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MAKE MY DAY, BY CROM
conan the barbarian
This is how Larry Hama explained Conan to me in well under
thirty seconds: King Conan, when asked about his foreign policy,
stoops and draws a line in the dirt. "Cross that line and I'll
kill you. THAT's my foreign policy."
Warning:
I'm about to take credit for Braveheart.
Those
of you with weak stomachs, please exit now.
Well, no, of course I had nothing to do with Braveheart. I was,
however, struck and delighted by the tonal similarities between Mel
Gibson's epic- arguably one of the best American films ever made- and the
themes and concepts I employed in my run on CONAN. This is difficult to
explain while trying to retain even a pretense at modesty, so again, keep
the barf bag within reaching distance.
The best work ever done on CONAN was by Roy Thomas and Barry
Windsor-Smith. I don't pretend to have even come close to even the
worst, most lame, phoned-in, tossed-off Thomas/Smith work. I do think,
however, that Barry himself (yeah, personally) inspired me to try my hand
at something new: a fresh approach at teaching the old Cimmerian new
tricks.
By the time Larry Hama arrived as editor of CONAN, I was ready to quit
comics and go back to college (which is what I should have done, but I
digress). CRAZY Magazine was being cancelled, and I didn't want
anything to do with boring old Conan (which is how many super-hero comics
fans saw him then and see him now). I told Larry I would likely be moving
on, and Larry said, "Jim- give it a shot. In this business,
things get cancelled. You just move on to the next thing. You
learn to love what you do. When it gets cancelled, you learn to love
the next thing."
Larry gave me a set of Robert E. Howard's original pulp stories, as well
as a collection of H.P. Lovecraft stories, and sent me home to read.
What I discovered was the then-current lifeless, formulaic Conan bore no
resemblance whatsoever to the strange, aloof man-beast of Howard's work. I
discovered a very different kind of man, closer to Clint Eastwood than
John Wayne. It was a horrible mistake to try and make Conan into
John Wayne. Conan was more like Dennis Rodman than Michael Jordan.
Or certainly more like Letrell Spreewell.
Conan was a hard man who lived life completely on his own terms. He was a
guy who accepted the fact he would be at war his entire life, and that the
only peace he'd ever have would be that which he created for himself. And
the Hyborian Age was this wondrous universe, populated with a myriad of
strange people, places, and events- most all of which had been reduced to
2-dimensional, uninspired paraphrases of Roy's best work.
I came back to work inspired, but cautious: ok, I'll try my hand
at this Conan guy, but I can't write this. I can't write boring,
formula Conan. I looked Larry in the eye and asked him if there
was some reason why Conan had to be boring?
My first thought, which I doubt Larry fully appreciated, was to bring some
of Stan Lee's fun and adventure into the Conan book: what if we somehow
melded Conan with The Fantastic Four? Brought some humor in, brought
some soap opera in. Gave the readers a reason to be concerned about
Conan and to come back month after month to see how these characters
evolved?
Larry suggested we turn Conan toward Clint Eastwood: give Conan The Line, Larry said. Every issue, there needs to be at least one,
"Make my day," line: some moment where Conan looks you right in
the eye and does that Eastwood Squint ,™ and delivers The Line.
Make the readers look forward to each issue, knowing at some point,
somewhere in the issue, there will be The Line.
Tell your master I thank him for his generous offer, but I would much
prefer to dance on his grave.
King Conan, when asked about his foreign policy, stoops and draws a line
in the dirt. Cross that line and I'll kill you. THAT's my foreign
policy.
He was Dirty Conan. Mean Conan. A guy of impeccable
moral standards who was, paradoxically, completely lawless. In my first
issue, #172, I gave him many moments where he had The Line, and where he
acted proactively; solving the problems instead of simply being moved
along by the plot.
And then,
Barry Windsor-Smith himself provided my last clue about my take
on Conan. We'd begun working together on MACHINE MAN, and I had the
privilege of chatting with him about lots of things, and I got to see some
original art from his Conan days. There, on the art boards, was all manner
of story notes and dialogue, much of which ended up in the actual printed
comic. The Roy-Barry collaboration was much closer than I'd realized; the
artist was an active and willing participant in the story, and that
synergy was what made that stuff sing.
So I went home and poured through RED NAILS and other Thomas-WS stuff (in
those days I could take bound volumes out of Marvel's library and wander
home with them. And, yes, I brought them back). That stuff simply
amazed me. It was nothing at all like the Conan-In-A-Can pap I'd
been reading for years now. Oh, and one more thing, in those days, Conan
had The Line. He didn't talk bland, central casting Big Talk.
The language was fairly modern, and, by Crom, the stories were scary and
fun and you cared deeply for Belit and Red Sonja and for the complex,
tortured soul of the barbarian. I thought to myself: what the hell
happened to THIS approach?
So, the first thing I did was get rid of the formula stories. The
second thing I did was get rid of the dull speech pattern and when
slightly anachronistic on Conan's dialogue, writing him much more like
Clint Eastwood (this approach was also paralleled in the wildly successful
if not wildly silly Hercules and Xena syndicated TV shows,
which, yes, I'll also take credit for). I gave Conan The Line. I had
him be the problem-solver (not quite the hero). And I had him kick
butt on a regular basis.
