To preface: this is neither an ad hominem critique of the sprawling San Diego Comic-Con, nor a definitive history. Rather, what I am interested in with “The Roots of Comic-Con” are the antecedent events, types of gatherings, and commercial showcases that gave rise to America’s biggest yearly showcase for all things fantastic, glittery, and full of explosions.
From roughly July 22-26, the city of San Diego—already a pretty large place by any standards—swells with a specific sort of person, the type more at home in the air-conditioned space of the dark room than the sunny vistas of SoCal. It would be easy say that nerds, geeks, obsessives, and the like all flock to events like Comic-Con, but this is not true. All sorts of people find solace in the vast San Diego Convention Center, whether as casual/curious fans, exhibitors, or press agents.
Even in a world with such entertainment showcases as E3 and CES, Comic-Con looks like the lumbering behemoth of the group, quickly swelling in size and hoovering up any and all showcase-able media. In some senses, what began as an actual comic book convention would be the ideal repository for all sorts of new and exciting entertainment experiences. After all, people who read comic books tend to have an uncanny, almost instinctual literacy for mixed media. Since comics and graphic narratives are primarily an intersection of the image (and its framing, spatial orientation, variable sizes, etc..) and the word (though a “visual” word, as important for WHERE and HOW it is used as for WHY it is used at all), it follows that Comic-Con would be the perfect place to showcase the fluidity of media, the triumphs of popular creativity, and the masters of marketing. For all of their supposed vices—and there are some, even for a popularizer and egalitarian like myself—comics are a compact form of cultural literacy, 32 solid pages (or more) to aid in the decoding of Western civilization.
That said, while Comic-Con is certainly unique in its vast promotion of both small/independent efforts and the corporate juggernauts, it is not wholly without precedent as a cultural showcase, as an event that teaches a people about itself. What I’d like to do is briefly sketch the sources of this event, which is as much comic book convention as it is flea market, technological exhibition, job fair, audience focus group (writ large), Utopian (in all senses of the world) vacation spot, subcultural rite of passage, and industry trade show.
The Crystal Palace, via WikiMedia
The two precedents that immediately come to mind are the nationalistic technological exhibition and its near ally (or evolved self), the World’s Fair. In the 19th century, industrialized advances in production, consumption, and distribution meant that a large part of American and European nationalistic pride was tied up in the technologies pioneered by the great minds and hard-working people of a given place. In Britain, where industrialized practices dated to the 18th century, these showcases for technology (such as the Great Exhibition of 1851, known for its building of the still-amazing but long-ago-destroyed Crystal Palace) tempted ambling audiences with the wonders of progress, of the new, of imaginative science and its realities. In America, a similar impulse paints the Colombian Exposition of 1893, where the glory of the American 19th century—its railroads, imperialism, miracle cures, celebrities, etc—were placed next to the riches of the rest of the world. Bear in mind that a key factor in the history of these events is the sense of cultural imperialism, the notion that what the Nation produces is of visible interest to the wide world. Comic-Con suddenly does not feel so far-off.
Some of the nationalistic zeal of these Exhibitions is alive and well at Comic-Con. An obviously huge component of the convention is the superhero, a peculiar figure that has survived and flourished across media from nearly 100 years. Since the central prerogative of most superheros is the maintenance of law & order (or the restitution of a kind of static past, untroubled by the various ills of the contemporary world), they are often aligned with nationalistic sentiments. On this national level, Superman is evidently a standard-bearer for truth, justice, and the American way, while the obvious Captain America was an emblem of WWII-era fortitude, depicted as an ideal soldier who could fight the nation’s enemies wherever he found them. The formula holds even for superheroes more concerned with local, personal vendettas. Despite his supposedly international education, and his outward life as a Europeanized playboy, Bruce Wayne/Batman is all about restoring glory to Gotham city. In fact, his reliance on intelligence, education, and technology is the kind of end-result of the liberal-progressive attitude of 19th century industrialization. These scientists, inventors, and industrialists (Wayne is all three) are the nation’s super-men, the secular saints who will deliver the people from evil and want.
