As far as I’m concerned, the 1973 Academy Awards was the setting of what has to be the biggest upset in the event’s history. That year, the Oscar for Best Picture went to a film you might have heard of called THE GODFATHER, but instead of awarding the prize for Best Director to Francis Ford Coppola, the Academy’s voters instead gave it to Bob Fosse for his work on CABARET.
Can you friggin’ believe that? Have you heard anything so completely bug-nuts insane? There’s no way THE GODFATHER should have gotten Best Picture!
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When I was 5, I asked my mother to buy me a superhero poster, because I really liked superheroes and, even at that young of age, I abhorred an empty wall. I made my request with visions of Superman and Batman floating in my head, but I would have happily settled for a Spider-Man or a Hulk as well. Hell, I would have made do with a freakin’ Aquaman if it came down to that.
Instead, she returned home with a poster of Lynda Carter dressed as Wonder Woman and I was fucking devastated.
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Tina Fey is the funniest voice Generation X ever produced. Not the funniest female voice — the funniest voice period-full-stop-that-means-boys-are-totally-included. A controversial statement? Definitely, but I’m happy to make it. Why? Because she might someday Google herself, find this review and decide to reward my declaration with an awkward sexual favor. Far-fetched? Probably, but I know for a fact she has a thing for short guys, so — fuck it I’m swinging for the fences.
That said, as someone who considers himself to be a knowledgeable student of comedy history, Fey truly does deserves to be considered one of the greats of our time. Both her Mark Twain Prize and her first book, BOSSYPANTS, more then backs this up.
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When I first picked up my brand-new copy of Hal Needham’s STUNTMAN!: MY CAR-CRASHING, PLANE-JUMPING, BONE-BREAKING, DEATH-DEFYING HOLLYWOOD LIFE, the first thought that flashed inside my mind was, “Oh, fuck, now I actually have to read this shit.” My second was the profound realization that the cliché was true: Those who ignore the lessons of the past are forever doomed to repeat them.
Our story begins six years ago (-ish), back when I was still a young, bright-eyed, Canadian writer working for a local company that specialized in publishing books you’ve never read. Having grown accustomed to my being the most obscure working author in North America, I was shocked when my fourth book, URBAN LEGENDS, ignited a firestorm of media interest.
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Ask any comic-book nerd you meet about all of the different fictional women who have taken on the name and mantle of Batgirl over the years and they no doubt will tell you tales of the blonde, miniskirted Betty Kane, the silent assassin Cassandra Cain and the once-briefly-dead-Robin Stephanie Brown, with short and annoying asides about Helena Bertinelli and Charlotte Gage-Radcliffe. But ultimately, even they will concede that this is mere prattle, and that the only true Batgirl remains the redheaded librarian we all first came to know and love.
DC itself seems only too willing to acknowledge this fact in its new trade collection, BATGIRL: THE GREATEST STORIES EVER TOLD, given that none of the other past or present Batgirls appear within its pages, devoted as they all are to the adventures of one Barbara Gordon. This is remarkably wise of them.
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