Geek Punditry #129: Fact and Fiction

Statistics are a funny thing, and by “funny” I mean “likely to make my brain sad.” I recently read a statistic that claims only about 46 percent of American women read fiction (novels, short stories) on a regular basis. It’s a lower number than I would like, but reading rates in general seem to always be declining, so it can’t be that surprising. What WAS surprising is that the rate of MEN who read fiction, as of 2022 when this study was conducted, is about 27 percent. That’s appalling to me. That means that if I line up four guys, odds are only one of them will have read anything more inventive than the sports page in the past year. And THAT guy is just reading Brony fanfic. 

“Fluttershy slipped out of her fishnet holster…” good grief, people are deranged…

I don’t want it to sound like I’m against nonfiction, mind you. You can read any genre you want, as long as you’re reading. I constantly beg my students to find SOMETHING to read every day, be it a video game magazine or Crime and Punishment, I don’t care. But it leaves me confused, baffled, as to what exactly it is that drives so many men away from fiction. They go to movies, they watch TV shows – but when it comes to picking up a book, they’re more likely to turn to history or how-to. I guess it goes back to the old joke about men, upon reaching a certain age, having to choose whether they’re going to get really into either grilling or World War II. (I am past that certain age, by the way, and I am obsessed with many things, but not those.)

That’s not to say I don’t read nonfiction, I do, but the funny thing is that most of the nonfiction I read is nonfiction ABOUT fiction. For instance, the current book I’m finally chopping off my To Be Read pile is Teenagers From the Future, a collection of essays edited by Tim Callahan about DC Comics’ Legion of Super-Heroes. That’s the kind of nerd I am. I like to read the analysis of fiction written by other nerds. I’ve read books about the history of Universal Studios, specifically their monster movies from the 1920s to the 50s. I’ve read books about the making of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho and the life of Edgar Allan Poe. Not long ago, when making one of my world-famous, soon-to-be sponsored by Netflix LitReels (this part is absolutely not true), I was doing a little research about movie novelizations from the 1980s. In the course of that research I discovered that Ryan North, the writer behind the current excellent runs of Fantastic Four and Star Trek: Lower Decks comic books, has written an entire book analyzing the differences between the film Back to the Future and its movie novelization. This made me realize that I needed to read the novelization again, then read North’s book, B^F.

An all new way to go back in time.

If I’m going to read a memoir, it’s not going to be one written by a former president or supreme court justice, but an actor or a writer. Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, for example, is one of my favorite books. I go back and read it again every few years, if for no other reason than to remind myself that the best-selling writer on the planet suffers from many of the same struggles as any other schmuck who dedicates themselves to figuring out the proper order to put words in on a daily basis. I really enjoyed Growing Up With Manos: The Hands of Fate by Jackey Neyman Jones, daughter of the director of one of the worst movies ever made, about the journey to create that cinematic oddity and the strange way it has impacted her life. And actor, comedian, and talk show host Craig Ferguson’s American on Purpose is an uplifting, magnificent exploration of what my country can mean to somebody looking at it from the outside, with all the wit and humor that you would expect from Ferguson. 

That’s not to say that I stick with just feel-good stuff. I’ve read, for instance, Matthew Perry’s Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing and Jeanette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died, both of which dig into the lives of actors, both of which are deeply tragic in very different ways. And let’s not forget Maus, Art Spiegelman’s haunting graphic novel (yes, nonfiction graphic novels do exist) detailing his father’s experiences in Auschwitz. Spiegelman makes the interesting narrative choice of depicting the Jews as mice and the Germans as cats, with other nationalities occasionally popping up as other animals (Americans, for instance, are dogs, from the old “dogface” nickname). The result is a book that looks like a sort of hybrid of Watership Down and history’s greatest nightmare. These aren’t books that make me feel better about the world, but I’m certainly glad that I read them.

These books have one thing in common: none of them will cheer you up.

More often than that, though, I like reading books about the creation of movies, comics, television, and even other books. A few years ago, for example, I found a pair of books by Dustin McNeill and Travis Mullins called Taking Shape and Taking Shape II. The first was a deep dive into the creation of all the different movies in the Halloween horror franchise, which was cool. The sequel, however, was far more interesting: an exploration of all the scripts, pitches, and abandoned ideas for Halloween sequels and reboots that were NOT made for one reason or another. McNeil also has a solo effort, Slash of the Titans, about the long and twisted road that eventually led to the movie Freddy Vs. Jason, including discussion of some abandoned story ideas that, frankly, I think showed more potential than the final film we actually got. I’m fascinated by the creative process, and exploring the different ways these stories have been told, or even not told, is something that really compels me.

These books, paradoxically, make a delightful little romp.

