere else. So there I was, sitting cross-legged on the end of a dock, bracing myself and my inflatable Justice League pool raft against a persistent wind that whipped the slate-colored waves into angry peaks, looking like a little kid who'd just witnessed his scoop of melting ice cream do the slow-then-speedy slide off the mouth of his waffle cone, before making a messy, Jackson Pollock impact with the concrete.

It was cloudy, it was windy, it was maybe sixty-five degrees, tops, for those brief pockets of mere seconds when the shifting cloud cover permitted some direct sun exposure. Some bleeping vacation, huh? 

No, the round, red apple of summer was starting to show the brown rot of autumn at that point. Which, naturally, put me in the mood for ghost stories. Fall always does that to me.

I had been wanting to wade into a good collection of ghost stories for a while. My foundation in the genre of supernatural/horror fiction is firmly built in the Ray Bradbury/Robert Bloch/Richard Matheson/Charles Beaumont/Marjorie Bowen/Seabury Quinn tradition; i.e. I really like late 19th century and early-to-mid 20th century material. I wanted something in that vein, so I turned to that local light in the dark, Dreamhaven Books. 

When I stumbled across the reprinted All Souls' Night by Hugh Walpole, I knew absolutely nothing about the author. I'm not sure I'd ever even seen or heard his name mentioned before, but the book sold itself as a book of chilling horror tales:

"But it was in the field of the macabre and supernatural that Walpole was at his best, and this collection of sixteen tales contains many of his finest, including the classic werewolf story 'Tarnhelm'; the oft-anthologized 'The Little Ghost'..." (from the back cover).

It was originally published in 1933, so it was right up my alley.

I gave it a shot. 

All Souls' Night does in fact contain ghost stories. And it does contain the shapeshifter tale "Tarnhelm; or, The Death Of My Uncle Robert". But the ghosts in tales like "The Little Ghost" are almost incidental to the tales they haunt, and very rarely do they do much ghosting. There are genuinely dark moments in the stories included in the collection, ranging from a house that decides to look after the best interests of its owner, in "The Staircase;" the aforementioned "Tarnhelm;" and the darkly surreal "The Silver Mask", which, I have to believe Thomas Ligotti read at some point. But by and large, the book is full of character studies and explorations of the human condition that are much more W. Somerset Maugham than H.P. Lovecraft, and frankly I found it amazing.

There are at least two stories about dogs, and what they mean to the people who take care of them, such as "The Whistle" and "Sentimental But True". Dogs are only the impetus, of course, for the dissection of human pride and a look at human relationships, as well as setting up a dare I say modern analysis of the expectations of women dealing with wounded egos in a patriarchal society, as well as a melancholy meditation on how humanity can be lost in translation when people are viewed through the stratified layers of the social classes. 

Another thing that struck me about Walpole's fiction is how little he relies on subtext. It was clear to me  by the time I was a couple of stories in to the collection, that Hugh Walpole had been a gay man in a time when it was illegal to be a homosexual in the United Kingdom, but seemed to write like it didn't matter!   

For example, this blurb from the male protagonists's point of view in the tale "Portrait In Shadow": I liked him at once. Standing there in the new morning sun, the water dropping from him in crystal drops, he was as handsome a man as I've ever seen – more handsome, I sometimes think, than anyone else in the world. 

Again, the male narrator's words about his recently deceased male friend Bond, in "The Littlest Ghost": I believe that he knew me, with all my faults and vanities and absurdities, far better than anyone else, even my wife, did.... I missed him, of course; was vaguely unhappy and discontented; railed against life, wondering why it was always the best people who were taken and the others left;....I had a flashing, almost blinding need of Bond that was like a revelation. From that moment I knew no peace. Everyone seemed to me dull, profitless and empty. Even my wife was a long way away from me, and my children, whom I dearly loved, counted nothing to me at all.

I haven't done a deep dive on Hugh Walpole, I don't know much about his personal life and struggles as a gay man during a time when simply being one meant punishment by law and social persecution, but damn if it didn't seem ballsy as all hell to put such blatant prose into his work. It's the literary equivalent of beating the reader over the head with a cast iron skillet, and you'd have to be as obtuse as hell or have the mental acumen of a rutabaga to not pick up what he's laying down.

Hats off the Hugh Walpole! For the horror reader, there are some genuinely good chillers in the collection, including "The Silver Mask", "The Staircase", "Tarnhelm", "Seashore Macabre. A Moment's Experience", and "Mrs. Lunt." The remaining eleven stories in the collection of sixteen, are incredibly cognizant distillations of human folly and frailty, hubris and ignorance, in the guise of short stories about seaside vacations, marriage proposals, dogs and more. Recommended if you're a fan of Maugham or the short fiction of Roald Dahl, minus the humorous twist endings or shock value accoutrements. 

