 Neal Romanek writes for and about The Pictures - movies, tv, comics, games, web content, and even cave paintings. |
January 11th, 2008
A couple months ago, I took my first trip to Brussels. I went there to ride in a helicopter and to write a piece on Wim Robberechts & Co., one of the preeminent aerial cinematography outfits this side of the Azores.
I’d never been to Brussels before. It struck me as a sensible, serious city. The home of NATO and the European Union and quality chocolate. The city’s slogan ought to be: “Brussels: We do things properly.”
But did you know – and if you’re an American, you probably didn’t know – Brussels is one of the world’s great capitals for illustration and comics?
Actually, if you’re an American, you probably didn’t know that NATO and the EU are headquartered in Brussels either, did you? In fact, you probably don’t even know what NATO is. And you’re understanding of the EU is that there are French people somehow involved and it’s where they have Euros. You know, it’s true. Of course you do. You wouldn’t be so mad at me if you didn’t think it was true.
What was I on about?
Right. Brussels – one of the world’s great centers of illustration and comic art. The other centers would be, I suppose, Tokyo and New York. Los Angeles too, possibly, but I think there are actually fewer comic stores per capita in L.A. than people suppose.
Brussels not only has murals of Tin Tin on the side of every building – or so it seemed to me – but in some areas there are comic stores on every block. They carry the usual American fare – high concept stories about physically powerful beings and character stories about physically powerless beings. And Asian comics too. But the third part of the inventory – the one rarely seen, or heard of, in most North American stores – is the Franco-Belgian comics, traditionally dubbed bande dessinée (“drawn strip”). In general, these comics feature high-quality illustration and more … subtle? … meaty? … rich? … stories.Â
As I browsed the comic shops of Brussels I found myself again and again picking up comics that could very well be adaptations of high-end movies – usually of the kind I write myself. Medieval adventures. Strange and hallucinatory stories of suspense. Sexy science fiction dramas emphasizing emotion over explosions.Â
Franco-Belgian comics world are rooted in a French illustration tradition, but also feature a strong Dutch bloodline. Brussels is the geographical and cultural meeting point of Dutch and French culture, and the comics landscape of the city is enriched exponentially by this intersection.
The main reason English speaking readers know little of the Franco-Belgian comics / graphic novels / sequential art world is that relatively few of the titles are ever translated into English. The profit margin on the most successful American comics can be relatively small, for European comics, the profit margin may be nonexistent. Unless some enterprising publisher makes it a priority to translate and distribute American versions of Franco-Belgian comics en masse, it’s likely the U.S. will continue to miss out on a whole universe of dynamite storytellers, illustrators, colorists, printers.
I only had a morning to tour around the comic stores of Brussels. But the highlights were:
HET B-GEVAARÂ (all Dutch comics, all the time)
Greepstraat 15
1000 Bruxelles
tel: 02 513 14 86
www.b-gevaar.com
MULTI BD / LA BULLE D’OR
122-124 boulevard Anspach
B-1000 Bruxelles
tel / fax: 02 513 72 35
MULTI JEUNESSE
126-128 Boulevard Anspach
B-1000 Bruxelles
tel / fax: 02 513 01 86
DONG CO (specialist in Japanimation)
33, Rue di Midi
1000 Bruxelles
UTOPIA
39, Rue di Midi
1000 Bruxelles
September 13th, 2006
When I came to Los Angeles in Sept. 1985, I had hopes and dreams.
I was beginning my college days, attending a university with the most respected cinema program in the world. I had a couple scholarships to help defer the hefty tuition, including a National Merit Scholarship. I wanted to be a famous film director – or a poet, if the film director thing didn’t pay off. Self-esteem had never been a strong suit of mine, and despite people telling me the contrary, I always felt dumb as post. Still, since I was in 6th grade, I had a firm conviction that not only did film directors actually exist somewhere in the world, but that I could very easily be one of them. The more I studied, the more I learned, the more I began to see that undertaking such an occupation was a very real option. When film school professors whispered praises in my ears, my certain success was confirmed.
