Morbius, the Living Vampire #1

            Originally a Spider-Man villain, Morbius was created in the early ‘70s, a decade famous for giving us forward-thinking and culturally sensitive characters like Luke Cage: Hero for Hire, Shang Chi: Master of Kung-Fu, Brother Voodoo: Exactly What He Sounds Like, and, of course, the Hypno Hustler. Morbius’s hook is that he looks like a vampire, he has a lot of the traditional powers and weaknesses of a vampire, and he drinks human blood for sustenance—but oh-ho-ho, he’s isn’t a vampire, not really. See, he was a doctor with a rare blood disease, and one day, when he was particularly desperate, he tried mixing electroshock therapy and vampire bats, and, well, there you go.

            So now you know:

VAMPIRE BATS

+

ELECTROCONVULSIVE THERAPY

+

DISCO

=

I'm probably being too hard on disco.

            He’s gross-looking, his traditional costume is a skintight jumpsuit with a plunging neckline and a giant, red collar, and that origin is a little too dumb, even for me. Over the years he’s bounced back and forth between tragic villain and dark, misunderstood hero, and I guess the pendulum is swinging back toward HERO! Although he doesn’t do anything particularly heroic in this issue. Or much of anything at all, really, but sit around eating stuff he picks out of the trash. But I’ll get to that.

            Last I remember seeing Morbius, he was revealed to be the secret seventh scientist at Horizon Labs, Peter Parker’s place of employment. As a result of the Lizard getting up to some nonsense and Morbius being really into drinking blood, Spider-Man ended up punching him in the face and sending him to the Raft. You know, the Raft—the prison for supervillains they constructed just off the New York coastline, despite the fact that they keep having these massive breakouts where all the supervillains escape and just kind of wash up on the beach in Manhattan? That Raft? This is going to come as a shock, but it seems there was some sort of a breakout!

That happened in another comic book, though—one I didn’t read. I assume some low-rent villain used a superpower in an unexpected way, then the lights went out and the warden said something like, “This is impossible! Our system was designed by an alternate Tony Stark from the year 2099! It has eight levels of redundancy!” and then the Purple Man made him eat his own face. Also: Morbius escaped.

He's in a hurry, he's super-agile, and he can fly, so he bends the turnstile. With his hands.

            This book actually opens with Morbius running around in a subway, fighting ‘80s street toughs straight out of Crocodile Dundee, before being shot in the chest with a shotgun, narrating “I WAS A LIVING VAMPIRE… NOW, I’M A DEAD MAN.”

Excluding that and the final page, it’s told in flashback, with the just-having-been-shot-in-the-chest Morbius continuing to narrate. Basically, he crawls out of the water in front of an unhoused old coot named Justin, who gives him some spare clothes and advises him to get out of New York. “What are you, a moron? You just broke out of super-prison, and all the superheroes live here,” Justin heavily implies.

All throughout, people see this, and they're like, "So, Michael! Are you a crackhead, or...?"

But Morbius says he can’t leave, not until he takes care of a few things, so Justin suggests that he hide out in Brownsville, which Wikipedia tells me is a historically poor and crime-ridden neighborhood in Brooklyn. Morbius bugs out to Brownsville—because I guess the Avengers don’t have anything better to do than round up Morbius, the Living Vampire—and, based on the next several pages, the things he needs to take care of in New York are: lurking in alleys, hanging out in a cemetery, and eating trash. But then, on day four of his self-imposed exile, he meets Noah St. Germain, the leader of Brownsville’s gang of 1980s-themed punks, and St. Germain punches and kicks him for a while.

And that’s pretty much it.

Okay, that's kind of funny.