But beyond this building of national identity—where else in the world (aside from, well, Japan) could something like Comic-Con happen with such girth, such zeal?—this yearly event also promotes the commercial spectacle of the American free market. While an exhibition or World’s Fair or Expo is more concerned with showcasing things that only large corporations or millionaires can actually own, such as experimental apartment buildings (see Montreal’s Expo ‘67 and its famous Habitat) or Westinghouse dynamos (the above 1893 Colombian Exposition), the flea market promotes the proper ethos of personal ownership. It’s no good tracing the history of the marketplace, as a full account would cover Billingsgate, the medieval covered markets, the Paris arcades, the American shopping mall, and the church swap-meet. Instead, take my word for it: yard sales, flea markets, swap-meets, and concentrated places of shopping continue to thrive. State and church fairs have always been places for hucksters to promote new wares—miracle tonics, shirts that need never be ironed, shoe soles that never wear down, etc—and mutual ingenuity tends to form a nice circuit. As such, new consumer goods do well when showcased together. Comic-Con totally understands this. Even when crap rubs shoulders with what appears to be genuine innovation, the lure of the new benefits from a general atmosphere of commerce and (apparent) invention. Twilight may be awful, but its co-presence with James Cameron’s Avatar promotes a general sense of American hegemony on the world’s entertainment.
But fans, consumers, and vacationers don’t just go to Comic-Con to stir their inner-nationalist or to assure themselves that an American stranglehold on the technological arts remains in plain view. Hell, people go because it’s fun! Thus, Comic-Con takes as much from the flea market as it does from the amusement park, from the Coney Island ethos of enjoyment, relaxation, and the consumer dream-world set to bright lights and HD TVs. The Coney Island of the early 1900s was truly amazing, a constant media spectacle that perhaps has still yet to be surpassed. Where else could an average Joe from New York go on rides, see pseudo-anthropological exhibits, play carnival games, and witness the liveness of death? That’s right: one famous Coney Island spectacle of yore was the live electrocution of elephants, who would be zapped to death before the eyes of a paying public. Comic-Con does not kill people, but the enculturated sense of violence remains. As much as the event gives life—new things to see, do, read, and love—it gives death. Violent entertainment, showcased in public, lives on.
The relationship of corporations and consumers is in a delicate balance at Comic-Con. Some attendees want to see the big stars, hear the big announcements from the studios, in short participate in the mainstream thrill as much as possible. Others go for the independent showcases, the self-published and/or smaller tables that hope to find a kindly audience amidst the thousands of men dressed as Stormtroopers. On a personal level, I wish the best to the smaller outfits at Comic-Con, as it is the biggest live audience they’ll ever potentially encounter. Given the size of the event, it is likely that all tastes can be accommodated. But the flip-side is true. One of the other functions of Comic-Con is as an extremely volatile product-focus-group. The super fans are in attendance, and Warner Bros. can show its latest properties, fully aware that part of the process is the airing of grievances demanded by the die-hards. As such, Comic-Con gives the mainstream outfits a sense of the fringe. While they still want the mainstream audiences, the mainstream money, they can also engage with the vocal minority in hopes of taming the beast of internet complaints. But, as previously mentioned, as Comic-Con grows, so to do the mainstream audiences. While the event’s audiences of 30+ years ago were built more specifically around a common subculture, the scene today is much more fractured. With 125,000 hearts and minds, the corporations and fans begin a mutually beneficial—though sometimes lopsided—battle for favor.
Comic-Con has likewise up’ed the ante for seemingly egalitarian, yet still divided public events. As countless online galleries attest, Comic-Con is a platform for celebrities, actors, writers, and directors to stand behind their latest creations. As scenes from Comic Book: The Movie (2004) and countless YouTube clips suggest, the fantasy of brushing against your personal pantheon of geniuses is fairly high. You will see people you recognize. But, there remain differences. Some of the promotional sessions are uni-vocal. The corporation showcases it’s film, the stars speak canned questions and answers, the audience remains an audience. This is not always the case. Some events are better at including other voices and concerns. But is is worth restating that, as with many things at Comic-Con, appearances can deceive. Some laugh all the way to the bank. Others cry as the ATM receipt shows them to be in the red.
In short, I will readily admit that my demystification of Comic-Con does take a bit of the fun out of it. While the whole media event can still be enjoyed on that very obvious promotional level—where new products make the heart race, where G.I. Joe begins looking even more atrocious than before—it should also be understood as an event that is an exception in some ways, and wholly historical in others. It is a refined showcase for fantastic narratives across media. Its success is a testament to its selective cannibalization of past events, carefully tailored to the current world of entertainment media. It is a fan-friendly convention, but it is also a con.
I don’t remember how I first came across it, but I have become a big fan of the 
Kevin is a Ph.D. student in the Critical and Cultural Studies program at University of Pittsburgh. He holds a B.A. from the College of William & Mary and an M.A. from North Carolina State University. He is editor of 
Bobby is a Ph.D. student in the Digital Media program at Georgia Tech where he does 