It is years later. I have been a paid screenwriter. I have made heaps of cash in the Spec Sale 1990’s. I have had a house in the Hollywood Hills. I have been arrested on Sunset Boulevard for drunk driving.
Somewhere along the way, the one thing that I came here for, the directing part, has escaped me.
Or, to be more honest, I have escaped it.
Yes, try as the gods might to hand me opportunities, I have evaded them at every turn.
One of my favorites was when a notable production company began talks with me about directing The Common Vampire – my low-budge, Scorsese-esque vampire script (I know, you also have your own low-budge, Scorsese-esque vampire script – tough luck, I got in first). I did everything I could, short of shitting on the producer’s desk, to avoid following through with that offer.
As John Cassavetes said to Martin Scorsese: “In order to catch the ball, you have to want to catch the ball.”
I have had so much blind faith – or stupidity, one might call it (and a healthy dose of stupidity is an asset for long-term success in any artistic enterprise) – during my time here in L.A. It is galling to see how much utter dread and fear have been lurking beneath it, taking a secret step back for every step I appear to take forward. When I have visited friends from my Ohio high school years, they always remark: “Wow. You always said you were going to go to L.A. and get into movies. And then you really did it! Wow.” And I stare back at them, a little baffled, and think: “Of course, I did it. Did you think I was kidding?” and I feel my heart sag a little when I realize that when they were articulating their big dreams back in the 1980’s, they were only kidding.
I have made films with the Alpha 60 collective, done the video podcasts here on the blog, experimented with moving images on my own. But this is still sketching, training, exercising. It is not what I came here to do. Asked a couple decades ago what the status of my motion picture career would be in 2006, the projected future would not have been a question of whether or not I had directed a film, but whether I had received Academy Awards for Directing AND Writing yet (having become most familiar with our beloved Academy over the past few years, and having attended a number of the shows, the prospect of winning an Oscar has become increasingly less interesting to me however)(I don’t think that’s sour grapes)(or is it?).
So, I’d better get on it, huh? Better roll up my sleeves and get on that sucker?
The irritating thing I’ve noticed – and to my chagrin, continue to notice – is that my life here in Los Angeles seems to have had some kind of subtle guiding principle behind it – that is, I seem to have been led and guided in spite of my ambitions. And I believe more and more – and this too is irritating – that my ambitions are sometimes a road to misery and chaos and death – a roadmap for taking me directly to the places I’d rather not go. So I’ve learned then to soften my grip on the reins, to trust that the horse has traveled this path more often than I and that he may not need second-by-second guidance to get me to the destination. In fact, my constant commands will probably end with him bucking me into the ditch and spoiling what might have been an enjoyable ride.
On Saturday, my wife and I will be moving to London – which is in England.
For years and years I have said that I would like to live in London – home of my foremothers and grandsires – but couldn’t tell you exactly how that would come about. Now, here we are, about to leave this L.A. that I’ve become very cozy-comfy with over the past 20 years, and I couldn’t really tell you exactly how it happened. It just…happened. Step by step, revelation by revelation. This thing that seems to always be taking care of the big picture – cagey bastard that it is – is subtle and quiet, and not to be denied.
I am very, very, very blessed. And I am very, very, very ordinary.
So the future? My future? Our future? On Saturday, we will get on the plane at LAX. When we land at Heathrow, we will get off the plane. That’s about as far as I’m willing to plan ahead these days.
Still, as I leave Los Angeles, in Sept. 2006, I have hopes and dreams.
November 21st, 2005
 My wife gave me my belated birthday present – a long weekend in Desert Hot Springs.
All this time in Los Angeles and I had never been to Palm Springs, or the nearby Desert Hot Springs, or the slightly nearby Joshua Tree National Park. Now I have done these things. These things have been done by me.
