The Amazing Spider-Man: Retro Rehash of The Sensational Youth Icon

Okay, so as many of you are probably aware, from billboards, TV Spots, Viral Internet campaigns, ect. that a "new" Spider-Man movie is coming out on the 4th of July. In America, it's expected to take over $150 million in the box-office on it's opening weekend alone.
 Except, as you can probably ascertain from my use of inverted comma's, It's hardly new. It's a prequel that reinvigorates the entire series, and sets everything back to year zero, where Peter Parker as recently gained control of his abilities, and is freshly exploring them. It was done in Sam Raimi's series, but they seem to have reinvented certain themes that were in the comics, the inclusion of Gwen Stacey as a (valid) love interest, the use of Peter's web-shooters, and the introduction of Curt Connors as The Lizard, who, as you can probably guess, is a giant lizard-man.
 And while certain of these themes are important to the Spider-Man Mythos, Peter inventing and using the Web Shooters shows his intelligence and altruism (he could have just patented the ultra-strong webbing material and retired), and Gwen Stacey opens up a love tetrahedron concerning Peter and his friends,it still feels a little... Pointless? I guess?
 Spider-Man has had a rich, 50 year history, and he's had plenty of notable stories that have affected fans, but at the present point, we've struck some kind of universal rut concerning how we tell Spider-Man stories. In the past 10-15 years, we've had a massive series of re-hashes and retcons (retro-continuity) in the Spider-Man stories spread across the media. The Sam Raimi films, the current film series, Spectacular Spider-Man, Ultimate Spider-Man (both the comic book series AND the cartoon series),  Spider-Man Noir, Mary-Jane loves Spider-Man and the controversial comic book story line in "regular" continuity, Brand New Day, seem to have sent Spider-Man backwards instead of forwards.
 Either thematically, they've reintroduced a young, hip, in some way "new" version of the character, or reintroduced certain themes used by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko back in the 60's, the use of social-life intruding on his heroic alter ego, and visa-versa, the fusion of a Teen Drama/Soap-Opera/Super-Hero saga that it once was. In Spider-Man's early years, this was considered, edgy, original and was great for hooking young legions of fan's.

And so the tradition of telling Harry to shut up, a tradition carried out until this very day, began. 

 But in perhaps the last 20 years, the character hit a snag, he was growing up. He was no longer in college, he was a slave to the dollar like anyone else, he was married, he had, in essence, GROWN UP problems. Now, whether it was the difficulty for new writers to put him through the wringer in relatable, yet mature ways, or legions of ageing fan's putting down the comics or even Marvel's realisation of Spider-Man's merchandising potential, Marvel, and Spider-Man's fan's began to realise something.
 Spider-Man is not a grown-up character.
 Peter Parker is the constantly anguished, tortured soul who is often unable to ascertain the correct moral path, or recognise the consequences of his own actions, in other words, the perpetual teenager. Adults are usually more morally upstanding, someone to be replicated. It's probably the reason why a character like, say, Batman is considered mature. He's so righteous and morally justified in his actions, it's easy for more grown up fans to follow and place on a pedestal. Spider-Man's (ironic) irresponsibility, and striving for a consistent ethical path, the juggling of social life and other obligations is something younger fans find more relatable.
 Of course, I doubt even though we all do adult things, pay rent, work a job we don't like, and generally put on a brave face against the rest of the world, that we feel in control of our lives, or that we feel as grown up as we think we are, which I think still explains Spider-Man's appeal to older fans. Perhaps as a way to retain a piece of one's youth in the face of an overwhelming adulthood as much as anything.
 Spider-Man (despite the name) is an overgrown kid. A motormouth that's always poking fun and cracking jokes at his enemies expense, with near limitless energy and (dare I say it) archetypal "adult" enemies. The Vulture maintains a literally generational conflict, not to mention Norman Osborn's sinister connotations as a sadistic father-figure. Even Kraven the Hunter is testosterone dripping example of primal manhood.

"Hey, Kid, do you want to take a look at my sub-text, if  you know what I mean..."