On its basic merits—words and pictures, telling a story—it’s okay, I guess. The art’s kind of blah, and Richard Elson’s really bad at drawing clothes, but he draws backgrounds and conveys the action clearly, which is more than I can say for a lot of professional comics artists. There isn’t a lot to the story, but I always know what’s happening, and there are a few chuckles to be found. This is the kind of thing that gets shifted from an ongoing to an eight-issue to a five-issue series in its first two months, because you can do comics that are just okay, and you can do fringe characters, but you can’t do both at the same time. A couple thousand people will buy it because they’ve been obsessed with Morbius ever since Rise of the Midnight Sons—which just happened to come out when they were thirteen—and another couple thousand will buy it because they’re into what Keatinge’s doing on Glory, or they love Hell Yeah, and maybe Keatinge and Elson’s mothers will buy ten copies each to give to their neighbors, and then, having been outsold by Phantom Stranger for three consecutive months, Morbius, the Living Vampire will go gentle into that good night, having affected nothing and offended no one.

So here’s why it offends me.

UGH.

That “this isn’t just another vampire book” bullshit that permeates the entire endeavor, as if Joe Keatinge’s “street level” take is incredibly original and avant-garde*—it gives the impression that the creators are ashamed of their involvement. It’s awkward, it’s trite, and it’s unprofessional, really. As a reader, I shouldn’t be thinking about how much you are or aren’t into this gig at all, but since you're forcing me, I should be under the impression that you two are having your dreams come true right now, that getting to work on Morbius, the Living Vampire was your number one professional goal, and that having done so, you can now die happy. I am not under that impression. I’m under the impression that you’d both much rather be working on Daredevil.

Because street level, man, I don’t know. I can think of less appropriate directions for Morbius, but they’re, like, “Transport him to the world of Peter Porker, the Spectacular Spider-Ham,” or, “Have him travel back in time and participate in a comedy of manners,” or, “Have him go to Japan and join up with teenagers who pilot mechs against giant monsters.”

If you think about it for a second, two of my three suggestions are actually better fits, and I was actively trying to fail.

Since I’m ranting, anyway, why is Michael Morbius, the middle-aged, originally from Greece, Nobel Prize winning, super-genius super-scientist running around in a hoodie and talking like a surly teenager? Why does no one he interacts with seem to notice that he’s chalk-white and has fangs and glowing red eyes? Why is Morbius staying in New York? What are the “things he has to take care of” that he’s putting off for eating garbage sandwiches and sleeping under dumpsters in Brownsville? Why is he eating sandwiches at all, for that matter? He’s a vampire. And come on, seriously, why do St. Germain and all of his thugs look like extras from Police Academy 2?

Watch out, Morbius! It's one of those New York criminal types!

But I’m getting carried away. Something about this book just irks me. For me, subjectively, it’s a D-. Objectively, though, I’d probably give it a C. It is competent, but unspectacular work on a character not many people know and even fewer care about.

In summation: Morbius, the Living Vampire is instant tapioca pudding.

* “Some of the worst monsters are human,” he said in an interview, presumably expecting to blow your mind.

I hate Katana #1

            Yeah, I don’t know what this is supposed to be, and I don’t know who it’s supposed to appeal to. The character’s been around for thirty years. Does she have a lot of fans? Birds of Prey fans? Is this another Twilight/Bieber moment? Will women and Japanese-Americans find that Katana really speaks to them, with its weaponized jewelry and the street in modern-day San Francisco where everything is like feudal Japan?

            Like I said, Katana is a character who’s been around since the early ‘80s, so named—you guessed it—because she carries a magic katana called the “Soultaker”, so named—you guessed it—because it was forged by a swordsmith named Murray Soultaker. Wait, no, I'm being told it’s because it "takes" people’s "souls" when it kills them. I’m not terribly familiar with her, to be honest, because she’s not a particularly prolific character. Until recently, her highest profile appearances have been as a member of the Outsiders, Batman’s “team of loners,” and otherwise, as far as I’ve noticed, DC mostly tends to bring her around when they’re being accused of publishing an entire line of comics made by and featuring nothing but white guys. *cough* LIKE RECENTLY *cough* *cough* Of course, she also took Robin’s place on the animated show, Beware the Batman, so maybe that was a motivating factor, although if that’s the case, a) the character in the comic looks nothing like her (much better designed) animated counterpart, and b) if kids crossing over from the cartoon are your target demo, maybe a bit less slavery and rapey sex dreams in a pool of blood?