You can do lots of soaking at Desert Hot Springs. We did soaking. We soaked in boiling water. We soaked in 98.6 degree water (37 celsius). We soaked in room temperature water. We soaked and soaked. We soaked well. We were happy to soak. We soaked at night, with a spotlight gibbous moon overhead, and cool desert air on our faces. We soaked with the soaking plaza all to ourselves…
…except for the Black Widow spider taking an evening constitutional around the edge of our soaking pool.
 We shouted. We threatened. We splashed.
And the Black Widow slunk back into its crevice to bide its time till a less canny pair of victims came along. We were too strong, too mighty. We fled to the next pool.
One evening we drove through Joshua Tree National Park, where you can see many Joshua Trees, as well as rock formations that are – literally – older than your grandmother. I think I saw Bono lurking in a dry river bed. As night fell, we pulled to the side of the road and we stood staring up into a sky gray with stars, surrounded by deafening desert silence.
As we drove out of the park, a Kangaroo Rat hopped out of the desert and into our headlights.
(thuppa-thump)
My wife shrieked. She insisted we go back to see if we had killed it.
We went back. We saw. We had killed it.
We confessed our crime to the Park Ranger at the gate. We apologized. She said, “Well, the coyotes have gotta eat too.” – which made us feel better.
That night I dozed off watching my favorite tv show. In this episode, young Kumiko Kobayashi, the only Japanese woman to have been admitted to a certain famous French culinary school (the name of which I’ve forgotten) challenged Iron Chef French, Hiroyuki Sakai. The ingredient was Mishima Beef. Kobayashi lost, 3 to 1.
We departed Desert Hot Springs, rested, cheerful, groggy, happy, dry-lipped, me with a belly full of pork products injested at the hotel’s breakfast buffet.
As we headed up a supernaturally straight stretch of barren road, my wife proudly proclaimed her sighting of a dead hog.
She insisted we go back, so I could see it. We went back. I saw it.
Big hog. White hog. Dead hog. Many many flies. No evidence of blood.
Had the hog been left as a sign by one of San Bernardino County’s many bizarre religious cults? Or had it leaped from a passing truck in an eleventh-hour attempt to escape the carniceria? Or were one of the local white supremacist terrorist organizations interrupted while preparing for a midnight trip to the local mosque?
We would never know.
We decided to agree that seeing a dead white hog in the desert was a sign of good luck. And I added an amendment that the amount of good luck increased, somehow or other, with the number of flies that could be counted on the corpse. We would be very lucky indeed!
A luxurious drive back to L.A., via Joshua Tree, me gawking at gigantic nature and veering dangerously, while my wife read aloud interesting passages from a book about the geologies and ecologies of the park.
Arriving home, we were shunned by resentful cats.
July 30th, 2005
 I mentioned in my post entitled “SIGGRAPH Next Week!” that everybody in Japan flies around with jet-packs, each with their own personal Giant Robot servant controlled via 2-way wrist radio. It turns out that I was not entirely correct. I was set straight by the following response sent by an offended Japanese person:
Dear Mr. Romanek,
I took offense at your sweeping generalization of Japanese people in your post called “SIGGRAPH Next Week!”. Not all of us are technology whizzes. In fact, some of us can barely use a matchbook correctly. And not all of us are smart and live in comfortable, supermodern apartments, taking three baths a day. Some of us live in ditches and are very stupid. I, for example, collect filth for money and have bathed only one time.
You should do some research before you start painting a 1500 year old culture with such broad strokes.
Sincerely,
K.
So I did some research – on the Internet and using television programs and spending time sitting trying to remember what I figured I must already know, as well as employing good old common sense. I want to educate people, not further the prejudices that already exist amongst us. I am blessed with so many resources, living as I do in a large American metropolis, I have no excuse for not getting the facts straight and passing them on to all who would here them. My research has blossomed into the following:
NEAL ROMANEK’S COMPREHENSIVE GUIDE TO WORLD CULTURE
(couldn’t decide whether to say “WORLD CULTURE” or “WORLD CULTURES”. “CULTURES” sounds a lot more educated, but also reminds me of yeast and bacteria)
AFRICANS – They live either in the jungle or in big tent cities. Eat the hands of mountain gorillas. Dying of AIDS because of a lack of moral fiber. Colorful head gear.
