Reviews: "Pantheon: the complete scriptbook" and "Pantheon: welcome to the machine" by Bill Willingham

Most folks who know Bill Willingham know him through Fables, his fantastically popular Vertigo graphic novels. Fewer readers know of The Elementals, his first series, a superhero comic (albeit a quirky and rules-breaking one at that.) Connecting those two is Pantheon. What is it? Would I like it? Who should read it? Is it any good? I'll attempt to answer all that in a roundabout way.

First, let me say that everyone who like Fables should have the opportunity to read The Elementals. Even though this is Bill's (can I call you Bill?) earliest writing, and he's working in a genre chock-full of tropes and conventions, and pile on the fact that the kernel of Elementals comes from his days playing Villains & Vigilantes, one of the first (perhaps THE first) roleplaying games about capes and masks, Elementals was still ground-breaking, witty, with great twists and plot turns.

Alas, note that I said "should have the opportunity." Unfortunately, only a few of the very earliest issues are available in "The Natural Order" graphic novel. The series itself went under when its parent company, Comico, was sold off to an unreliable investor. Worse still, the story of The Elementals ended right before the big climax of a multi-issue plotline. Years of stories building up to...cancellation.

So, fans of Fables should read The Elementals. But you can't. Mostly. What happened next?

Bill moved on to other projects, and just before DC comics found him, a small independent publisher from Texas hired him to do another superhero series. This is Pantheon-on the surface, it's about a superhero group called Freedom Machine, but really it's an exploration of and deconstruction of superheroes, along the lines of Watchmen. Pantheon also attempts to show how Elementals' big plotline might have wrapped up, told through the lens of Pantheon's pantheon of characters.

So, if you're one of the few who *did* read Elementals back in the day, *you* should definitely read Pantheon.

And, if you're a thorough fan of Willingham's writing, you will want to read Pantheon: the Complete Scriptbook (and the graphic novel, although it--like Elementals--is only a few, early issues.)

Now, Pantheon wasn't a huge commercial success. And, I'd argue that--stacked up against Willingham's other works--Pantheon is a mixed bag, critically. Certainly, if you like action, Pantheon's got a ton of action. Eye-lasers and fists flying, and things disintegrating. If you like Willingham's plots and stories--you'll get some of that here, along with a great plot-twist ending. If you like his characters...ah...here's where the ice gets thin.

Perhaps it's because Pantheon was born on the heels of a cancelled series that Bill felt compelled to push the action button so hard over character, plot or story-telling. Certainly, he wanted to show the ending to Elementals that he'd planned, but never got a chance to show-I get that. Thank you, Bill, for thinking of the readers. But the characters in Pantheon are, without a doubt, the slightest to ever grace a Willingham comic. Deathboy? Commander Cross? Kid Kong?

Hey, I'm  no fan of "origin stories," but there's nothing to connect with here, no back story at all.* Worse yet, some of these heroes are simply knock-of
fs of (no kidding) the Fantastic Four, Johnny Quest, Batman, Superman, who are joined by characters who are little more than a name, a costume and a set of powers. (While it's true that Watchmen did the same thing, somehow it doesn't feel as much like a shortcut when DC recycled their own characters. Also, Watchmen is just...Watchmen, y'know?)

When contrasted with what Willingham accomplished with supers in the pages of Elementals--each of whose characters I can *still recall vividly and go on about idiosyncratic details...but I can tell you next to nothing about Pantheon's cast of characters. It's a bit of a letdown.

So, Pantheon's got great action, good plot, but slight characters. Still, is it worth a read?

Yes, there are some real gems here that any reader would enjoy (Blackheart's backstory, the twist ending to the series. Dynasty.) A Fables fan will get a kick out of seeing an early incarnation of Bigby Wolf (I shit you not.) And a completist like me...I don't have to sell you. Go get it.


Bonus question: should Willingham do supers again? Yes. Obviously, I'm an Elementals fan. If the rights to it could be pried out of the hands of the nutjob investor who bought it, Elementals could get an awesome reboot. Some of the issues it tackled back in the 80's are ever-more-relevant today. I'd even be happy to see more Pantheon. Just with more attention to character, please.


