By Stephen Young
By Stephen Young
By Stephen Young
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
"The Ultimate line is such a crucial initiative to the company," Jemas acknowledges. "We've seen our youth readership erode for the past four years. Marvel has been tagged as being for older people, and if you've been around Marvel day to day like I have, you know that's not true. The truth has been borne out by the X-Men movie with teen viewership. As we sort of entered into a lot of bad business deals that led us to bankruptcy, we stopped producing teen-friendly product, and nothing changed about the X-Men that made them less palatable to teenagers. But as they appear in comics, it has been much more geared to adults, and the Ultimate books for us are a way of rebuilding that prized demographic."
To that end, Marvel's Ultimate line is the most lauded and most loathed project to hit the comics industry in years; either it's "a very cool idea" (in the words of Oni publisher Joe Nozemack) or "it looks so stupid" (Eric Reynolds, a publicist and editor at Fantagraphics, which also publishes The Comics Journal). Jemas couldn't care less, as long as everyone gives a damn one way or the other. But he, like his colleagues and competitors, is desperate to bring back the children who were once comic books' core constituency. They fear that if the Ultimate series -- not to mention X-Men and the forthcoming Spider-Man movie, due around Thanksgiving 2001 with Tobey Maguire wearing the red-and-blue tights -- doesn't attract children, and even their parents, then all is lost.
"This is a very confusing business, because everybody talks about going after the youth audience," Jemas says. "Nobody has tried to go after the teen audience, to do whatever it takes. The big excuse in the business is that, 'Gee, we lost our youth audience because the distribution system is broke,' and yes, the distribution system is broke, but the simple fact is, any decent-sized publisher, including Marvel and DC, could very easily force distribution into any mass-market outlet that sells to teens, and we've all done it, and guess what? The books haven't sold, because the books aren't accessible to teens. It's not enough just to have content and distribution. You have to market."
Marvel's Ultimate series is, ultimately, not unique. After all, when Spider-Man was born in the August 1962 issue of Amazing Fantasy, Peter Parker was a high-school geek -- he was, in fact, his readers. And the notion of reinventing a superhero is nothing particularly new: In 1986, writer-illustrator John Byrne gave Superman a makeover complete with a new origin story and familiar characters made to seem less, well, super. The same year, Frank Miller told the story of a 50-year-old Batman struggling to keep peace in a crumbling Gotham City in The Dark Knight Returns; not long after that, Miller began a new series called Batman: Year One, in which Batman was, once more, born again.
Still, the comic-book industry struggles to find a gimmick in its waning days, and new Spider-Man and X-Men and Incredible Hulk stories get ink in family newspapers; they attract attention from those who dismiss comics as the bastard child of art and literature. Marvel will, for a moment, attract the sort of attention it hasn't seen since its name was splashed about the business pages in the 1990s, when its bankruptcy signaled doom for the comic-book industry.
Unlike Jemas, Levitz has no new "crucial initiatives" to talk about, because DC has, for the most part, excelled where its competitors have failed in recent years. It has several lines of comics aimed at young children, including Cartoon Network tie-ins (The Powerpuff Girls, Dexter's Laboratory) and Looney Tunes; it has titles for teenagers, including Superman Adventures and Batman Beyond, based on the WB Network's cartoons; and it continues to sell such golden oldies as Action Comics and Detective Comics and All-Star Comics, which date to the 1930s and '40s. In 1992, DC editor Karen Berger also launched the adult-oriented line Vertigo, which is home to some of the best-known and most respected titles and authors in the history of the medium: Neil Gaiman (Sandman), Grant Morrison (The Invisibles), Alan Moore (Swamp Thing), and Garth Ennis (Preacher and Hellblazer).
DC does have its own gimmicks planned for the near future, though Levitz would certainly scoff at the notion that these are mere stunts. At the end of this year, Stan Lee -- who brought angst and ennui to comics during the 1960s, when his X-Men were uncanny, Spider-Man was amazing, and Marvel was indeed mighty -- will "reinvent" Superman, Batman, and other DC icons, working with a dozen of comicdom's best-known illustrators to refashion them as Lee might have in the 1960s. The venture has been greeted with closed arms by some in the industry: "This is not the future, guys," says Alex Ross, illustrator of such beloved books as Marvels and Kingdom Come. "This is a step backward." But there's no doubt it will boost business among fanboys at least intrigued by the notion of Marvel's big daddy going to work for the once-hated enemy.
And "whenever he's ready," says Levitz, the company will publish Frank Miller's Dark Knight sequel, The Dark Knight Strikes Again, which Miller describes as "a celebration" of comic books.