Who watches the Watchers...

There is much in the air right now. Politics, sports, and entertainment are rife with any amount of topics which I could use as springboards for filling the space I'm starting to feel obligated to fill. I will instead take those helpful, obvious, interesting prompts and spit on them in the interest of addressing a more abstract and therefore more self-indulgent discussion about the nature of art.

.......

OK. Those of you still with me, thanks. And I'm sorry.

On Friday night Sara and I made our weekly pilgrimage into the shared world, grabbing a bite to eat (hooray for cajun pork chops) and stopping off at Regal for a 9:30 showing of the newly-reintroduced-into-theaters Michael Clayton, starring George Clooney, Tom Wilkinson, and Tilda Swinton. First things first: go see Michael Clayton. Now. It will lose out big time at the Oscars, because as almost every critic would likely tell you, it's only a movie. I say this because when compared to staggering meditations on the American condition past and present such as There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men, Michael Clayton just looks like a movie. It's a fairly straightforward (although complex) narrative that takes the time to concern itself with the human soul and the damage that can be done to that soul when goodness is abandoned in favor of malicious corporate duty. It is superbly acted and directed and written (by the guy who wrote The Bourne Ultimatum, Tony Gilroy), and it achieves all these things without once appearing artsy, a real minus in the eyes of Academy voters. Anyway, it's awesome, so do yourself a favor and catch it while it's back in theaters for a limited time.

All that and I still haven't gotten to the point. Again, I'm sorry. Those of you still with me, however, will be treated to free peanuts and soda following the show.

Anyway, while waiting for 9:30 to roll around, my lovely wife and I made the requisite stop at Barnes & Noble, where she picked up a helpful guide on professional photography and I predictably spent more money that I reasonably should have (bye-bye lunch money). I made two purchases. The first was a book of rambling essays written by famed rock critic Lester Bangs I'd been looking for since I can't remember when and which no store ever had in stock - though I'm told they'd all be just ever so happy to order it for me - but which Barnes & Noble did. Score one for me. My second and final purchase was of another book I'd wanted for a while, though had through one or another gap in my conscious (and Christmas list) I had yet to pick up. This second book is called Watchmen, a graphic novel by V For Vendetta creator Alan Moore. Watchmen follows the saga of a group of aging "Superheroes," only one of which actually has any super-powers. These crime fighters have been outlawed in the wake of a police strike highlighting the public's fear of their particular brand of rogue vigilantism. The world is a different place than ours (we won Vietnam, for example, and Tricky Dick Nixon has just been elected to his fourth term in office), and nuclear terror still grips every inhabitant in the civilized world. I am about halfway through it and I have two conclusions. First, buy it now. Second, Watchmen is the third graphic novel I've read, the other two being V for Vendetta and The Dark Knight Returns, by Frank Miller of 300 and Sin City fame.

I was, in my youth, never much of a comic book reader. I remember distinctly attempting to ingratiate myself into the comics world on more than one occasion, as all the fantasy-superhero-crimefighting stuff seemed like it would appeal to me. It may have, but comics were not a format which kept me interested for very long and my attempts to "get" them failed. I'm still not a comic book guy. I have never bought an individual issue of any comic although many people in the field of entertainment who I admire (Kevin Smith, Quentin Tarantino) rave about series this-that-or the other. However, my experience with graphic novels has been nothing but positive: I love all three I've read and I see no reason why I would stop now.

I think, at last, that I am able to pin down exactly why a medium once written off as a mind-wasting vacuum has trancended to the status of truly high art. Just like movies before them and the novel before them, comics started as a highly simple exercise in time-passage. Pure good vs. pure evil, no complications. As each form developed, however, characters became less clear cut and with their shady motives and behaviors and ideals came depth to the works they populated. Superman is flawless and will always fight for the perfect reason. That's why Batman is more interesting (although now both have been carried along on the wave of serious-minded work that has greeted us all in the age of the graphic novel and movie adaptations thereof). New comic artists and writers like Moore and Miller have added an adult depth to works previously populated only be caricatures of do-goodery. Every character in Watchmen is highly complex socially, psychologically, politically, sexually, and ethically. Real social problems are laid bare in this novel (which is what it is, having broken the elementary bonds of comic books), examined in different contexts under myriad focused lights that bring the faults of the characters and ourselves (what all great literature is meant to do) out in the form of thought and speech bubbles. If you've never considered yourself a "comics person," join the club. Then go buy and read Watchmen. Just as novels and movies were once considered trash mediums where true art could never survive, let alone thrive, comic books have, in the past twenty years, been transformed into a unique and powerful canvas for some of the great literature of our time.

The next evolutionary step in this chain seems obvious to anyone under the age of thirty, but there are still massive amounts of people who doubt that the next great medium - video games - will ever be anything more than a way to kill a few hours, valuable only in and of themselves. Some games have already crossed the threshold, and yet the industry continues to survive as the whipping boy of media pundits across the land. They will, of course, be proven fools in the end.

I know that a few people read these posts, but I have gathered that the only real way to garner response from those few is to pose some great question designed to spark debate and discussion. This is a dangerous practice, however, because if I do pose some deeply powerful, intrinsically fretful question fraught with all sorts of power and uncertainty, but no one leaves a response, it's likely to cause suicidal thoughts. Off the diving board I go.

Comments, questions, disagreements, hate-mongering name-calling, and philosophically unanswerable conundrums are, of course, welcome.

What, then, can we call art? Maybe you love video games or comic books or (probably) both, but don't think they're art. Maybe you hate them both but think they are art. Whatever the case, make your case for art. Where does it start? Where does it end? What criteria do you use to measure art? What are your thoughts on graphic novels and video games and pulp westerns and all the rest? Come up with 5 or 10 or 59 (lists always elicit discussion, right?) great works of art that aren't getting their proper due in wider society. Hell, come up with just one. Say something. Anything. Please.

Thanks for reading. To all (or perhaps none) of you still with me. I apologize, but Alan Moore ate all the peanuts and spit in all the soda, so you're out of luck. According to the back of my copy of Watchmen, Mr. Moore currently resides in Central England, so if you wish to hunt him down, there's your head start. I'll warn you, though, in this picture he looks like a cross between the unabomber and Gandalf, so, you know, it was nice knowing you.