*Actually, we do get a smidgen of backstory on two of its main characters, but both were saved for the end of the series. Too little, too late.

Captain Kirk and the Ensign of Doom

A Fantale by Falstaffe

The Enterprise’s captain was proving to be a formidable opponent, much to the dismay of Junior Transport Technician Third Class J.G. Whitcombe. Kirk leaned one shoulder against the wall of the turbolift, a thick book in one hand, while the other rubbed his eyes. Tired from a long shift on the bridge and despite the weight of nearly five-years spent touring the frontier, Kirk was still an intimidating presence. Whit had to gather all his courage to even broach the subject in the first place.

Kirk didn’t seem to want to believe him, and dropped an open, pleading hand as he asked, “Whitcombe? That’s not a very traditional name for an Orion, is it?”

“Ah-my grandfather, sir. One of the first Earth traders to visit Orion.”

“Well, Mister Whitcombe, I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why your shuttlecraft maintenance cycles have been interrupted. Perhaps this would be a good time to start a new book?” He said, tapping the cover of the volume of poetry.

“Sir, it’s much more than a simple scheduling glitch. The whole safety of the ship is at stake!”

“Ensign?”

“The computer’s safety interlocks have been disabled.”

“What? All of them?”

“No, just the ones that check to see if all crewmen on the flight deck have the necessary backup life support gear.”

“Oh,” Kirk said, relieved, “I was going to say Mister Scott must be off his game.” Kirk indifferently rolled a hand. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it. I wouldn’t worry. The new force field hatch we installed at Starbase Two-surely that’s safe enough.”

“Safe enough!?” Whit blurted out. The rest of his words became a jumble of incoherent syllables.

“Ensign Whitcombe,” Kirk’s brow furrowed, but he put a paternal smile on the rest of his face, “In my time out on the frontier, I’ve learned that sometimes you have to bend a few rules. This may be one of those times. Now, this is a direct order from your captain: forget about the safety interlocks. “The turbolift slowed and the doors hissed open. “Are we clear?”

Whit nodded, but was undeterred.

#

Whit climbed up the Jeffries tube to the flight control room, a magna-spanner clenched in his teeth like a pirate. He cautiously slid the access plate aside. The overlook to the flight deck was empty, but Whit could tell from the controls that he’d just missed the saboteur. One screen flashed a warning about the disabled safety interlocks, while another showed that the elevator controls were active. He climbed out of the tube, crept up to the window, saw more troubling signs. The flight deck was completely blacked out, even the emergency lights.

“Impossible.” Whit muttered.

He jumped at a sudden, loud, rumbling noise. The outer airlock—the “clamshell”— slowly opened, revealing the pinpoint specks of distant stars and the faint whisp of a nebula. The forcefield stretched over the opening shimmered momentarily as atmosphere pressed against it. Whit strained to see what was going on, nose pressed to the glass.

The faint hint of starlight revealed a mysterious figure on the flight deck. The young technician’s eyes widened as he saw the intruder creep towards the very edge of the shuttle bay. For a moment, Whit thought they had stepped off the fantail and were floating in the blackness of space, but then caught a glimpse of a small platform beneath the intruder’s feet.

Whit raised the magna-spanner, prepared to bring it crashing down on the controls, then froze as lights from a shuttle stabbed out of the depths of the bay. He started to turn, to look and see who the beams illuminated like a spotlight, but lights from other shuttles snapped on, blinding him. He squinted at the flight deck. Shuttles had been arranged in a row on the flight deck-Einstein, Galileo II, Copernicus, and Columbus-and all of them were focusing their navigation lights onto the lone figure.

Whit turned. Standing at the edge of open space was a woman. He had to blink twice before he recognized who it was. Lieutenant Commander Uhura stood on the platform, resplendent in a sparkling gown whose hem blended seamlessly with the deck, as if she were a living part of the ship.

The voice of Commander Scott echoed through the bay, “Ready, darlin?”

