I just finished re-watching the decidedly Vertigoesque From Dusk Till Dawn, and it put me in mind of an editorial I have been intending to write for some time. At the movie's end, we're left with two of the main characters still among the living (as opposed to the dead, or, alternatively, the living dead): Seth (played by George Clooney) and Kate (portrayed by Juliette Lewis). While Seth drives off in his Porsche to continue his underground lifestyle (having slimly avoided the undead lifestyle), he leaves Kate, who had just offered to accompany him, with one of the best closing lines ever uttered in a Hollywood genre film: "I may be an asshole. But I'm not a fucking asshole." What, I wondered, now? True, I know there's a sequel, but I haven't seen it. And I know for a fact that Clooney isn't in it, and I'm fairly certain Lewis, too, is absent. And this seems only appropriate. The original film is based on juxtaposition of belief: while most literally portrayed in the character of the minister (admirably played out by Harvey Keitel) undergoing a revival of faith, the concept is more visually and viscerally portrayed as the table-dancing lady-of-the-night Salma Hayek is transformed into a blood-sucking creature-of-the-night. Strip bars called the Titty Twister might seem an unfortunately sleazy lifestyle until one finds oneself cornered by the undead, shooting one's brother who has been taken into the fold of the afore-mentioned sunlight-impaired. Likewise for Seth, sneaking across the border to deliver blood money might seem like living on the edge until one finds oneself fighting for one's life against a horde of creatures in which one does not believe. I would have to imagine it would all be a decidedly belief-changing, utterly life-changing experience. How could a film-maker hope to bring these characters back in a sequel with any opportunity for further character-development, that is, any character-development which could conceivably rival that unveiled in the closing moments of the first film? The best you could hope for is John Carpenter's Vampires. Take that as you may. After such a belief-rattling experience, a character is inevitably, irrevocably altered. After an event like that, a director has two choices: either delve into the myriad psychological complications inevitably aroused by any major life-changing experience; or play the characters like nothing had ever happened. The former is far too complicated for any supernatural, shoot-'em-up, particularly a sequel. The latter is simply unbelievable, and even supernatural shoot-'em-ups rely on some suspension of disbelief. The director, realizing that this was a Catch-22, opted to move outside the choice, removing the surviving characters from the equation. It was the only amicable solution.

This seems pretty simple. So why is it that for some 50-plus years the creators behind serialized, open-ended comics have almost equivocally chosen the second option of the afore-mentioned Catch-22? Now, getting our terms straight, by "creators" I do not necessarily mean the writers, the artists and all those other people we refer to when speaking of such high-minded concepts as "creators' rights." Taking the more institutional slant, I mean the publishers, the editors, and the other cogs in the wheel of mainstream comics creation. After all, these are the people, and let's face it, the only people, who actually get a say in the lives of ongoing company-owned characters.

Maintaining my ongoing tradition of reading pretty much everything DC pumps out, I took in every issue of this summer's crossover event, Day of Judgment. And something struck me smack in the face about the time I hit issue #3. DC's heroes are spread out in Heaven, Hell and Purgatory (is Jenette Kahn Catholic, I wonder?). We've seen Heaven before in DC's stories. We've seen Hell time and again. So, it's only suitable that it's the Purgatory episode that really got to me. Wonder Woman, Sentinel, Supergirl and others have ventured to the Judeo-Christian Waiting Room to collect the soul of Hal Jordan (for the uninitiated among you, he used to be Green Lantern, he went nuts, he died, and now the heroes want him to take up the mantle of the Spectre). Anyway, the denizens of Purgatory, incensed with this agenda, attempt to stop our heroes from achieving their stated goal. Lucky for the spandex-clad, Purgatory's filled with the souls of dead heroes (well, mainly anti-heroes, but we need not get into that here), who lend a hand to the cause of the quest. After a short-lived battle (what have the Heavenly Hosts, after all, when faced up against walking trademarks?), our heroes rescue Jordan's soul, and return to earth. Rather incensed by Jordan's return (he was in Purgatory for a reason, after all) Batman complains to our heroes, "You plan on infusing this maniac with the power of the Spectre? Are you as mad as Parallax?" And to Jordan, "The men and women you slaughtered didn't get a second chance." Batman's pissed. He's good at 'pissed,' always has been. But what got me is that he's not the least bugged-out. OK, he's Batman, but this guy was dead -- is dead. He was just brought back from Purgatory. The heroes who were, themselves, rescued in Purgatory by the soul of the long-dead Vigilante, too, seem to face this strangeness with unflinching indifference and altogether absent incredulity. So it is, so it was, so it always, it seems, shall be.