If you want me to get into history (of the two I’m far more likely to get into grilling, but let’s stick with history for now), I prefer it to be couched it in the world of fiction. Do I want to read a book about life in Victorian England? No. Do I want to read Les Standiford’s The Man Who Invented Christmas, about how life in Victorian England eventually led to the creation and legacy of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol? Absolutely. Am I particularly interested in investing any more time than I already have into McCarthyism and the moral crusading of the 1950s and 60s? That’s a no from me, dawg. but if you hand me David Hadju’s The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How it Changed America, now you have my attention.

Often, when I write these Geek Punditry pieces, I’m trying to show people the universality of what I’m writing about. The thesis of this column is to discuss things I like and urge others to share in my joy. But I have to wonder if, in this instance, I’m a little too unique for that. The real world is scary enough, friends, and I sometimes think we all spend too much time immersed in it anyway, with 24-hour news networks dedicated to showing us the worst possible angle on everything that happens and 24-hour doomscrolling on social media dedicated to making the worst even more horrific. I prefer spending my time in worlds of the imagination, and I make no apology for that. So I guess what makes me a little different is that, even if I’m exploring reality, I’m doing so out of a thirst to find the paths to fantasy. 

Blake M. Petit is a writer, teacher, and dad from Ama, Louisiana. His most recent writing project is the superhero adventure series Other People’s Heroes: Little Stars, volume one of which is now available on Amazon. You can subscribe to his newsletter by clicking right here. He’s also started putting his LitReel videos on TikTok. If you were surprised at the fact that he didn’t bring up Star Trek this week, that’s because there ARE nonfiction books about Star Trek, but frankly, not enough of them.

Geek Punditry #53: How Not to Use the Public Domain

January brings a lot of things with it: New Year’s Resolutions, a deluge of commercials from companies offering to do your taxes, another chance for the Cowboys to choke in the playoffs, and – most importantly – new items moving into the public domain. A quick explanation for those of you who don’t know: when a creative work (like a book, painting, movie, song, etc.) moves into the “public domain,” that means that the copyright has expired and anyone is free to use that work in certain ways – remake it, create derivative works, write their own sequels, and so forth. It’s the reason that anybody can make their own version of a Shakespeare play or a Dickens novel, or why it’s okay to sing certain songs on TV without worrying about paying for the rights. The full explanation is as complicated as anything else related to the law, but currently, copyrights in the United States last for 95 years, with the work in question rolling into public domain on the first of January the next year. Over the last few years, this has taken on an almost party-like atmosphere, with people champing at the bit as they wait to see what new toys they’ll have to play with. In recent years we saw The Great Gatsby enter public domain, bringing forth a wealth of unauthorized sequels, “reimaginings,” and crappy party supplies bought by people who didn’t read or understand the book. Two years ago, the earliest Winnie-the-Pooh books joined the club, bringing with them the inevitable horror movie Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey. And a few days ago, on January 1, 2024, we got the big enchilada. “Steamboat Willie” and “Plane Crazy” entered the public domain, the first two shorts starring a little guy the world would come to know as Mickey Mouse.

I can finally post this picture without making a Disney lawyer’s Litigation Sense start to tingle.

I need you all to understand something. I am a firm adherent to protecting copyright. The person who creates a work of art is entitled to exploit that art to the fullest. Sometimes, of course, they “exploit” that right by selling the copyright to someone else or, in the case of a lot of things, they created it as a work-for-hire and a company owned the copyright from the beginning. (There are a lot of people who have been screwed by work-for-hire agreements, historically, but the principle is valid.) But I also believe that this protection should expire and that works should eventually become free to use by all, and that’s for the good of art itself. Allowing future generations to create their own twists and spins on a classic piece of art or storytelling helps to keep those works fresh and alive. But it’s also important that those works be respected in the process. So while I’m not terribly surprised that mere hours after “Steamboat Willie” became free to use we were deluged with announcements of Mickey Mouse as the star of horror movies and violent video games, I am substantially disappointed that people can’t find a better way to use this newfound freedom.

Walt Disney is rolling over in his cryogenic suspension unit right now.

There have been great works created based on things that are in the public domain. Universal Studios built their brand on it in the 1930s with their versions of Dracula and Frankenstein, neither of which were particularly faithful to the respective novels (Dracula was actually based on the stage play), but they still defined the characters for subsequent generations. Without those two films, who’s to say anybody would remember Bram Stoker or Mary Shelley today? There are a thousand and twelve versions of A Christmas Carol, and although plenty of them are trash, there are also some excellent ones. A Muppet Christmas Carol is a fantastic rendition of the story, quite faithful to the book, with one of Michael Caine’s most legendary performances. Scrooged is a great update of the story to the 1980s, with Bill Murray giving us a different but perfectly valid take on the character, making it into something new while still, clearly, owing its own existence to the Charles Dickens novel. And what about West Side Story, the 1950’s musical about street gangs that lifts cleanly from Romeo and Juliet? In fact, I would argue that West Side Story actually IMPROVES upon Romeo and Juliet. In West Side Story, the two young lovers are destined for a tragic ending because of the arbitrary labels of race and class that divide them, making a statement about those things that was not only poignant to the era and place where the musical is set, but is equally applicable to all times and all places. In the original Romeo and Juliet, though, the two young lovers are destined for a tragic ending because everybody in that play is dumber than a sack of hammers. 