I was tricked, when I bought into the ad text on the back of Valancourt Books' 2016 edition of Hugh Walpole's All Souls' Night. It isn't a book of macabre ghost stories. It isn't anything like what I had initially wanted it to be when I purchased it; and I was treated in the best possible way.

Dialing Back The Phone

 

Perhaps one of the most underrated songs by The Rolling Stones, in my humble opinion, comes off of their 1974 album It's Only Rock 'N' Roll, which saw the group in a transitional period, experimenting with new production methods and a sound somewhat more nuanced than the strictly blues-rock based material that they rode to stardom the decade prior. And it isn't the title track, which is largely what remains in the public consciousness of the album these days by anyone but a dedicated Stones enthusiast. It's actually the album's fifth track (the final cut on the A side, for vinyl hounds): Time Waits For No One. 

Time waits for no man, and it won't wait for me / Time waits for no one, and it won't wait for thee 

Drink in your summer, gather your corn / the dreams of the nighttime will vanish by dawn

Perhaps it's more cornball than those stale, sticky, spherical wads of glucose-coated popcorn that tend to get left on the kitchen counter after the trick or treat bag has been emptied and sorted, but the sentiment remains. Maybe it's just me noticing the once all-but-ignored clock of mortality we all walk around with, tick-tocking a little louder for me these days. It's wound differently for each of us, no one knowing exactly when their alarm is to go off, and having turned 40 recently, I find myself watching that second hand with nervous, wincing eyes. 

As a painfully self-aware individual, I've a tendency to sit on occasion and try to take a peek at myself from an outside perspective and assess what I see. Frankly, for a man whose life is likely a slice more than half over, I'm finding my behavior ridiculous and self-defeating. And, of course, what I'm talking about is my use of that limited commodity known as spare time. You may have surmised, based on the title of the post, that this time suck involves that 21st Century deity the cell phone.

It's true, I've fallen to the lure of the dopamine-dispensing data stream device. Prior to a few years ago, 10pm on any given evening would have found me in bed reading a book. Now I find myself in bed, propped against the headboard with a pillow wedged in the crook of my neck, scrolling through some dreck on Instagram or CNN or Youtube or Reddit that I find neither interesting nor informative.  But I just keep scrolling, index finger endlessly tracing upward in the same spot on the dumb little screen like I'm trying to itch a groove into it, or flick away a piece of lint that refuses to move. Mornings, in the before-times, I was prone to reading or doodling, or simply reviewing what it was I needed to accomplish that particular day while at the breakfast table. Now I find myself checking to see who, if anyone, has commented or "hearted" whatever painting or drawing I've posted somewhere, or to check the tracking updates on that set of spark plugs I bought online, for the 400th time. 

It's all rather stupid, really. The basic function for a telephone–cellular or otherwise–is to place and take phone calls. I know that definition has altered greatly over time, now that the noun "phone" is synonymous with "pocket computer", the way that Alanis Morissette managed to get the definition of the adjective "ironic" to be a synonym of the adjective "unfortunate" through a brain-cell killingly insipid pop song,  but the core function still remains. And the thing of it is, no one calls me. That's not a complaint, merely an observation. Once in a while I'll get a voicemail from some robo-marketer who claims to want to make an offer on my house, sight unseen, to add to their brokerage firm's investment portfolio, and on a rarer occasion I'll get a ring from one of my parents checking in, but truth be told...no one fucking calls me! And I don't call anyone either! Why do I have this thing? It does come in handy on occasion, when I need directions to a place I've never been before, but that's about it. 

I know it's the empowering tool of the everyman, cutting out the barriers of the entitled content makers, allowing each individual to be a broadcaster, actor, artist and journalist, which is why every second of everyone's life is filmed, every sandwich requires a photo shoot and anyone with an opinion is a journalist (note: I've never referred to myself as a journalist). Social media is all about self promotion, and when you've got nothing to sell or nothing the public wants to buy, you're just another fuzzy crackle in the sea of white noise, so you start staging shit. And then you're not living your life, you're tailoring your faux reality to match the brand version of you you're trying to sell for "views" or "likes" or cryptocurrency or whatever. So much chatter, so much self-obsession, so many people obsessed with other people's self-obsession. The value of analysis and information is below rock bottom these days, folks can't give it away; and apparently it's all subjective, unless you question or challenge it. Then it's defensible as subjective "truth". The trouble is, folks seem to be having a problem distinguishing between subjective and objective, truth and opinion these days. And it isn't endemic to any one age group or political stripe. Now, since there's a global network of fellow morons in their pockets to back them up, anyone can double down on their ignorance without ever having to reassess their behavior or viewpoints. Most of what passes for news on the aforementioned CNN, and other major news websites, isn't actual news, but op-ed pieces about hot button topics, distilled through the fervor of media outrage, and repurposed information on current click-baiting headlines reiterated endlessly into "new" stories, which are just subsequent repackaging of the same information to make people think they're reading something new, so they keep clicking. More page views means more advertiser income. 

And this is what I'm piddling away the limited remaining hours of my life on? So why am I reading it? To stoke my anxiety? 