“I hope so.” Uhura replied unsteadily.

“The recorders are active-whenever you’re ready.”

She took a deep breath, paused, as if uncertain what to say or how to start. “Hi Dad. I don’t know what I can say at a time like this. I’m sorry I can’t be there. If your heart is like mine, I’m sure it’s in a million pieces. It’s ironic, just a few more weeks and this tour would have been over-I could have been there, I could have said goodbye, I could have--” Her words choked off, then she regathered herself. “Well, since I wasn’t, and I can’t, here’s the next best thing: some of Mom’s favorite songs. My way of telling you that I’ll be home soon, and telling Mom that I love her.” And then, lit by the shuttles and standing against the backdrop of deep space, Lieutenant Uhura began to sing.

Whit fumbled with the magna-spanner in his hands for a moment, the door behind him hissed open. Kirk strode in, nonplussed that the Junior Transport technician stood there, ready to smash the controls.

“Well Mister Whitcombe, what have we learned here?”

“To obey direct orders…and to sometimes bend the rules.”

“I can’t fault you too harshly. You had the ship’s safety in mind. I’ll try to keep this infraction off your permanent record-if you can behave until we reach Earth.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.” The young technician slipped out.

Kirk sighed, a slight grin at Whit’s expense on his face. He sat in the chair, adjusted the comm, and listened to Lieutenant Uhura’s farewell song as the stars slid by behind her.

“Somewhere, over the rainbow…”

(Hope you enjoyed this "Fantale," stories from the flight deck of the Enterprise and her sister-ships.)

Lt. Data and the Missing Meters Theory

         A Fantale by Falstaffe

     

  
         “Everthing all right, sir?”

Lt. J.G. Geordi LaForge eased the pallet of scientific equipment down to the deck plate, brought it to rest outside the flight deck’s airlock, slumped with his backside against the bulkhead. He massaged his skull above and below the metal band of his VISOR, “Fine. Just a nagging headache. Playing around with the interface settings again. It’s probably nothing.”

Chief O’Brian Ah’d sympathetically, turned his attention back to the shuttle traffic console. He raised his eyebrows, gave a hint of smirk, and asked, “Sir, don’t you think this is a little backwards?”

“Chief?”

“Well, here you are delivering cargo and I’m the reception committee,” O’Brien wagged the PADD in his hand with their new arrival’s accommodations, “And our Second Officer is out playing chauffer.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not often we get an extended stay at Vulcan, so the shore leave rotations did leave us a little light-handed.” Geordi ground a palm into his forehead, “Then I made the mistake of telling Lt. Corbin I was headed this way. If I didn’t owe him from last week’s poker game-” The wall began to hum, indicating that the landing pad on the other side of the wall was springing life, and so Geordi sprang onto his feet. He held out his hand.

Chief O’Brien handed off the PADD with a smile, “Thanks. I hear this Sel’Don is a tricky customer.”

“Oh, he’s a genius all right,” Geordi acknowledge, but then added sotto voce, “But a quirky one, I’ll grant you.”

“Transporter phobia-in a Vulcan?” Geordi nodded in agreement, so O’Brien continued, “The Enterprise’s transporters are top o’ the line.” He leaned in, conspiratorially, “And I should know-I’ve had my nose in the bloody manuals for weeks now. Pardon.”

“Trying for your Transporter Rating?” Geordi asked, and O’Brien nodded. The two had only a few moments more to banter before they were interrupted by the hiss of airlock doors pulling back. Two figures made their way from Shuttlecraft 13. To the left was Enterprise’s Second Officer, Lt. Data, a sallow-colored, golden-eyed android. To his right walked a tall, studious-looking Vulcan with razor-sharp bangs and the brocaded robes of the Vulcan Science Academy. The two men were engaged in an animated debate, although their words were garbled until they exited the din of the shuttlecraft bay.

“Mister Data, if that’s your position, than I highly doubt the integrity of your ship’s computer systems!”

Geordi and O’Brien’s eyes flicked to each other, then back to the new arrivals.