AMERICANS- Residents of the continental USA. Devotion to freedom and rights of the individual allows them to vote for either a republican or a democrat every leap year. Pizza deliverable to every home. World’s best health care system. Internationally renowned for their kindness and generosity and their empathy for the plight of oppressed nations. Often hated because of their goodness.
AUSTRALIAN ABORIGINALS – Wear cowboy hats. Admire white Australians and help them out whenever possible. Can turn into animals at will. Religion involves “Dreamworks”.
BRITISH – Easily pushed around. Love Americans. Would never have had a Global Empire in the 19th century if it weren’t for America. Have stiff upper lips. 85% of men homosexual.
CANADIANS – Irritating little bastards with great social services, brilliant comedians and a low crime rate.
CHECHNYANS – Doubtful that a country called “Chechnya” actually exists.
CHINESE – No blue jeans. Lousy cigarettes. Can’t turn around for Chinese. Slightly irritated at responsibility of having to rule the world in the 21st century.
EGYPTIANS – Big mustaches. Big gray suits in 100 degree heat. Hats made out of pure gold.
FRENCH – Enjoy coffee, art, sex, language, film, and fine food. Naturally, they are to be hated and despised.
HAITIANS – Refuse to behave sensibly. 12% of population zombies. Can turn into animals at will.
INDIANS – Amusing accent. Geniuses with thin bones and big feet. It’s OK if they have nukes because they have a cool Elephant God. Embroiled in long-standing trade dispute with Pakistan over materials used to make fluffy sweaters.
IRAQIS – Best not go there.
IRANIANS – Big beards. Have outlawed color. Evil Arabs.
IRISH – Kind of like Bostoners who have moved to Arkansas and acquired a crazy accent.
ISRAELIS – All secretly working for Mossad. Fly around in F-15’s and Apaches. Know what Krav Maga is. Resent proximity to Iran, Iraq and Ireland in alphabetical lists.
KOREANS – The Mexicans of Asia. Have a north and a south.
KURDS – Like Turks but with no money.
NATIVE AMERICANS – Alcoholic, but very, very wise. Can turn into animals at will. Lots of blue flannel shirts.
PAKISTANIS – Indistinguishable from Indians. Not OK if they have nukes because they worship a strange and mysterious monotheistic deity that hates Americans. Embroiled in long-standing trade dispute with India over materials used to make fluffy sweaters.
RUSSIANS – Gangsters. Stunningly beautiful women with bad teeth. Like to weep while singing loudly. Have produced very few great jugglers.
SAUDIS – Still dress like the characters in “Lawrence Of Arabia”. People live either in large hotels or in tents. Almost as many F-15’s as Israel. Unlike the extremist countries, they understand that the USA is only trying to help.
SOUTH AFRICANS – Primarily white people with upsetting accents. Some not-white people there also. Great sharks!
SPANISH – Don’t eat as many burritos as Mexicans. Fight bulls.
SWEDES – Both males and females are 6′+ tall. Elimination of war, poverty and violent crime has driven them to alcoholism and sex addiction.
TAIWANESE – Blue jeans. Really good cigarettes. All women look like Faye Wong, all men look like Tony Leung or Michael Caine.
TURKS – Like Kurds, but with money.
UZBEKISTANIS – It’s true that there is a country called Uzbekistan, but it seems unlikely that people actually live there.
And so, in conclusion, I hope this has cleared up questions you may have had about world cultures. If you have any further questions about world cultures and what they are for, refer to your local television stations. If you don’t live in a country that has television stations, just ask around. People will be happy to set you straight.
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It is not the language of painters but the language of nature which one should listen to. The feeling for the things themselves, for reality, is more important than the feeling for pictures.
- Vincent van Gogh
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