 So the real problem is how to keep a character that's marketable as a youth icon, and be able to let him mature and grow at the same time. It's a tricky conundrum made worse by a sense of nostalgia, and the thoughts of writers and fan's that the Spider-Man stories of the 60's were part of a "Golden Age", a time of now unattainable originality and greatness that contained the absolute and concrete version of the character. that's why we've seen a resurgence in retcon's and redo's, where Spider-Man fights classic characters that are virtually the same fights as they were 40 years ago. Social relationships that have already reached their logical conclusion begin all over again to pander to a new generation. and all the while, the stories that allow a new kind of Spider-Man story to come into genesis are still-born or aborted to take a "fresh" take on an old formula.
 "Back in Black" a story arc where Peter Parker revealed his Identity to the world, and where his Aunt May was shot, his wife Mary-Jane was forced to flee underground, and his pantheon of villains baying for his blood allowed this new kind of story to appear. Peter's Past mistakes had caught up with him, and he had to face the music, either become mature enough to handle the loss of his sole parental figure and protect what was left of his family. This was a MAN'S story. Of course,  a retcon in the form of "One More Day", came calling, where Peter literally sold his marriage to the Devil so he could wipe out everyones memory of his identity, and the life of his Aunt back, occured. Conveniently allowing him to be free from the responsibility of marriage, AND guilt from the loss of his aunt, and continue his life as a Man-Child.
 Ultimate Spider-Man is even worse, this version of Peter Parker died at 16, only having started his career at 14, just as his character exhibited character growth and maturity, and then was replace by a new Spider-Man, Mike Morales, another 14 year old that has to get to grips with a complicated social life, alter ego and new powers. He still faces all the old enemies.
I think we've reached a stagnancy when it comes to Spider-Man stories. I'm sure it's not a problem for most people, but I've spent all of my teenage years reading and watching essentially the same story over and over again, and no matter how skilfully or innovative it is, it still isn't original, and that's something I need.
 Other comic book writers, like Scott Snyder and Grant Morrison are endeavouring to try and inject something that hasn't been done before into Batman stories (introducing cosmic and psychological motifs), a character that's been around 30 years more than Spider-Man, and they're actually doing a pretty good job, which makes me wonder what's wrong with the writers at Marvel.
 Regardless, I'm probably not going to go and see "The Amazing Spider-Man" in the cinemas. It's a little too depressing.

I'm raising my hands in the air, because at this point, I just don't care.

Danse Macabre

Best taken with an auditory aid, chiefly, this one:
Now let the Dance of Death... Begin!

Danse Macabre - poem by Paul Verlain

(translated from French)

    Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence,
    Striking a tomb with his heel,
    Death at midnight plays a dance-tune,
    Zig, zig, zag, on his violin.
    The winter wind blows, and the night is dark;
    Moans are heard in the linden trees.
    White skeletons pass through the gloom,
    Running and leaping in their shrouds.
    Zig, zig, zig, each one is frisking,
    You can hear the cracking of the bones of the dancers.
    A lustful couple sits on the moss
    So as to taste long lost delights.
    Zig zig, zig, Death continues
    The unending scraping on his instrument.
    A veil has fallen! The dancer is naked.
    Her partner grasps her amorously.
    The lady, it's said, is a marchioness or baroness
    And her green gallant, a poor cartwright.
    Horror! Look how she gives herself to him,
    Like the rustic was a baron.
    Zig, zig, zig. What a saraband!
    They all hold hands and dance in circles.
    Zig, zig, zag. You can see in the crowd
    The king dancing among the peasants.
    But hist! All of a sudden, they leave the dance,
    They push forward, they fly; the cock has crowed.
    Oh what a beautiful night for the poor world!
    Long live death and equality!