Batman's a character who was driven to dress up like a flying rodent when awakened to the reality of the world. His parents were killed; he spends the next 20 years training himself to fight crime. What, one must ask, will he do when hit in the face with the apparently undeniable existence of Judeo-Christian, Dantean spiritual truths? As I mentioned above, he'll bitch. And get back to work. After all, there's always Gotham. To think, when faced with the mere possibility that the Bible represents The Truth, millions, billions over the past two millennia, have converted to Christianity. And many of these have died for their beliefs. Those notable few who profess to have had mystical face-to-face-with-God experiences have been irrevocably changed, often spending the rest of their lives trying to come to grips with these experiences. And Batman, who's come face-to-face with the undeniability of a concept which has driven others who experienced only an inkling of the same to total upheaval of lifestyle? He bitches. And so he must.

Batman can't change. Just imagine the inevitable result on the character were he to react in the least to the situation at hand. You could kiss one icon good-bye. That's not to say he'd necessarily give up the cowl and yellow ellipse, and join the cast of Marshal Law, but he'd change. And DC has spent decades creating a character who does not change -- who, a decade from now, will be exactly the same as he is today. The whole of the DC Universe is held together by a company-wide firmament. And this firmament is the icon, the trademark, the universally-recognized symbol. The reason the last two Batman movies utterly flopped is the same reason Disney had gone out of its way to avoid making Mickey Mouse movies for decades. Icons can't change, and since movies almost universally demand character development, the owner of a trademark property can do one of three things: allow the character to develop; make a bad movie; or simply let the character sit and stagnate. As I said, the first choice is invalidated by the situation. The second choice was the one DC and its parent Warner Bros. went with. And we all know what happened there. Disney took up the third choice. And, for some reason I can't altogether fathom, Mickey Mouse continues to be an icon to children around the world (with the notable exceptions of the denizens of Euro-Disney, apparently).

The difference between Batman and Mickey, though, is that Mickey is an empty icon. He stands for nothing. I defy you to show me otherwise. Batman, on the other hand, is a simplistic icon -- a simple trope. He represents dedication to ideals, specifically justice. Anything above or beyond that is character filler. Maybe Batman really likes cheese; maybe he's really into crushed velvet. It doesn't matter. The one defining element of the character is the justice thing. And for the character to change means a change to that defining element. Even those few ground-breaking, "cutting-edge" stories starring the Batman have been based on this same single element: The Dark Knight Returns, Year: One, The Killing Joke. Not a one develops the character beyond this pure, single motivation. Ask anyone between the ages of five and fifty what Batman's all about, and they'll tell you some variation of what I've told you here. That's recognizability. That's universal recognizability. Money can't buy publicity like that. But character development -- any character development -- can irrecoverably destroy it. DC knows this. And they're not about to let anything happen to their precious icon. Batman can have his back broken, he can change his costume, he can go through any plot-line, but readers know, and parents know, and DC knows that Batman is Batman, and nothing will change that. You'll be able to pick up any issue of Batman and you'll know the character inside and out.

Peanuts works on nearly the same principle. Charlie Brown's not going to change; Lucy's not going to change; indeed, none of the Peanuts cast is about to start developing (and this isn't simply because the daily strip's going to be discontinued as of January). This is why they always seem to possess incredible insight, yet never discover anything new. The difference between ol' Blockhead and ol' Bathead is that the former's strip is based on a formula, where the latter is not. The former is a single plot-line, looped time and again. It only makes sense, then, that 1974 was Charles Schulz's choice for the year to begin rerunning strips form -- after the characters had "fully" developed; after the formula had been established. Charlie Brown's never going to kick that football now, but had the strip run for an additional 50 years, the ball would remain unkicked. Batman's story, however, is written under the impetus of ongoing development. Batman's not on the hamster wheel of Peanuts. Perhaps it would work as a formula, but that's simply not how it's set up. We expect change. We expect development. We're always waiting for the other shoe to drop. And we're naïve to do so.

Aristotle once wrote something about plot. He compared plots to animals: too small and it's easily lost and forgotten; too large and one can never see the whole of it. Batman (and I don't mean any series in particular, but rather the ongoing narrative that is Batman) manages to achieve both of these unfortunate setbacks. It's both too large in breadth to handle (imagine if Sherlock Holmes or The Shadow had run this long) and too small in scope to matter. Batman has, with Day of Judgment, firmly established one truism: we're long past believing in the character at this point. He can now go one of two ways: either be rooted in pattern and formula like Peanuts or become an entirely empty and vapid icon like Mickey -- like Richard Nixon, an image surrounding a vacuum. But develop? That's not about to happen. Of course Batman didn't react to the resurrection of Hal Jordan. Of course he's not going to start considering the larger significance. He's Batman, and he's not about to change for any measly suspension of disbelief.