In the wake of a racist monologue by its creator, the decision by this newspaper and hundreds of others to drop the comic strip “Dilbert” prompted me to visit a place I seldom if ever go: the comics section. And what a strange place it is.
Scott Adams, creator of the comic strip “Dilbert,” poses for a portrait with the Dilbert character in his studio in Dublin, Calif., in 2006. The strip was dropped by the Press Herald and hundreds of other newspapers in the wake of a racist monologue by Adams. “Bidding farewell to ‘Dilbert,’ the Financial Times called it ‘an icon of a bygone age.’ But it seems to me that every newspaper comic strip and all of its stars are toothless relics of that same age,” Siobhán Brett writes. Marcio Jose Sanchez/Associated Press, File
Bidding farewell to “Dilbert,” the Financial Times called it “an icon of a bygone age.”
But it seems to me that every newspaper comic strip and all of its stars are toothless relics of that same age – if not decades old and painfully repetitive, newer and stodgily adhering to the same totally worn-out formulae.
Suddenly hoping to be proven wrong, I read and I read. Not even by pretending to be somebody else could I stoke up any feeling that could dislodge the boredom. In some cases I was disappointed by the narrow scope. In others, by the pat “dialogue” and the corn factor. Most punchlines can be called almost verbatim two frames out. Where is the wit? Where are the new ideas?
Conversations with others about my position quickly turned tense. Do not underestimate the depth of comic strips’ popularity, they cautioned. Comics have been referred to as the “third rail” of a newspaper; few other elements are capable of eliciting as much feeling in readers. A mere attempt to relocate a comic strip guarantees revolt. When an illustrator gets out of the business or departs this life, people do all they can to ensure there is no break in service.
Habit-forming content dies hard.
One can well understand how it all got started. Consider the beautiful, stimulating novelty of color printing at the turn of the 20th century. The cut-through possible in homes unafflicted by TVs, computers or iPhones. The opportunity for a child to partake in the Sunday newspaper ritual; handed the section, as I was for years, and left to see how much they could figure out and how much they couldn’t.
Comic strips were a significant part of my childhood in other ways. Irish relatives would always be ready with a copy of the Beano or the Dandy, British comic magazines for children. At their height in the 1950s, these publications sold 2 million copies a week. By the 1990s, my sister and I were still reading about Dennis the Menace (not the U.S. version) and his dog Gnasher. By 2012, the Dandy was selling fewer than 8,000 copies weekly.
Although I recall feeling the same sort of heaviness while reading these, I believe the only profile of reader that stands to benefit from the comic strip is the child. I’d sooner subject my children to the mediocre drumbeat of your average strip than have them spend the time on TikTok or YouTube. (These children do not exist, making this an easy stance to assume.)
Melancholy about the slow demise of almost everything else old and handmade, I’m unmoved by what’s come of comic strips. Although the form is probably not past reviving for the 21st century, I can’t visualize it. Death can’t even unseat the most trite. Other developments can, we’ve learned. I’d be glad if it didn’t have to come to that.
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