Buffy : Season 8

Somewhere in my basement, most likely at the bottom of a box of Goosebumps books, you might find a copy of the Homeward Bound II junior movie novelization. It may or may not be adjacent to a copy of the Monkey Trouble junior novelization. It took me far too long to realize that the majority of books which include color stills from the films upon which they are based, printed on glossy, glossy paper, do not belong in any kind of credible home library. But like many people, I crave adaptation and reinterpretation. To this day, I still find worth in translating stories from one medium to another, even if I’ve been witness to the creative molestation of some of my very favorite properties. In this way, I view the practice of adaptation much in the same way as I view vans. Just as vans can harbor great evil and perversion, so too can a van transport you to great artistic heights and endeavor. Sometimes the candy is real and sometimes there really is a lost dog.

Today I want to talk a little bit about a franchise that turned in the keys to its Hollywood set and ended up with a really great van. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the uber-successful Season 8 comics series. Yes, the Scooby gang landed a real Mystery Machine.

Please refrain from throwing rotten produce until the boring part where I talk about craft.

Comics get high marks in the adaptation department these days, with great vans panel to screen translations like Iron Man and the Dark Knight performing ludicrously well with critics, crash tests, and box office. But when translating in the opposite direction, from film or television to a comics mini-series, the results are not always so spectacular. They are notoriously hollow incarnations. And held against an equally crappy comic of original intent (a creator owned work not based on any pre-existing work) the licensed property title will often garner a more impassioned response. The perception is that there exists something more inherently noble about an original story than the alternative, which is often perceived as a wholly commercial money grab. The classic artist versus the establishment battle. The time tested reality is that these adaptation comics are often shadows of the original work. And if that original work was successful enough to warrant a comic incarnation, dollars to doughnuts says there is going to be some lofty expectation. When the medium is comics, there’s already a volatile status quo in regard to authenticity.

In no other medium does the expectation for authenticity play such a prominent and divisive role as in comics, because in no other medium do characters develop the kind of unbroken and complex histories associated with our sacred totem characters. Comics are constant, snowballing history from month to month, some since the 30s and 40s. Comics are visual and iconic, robust with an almost religious penchant for repeated symbols and phrases. The death of the Waynes, Uncle Ben’s sage advice, the mantra of the Green Lanterns. And though comics creators often tinker with the classics and reinvent or revise or retcon, we always refer to old ideas and old characterization with a kind of reverence. Will the story remain true? I’m not simply talking about continuity, but something wholly insubstantial yet altogether present, something almost spiritual. It’s the vision. It’s the voice. And this intangible force often passes from creative team to creative team like an Olympic torch. We cry out when the runners fumble. We marvel when the flame persists.

This is why comics inspire so much passion, both enthusiastic and zealous. We get angry when Spider-Man doesn’t behave like Spider-Man. It’s not just the kind of mechanical misstep made by a writer in the space of a novel. This isn’t just a betrayal of a reader’s suspension of disbelief. The scale is grander because this is tradition. It’s not really the initial quality that defines a legend. It’s time.

I think if any other medium comes close in this regard, it’s serialized TV drama. Buffy slugged it out for seven seasons, amassing the kind of character development and complexity that Star Wars and Harry Potter fans can only fool themselves into thinking they could claim. Isolate the character of Willow Rosenberg in the pilot and then again in the finale. These are two very different people. But trace the path from one to the other, and there is no jarring transition. This character arc happened organically. The television series ranks among the top character pieces in the medium. It’s a soap opera which mostly dodges the usual pratfalls associated with the genre. And most importantly, it features a signature style and voice which endures, even though it was authored by not one, but many people. Part of the cohesion is due to Joss Whedon’s editorial guidance, but even without his hand, the voice of that original script and the established language of the series, early on, is so resonant and specific, that diverging from that model is almost unthinkable. When a character is fully and truly realized, they dictate the trajectory of a script. It’s consistency.

While writing can be taught on a mechanical level, distinctive voice can not really be defined through traditional elements. It’s something that happens with time and experience. It’s not enlightenment, per se. It’s closer to confidence. Because all voice really is, is a consistent and honest translation of what’s in your head onto the page. It’s a comfort with yourself. And once it’s found, the trick is to never let go of it. For Joss Whedon, the X factor has to do with a playfulness of dialogue. I think the same could be said of Shakespeare. It’s having fun with the language we’ve always had.

There are several rare factors contributing to the success of the comic series. Obviously Joss Whedon serving as the show runner is an assurance of both quality and that invisible but crucial mark of ownership which says, “This counts.” The knowledge that this story is authored and approved by the man behind it all is important to us because we respect his work and we are always concerned about the meddling of new chefs over the kettle. But ah, the plot thickens.

The curious aspect of the season 8 comic is that many people, even huge Whedon fanatics tend to agree that although he, himself, has written some terrific stuff for the book, the best stories are coming from the other writers he’s assembled. There are maybe two reasons for this. For one, Whedon is more of lyrical writer and as such, his dialogue probably sounds best when spoken and not merely printed. It’s the same reason some students of Shakespeare aren’t won over until they see a stage production. Whedon’s maybe a little too musical for his own good, though the more comic scripts he writes, the surer his footing gets. Confidence. The other reason is that his fellow contributors seem to be massive fans of the characters they’re writing, and of their distinct voices. Brian K. Vaughan translated Rupert Giles to paper like I never imagined possible. He tapped into the Whedon lexicon as well as Anthony Head’s rhythm as a performer. Again, there’s no way to concretely define it all, but every subtle detail adds up to an authentic portrayal. This is a work of love and not the hollow corporate facsimile we’re sadly accustomed to.

But more on season 8 next time. Because this is a road trip. And November is all about Joss Whedon and his motley crew. From Buffy to Angel to Firefly to Astonishing X-Men and maybe even an episode of Roseanne.

Get in the van.