Hey, kids!

            That’s just a suggestion.

            The book opens in media res, with Katana losing a fight to Coil, who—you guessed it—briefly replaced Bo Duke on The Dukes of Hazard while John Schneider was renegotiating his contract. But also his sword is long and flexible—like a cross between a sword and a whip, I guess? Anyway, he binds her up in his “spiral sword” so he can give her a lecture about his men's rights activism. “Women,” he says, “belong in the kitchen.”

            I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the implication.

            Then we cut back to “A few days ago…” and Tatsu Toro, Katana’s civilian identity, going through San Francisco Customs. “Traveling for business or pleasure?” asks the Customs guy.

            “What’s the difference?” she says, in a manner totally at odds with her behavior and tone throughout most of the rest of the book.

Just sit back for a moment and revel in the incredible kineticism.

            Tatsu makes a beeline for Japantown and the aforementioned street where everyone dresses and acts and builds buildings like they’re in old-timey Japan. A drunk old man throws something at her, but she catches it and spikes it in his face. A woman rents her a room, and for an extra fee, agrees to let her use the secret space in the basement. Everyone speaks in pseudo-philosophical quips that are, I suppose, meant to make everything seem more weighty and mystical?

            Tatsu sets up in the basement, where she tries, and fails, to fight thirty-three table-legs, after which we get another of those silly, out of character remarks: “As the kids say: Epic fail,” as she is literally on her knees, cradling Soultaker and begging her dead husband for forgiveness.

Oh, Katana. You don't know the half of it.

            Then it’s time for the blood-drenched sex dream and then another page of creepy, oddly sexualized sword-cradling and forgiveness-begging. She spends two full pages getting dressed, making note of how each, individual piece of jewelry is lethal, and goes out to visit a tattooed, untouchable teenager who seems to be a slave. I mean, she isn’t specifically referred to as a slave, but she begs Tatsu to help her get away and her aunt (or, you know, owner) says she “isn’t for sale.” But Tatsu isn’t getting caught up in any of this slave business, she just wants to see the girl’s tattoo of Soultaker. Then, exactly one panel after the slave girl begs for her freedom, Tatsu goes for a stroll in the park.

Look at how sharp those hair-sticks are! Be careful, Katana!

            Where she is attacked! By the Sword Clan! She narrates how each individual piece of jewelry is taking down an opponent—which is helpful because not a single thing that’s happening is clear in the art—and is then restrained by Coil, which takes us back to the beginning. It turns out that she doesn’t even have to do anything to get free. His sword just breaks to pieces around her, because hers is better. Despite the fact that on our first viewing of this exchange Coil’s primary motivation seemed to be misogyny, this time he’s like, “Soultaker is dangerous! You have to join the Sword Clan so we can train you to control it!”

            Oh, and that’s a legitimate concern, because the sword is totally controlling her in the last few panels of their fight. But Katana says, “Never! I am a clan of one!”

            Blah blah, more pseudo-philosophical nonsense, and then:

What a cliffhanger!

            Katana was probably never going to be a best-seller, or even necessarily last more than twelve issues, but it was one of very few books published by DC with a non-white, non-male lead, and that made it significant, whether they wanted it to be or not. And this? The writing is all stilted dialogue and tired stereotypes. The art is super-stiff, way over-reliant on photo-reference, and much more importantly, always incredibly unclear.

            This is terrible. And it’s a shame.

Alex Cross (2012)

            Wow, this is a bad movie. I mean, wow. It has a 30 on Metacritic, 12% on Rotten Tomatoes, the director of XXX, and Tyler Perry in the lead—I knew all that going in—and my expectations still weren’t sufficiently lowered.