I surrounded him with a band of merry men, his own versions of The
X-Men. Rogues with a past. Complex characters who ere given to
complex relationships. Conan remained a wanderer and a mercenary-thief,
but now he had a supporting cast to play off of. For him to be
concerned with and for the readers to be concerned with.
Gibson's nutty Irishman in Braveheart bore a strong resemblance to
Mad Simeon from my Conan run. The notion of The Emotionally
Complex And Ultimately Flawed Barbarian, Surrounded By a Small Inner
Circle Comprised Of Various Colorful Character Types was also
strikingly similar to my Conan run. The very notion that, in the midst of
the serious business of revenge and bloodletting, Conan could be
fun, and occasionally, even funny and, gasp, poignant (Conan's
obsession over a lost child in issue #179 or so) was a strange one. Many
hard-core Roy fans departed, but there were new converts from the
mainstream super-hero line, as CONAN emerged from years of near-neglect
into a going concern again.
Things really fell into place when Val Semeicks came aboard as the new
artist. John Buscema was, of course, THE Conan artist, but John had lost
his fire for the character long ago. Val was the new kid (actually,
a burly, no-nonsense, steely-eyed white boy who looked like he went
bowling regularly, worked in a steel mill, and could snap me in half). Val
was totally invested— completely and with his entire heart— in
CONAN, and the energy he brought to the table completely re-energized the
book and challenged me to rise above soap opera and into Lovecraft and
darker, more serious themes. Semeicks' work was perfectly and wondrously
complemented by the brilliant Geoff Isherwood. Together, we had a kind of
Pop Conan: the two of them giving the book a BWS meets John Byrne look
that was both classic and contemporary at the same time.
My God, we had fun, and we were happy, and the fans seemed energized and
sales were reasonable (around 115,000, which was reasonably safe in those
days but a *huge* hit today). Our best work peaked with The
Heku Trilogy (#206-208), which pitted Conan against one of his own
men, his slave Kobe, and drew taut the cords of all the complex
relationships we'd been layering for more than a year. Many of the battles
and themes in the Heku trilogy (built on, I kid you not, a Bruce
Springsteen interview in Rolling Stone) were reflected in Braveheart (again,
I have no clue whether the Braveheart screenwriter ever read any of
my CONAN stuff; but I did get big chills of recognition watching the
film).
After Heku, Val pushed for us to move back closer to the lone wolf
scenario. His logic was, now that we'd given Conan some sense of
community, we were better qualified than most to return to the lone rogue
premise because we wouldn't make it boring or formulaic. Val and I
had a good relationship, and, inspired by Barry's advice, I
encouraged Val's complete investment in the book. Like Barry, Val
included copious notes and dialog suggestions, all of which I encouraged
and supported and used as much as I could.
Beyond Heku, the series became more gothic and, I guess, more
serious in tone. We moved from Michael Jackson to Sting. Now we were
in a position to be critically lauded as well as popular; to be taken
seriously. I saw greatness ahead: that we were approaching The Next
Level, and Val's inspired work and our perfect synergy would help us get
there. I felt sure, towards the very end, that our run would be thought of
in the same way the Thomas-Smith run was.
And then, odd things began to happen: Val stopped drawing my
stories. Val started drawing, literally, whatever he wanted.
Oh, he'd leave copious notes explaining why he changed this or that, but
he would, literally, take the stories off in whatever direction he felt
like going, throwing my plot out the window and forcing me to, in effect,
write a different story once his art arrived and I was stuck with whatever
he came up with.
Val was unhappy with Isherwood, who was, clearly, far and away the best
choice for him. Val orchestrated Isherwood's removal, and ended up with
Alfredo Alcala, who swallowed Val nearly to the point of Val's work being
unrecognizable as Val's work.
The working relationship suddenly and swiftly deteriorated, and I started
to feel like a guest on my own book. Larry was gone and Val was
having long discussions with new editor Don Daley about the book and, I
suppose, about me; discussions I wouldn't find out about until much later.
I'd curiously ask Don why he allowed Val to draw whatever Val wanted, and
Don always had a warm smile and a reassuring pat on the back for me, but
the book was obviously slipping from my grasp. At some point, Val
apparently decided he was the guy making CONAN work. I don't know this to
be true because nobody was telling me anything that resembled the truth.
And then, one day, at the height of CONAN's post-Thomas popularity, when
Val and I were basking in the glow of some of our very best work (a teen
Conan story in issue #213 that really rocked)— I was fired. For not much
reason. With strong sales and rave reviews, I was handed my hat. I don't
know why. It looked like Val had decided he wanted to stage a coup
d'etat and become Frank Miller, pushing the writer off and taking the book
on himself. Only, writing is much harder than it looks, kids. The
romantic notion of being Frank Miller is a great distance away from the
reality of being Frank Miller: Frank is a rarity, a brilliant and gifted
writer. Many artists who kick writers to the curb think typing is
the same as writing, and often use Miller or Byrne as examples, but these
guys are exceptions to the rule.
Next I knew, Val was writing the book himself, co-plotting with scripter
Charles Santino, a writer I'd never heard of but whom I later found had
a few credits under his belt. Other writers
followed, including Larry and Roy Thomas, but CONAN eventually faded back into obscurity.
At this writing, the rumor is Stan Lee Media has acquired the rights to
the character. Here's hoping The Great One can find a new voice and
new inspiration for the character.
Christopher J. Priest
October, 2000
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