But what does a comic-book editor do? I confess, I don't know. After almost a year of reading 2000 ad and the Megazine after a long time away, all I can say about the matter is that I haven't the faintest idea.
Now that doesn't mean that I'm implying that Rebellion's editorial staff are doing a poor job. I simply mean exactly what I say; their job description escapes me. With what now seems like a shameful naivety, I'd always assumed that the editor or an editorial assistant was closely involved with not just the commissioning of a series and its scripts and art, but also with the ongoing creative process and with the identification of any problems which might arise and need revising.
But this obviously isn't so, and the evidence for this is strewn throughout this year's progs. For all of the notable successes of 2010, and there have been many, there have also been a number of stories which have ambled on without purpose or achievement. There have been chapters and even series marked by confusion and inertia, and even quite excellent serials have ended all too abruptly. There have been covers which seemed lacklustre and long runs of issues where problematical social issues weren't being dealt with as pro-actively as might be hoped.
And it is hard to understand why one or more of the above-mentioned problems can be so prominent in one strip, for example, while being entirely absent in another. After all, if there were a coherent and hands-on editorial policy at 2000 ad and the Megazine, then a greater degree of uniformity might be expected. And so it does seem that a reasonable assumption would be that 2000 ad operates according to a form of editorial laissez-faire. Once a project has been green-light, the assumption seems to be that the work will be competent and ready for printing, and, as a consequence, the creators involved are left largely to their own devices to produce what they've been commissioned to.
And yet, that would be a questionable policy to run a comic book by, if indeed it is the one that Rebellion's editorial staff truly do operate. It's one whose possible consequences might be seen in this week's episode of "Dandridge", for example, the problems of which I thought I might discuss for a second and final time on this blog. For while it's laudable that the editorial office might - if such really is the policy - trust creators to produce work of the requisite quality, a more actively collaborative approach at times might in future help avoid some of the basic technical and administrative problems which have in part marked 2000 ad and the Megazine this year.
And there really are, I believe, obvious examples of such avoidable problems which can be perceived in both the script and the art of part four of "Dandridge: Return Of The Chap", and they're problems which can be perceived regardless of the personal taste of the individual reader. And they're the consequence, it appears, of a lack of attention being given to purely technical issues of storytelling, issues which could have been attended to before the strip's publication without significantly compromising the artistic independence of Mr Worley and Mr Peece. That, at least, is the premise upon which this particular blog-entry is going to be based on.
For example, consider the first tier of panels on page 4, a scan of which appears below. They follow on from a rather passive closing panel on the previous page, shown directly above, where Dandridge is shown rather unengagingly relaxing in the back seat of a car and declaring "Ah. There he is. Thought we might have missed him." The effect of that page-closing panel is to weaken the reader's anticipation as regards any coming confrontation between Dandridge and his prey. A lacklustre effect is achieved because page 3's last panel carries no sense of jeopardy at all. The scene contains nothing of a threat, and the faces of the characters can't be seen to transmit anything of worry to add a shiver of anticipation to events. In addition, the choice to have the eponymous character calmly declare that they've seen the big round and yellow beast rather than letting the reader see something of their quarry creates a sense that there's nothing at
all of threat facing Dandridge. A sense of jeopardy could have been created by counterpointing Dandridge's relaxed manner with a look of concern on his driver Shelley's face, or by showing fear in the body language of passers-by (*1), and that jeopardy could've been intensified by the simple addition of a great shadow falling across the front of their car. Regretfully, no such option is taken, and the fallen trees in the panel are so passive and unthreatening in appearance that they give the impression of a great storm that's past rather than one that's coming, which again works to destroy any anticipation of what's to come.
*1:- Too often Dandridge's relaxed state of self-assurance exists in isolation from more typical characters whose confusion, consternation and flat-out fear would identify him by contrast as a unique and amusing personality.