It's irritating to sit and watch others around me as well; necks eternally bent, constantly detached from whatever is going on around them, faces glues to their phones. The realization that that's what I look like sends trickles of ice water into my veins and leaves me running for my Trazodone. A side-effect of this allegiance to these devices, subsequently, is the complaint about a lack of free time, as I've just myself complained about. The whole purpose of this long, whiny op-ed post, in fact! And the culprit is clear when you watch someone brushing their teeth for 20 minutes because they're not actually brushing their teeth. They have the brush in their mouth and one hand is gripping the handle, but their other hand is hoisting a cell phone mere inches from their eyeballs and they're more engaged with Twitter than toothpaste. And then comes the complaint about never being able to get to bed on time. How about watching someone pantomime spooning cereal to their face like a Romero zombie, while gazing stupidly at some dipshit's 11 second comedy video on TikTok on loop, followed by twenty others just like it,  and then bitching about how they never have enough time to get ready in the morning? Cut and paste these scenarios into walking the dog, cooking dinner, watching a movie, etcetera ad infinitum. Maybe the bleakest permutation of this is having been at a friend's house, watching people engage in feigned group activities while ogling their apples and androids. Imagine a birthday party where everyone in attendance barely acknowledges each other unless it's to pose them for pictures for their Facebook page.

But I can't change other people, and it's not my place to. To throw another cornball into the mix, I need to be the change I want to see. Essentially, I just need to put the damn thing away and reclaim what little time I have left on this burning planet by actually engaging in things that I enjoy doing, that make me a healthier and happier jaded old man blogger who occasionally posts pictures of paintings he's worked on. 

We'll see how long that resolution lasts.

Now get off of my digital lawn, I need to rake it. Hopefully, without a cell phone in my hand. 

Ruff Neighborhood

 Acrylic and spray paint on paper. 

Frankenstein's Monster Meets Manga

Cultures cross-pollinate all of the time, and while some channels of transmission are more (or less) reputable  and/or harmful than others, it can only benefit all people everywhere to be exposed to things outside of their tiny spheres of influence. Though context is important. Despite any anti-American sentiment other cultures may hold, or xenophobic tendencies seem to be rearing their disgusting head here in the U.S., the exchange and assimilation of various cultures' pop ephemera can show how our interests are more aligned across cultural and geographic boundaries, than alien. Such things have been stigmatized in recent years with the constantly argued and blurred demarcation of cultural appropriation and exoticizing over cultural fascination and celebration, but this isn't a political blog and 100 different people may have 100 different definitions of any of those aforementioned concepts.

An example I present to thee...the appearance of the Americanized Frankenstein's Monster in Japanese manga. Seems pretty trivial, I know. You may point out that the Frankenstein's Monster isn't American at all, but English, since it stems from the 1818 novel Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus by author Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. True. I guess you could argue that The Monster is potentially German, since the titular Frankenstein is in fact Dr. Victor Frankenstein, the medical student who builds and animates the creature, does so at the University of Ingolstadt. Its birthplace, so to speak. On the other hand, I suppose, if Victor Frankenstein made life, and that life is The Monster, and therefore is considered his progeny, I guess it could be argued that The Monster is Swiss, since Victor Frankenstein's family is Genevan. But Victor himself was born in Naples, which would undoubtedly make him an Italian citizen, which might make The Monster Italian? The phrase "it could be argued" gets bandied about a lot here, because that's all it is, meandering rhetoric. 

No, we're talking specifically about the repurposing of the Frankenstein image created by Jack Pierce for James Whale's 1931 Universal film Frankenstein. It is by and large the default visual shorthand for the Frankenstein Monster and has been since the picture's release. Below are some examples from my personal manga collection.

First off we have some excerpts from Tetsujin 28-go, initially created in 1956. The volume these images are presented from are from a tankobon reprint released in 1970. Herein we see Tetsujin 28-go square off against a very familiar-looking green-pigmented monster.

The cover to the first volume of Sunday Comics' Tetsujin 28 Go   
(aka Iron Man 28, aka Gigantor in the U.S.) by Mitsutera Yokoyama.

                              

Below are some samples of the Frankenstein story from Osamu Tezuka's Astro Boy, originally serialized in Shonen magazine between November 1952 and April 1953 per the Tezuka In English website. This english version is from the Dark Horse Comics Astro Boy Omnibus 7 collection released in 2017.

 I'm sure there are other examples, the Junji Ito adaptation for one. If anyone has any other examples, please feel free to let me know. I'd be interested in seeing them.

4PM FRIDAY AFTERNOON - A PINBALL ZINE

 

Hello! I've created a pinball zine! It's free to download here! I know there are a few typos on the PRESS START intro page, I'd compiled the unedited file into the mass pdf, but if you can look past that, you might find something to enjoy within. 

Working on a second zine now, waiting for inspiration to strike to finish. It will not be pinball related.