Data replied, “I assure you, Mister Sel’Don, I have thoroughly studied the analytical studies of all aspects of the Enterprise’s design and construction. You are in no danger.”

Geordi stepped in front of the pallet of equipment, made ready to greet the two, while O’Brien tried to look as inoffensive as possible and melt into the background.

“Mister Sel’Don.” Geordi forced himself to brush off the implied insult and made his tone as welcoming as possible. “I’m Lieutenant La Forge. Allow me to welcome you to the Enterprise, the flagship of the Federation-the finest ship in the galaxy. At least we like to think so. Data, welcome back.”

“Finest ship?” The Vulcan shot back, with more passion than Geordi had thought Vulcans were capable of. “Are you not aware of the design flaw?”

“Design flaw?”

“Your shuttle bay. It’s nowhere near the fantail.”

“The fantail?” Geordi repeated blankly.

“Yes, the fantail,” The Vulcan held up his hands, shaped them to resemble the back end of a starship, a distinctive curve beneath.

“Oh, uh, well, that’s because…” Geordi started, confused and unsure how or why that mattered.

Data stepped forward, “Geordi-if I may? As I was explaining to Mister Sel’Don, while it is true that the hanger bay on many starships is located above the fantail, that was to solve a problem that no longer exists.”

“Problem?” O’Brien asked, surprised that he’d allowed himself to be drawn into a dispute between superior officers.

“Yes, the problem of crashing shuttles.”

“What?!” O’Brien and Geordi asked together.

Data continued, nonplussed, “Early designers recognized that—after a shuttle crash—repair costs would be much lower if there was less starship next to the bay. Hence, the fantail. However, the Enterprise’s shuttles are much more reliable, and rarely suffer a catastrophic incident.”

“Data, I don’t think-” Geordi began, but then Sel’Don cut him off.

“Are you sure, Lt. Data? I had it on good authority that the original starship designers—human designers—accidentally ordered structural members that were too short, and because of time constraints, had to use what material they had on hand.”

Data nodded thoughtfully, “Ahh, the missing meters theory. Hmm.” The android went silent as if contemplating the truth of it.

Geordi threw his hands up in the air, “What?”

“Regardless of the origin,” the Vulcan pressed on, “Everyone knows it’s bad luck.”

O’Brien stepped up, “He’s right, Lieutenant,” he said, hands spread wide. “Everyone knows that a starship has a fantail to keep the devil from grabbin’ hold of it.” He gave Geordi a broad wink.

Geordi almost dropped the PADD.

“Apologies, Lt. LaForge. At the Vulcan Science Academy I have so little contact with humans that I was concerned about fitting in with a mostly human crew. Lt. Data offered to help me assimilate smoothly and noted that a shared humorous falsehood—typically of exaggerated proportions—often serves as an…ice breaker?” He said, face scowling as he obviously wondered where frozen H2O figured into human social interactions.

Geordi relaxed, chagrined that an android and a Vulcan had conspired to tell a joke. Not only that-it had been successful. “You got me, and good. Now, if I can welcome you properly?” Geordi gestured to the pallet next to the airlock, “Here’s the collection of spores, molds and fungi for your lab, Mister Sel’Don.”

“Oh, they’re not for my lab.” The Vulcan replied. “They’re pets.”

Behind the VISOR, Geordi’s eyes narrowed, and his forehead wrinkled.

O’Brien asked, “The headache?”

“Oh yeah. With a vengeance.”

(So much of Star Trek is centered on the bridge, but a starship has many other locations, with interesting tales of their own to tell. This is the first of--hopefully-- a few "Fantales" that I have planned-stories from the flight deck of the Enterprise and her sister-ships.  It was a bit challenging to squeeze the premise into the thousand-word limit of "flash fiction." Hope you enjoyed it.)

Short Story Review: "Some Desperado" by Joe Abercrombie

It's gonna be hard for me to look at this story objectively (you'll see why in a moment,) and I almost feel like Joe Abercrombie is going to be owed an apology when I'm done. Because, as you might expect from the title of the story, this is a Western. A straight-up, sixgun, real-life American Western. As a lad I hated westerns, preferring instead monsters, spaceships and little green men.