(Note to any ninth grade students who are scheduled to study Romeo and Juliet in this upcoming spring semester: I am TOTALLY kidding about this. Romeo and Juliet is the bomb. The bomb dot com. Listen to your teacher and stay in school.)

“The bad news is you’re still gonna die. The good news is that, thanks to public domain, you don’t have to die like a moron this time.”

Anyway, the point I’m getting at is that the folks behind Mickey’s Mouse Trap and other, similar works are taking the easy way out. They also display a pretty specious understanding of how copyright actually works, because what’s in public domain are specifically the versions of Mickey and Minnie that originally appeared in “Steamboat Willy” and “Plane Crazy,” nothing else. They also don’t seem entirely aware that copyright and trademark aren’t quite the same thing, and the trademark behind Mickey is still nice, strong, and supported by enough lawyers employed by the Walt Disney Entertainment Global Megaplex and Shadow Government to invade Portugal. They may be able to get away with showing a guy in a black-and-white Mickey Mouse costume holding a knife, but calling the movie Mickey’s Mouse Trap? I am sitting nearby with a bucket of popcorn waiting for the lawsuits to start.

“M…I…C…”
“See you in court!”

But even if that weren’t the case, that doesn’t change the fact that a Mickey Mouse slasher movie is the cheap and easy way out. The freedom we get when something joins public domain is important, but far too many people waste that freedom with lazy works churned out for shock value without any real reason to create something other than to say, “Heh heh, that’s messed up.” And while I know some would disagree with me here, that’s not a good enough reason. Blood and Honey thought it would be funny to take a beloved icon of childhood and make it a bloodthirsty killer. I didn’t see the movie because, frankly, the idea itself is distasteful to me (and you’re talking to someone who’s excited about the Toxic Avenger remake, for heaven’s sake). But at least they did it first. The filmmakers behind Mickey’s Mouse Trap don’t even have THAT in their favor. They’re pulling the same joke somebody else did. It’s lazy, and it’s boring. Telling a bad joke once is unfunny. Stealing a bad joke from somebody else is the sign of a hack.

I usually have a pretty firm rule not to try to analyze a movie I haven’t seen, so I’m going to base my critique purely on the trailer, which not only looks lazy and boring, but straight-up steals one of the most famous jokes from the first Scream movie. In and of itself, the fact that they chose to showcase this joke in the trailer quashes any hopes I may have had for this movie’s transcendence, I’m sure the filmmakers, if confronted with this, would claim it’s an “homage,” but if this were an essay turned in by one of my 12th-grade students, this is where I would stop reading and simply give them an “F” for plagiarism. (Unless, of course, they gave proper citations to Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven.) 

Do you have the right, legally speaking, to make a movie whose only real purpose seems to be to show cartoon characters committing brutal acts of violence? Sure. But as George Lucas tried to demonstrate to us when he had Greedo shoot first, just because you have the right to do something doesn’t always make it a good idea. The best argument for letting works into the public domain is so that new, innovative works can be built upon those things that have helped build our culture. Things like Mickey’s Mouse Trap fails on both of these counts. 

“Wait, people thought we were serious about this?”

The 1920s and 30s were a pretty rich time, culturally speaking, and there are a lot of characters and works that will soon be free to use. Next year the first Marx Bros movie, The Cocoanuts, will be in the public domain, along with Ernest Hemingway’s novel A Farewell to Arms. In 2027, the aforementioned Universal Frankenstein and Dracula movies will no longer be copyrighted. And looking ahead a decade, the first appearances of Superman will be public domain in 2034, followed the next year by Batman and, the year after, Wonder Woman. And I’m sure there’s some hack filmmaker already planning to do his Superman slasher that year (hint: there already is one, it’s called Brightburn, and it was pretty good), followed by the other two, and then bringing them together as an evil Justice Society once All-Star Comics #3 joins the PDA (Public Domain Association). 

“Been there, done that, murdered innocents with my heat vision.”

I’m putting you on notice now, guys: if you’re planning to exploit these works when the time comes, that’s fine. That’s your prerogative. But if your idea of doing so is nothing more than “Ha ha, what if Superman murdered people?” keep it to yourself. We all deserve better. 

Blake M. Petit is a writer, teacher, and dad from Ama, Louisiana. His current writing project is the superhero adventure series Other People’s Heroes: Little Stars, a new episode of which is available every Wednesday on Amazon’s Kindle Vella platform. He feels ways about things sometimes.