To Frankie

Bottles and bottles and bottles of the stuff.
It burnt your nose just to sniff them, venomous vapours streaming off their corks and caps. Each held a viscous eerie fluid, hazy and undefinable, one second it was swirling, and contained a brilliant, opalescent sheen that captured the mind's imagination and held it giddy, on the lower shelves, further away from the day-lit windows, the fluid was voluptuously dark, as exquisitely murky and mysterious as the most exotic of sins.
A rum-runners ransom in liquor,  a veritable horde of hooch, In the year 1929, it was worth it's weight in gold. But today, a year later, it was all legal.
"It's not even very good. I've nipped turpentine that tastes smoother going down." Said Henry Peaks, hidden under a hat and twice his weight in trench-coat. His ratty little mouth held a cigarette limper than the two noodles he called arms.
"Well this gut-rot won't sell itself, Henry. What about Kenny Mc...Whositsname, over on Garland Street. You know, owns the Gilded Cherub...?" Marco Geraldo. Six and a half feet of muscle, gristle, and barely restrained rage. Also, suspenders and buzz-cut.
"...McGrady? That mook won't touch the stuff. He's found a legit supplier from Chicago. Apparently they make a mean gin. Frankly, Kenny only took from us after the Darmout Brothers started overcharging him on the bourbon."
"Those assholes have their place on Northburn. The... uh, I'm pretty sure it has a fox in the title..."
"The Jazz Joint? Yeah, but only cause they muscled in on Eddy the Ear. Poor guy. Heard he can only eat his meals through a straw these days. And then only when someones holding it for him." Henry took a brown, hefty bottle off the shelves, that was labelled "TWO HUNDERED PROOF, FINEST CHOICE GARUNTEEED!" and dragged it over to the water-warped lump of furniture that they used as a table. "Marco, do you ever wonder why it all happened like it did?"
Marco was casually trying to part back his hair with an inferior brand of hair-wax, but found that the quantity and the quality of the hair belonged somewhere closer to a scrubbing brush than a human head, and so instead wiped the wax across his mammoth chest, parting his chest hair evenly across his two biceps.
"It gotta be when Frankie died. Almost six months to the day, would you believe that?"
Both the fella's quickly crossed their hearts. Marco hadn't gone to church for almost two years, and Henry was Jewish, but it was a mark of respect to a man they had called their friend, their brother and their boss.
"We was about to own this town." Said Henry with a look of awe in his beady, ragged little eyes. "The Darbouts, the Francheski's Even Bobby Blanco gave us a piece of respect when Frankie was around."
Nostalgia seemed to be catching, as Marco joined in with the commemorating. "He used to just stand there and no what to say. He never had to hit anyone to get 'em to listen to him, and he always knew how to make someone shut their traps."
"Yeah. He's give 'em a look with those great big green eyes of his. Smile that smiles of him, and every politico to pimp would be butter in his fingers."
"Yeah..." Marco looked away fondly at nothing in particular. He caught himself though, and busied himself by grabbing some glasses from the crockery cupboard.
"Hey. You remember that time with Moses Sizzles?"
The story seemed to be one that they both knew, but still one they would mind retelling to one another a million times over.
"So, Sybil Raceway gets a hot tip that Moses and his boys have something hidden from The Law out on the Docks up with those slant-eyed Celestials."
"Why'd they call her Sybil Raceway, again?" Marco could never remember the names, probably one of the reasons he could never lead a gang of his own.
"Cause you ain't never seen so many people in and out of her so quick. Now anyways, Frankie, he's the smart type, and knows the scent of something big when it's screamin' on his lap. So he says to us: '"Now you two boys go turn over the chink love-house and the opium lounge and you see who's willing to play ball."' And so we go over and snatch up a squeaky little slant eye-"
"-I remember them being some o' the slantiest eyes I've ever gone seen-" Marco chimed in.
"-And so we's brings him back to Frankie, all squirmy like, I swear someones put him in Vaseline before we got to him, and Frankie just looks at him."
"With those green ol' eye's of his. Not slanty at all"
"And this little, yella fella crumbles. Like and eagle smashes a turtle, or a turtle smashes a head, or whatever, and he spills. Tells us what Moses is hiding down on the Docks, and boy is it big."
