Tintinitus

My ears are ringing. I learned today that Steven Spielberg -- the Poobah of Pap, the Sultan of Shit -- is directing a Tintin movie. Another childhood memory massacred for millions of children around the world. A classic of legitimate kid-lit converted into saccharine sentimentality. Mercifully, it won't be live action. Tom Hanks is a tad old now, as is Robin Williams.

I have fond memories of stealing those colourful books from the French classroom in elementary school. Madame Aubin would replace them with Asterix, and I'd steal those too, although I didn't like them as much.

Not bothering to learn any French in Madame Aubin's classroom, I'd look at the strips when I got home, and create my own narratives. My own counterfactuals. My own metanarratives. However, it wasn't very difficult to follow the intended storyline -- the visuals were so detailed, language was rendered unnecessary.

And some folks think that its not just kid-lit -- the other day I read a review of "Metamorphoses of Tintin". Now translated into English, it thrusts Tintin, Captain Haddock, Professor Calculus and the whole gang into the twentieth-century literary canon.

Herge. Heritage, innit?