This weekend I finally saw “The Watchmen” film—since my wife and I have a 9-month-old son, it’s increasingly difficult to make it to the movies, especially one that’s almost 3 hours long. Based on Alan Moore’s highly acclaimed graphic novel (though not, in my humble opinion, Moore’s best work), the movie was much criticized by both fans and non-believers—opinions ranged from it being too faithful to the source material and therefore not unique and interesting, to it not being faithful enough and therefore sacrilegious. To this I ask the simple question—who cares? I thought “The Watchmen” was a beautiful and brilliant adaptation. A comparison with the graphic novel misses the point.

I’ve also just finished reading P. Craig Russell’s “The Ring of The Nibelung” graphic novels—literally, a comic book adaptation of Richard Wagner’s “Ring Cycle” operas. Were the graphic novels as good as the operas? Isn’t that an absurd question? You can’t really compare a graphic novel to an opera, as the media are so very different. And despite the fact that films and graphic novels are enjoying so much overlap these days, I think the principle is the same—the media are actually very different. What works on the page doesn’t always work on the screen and vice-versa.

The biological definition of adaptation is the process in which an organism adjusts or changes its behavior, physiology, and structure to become better suited to its environment.

In art, it’s the same. In working an adaptation, the artist’s job is to adjust or change the art such that it becomes better suited to it’s new medium— not necessarily “better” overall, just better suited to it’s new form—whether that be a film, an opera, or a graphic novel.

Russell’s “Ring” adaptations are brilliant in that he captures the spirit of the source material and both adjusts and changes it to suit the graphic novel medium. The results fascinate and soar. Where Wagner employs leitmotifs (“a sort of musical signature—think of Darth Vader and his distinctive entrance music”), Russell creates visual leitmotifs, recurring images to introduce, re-introduce, or subtly include the effect of a character or theme. He adapts the concept of leitmotif from music to visual art seamlessly, and it works brilliantly.

So rather than ask, “is the new art better?” we should be asking first, “does it work in it’s new medium?” And if it does, then the adaptation has been a success.

The next question, of course, is “does it entertain or inspire?”

All pretentious ruminations aside, I thought both “The Watchmen” and “The Ring of The Nibelung” were great. And I’m glad I never stopped to ask whether they were as good, or better, than their sources.

VJT

[As an aside: It’s widely known that Alan Moore did not endorse or see “The Watchmen” film, and if my understanding is correct he didn't want his graphic novel to be adapted at all. Whether or not “The Watchmen” film should exist is a separate issue, revolving around artists’ prerogative and legal rights. That’s for a different rumination.]

I was shocked when I heard the news about Michael Jackson’s passing last week—partially because he was so young and, to me, his death so unexpected… and partially because I felt much sadder than I thought I would. I didn’t think I cared so much about Michael Jackson anymore.

But now I realize that to pretend I don’t care about Michael Jackson is like trying to pretend I don’t care about youth. And I don’t mean my youth—I mean the concept of youth itself.

There was a period in my life—that precious place between childhood and young adulthood—when Michael Jackson meant the world to me. (And this was long before “tween” was a marketing catchword, though I’m fairly confident I’m not talking about being a tween, at least as the marketers define them).

In his famous trial, Oscar Wilde spoke of a pure form of love between an elder and and a younger man, where “the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him.”

Well, when I was a heterosexual 10-year old boy, Michael Jackson, his music, and his music videos represented all the joy, hope, and glamour that life had to offer. Yes, I loved him. And now, that I am an older man with some supposed sense of intellect, I rejected that memory and buried that love. Why?

It would be easy to say it was because I discovered the Sex Pistols.

But that’s a cop-out.

Yeah, I stopped listening to Michael Jackson years ago and Johnny Rotten replaced him in both my headphones and my attire. But what I realized last week is that I never stopped believing in what Michael Jackson represented to me—and that’s why his passing made me so sad. When I think about it like this, my reaction is no surprise at all.

The Beatles were the first band I ever loved, and I discovered them by listening to my parents’ vinyl. But by the time I got The Beatles’ indelibly under my skin, they were already legends, and they had already broken up. With the rest of my city, I was devastated by the death of John Lennon and I will never forget that day… But Michael Jackson was really and truly the first musician I was old enough to actually follow, to feel the excitement of new news and new developments. I remember waiting up all night for MTV to play the “Thriller” video. This was LONG before the days of on-demand and YouTube; I even remember holding a Walkman tape recorder up to the television set so I could capture an audio recording of “Thriller” with the dialog bits. And I remember the giddy anticipation as subsequent videos, songs, and performances were unleashed, not knowing what to expect—but expecting that it would be, and feel, awesome.

Sure, while I was slamdancing to Murphy’s Law and Underdog at the old Ritz I read about how Michael’s life got increasingly strange, sad, and even morally suspect. But in the end, since I never actually knew the man, what really matters—to me, that is—is what he represented for me, what he left behind for me. And that sadder, stranger person is not the Michael I knew, nor the Michael I remember. Mine makes me feel young again—full of joy, hope, and glamour; ready to stay up all night again and take on the world.

Thanks, Michael—and rest in peace.