Writer Matt Fraction and artist Howard Chaykin combine to
cast Satellite Sam as a soapy look at
the sins of the father during the adolescence of mass communication right down
to its black and white look. Think of this series as the mean between the madcap
leave-something-for-the-imagination of Fraction's Casanova and Chaykin's hide-the-kids-and-pets Black Kiss II; mature, but with the dash of prurience akin to a 'nip-slip.'
Satellite Sam
takes place in 1951 a.k.a. television's Paleozoic era when studio cameras were the
size of iceboxes (and twice as heavy), being 'handsy' was a workplace hazard as prevalent as secondhand smoke and
video tape was consigned to that nebulous category called 'the future.'
Mike White works in the control room of the LeMonde Network's
New York studio, his dad, Carlye White, stars as Satellite Sam, a quasi-Buck
Rogers for the kids of the pre-Space Age set. When Carlye doesn't materialize
on set, a go-to gal (Libby) goes in search of the wayward star and in the spirit of the
high-wire act that is live television everyone must improvise to keep this one episode of this one show
on the air. And they'll have to do it the next day and the next and the next. See? Demanding.
The 'turd in the punchbowl' is Carlye. In a scandal straight out of L.A. Confidential's gossip rag 'Hush Hush,' Carlye's turns up dead
in an apartment in St. Mark's Place amidst black brassieres, a diverse
collection of dildos, lights and photography gear. As it turns out ol' Carlye was
a bit of a shutterbug with a hard-on for boudoir
snaps. Later, after Mike IDs his dead dad, he discovers boxes filled with more slap-and-tickle-type photos of women in lingerie. Whatever sexual energy there was in this secret space has gone out of the room. All Mike can do is flaccidly ask: ''what were you into up here pop?''.
Letterer Ken Bruzneak contributes to this ever-present by shading
the word bubbles of headset chatter to distinguish them from the one-on-one
conversations taking place in real-time. The on-air broadcast of Satellite Sam
shows up (naturally) inside TV tube-shaped boxes, their edges spiculated to
look like stars. Many of the speech bubbles are circular like a clock face, perhaps
another playful nod to time.
I have celebrated
and chided
Chaykin in the short time I've written about comics. He could give a flying
fuck, which is why (I think?) I continue to write about his work. I'm not a
Chaykin apologist, a sycophant or a masochist. I appreciate singular and no
holds barred art because of its inherent personal nature. Like him or not Chaykin never
compromises.The design of the characters in Satellite Sam -- manly men with square jaws in suit coats, horn rims and ties, women with hourglass shapes in high heels, classy cuts and skirts -- is vintage Chaykin from as far back as American Flagg!. Even though he continues to draw the characters to look like they stepped out of Life magazine, Chaykin's cartooning maintains the sketchy-quality redolent of Black Kiss II and its antecedent. It's an angrier look for such an elegant time, but who am I to argue with the likes of Howard Chaykin?
If for nothing else, the 'old school' meets 'new school' aesthetic the creators of Satellite Sam bring to this story should make for something both curious and compelling. Perhaps Fraction's equally singular voice -- and decidedly more mainstream instincts -- will check Chaykin's sleaze. Or maybe Chaykin will dirty Fraction up enough to give this series the kind of sophistication and grown-up entertainment this first issue offers its reader. Satellite Sam promises a peek behind the scenes of TV's 'golden age' complete with lacy underthings, racy images and dependence on time. Curious, libidinous and quick, Satellite Sam makes for a promising peep show.
