#comicscriticism

When Marvel editor Tom Brevoort said he would rather make Marvel fans angry than have them be indifferent, the quote immediately made the rounds online. It is the sort of thing that sounds bold in a soundbite. It suggests a creator who values passion and engagement over apathy.

But the more I think about that statement, the more it bothers me. Not just as a comment about Marvel Comics, but as a glimpse into a broader editorial philosophy that I hope never comes anywhere near Gargoyles.

Because the philosophy behind that quote is fundamentally adversarial. It treats the relationship between creators and audience as something combative. The idea is that provoking the audience is good because at least they are reacting.

But storytelling is not supposed to be a fight between the creators and the fans.

The best long form storytelling is a relationship built on trust. The audience invests their time, their attention, and their emotional energy in the story. In return, the storytellers reward that investment with thoughtful character development, meaningful consequences, and narratives that respect the intelligence of the audience.

When that relationship works, you do not need to deliberately provoke anger to maintain engagement. The audience is already invested because the story itself matters to them.

That is one of the reasons Gargoyles has endured for decades. The series was built from the beginning on the idea that the story mattered and that the audience mattered. It treated its characters seriously. It respected continuity. It allowed actions to have consequences that carried forward through the narrative.

And perhaps most importantly, it never treated the audience as something to manipulate.

What Brevoort’s comment suggests is a mindset that views the audience less as partners in the storytelling experience and more as a resource to be managed. If they are angry, that is fine. If they are arguing, that is fine. If they are frustrated, that is fine. As long as they are still paying attention.

But that mindset can easily lead to the kind of storytelling that prioritizes reaction over substance. Shock over meaning. Short term controversy over long term narrative integrity.

Anyone who has followed the comics industry for a long time has seen this pattern play out repeatedly. A shocking twist. A controversial character decision. A sudden retcon designed to generate headlines and online arguments.

For a while, it works. People argue about it. Social media explodes with reactions.

But the long term effect is erosion. Readers begin to feel that their emotional investment is being used against them. That the story is less about the characters and more about generating the next moment of outrage or surprise.

Eventually the audience stops reacting.

Eventually they stop caring.

And that is exactly why the idea of Marvel having any kind of influence over Gargoyles makes me uneasy.

Gargoyles is not a property that thrives on shock value or manufactured controversy. Its strength has always been its careful world building and its respect for long term narrative structure. The series rewards viewers and readers who pay attention. It builds its mythology piece by piece, letting the characters grow and evolve over time.

That kind of storytelling requires patience. It requires a creative team that values consistency and long term planning over short term reaction.

Most importantly, it requires a philosophy that sees the audience as something to respect rather than something to provoke.

When I hear a major comics editor say that anger from fans is preferable to indifference, what I hear is an editorial mindset that measures success by noise rather than by storytelling quality.

And that is exactly the sort of mindset that Gargoyles has always avoided.

Which is why, if the choice ever arose, I would much rather see Gargoyles remain exactly where it is now than be absorbed into a publishing environment driven by that philosophy.

The Unfunnies prioritizes shock value over substance, presenting a series of grotesque scenes in lieu of a plot or compelling protagonist. As someone who appreciates underground comics, horror films, and "extreme" literature (also known as splatterpunk), I’m open to gritty themes when they offer an interesting perspective. However, The Unfunnies falls flat in that regard.

Unlike the cream of the underground comic or horror crop—which uses disturbing content to challenge the audience—The Unfunnies frequently employs cartoonish dialogue as a jarring contrast to its dark subject matter. Characters often break the fourth wall in the style of vintage Gold Key or Archie comics, but this is juxtaposed with disturbing contexts, such as a character being arrested for possessing child pornography. While this contrast can make certain scenes unsettling, it quickly becomes apparent that this is the only brush in Millar’s palette, and it grows tiresome.

Even when a more intriguing supernatural horror storyline emerges toward the end, it remains bogged down by filler content and shock tactics. A more structured approach with developed character arcs and organic plot progression could have elevated the series into a memorable horror comic. The premise—a cartoonist’s fictional world degenerating as he becomes a serial killer—is strong and could have provided a solid foundation. But rather than exploring that concept, Millar leans on disjointed, depraved vignettes, making the series feel more like a string of tasteless sketches than a cohesive story.

Millar has stated that The Unfunnies was intended as a comic counterpart to disturbing ensemble films like Happiness or Magnolia. Unfortunately, it lacks the believable character motivations and thematic interconnectedness that make those films work. Instead of resonating as an ensemble piece or anthology, it comes off as a scattered assortment of sketches made solely to offend.

What Brevoort seems to miss is that if the underlying problems never improve, anger does not remain anger forever. Eventually anger burns itself out. It exhausts the reader.

There was a time when I bought Marvel Comics constantly. I followed multiple titles. I cared about what was happening in that universe. When stories disappointed me, I argued about them. I discussed them with friends. I paid attention to editorial direction and creative teams.

In other words, I was engaged.

But over time that engagement eroded. Not overnight. Not in one dramatic moment. It happened gradually as the same frustrations repeated themselves again and again. Stories that felt disposable. Editorial decisions that seemed driven more by short term shock than by long term storytelling. Characters treated less like evolving personalities and more like interchangeable intellectual property pieces on a board.

At this point I have not regularly purchased Marvel comics in years. In fact, over the past year the only Marvel books I have bought at all have been the Fantastic Four and the Gargoyles crossover, plus one other title that was cancelled. That is it.

Everything else simply fell off my radar.

And the reason is not because Marvel made me angry.

It is because Marvel exhausted my anger.

That is the flaw in Brevoort’s philosophy. It assumes that provoking fans keeps them engaged indefinitely. But in reality, fans are not an infinite resource of emotional energy. If the product continues to frustrate them without rewarding their investment, eventually they stop investing.

From the outside that indifference probably looks like silence. The arguments disappear. The debates stop. The passionate complaints vanish.

So when I hear an editor say he would rather make fans angry than indifferent, what I hear is someone who fundamentally misunderstands the long term relationship between creators and their audience.

Anger is not a strategy. It is a warning sign.

If the warning signs are ignored long enough, the end result is exactly where I am now.