Last Friday Mock’ and I decided to have something of a play-day, and after some morning chores, we headed off to the matinee showing of Captain America. I’m not exactly easy to please when it comes to superhero movies, particularly when it comes to my favorite characters.
In truth, Captain America was never exactly a favorite in terms of dedicated collecting of his solo title, but I dipped in and out of the Avengers for years, and Cap was almost always there. In fact, one of the most memorable comics moments for me was a page in Avengers (I have no idea what issue), showing the aftermath of a battle that had left Avenger’s Mansion in ruins. Cap was on his knees in the remains of his room, his cowl pushed back, and holding a scrap of paper in his hand. When one of his teammates asked him if he was all right he held up the charred paper and said something like “This was the only picture I had of my mother, and now it’s gone,” and he cried, man. It was one of those moments when you realize that comics aren’t kid’s stuff, aren’t trash, aren’t a waste of time, but are an art form that tells stories every bit as engaging as any novel or film, and brings to life characters so real that you find yourself weeping with them. Comics can and do matter as an art form, and as a medium worth respect and critical study.
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