            If you’re a reader of popular fiction and you spend a lot of time in airports, you’ve probably heard of James Patterson’s most famous creation, Alex Cross, star of one of the bestselling book series in the world. If you are familiar, it probably won’t come as a surprise when I say that the books are—and I actually feel like I’m being extremely charitable here—not very good. They feature two-page chapters, giant print, sloppy, robotic prose, and nonsensical plotting pulled straight out of a troubled thirteen-year-old’s journal of slash fiction. Graphic descriptions of brutal violence and rape are prioritized over all else, and Alex’s romantic partners and family members are constantly being threatened or kidnapped or raped or murdered or fed through a wood chipper.

            “But Charlie,” you’re probably saying, “you seem really familiar with these books that you’re implying you wouldn’t wipe your ass with. Is there something you want to get off your chest?”

            Well observed, dear reader. I have, in fact, read the first ten Alex Cross books (that's ten of twenty-one and counting). Back in my teens, I would even have called myself a fan. I stuck with the series as the page counts went lower and lower, the print got bigger and bigger, and the plots got more and more slapdash, until The Big, Bad Wolf—a book I finished reading, cover to cover, in less than two hours, with a final twist so incoherent that I had to go back and read it over to realize that it only worked as a twist through the power of bad writing. I had what you might call a moment of clarity. “Charlie,” I said to myself—I call myself Charlie—anyway, “Charlie,” I said, “this book makes the novelization of Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith look like The Grapes of Wrath. Reading James Patterson no longer qualifies as a guilty pleasure. You are now actively making yourself dumber.”

            It’s interesting what Patterson’s continued success says about us psychologically—about advertising and herd mentality and brand loyalty. If you go and look at the last five Alex Cross books on Amazon, the reviews are decidedly mixed. I mean, not the official reviews, those are just bad—but the user reviews, even the positive ones, include a lot of, “Not as good as…” and, “I liked Patterson better before he started doling everything out to ghost writers.”

            My favorites, and the most illustrative of what I’m saying, are the kind of reviews that say, “First good Alex Cross since Cat and Mouse,” because Cat and Mouse is the fourth book in the series, which means that the person read anywhere between ten and fifteen books that they didn’t like. Why do we do that? Habit? Brand loyalty? Chasing the high from those first few?

            I don’t have an answer, I just find it interesting. What you should really take away from the last couple-hundred words is that I read the novelization of one of the Star Wars prequels, and I was willing to admit it to you in order to make a point about how bad James Patterson’s books are. Some would say that makes me a hero, but all I’m really interested in is keeping you from making the same mistakes I did.

            There have, of course, been adaptations that surpassed the original works. The Witcher and The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings are a lot more fun to play than The Last Wish or Blood of Elves are to read, though that may be down to the translations. The film 21 Jump Street is so good that I think the association with a crappity ‘80s TV show probably did it more harm than good, all things considered. And as works of pure imagination, the books that make up The Lord of the Rings are wildly impressive, but as stories, they’re a slog—a compelling wordsmith Tolkien was decidedly not—so although I’ve never not fallen asleep during The Two Towers, I’d say The Fellowship of the Ring and The Return of the King are superior to their literary antecedents, at least as far as their potential to be enjoyed.

            But Alex Cross isn’t any of those. It’s violent, it’s tone deaf, and most of all, it’s very, very dumb—in fact, I’d say it’s exactly the adaptation the books deserve.

This is about as subtle as Tyler Perry gets.

             Alex Cross (played, as mentioned, by Tyler Perry) is a detective with the Detroit Police Department, head of a homicide squad so elite that there are only three of them: him, his lifelong friend, Tommy (Edward Burns), and their much younger colleague, Monica. Alex has a degree in psychology—a doctorate, if the German national who keeps calling him “Detective Doctor Cross” is to be believed—and a Holmes-ian knack for observation and deduction.

This is, without question, the very best thing that happens in the movie.

            They’re called in by the CHIEF OF POLICE (John C. McGinley) to investigate the death of a businessman’s secret mistress, who was tortured to death by the sadistic, weird, anorexic, cage fighting, charcoal drawing, special forcing antagonist, nicknamed Picasso (Matthew Fox). It quickly turns into a race to stop him from killing Jean Reno’s fat older brother (Jean Reno), the French billionaire who’s going to pull Detroit up out of Third World status.

