Joss Whedon, Grrr. Argh.

Joss Whedon

Your name is Joss Whedon.

You are a third-generation television writer. Your words have been nominated for an Emmy and an Oscar. You conceived, wrote, directed and produced one of the definitive television series of our generation. (With an intimate involvement on every level, the likes of which not seen since Orson Welles walked the earth.) You did the same for its spinoff. You did the same for such a brilliant, though unsuccessful, series that fans would not rest until a feature film was produced. The film won a Nebula and a Hugo, and if you run in those circles, you know those are the only such awards that matter. You wrote a revitalizing line of comics for an intellectually moribund property that influenced the feature film. You wrote two groundbreaking musicals, one of which, at the very least, elevated the very concept of the video blog beyond that of some guy talking into his MacBook.

In other words: there is no medium in which you have not only contributed, but extended in some way.

You are a master of dialogue. You are to the screen what Roddy Doyle is to the novel.

You are an admired and accomplished feminist and Humanist.

You are Joss Whedon. You are somebody. You are not a hack. You have made a lot of people a lot of money. You build not only interesting worlds, but flourishing franchises.

Nobody ever said the words, “Things were great until Joss Whedon came onto the project.”

So…

Why, it seems, are you treated like some kid waiting tables in West Hollywood, shoving screenplays in Christian Slater’s face?

I confess to knowing nothing about the inner-workings of Hollywood. I’m a novelist, and can barely navigate my own industry. So I wouldn’t presume to judge you. But something is not right here.

Angel was axed unceremoniously at the height of its ratings and creative output. (Some might call it the best season of the Buffyverse. Others would disagree only because there were so many great seasons from which to choose.)

Malcolm Reynolds

Firefly was condemned to a throwaway time slot, meddled with, and aired out-of-order. It would be fair to say it died a quick death, but fairer still to say it was smothered in its crib.

Serenity was marketed as though by throwing darts at a bulletin board. The result was advertising that was, to be kind, schizophrenic.

You were dumped from Wonder Woman. Oh, I’m sure there’s an inside-the-industry way of putting it, but from out here, it looked pretty bad. That was a property you were put on this earth make right.

Dollhouse was relegated to a network programming wasteland that might make Cormac McCarthy shudder, and marketed — well, I’m not even sure “marketed” is the right word — haplessly when it was marketed at all.

And now we’ve come full circle, with a Joss-less Buffy the Vampire Slayer reboot.

Now, you’re a comics man. You understand what a reboot is. It’s what happens when the back story becomes so twisted and contrived that it’s no longer possible to write through.

But that’s not the state of Buffy. One of the greatest aspects of every series you’ve helmed is the ever-simple-to-grasp back story. (My first exposure to Buffy the Vamire Slayer was Hush, in season 4. I saw Serenity before Firefly. I only caught Angel in season 5. In every case, I was up to speed and hooked within one hour. Ask me if I went back and bought every season of every series that you have written. Yes, and gladly. I’ve paid for at least one or two minor appliances in your house.) Your work is clean. There is no myriad of unresolved plot threads that  hamper unweildy franchises like Star Trek. There are no intellectually indefensible story lines that impinge you or any member of your writing team. There’ve been no deus ex machina resolutions, no reasons to cowardly backpeddle on any decision you’ve made since Buffy Season 1, Episode 1.

Xander, Buffy, Willow and Giles

No reboot is necessary, because — and you must surely know this — the series is in a good place.

But you, it seems, are not. Someone does not believe in you. It almost seems that an entire industry is out to stiff you. Not to belabor the Orson Welles comparison, but he may be the only man in Hollywood history to whom you could relate. And dammit, Joss, we don’t need another genius to suffer the fate of Orson Welles. As a culture, it’s unfair — criminal, even — to deny us art at it finest in a medium starving for talent.

But from this guy’s chair, it’s happening, and I fear that it’s becoming a real problem.

There’s a reason “Save Dollhouse” campaigns flourished before the first episode even aired.

We’re worried. For you. For your career. You don’t owe us anything. Frankly, you’ve already given us more than we deserve. But as long as you’re up for it, we want Joss at his unfettered best.

I wonder if the last couple of years have discouraged you. If they haven’t, then you know something that we don’t.

I’m not asking you to tip your hand. I’m just asking you not to fold.

As long as you’re willing to scribble on a cocktail napkin, we’ll be here to read it, and over-analyze it, and discuss it at length in a sometimes full-throated roar.

After all, you’re Joss Whedon.

You’re Numfar. And we’re past due for another dance of joy.