The first panel of page 4, shown directly above, is a similarly tension-pricking experience. It's not that the great balloon-like threat is too silly to generate concern. It looks mean, it's certainly big and the comedic tone of Dandridge is compatible with such a light-hearted but substantial menace. No, the problem with the scene is how it's been staged. Our hero is declaring "I say! You there!", but we can barely see Dandridge at all, and what we can see shows no signs of him making the slightest effort to attract the creature. All we have is the back of his head and shoulders, meaning there's nothing to display his essential Peter Wyngarde/Devlin Waugh-esque resolve. Even if the intention had been to portray a Dandridge who's so cocksure that he hails monsters without rising from his seat or even waving a handkerchief at them, the choice to show nothing but the back of his head short-circuits any such sense being transmitted. Yet if Dandridge had been shown rather camply standing in the back of the car and waving, it would have been funny. But since he's sitting down and doing nothing while the word balloon apparently contradicts his passivity, it's not. Finally, two separate components of a single joke have been unadvisably placed into that one frame; that of Dandridge trying to attract the monster, and that of the monster in response noticing him. And so it looks daft that Dandridge is trying to attract a monster's attention when the monster is obviously giving him such attention anyway. For, yes, the panel reads from left to right, and so the reader can assume a progression from request to recognition, but that means the joke in the panel is rushed over; the amount of time it takes to jump from word-balloon to monster's face is infinitesimally small and contains nothing of the pause needed for the gag to function. And it was a good joke, and deserved two panels rather than one, or a different composition to bring about the time-lapse between Dandridge speaking and his quarry responding.
Any humorous tension that the looming spirit's appearance suggests while dominating the right-hand side of that first panel is utterly dissolved in panel two, shown above. Instead, we're now focused on a Banbridge who is quite ignoring the monster's threat while delivering three word balloons containing 62 mostly quite unnecessary words. Indeed, we're here made to see Dandridge from something of the monsters point-of-view, meaning that the reader is quite baffled as to why the big lemon antagonist doesn't strike while this pompous pipe-smoker rambles on. The joke here, of course, is that our hero has a careful plan, and one which will be ruined by his carelessness in two panel's time. But Dandridge's scheme doesn't need to be rolled out in such depth that all the little momentum in the sequence is drained by the grind of processing that many words. And, anyway, by the time we've reached panel 5, all the unnecessary detail in the those 3 word balloons and 62 words has become even more irrelevant because of the collapse of Dandridge's scheme. It's a massive amount of set-up for a relatively simple, if promising, gag.
I'd argue that this sequence, amongst others, is clearly misconstructed. The script is problematical, confused in its panel progressions and in particular in the wordiness present in the key second frame. And the art is full of strange choices, from the constant lack of threat caused in part by the presentation of the key character's backs, to the sense that nothing here is really at stake and no-one need feel concern or even interest in the events at hand. Yes, the whole apparent charm of Dandridge is that he doesn't show fear, but that's one of reasons why sidekicks exist in adventure comedy, is it not? The sidekick, the mirror, can display the emotions that the hero can't or won't, but neither hero or sidekick give an emotional meaning to this sequence.
Yet a chat about either the script or the artistic composition of this page could have taken a matter of minutes, and what is now a wasted opportunity might have better expressed its creator's ambitions and better served the audience's enjoyment.
For "Dandridge" just needed the able and kind guidance of an engaged editor creating a ongoing dialogue with the folks producing the strip, I'd argue. Without that, all the faith that Rebellion's editorial staff have shown in Dandridge's creators and their undoubted talent counts, where the above example is concerned, for little, because the only thing that matters is quite obviously that which is there before the reader on the page, and what's on the page in "Return Of The Chap: Part 4" just isn't what it might've been.
Or so it seems to me.
A splendid day is wished to all, as well as my hopes for you, as we've discussed before, sticking together. Next time, I suspect we may well be chatting a touch about Mark Waid and Alex Ross's "Kingdom Come". You would be very welcome to pop over at your own convenience.
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