"Wagon train to the stars?" Yes.

"Actual Wagon Train?" No.

But that isn't my problem with this story.

No, my tastes in genres has (like my waistline) broadened with age, and now some good ol' fashioned "High Noon" fun--such as is presented in "Some Desperado"--is a welcome change of pace. The characters are both quirky and memorable. The plot is slight, but in the vein of a Coen brothers flick, or the board-game Fiasco, where characters with big plans watch them unravel before their eyes and we delight as they get put through the wringer. In summation, a thoroughly enjoyable read, "Some Desperado" is told mainly through crisp action, with Tarrentino-esque fight scenes containing unexpected twists and turns.

So where's the problem? It's a Western. A good and entertaining Western. What's wrong with that?

The problem, my friends is that this is the very first story in the Anthology "The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume Eight" edited by Jonathan Strahan. Nothing in the story qualifies it as either Science Fiction OR Fantasy. It's not set in an alternate universe and there's not a single supernatural element present in the story. Nada, zip, bupkiss.

And to say that it's fantasy because of the cinematic nature of the action would be a far stretch. None of the stunts in "Some Desperado" reach the level of, say, either the "Indiana Jones" or the "Pirates of the Caribbean" franchises (both clearly fantasy.)

If it was hidden in the middle of the lineup, it might have slipped by unnoticed, but it's the first batter up to the plate. Strahan picks this for his lead-off hitter? Worse still, the first page of the story faces the last page of the introduction which bemoans, "Were there stories that I'd like to have included that aren't here? Certainly..."

Uh, Jon, what if you left out this one?

Sorry Joe, though I did like your story an awful lot. (See, I knew there was going to be an apology.)

Doctor Who: A Guide for Brits

In the entire history of television in the United Sates, one show stands out as the most familiar and beloved for generation after generation of Americans. Its lead character is more well known than any Muppet on Sesame Street, and in a recent survey topped Superman as the one fictional character most Americans wish they could call for help. Who is it? Well, Doctor Who, of course.

Despite being more ubiquitous than Spongebob, Doctor Who is just now beginning to catch fire among viewers in the United Kingdom, thanks to the recent decision at the BBC to air reruns. So, while any 5th grader from Anchorage to Zanesville can tell you the difference between a Cyberman and a Cybermat, few Londoners are  familiar with the show's central character, and want to know just who is "The Doctor?"

Well, the simple answer is that he's an alien who travels in time and space, taking with him a number of human companions to help share in his adventures. However, the show contains a unique plot device that allows the producers to swap out the actor playing the Doctor: he doesn't die, he merely regenerates. Each time a new actor takes on the role, the character's personality and appearance changes too, allowing the Doctor to never go out of style.

To help our friends across the Atlantic, here's a brief rundown of all the different versions of the Doctor to date.

The First Doctor: Burgess Meredith (1963-1966)

"Now I'll have all the time in the world!"
In the beginning, the Doctor wasn't meant to be an alien at all. As originally conceived by writer and producer Rod Serling, he was simply a "charter member in the fraternity of dreamers. A bookish little man whose passion is the printed page," who stumbles on the secret of time travel. Burgess' charm and impish humor shone through, and soon the role expanded. When contract negotiations kept Meredith from continuing the role, Serling came up with the concept that the Doctor was really an extraterrestrial, capable of re-igniting the cells in his body, and recast the part. (Serling also created the menacing Daleks. Note to our British friends, it's "DAY-lek," not "DOLL=lek.")

The Second Doctor: Jonathan Harris (1966-1969)

"Oh, you poor Cybermen. You're doooomed, doooomed, I say." 
The Doctor's first regeneration highlighted the change in personality that came with a new actor. Where Burgess was humorously sly, character actor Jonathan Harris portrayed him as cantankerous and acerbic, who could cut a monster just as sharply with a laser or barbed comment. Ironically, Jonathan Harris was considered for the role of a doctor on another show,  the "Dr. Smith" of Irwin Allen's "Space Family Robinson." The part went instead to...Burgess Meredith!