I honestly didn't realize it was him until the credits were rolling.

            As that all plays out, Picasso kills both Monica and Detective Doctor Cross’s wife, Maria, Alex and Tommy break into the police evidence lockup in ninja costumes borrowed from the Village People, the CHIEF tells Alex and Tommy they’re OFF THE CASE, and Alex and Picasso have a climactic fistfight in some crumbling Detroit landmark, after Alex is able to locate him with a little help from OnStar. Also: Maria is eight weeks pregnant, Alex is planning on taking a desk job with the FBI, Picasso keeps calling him up to chat for some reason, and Jean Reno’s fat older brother is secretly behind his own murder plot, because he’s planning to fake his own death. Oh, and Cicely Tyson.

            What I’ve described isn’t going to win any awards, but it sounds like it could be a passable thriller, right? Mostly the writing is where it falls apart and bursts into flames. It’s chock full of clichés, it’s got way too much going on, it’s all over the place tonally, and the dialogue is some of the worst I’ve heard in a major release. I kept thinking, as I was watching Alex Cross, that maybe a lot of it was improvised. Because the alternative is that someone typed phrases like, “Let’s talk, gangsta—in a real gangsta car!” after which they looked those words over, maybe read them aloud, and then said to themselves, “Yup, that’s some fantastic dialogue!”

            There’s a scene where Alex and Tommy break into a chemist’s apartment and immediately start whooping his ass, because they’ve been told he knows where to find Picasso. Alex pistol whips his face a few times and Tommy throws him over a table covered in glass drug paraphernalia. When he hits the floor he yells, “I want to see my attorney!” and Alex shouts, without missing a beat, “I am your attorney!”

"Good one, Alex."

            When they’re looking over the first body, we’re subjected to a flashback of Picasso cutting off her fingers and putting them in a bowl. Immediately after the flashback, Alex says, “The first one was to get her to talk—the rest… were for fun.” Immediately after that, Tyler Perry and Edward Burns engage in some light comedy, pushing the bowl of severed fingers back and forth between them and arguing over who’s going to pick one out to use on the thumbprint lock.

            When Alex is first interviewing Big Fatty Reno, Reno says to him, with a knowing tilt to his smile, “Do you like nature, Dr. Cross?”

            And Alex smiles faintly like they’re sharing a hidden understanding and says, “Human nature.”

            Smash cut to: the two of them walking in the woods. Really?

"I mean, seriously?"

            In a scene near the end where Alex is on the phone with Big Fatty Reno, revealing that not only was he hip to the death-faking plan the whole time, but that he and Tommy planted what appears to be forty kilos of cocaine under Big Fatty’s couch cushions, he closes with, “My wife is dead because of you… and now you are dead… because of me.”

            You’re telling me someone wrote all that? Come on.

            Of course, no movie can be a hundred percent bad.

He just heard that Dominic Monaghan accused him of spousal abuse.

            Edward Burns is as likable as always—John McGinley, too, although he often gives the impression that he’s decided to play the CHIEF satirically. I realized somewhere in the first three minutes that I’d never actually seen Tyler Perry in anything—I mean, excluding his cameo in Star Trek. He’s actually much better than I thought he’d be. He has, for lack of a better way to put it, a warm, kind energy about him, and it works for him in the domestic scenes. On the flip side, I’ve never seen Matthew Fox play anything but Jack Shephard and Jack-type characters, and this was, if nothing else, playing against type as hard as he could. I wouldn’t say that either performance is great or anything, but they’re both very watchable.

            There is also a scene where Tyler Perry kicks Matthew Fox in the balls in slow motion.

            And that’s it for the positives!

            Alex Cross is a terrible movie, and most of the time it doesn’t even have the decency to be bad in an entertaining way. No one should ever see it. Not Tyler Perry fans, not James Patterson fans, maybe the cast and crews friends and family, just to be supportive, but NO ONE ELSE.

This is literally the last shot of the movie before the credits, and you find yourself thinking, "Yeah. Yeah, that's about right."