Marco took an opportunity during the pause in the tale to pour them both a considerable sized glass of the fiery amber liquid each.
"A treasure trove of the fanciest imported spirits you could think of: A million pesos worth of genuine Mezcal, worms all crawlin' through the bottom of each bottle. Crystal clear Vodka from the proletarians over in the Motherland. Rice wine from Japan so fresh you could almost still see the husks attached. And if you remember, we almost waded in like patoots to go get it ourselves."
"Man, back then we were dumber than a sack of... Elephants."
"I hears ya. But Frankie... Frankie had a mind clearer than a kike's ledger-book. Always tickin' away. So instead of us and Two Bars Charlie going to the Docks, and bustin' heads and taking the hooch, Frankie asks the little fella where Moses Sizzles was holed up."
" So. Like Satan's teapot, we get fired up and march out to Fiddlers Junker over in New Street, and while you're holdin' a baseball bat in one hand and a snub-nose in the other-"
"-and you've got a shotgun hidden in your trench-coat. You can't even see it."
"Yeah, yeah, Marco. But you ruined the story a bit. Anyway, Two Bars has his two bars and you two rush in, breakin' faces and that pelvis, when some old barfly takes out his .22 and is about to blow you one on the brain-pan when POW! I shoot him where the sun don't shine with a shotgun I've got hidden in my trench-coat all sneaky like see."
"Very sneaky."
"So we go up to Moses' room and you kicks the door down like it's made 'a' cheap cheddar. Frankie walks in on behind us, see's Moses puffin' away on one of his stinky ol' cigar's and sippin' on his brandy. Frankie just gives him the look, then he says '"Everything you own on the Docks now is mine, capish?"'
"And Moses laughed at him, I remember that. I was about to go over across that desk and turn his scrawny little neck around." Marco started to turn kind of raddish-ish with even the distant memory of the fact.
"Yeah, but then he would'a been called Moses Turnaround, not Sizzles. Anyways, so Frankie grabs that glass of brandy of his, takes a sip of it, swirling the glass a little, cause that's the ritzy thing to do, and then he tosses it full into Moses's face. FWOOSH, it goes up in smoke and so does Moses."
"Yeah, I still don't get why that happened. Frankie musta' known some hocus pocus from the old country, I guess."
"... It was the lit cigar that Moses was smoking, Marco. It made the brandy catch."
"...Oh. Still, pretty clever of Frankie."
"Yeah, never seen anything like it. To Frankie!" Henry and Marco had both let their glasses full until the story was over as a mark of respect. At the point that it petered out, they both raised their glasses in salute to Frankie."
"To the smartest, greatest guy I ever knew."
"Hear hear." chirped in Henry from underneath his fedora.
They drained their glasses dry.
"...pity about how he died."
"Yeah, that fire just came outta nowhere while he was drinkin' some of the haul from the Docks."
"Marco... he was smokin' while he was drinkin'."
"And?"
"...Nothing. It's just, everyone seems to have moved on and found a way to go Legit. Even Two Bar Charlie is running two bars on Elworth and Nobbs. I just know that if Frankie were still here..."
Henry's eyes drifted across the tabletop where the two's glasses sat. They weren't alone.
Marco saw it too. "I'm sorry. Must of just been a force of habit. My head's a bit fuzzy today."
Henry just gave a sad little sigh, and flicked his ashes into the third glass. Where it fizzled and was drowned.
"We've had to water down everything in this cellar so much you couldn't even get a kid drunk off the stuff. We're never going to be able to shift it."
"I bet Frankie would 'a' had a plan for it." Marco added.
"Yeah... He would have. Hey, Marco pour us another one."
The slosh and splash of the watered bourbon as it poured into each glass was so refreshing, you could have gotten drunk off the sound alone.
"To Frankie. Maybe not the smartest, but definitely the best guy I ever knew." said Henry with a heart filled with pride and starting to be filled with cheap hooch.
"Hear hear." Said Marco, gazing at the shelves of opulent scotches, murky jugs of Applejack, two bit  Rum sitting next to five hundred dollar Cognac, some a little bit drunken away, all of them dusty from being on the shelves too long, and wondered how long it would take for them to drink it all from Toasts to Frankie.
Not as long as you'd think.