The Third Doctor: Roddy McDowell (1970-1974)

"My whole life I've been trying to prove I'm not just yesterday."
Fresh off the success of the Planet of the Apes, Roddy McDowell was looking for roles in television, and found it when the big, blue phone booth arrived on his doorstep. His Doctor was charming and full of childlike wonder one moment, moody and deadly serious the next. His choice of wardrobe reflected McDowell's personal tastes, too. Where Meredith looked like a bookish "everyman" and Harris was a silver-suited spaceman, McDowell chose sophisticated 70's glam. Much has been made of the feud between McDowell and series writer Harlan Ellison, and their alleged fistfight at a late-night Hollywood Hills party involving models (extras from the show, still in full alien regalia), drugs and a llama (dyed purple for reasons that are still unclear.) Ellison's exit from the show left McDowell with some less-than-stellar scripts, and the next Doctor would benefit from a complete turnover of the writing staff.

The Fourth Doctor: Gene Wilder (1974-1981)
"The suspense is terrible... I hope it'll last."
 Perhaps one of the most beloved incarnations, Gene Wilder's Doctor was an unpredictable madman, driven to the brink of insanity by the Time Vortex, the maelstrom of infinite possibilities that his time machine navigated through. A master of the comic "slow boil," Wilder's Doctor delighted in baffling his foes with fits of rage. Where McDowell's Doctor always seemed stylishly unflappable and on top of things, Wilder made his Doctor vulnerable, and so sympathetic to viewers. His run was the longest to date, aided by the addition of David Gerrold to the production team who brought in other former Star Trek writers like D.C. Fontana, Larry Niven, Norman Spinrad, Walter Koenig.
 

The Fifth Doctor: Val Kilmer (1982-1984)

"Whoah."
After so many versions of the Doctor, producers decided for a radical approach to the Fifth. They cast a youthful face, that of actor Val Kilmer. His was a handsome and laid back California surfer kid, yet still amazing brilliant, and laced with irreverence. Kilmer's take embraced the embryonic "Nerd Culture" that began in the early 80's. Appealing and popular, his run was cut short by Hollywood when he was cast as Batman, a move that the actor regretted for the rest of his life.

The Sixth Doctor: Christopher Lloyd (1984-1986)

"There's that word again. "Heavy." Why are things so heavy in the future?
Is there a problem with the Earth's gravitational pull?"
Another wildly popular, if short-lived, version of the Doctor was performed by actor Christopher Lloyd. His Doctor hid his brilliance beneath a facade built of character flaws. His was a bumbling, stumbling, easily-frightened Doctor, slurring his words like a three-a.m. drunk. His sense of style seemed to mock McDowell's, sporting out-of date fashions. Despite his popularity in the role, it was undeniable that viewer fatigue was starting to set in, and during the 80's no actor would play the Doctor for more than two years in a row.

The Seventh Doctor: John Lithgow (1987-1989)

"Suspenders are cool." 
John Lithgow's Doctor (left) borrowed the "erratic madman" aspect of Wilder and Lloyd and melded them within his empathetic, moon-faced smile. Ironically, Lithgow had played the Doctor's mortal enemy, the Master,
years earlier during the 5th Doctor's run (right.) Despite being warmly received, Lithgow's reign suffered with less-than spectacular scripts under the helm of Producer Fred Freiberger. The Doctor faced a foe that even he couldn't defeat: low ratings, and the show was put on hiatus for several years.

The Eighth Doctor: Jeff Goldblum (1996)

"You've heard of chaos theory? No? Non-linear equations? Strange attractions?
Dr. Sattler, I refuse to believe that you aren't familiar with the concept of attraction."
Hard-core Whovians might dispute the inclusion here of Goldblum's Doctor, featured in the ill-fated 1996 TV-movie. Producers brought in actor Brent Spiner to reprise Lloyd's sixth Doctor and took numerous liberties with the show's established lore. However, fans in recent years have begun to embrace the effort, helped in no small part by Goldblum's magnetic personality (and some deft ret-conning of the movie's inconsistencies with previously established facts.) Goldblum's Doctor seemed to have his head so full of spinning thoughts and facts that he could barely keep it all under control, like a lumberjack on a spinning log.

