Morgan Spurlock Lets His Geek Flag Fly

Comic-Con Episode IV: A Fan's Hope

, released to iTunes and video-on-demand services this week, is exactly what it advertises. After a series of fictional or fictionalized films like Fanboys and the like, Morgan Spurlock and Joss Whedon set out to craft a film that is at once a love letter to the San Diego Comic Con and at the same time, a fully functioning documentary. They succeed admirably, capturing the convention warts and all. Tackling the convention principally from the point of view of five central characters--two aspiring comics artists, a costume designer, a retailer (Chuck Rozanski of Mile High Comics) and a toy collector whose entire story begins and ends in a single five-minute arc and seems shoehorned in. That arc and character feel a bit out of place, since everyone else we follow for any substantial amount of time really seems to wax poetic about the "feeling of community" and the importance of the convention to the health of the industry and the subculture. That dude is there to buy exclusive toys, and when he's done with that he declares that he's done and leaves the film and, apparently, the convention. The man unapologetically tells the camera that he isn't concerned with convention workers who tell him not to run, because "What are you going to do, throw me out for running?" Aside from the fact that convention workers at big shows like New York and San Diego have been known to overreact, so the answer might be yes, there's the fact that he just comes off seeming, more than anyone else in the film, like an overgrown adolescent. The others, though, are all fascinating and likable characters, particularly Skip Harvey, a determined bartender and artist who heads into the convention with visions of Marvel jobs dancing in his head but leaves disappointed in spite of what appears to be a strong portfolio (his weaknesses are pointed out to him and the viewer by editor after editor, who to a man point out that he's got strong draftsmanship chops). Of the three aspiring creative-types in the film, he's the only one who didn't land a job in the field by the time the movie was out of production and somehow he's the one who's the easiest to connect with. Maybe it's the "lovable loser" thing, or maybe it's just that early on he got the most screentime, but it's hard not to root for him.

, the other artist getting a gig at Arch-Enemy and a gig drawing The Perhapanauts for Image Comics with writer Todd Dezago. His samples for that title look sharp, which is great news because it's one of the best Image books of the last five years and it will be incredibly exciting to see it return to print, hopefully sometime this year. Holly Conrad, the costumer/cosplay artist, is clearly a smart, hard-working woman who's passionate about her work, intensely likable and, as is helpful in cosplay, absolutely gorgeous. Besides presumably gaining thousands of Twitter followers just on the strength of being awesome on film, she also landed a gig as a consultant on the in-development Mass Effect feature film, on the strength of her Comic-Con costumes from the game series. There's also a charming subplot, so to speak, about a young couple who met at comic con and the man's desire to propose to her in front of Kevin Smith, their mutual hero, at his panel. The story unfolds like a sitcom, with the clingy girlfriend refusing to leave her man's side for long enough that he can go pick up the custom-made engagement ring. Along the way, we meet dozens of other people who have met their wife/girlfriend/soulmate at Comic-Con, including actor and Robot Chicken co-creator Seth Green. Given Spurlock's history of being somewhat derisive toward his subjects, I entered into this film with trepidation (in spite of being a huge fan; his Pom Wonderful Presents the Greatest Movie Ever Sold should be required viewing in schools); it seemed as though there was no need for a feature-length documentary to poke fun at conventiongoers. We have episodes

of just about every police procedural, and jerk columnists from shabby fitness magazines, for that. But this film is entirely unlike anything else in Spurlock's canon. He appears on camera not at all, does not narrate the film, and at no point does this feel like anything other than a love-letter to the convention. There are some cringe-worthy elements of the film, but those can't be laid at the feet of the filmmakers. Sometimes as you see the man who talks about a 500% return on a $20 investment as validation that his wife is wrong and his collection will "be worth something someday," you're struck by the fact that many of the conventioneers are not necessarily people you would want to spend any substantial time with.  There are moments in the film that are a bit like watching the most painful moments of The Office--even if you're entertained by what David Brent/Michael Scott is doing, some part of you is dying inside and wishing he would just stop doing it. The central message of the film seems to be that Comic-Con is a convention that tries--and sometimes succeeds--at being all things to all people. Everyone interviewed seems to think that the place is "theirs," and while for some that sense of entitlement comes off a bit catty (particularly the comic book people who feel they're being forced out of "their house" by the ever-growing presence of toys, video games and movies at the show), it generally seems nice. Many of the fans and creative types interviewed talk about the sense that any or all of these communities would be "outsiders" in any other setting and that the reason they each think they're entitled to the show in some way is that they all feel at home there.