The Ninth Doctor: Zachary Quinto (2005)
"Well, I'm different now. I feel I've been given a chance to start over.
A new life, new identity. New purpose."
Proving you can't keep a good Doctor down forever, the series was revived in 2005 in a big way, enhanced by intelligent scripts aimed more squarely at a sophisticated adult audience and using state-of-the art special effects. Gone were the monsters in rubber suits, and the tin-can space stations dangling awkwardly on strings in front of glowing blue screens (the ancient forerunner of modern green-screen technology.) In its place were lifelike alien makeups, and dazzling CGI. A new "Golden Age" of Doctor Who had begun. To kick it off, producers chose Zachary Quinto, an actor who was more grounded in earthy reality than previous Doctors, lending believability to the otherworldly scripts. Sadly, Quinto fell into a dispute with producers, cutting short his run. His spot-on support of a new beginning for the show would soon be overshadowed by one of the most popular incarnations of the Doctor.

The Tenth Doctor: Jim Parsons (2005-2010)

"Interesting. You're afraid of insects and women. Ladybugs must render you catatonic."
Grimly determined one moment, and childishly amused the next, Parson's Doctor couldn't seem to reconcile these two halves of his personality. Physically, he used his unimposing voice and lanky, gangly appearance to lull alien warlords and maniacal robots into thinking he wasn't a threat. But the truth was that this Doctor was unstoppable. Always one step ahead. The actor's youthful, quirky charm grew on fans, and Parson had a long, successful run.

The Eleventh Doctor: Robert Downey Jr. (2010-2013)

"Because I'm your nuclear deterrent. It's working. We're safe. America is secure."
The series continued success became bolstered by the addition of J. Michael Straczynski to the writing and production staff, and the show began to adopt his signature style of linked story arcs, weaving a vast tapestry of story telling that spanned time and space. The charismatic Robert Downey Jr became the latest incarnation of the Time Lord. A brilliant thinker, if somewhat erratic and egocentric, and always stylish.

The Twelfth Doctor  (2014-???)

As this is being written, the new Doctor has yet to be cast, and speculation is running fast and furious over who should be the next Who. Should producers go with a big name like Johnny Depp or Jake Gyllenhall? Should the Doctor change ethnicity and be played by a Will Smith or Nick Cannon? Perhaps he should cross the gender line and return as Zooey Deschanel? And why does the Doctor need to be a middle-aged white guy? Actor Danny Pudi, known for his character "Abed Nadir" on NBC's Community has campaigned tireless for the role, despite lampooning it on his show. Perhaps he deserves a shot.

Who knows, perhaps even a British actor?

Your guess is as good as mine (and welcomed in the Comments, below.)

60's Style Drawings

Sorry for the hiatus.

Here are some drawings to illustrate different style trends in the 1960's for my spy rpg, Undercover Cool.

Undercover Cool: Agents of T.A.L.O.N.

Art and Fiction by Falstaffe

 

Lt. Dominique Merlin hit the release button on the para-glider’s harness and fell, boots-first, towards the pavement. The glider went through a slow aerial acrobatic ballet of re-folding itself into a neat package to be recovered later as Dominique hit the ground, rolled upright, snapped her riot gun into place, and pressed the stock firmly against her shoulder. One corner of her lips quirked in a smile—she’d managed to hit the narrowest of landing spots, her specialty. Had Merlin drifted left or right, she could have gotten tangled in the gardens of the Jardin de L’Infante. If she’d landed short, either the dark, rushing water of the Seine would have swallowed her up, or the paraglider’s lines would have gotten snarled by the metal framework of the pedestrian bridge, the Pont des Arts. And, if she’d overshot the landing, she would have smashed against the fortress-like walls of the Louvre. At the speed Dominique had been going, even her combat armor wouldn't have saved her from a messy demise.

 

“Next time I’ll take the Metro,” Dominique thought to herself, and scanned the museum’s grounds. She was the first pair of boots on the site, so it was her job was to clear the way for the other Talon agents who were still raining down like a murder of crows. But, the courtyard was empty. No targets lit up the light-intensifying “Owl’s-Eyes” goggles. There was nothing, anywhere, just starlight and silence.

 

“Damn!” She swore softly. That meant the "emergency" was either an elaborate hoax or that they were too late. Only one way to find out…she sprang up from her defensive crouch and bolted for the doors of the Louvre. She was about to reach for the heavy, brass handles when it swung open, and out stumbled one of the museum’s guards. His face was paler than the moon overhead, and covered in a cold sweat. Although his eyes were pointed at Dominique, it was clear that he didn’t really see her, and he kept trying to press a paper stub into her hand, “Here's your ticket," he cackled hysterically, "Welcome to the tombs! They're just public mausoleums; the living dead fill every room!”

 

Lt. Merlin pressed her way past the babbling man, ran through the vestibule and into the dark heart of the building. He wasn’t kidding. Around her, the galleries of the Louvre were filled with para-ghouls: shambling half-rotted corpses dressed in tattered rags. Some still had strands of gauzy, spider-web-like material around their shoulders, the remnants of their shrouds. Bony fingers scrabbled at the gilt-framed masterpieces on the walls. All the rowboats in the paintings looked as if they were trying to row away, the captains' worried faces contorted and staring at the waves.

 

Merlin bared her teeth and raised her riot gun, flicked the safety off, began to squeeze the trigger, then stopped suddenly. If she put one more ounce of pressure on the trigger…the bullets would shred the undead thieves…and pass right through the masterpieces! “Clever,” she thought, “The Nazi who’d thought up this little scheme deserved a medal—or a noose.” She eased her index finger off the trigger, re-engaged the safety.

 

A signal chirped in her ear—Lt. Spektor signalled that he was in position behind her. Reggie! He had enough firepower with him to level the building, and a notoriously itchy trigger finger. She sighed and thought, “That’s what T.A.L.O.N. gets for taking on Americans!” She didn’t dare let him advance, and backed out of the museum, stepping into the vestibule before returning his signal on her handheld radio.

 

“Hold position, Flight Gamma! I say again, hold position! I’m going to try something really stupid. With any luck, I’ll be the first thing you see leaving the building. Try not to shoot me.”

 

“Anything for you, dollface.”

 

Merlin ignored Spektor’s reply, checked her riot gun, hoisted it over her shoulder, slung it back into its holster. Cracking the interior door, she scanned the gallery. She watched the shuffling undead, waited for her opening. NOW! She darted for the first pair of double-columns that led deeper into the infestation. She pressed her back into the narrow gap between the columns, trying to make herself hard to spot, trying not to breathe the rank smell of the ghouls.

 

Time to arm her weapon: the Talon gauntlet held a launcher that shot an eight-inch long bolt of barbed steel. The device also had a reserve of high-tensile strength steel cable. She attached it to a bolt, and selected one of the weaker para-ghouls, a gaunt, whispy-haired creature, bent over from the weight of the painting it was trying to cart off. Perfect. She aimed, braced her arm against the pillars, fired. The bolt struck the ghoul on the right side of the head at the temple, its barbed end emerged wetly out of the left eye socket. It shrieked, and dropped Edvard Munch’s painting to the carpet.

 

“Looks like I got a live one…” Merlin thought to herself, and then played the squealing ghoul like a master angler, jerking it to and fro. Its wails seemed to break the other zombie’s concentration. They turned away from Renoir and Cezanne and Matisse, and turned their attention towards Merlin.

 

“Lucky me,” she thought. Drawing her combat baton, Dominique shouted into the growing mass of dead flesh, “OK you maggots...time for lights out…and lock up! COME AND GET ME!”

 

The dark horde surged forward as one, and Dominique ran for the door…

 

(With apologies to Regina Spektor)