Comic book fans - that is, the hardcore DC/Marvel-axis "fanboys" as we've lovingly dubbed ourselves in mock self-parody - are notoriously hard to please.

This irascibility is no accident, no mere coincidence or touch of fate. Indeed, it's a direct result of our very nature, and the nature of the medium itself. There exists in the comic book industry, or at least in that superhero mainstream, a paradox. An irrevocable and irreconcilable problem that I like to call "The Great Dichotomy".

Put as simply as possible, there's a strong conflict between the need on the big companies' part to not mess with any of their most valuable assets - namely, their most recognisable characters - and the fans' wish to see those same characters grow, evolve and change over the years.

It's important to note that this problem is hardly unique to comic books. It is, in fact, one of the defining features of any serial entertainment. The most popular form of serial entertainment today is, of course, TV. And, to some degree, the medium of TV suffers from the same problem. When a TV program becomes a hit based on a certain premise, producers are extremely wary of changing that premise, of messing with a successful formula.

It's this theory that, on a more harmless level, keeps Ross on FRIENDS from landing a great teaching gig in California, or Frasier from ever acquiring a steady girlfriend, or Gilligan from ever getting off that damn island. In extreme cases, though, this reticence to let characters grow can lead to stagnation. We tire of this necessary lack of resolution. Comics labour under a similar problem, only to a much larger degree.

'There's a conflict between the needs of the companies and the wishes of the fans.' Marvel likes to make much of the fact, especially when attempting to lure investors, that they have thousands of characters in their stable. The characters of a comic company are its greatest assets. And therein lies the problem.

Imagine this: In 1963 we get the debut appearance of Spider-Man in AMAZING FANTASY #15 starring a 14-year old Peter Parker. The series continues, with adventure after adventure, but more or less in real time. So, for example, in 1973 Peter is a young man of 24. In 1983, Peter is easing into middle age at 34, and Aunt May is quite elderly, in her 80s at least. By today, in 2001, Peter Parker would be 51. Aunt May would long since have passed on. Perhaps Peter is the proud father of a 14-year old himself. If the comic were to continue, we might see a 74-year old Peter Parker dying in Spider-Man #720.

Perhaps I'm misreading the fans out there, but I think most of us would love to see something like this. Perhaps not all want to see their favourite characters exist in a strict version of real time, and I admit that, for many, the timeless nature of these characters is a great part of their appeal. But I have to believe that, in some fashion at least, most of us want our characters to grow, change and evolve. We want our Captain Americas and Batmans to get the same long and fulfilling character arcs that benefit the characters in a great epic novel by Dickens or Dostoyevsky. We want to see people die, because in our real lives we see it all the time.

One of the key ingredients a Marvel or DC has going for it is the sense of the "Universe," of an interacting comic book world in which one massive story is being told over decades through the individual sagas of its inhabitants. But in truth, the reality, or "realness" of these worlds is stretched to the point of breaking.

Exactly which wondrous and modern era Captain America finds himself being reborn into keeps changing. Nobody dies. Ever. The X-Men find themselves repeating the same cycles over and over, infinitely getting closer to Xavier's ideal without gaining ground, like multicoloured Sisyphuses. If we accept the currently in-vogue interpretation that Marvel history is about 10 years old, it throws off a near-infinite number of previous references that have been made to other eras.

'The reality of these worlds is stretched to the point of breaking.' And where does this stasis come from? From unwillingness on the companies' part to mess with their assets. Spider-Man is Marvel's most valuable asset by far. Are they really going to kill him? Or, more crucially, are they really going to let him change too much? Let him become unrecognisable to new generations of, not readers, but consumers? Of course not.

Easily one of the biggest comic success stories of the past year has been the rejuvenation of Marvel Comics, a spurt led by the company's Ultimate line. However, the spate of new creators and otherwise exciting events happening at Marvel in the past few months has not really addressed the above problem. They might go a good way toward easing the pain, but, whatever you may think of Grant Morrison, Garth Ennis or Peter Milligan, the single, central problem of lack of growth still applies.

In many ways Marvel's attempt to restart their most popular characters for a younger audience through the Ultimate line can be seen as an attempt to address all of these problems. Basically, Marvel is starting from scratch, beginning the entire Marvel Universe story all over again. But at the same time Marvel is continuing with the existing Universe, the existing story.

I like the idea of starting the whole story from scratch at the dawn of the 21st century - of seeing the Avengers (or "Ultimates") come together, of seeing the Hulk be born, of seeing Daredevil make his first appearance, all from today's viewpoint and through today's artistic and stylistic lens. But I'd still rather not lose the existing 40 years of storied history, convolutions and all. And so far, I'm not. So far, the plan is reportedly to keep the old Marvel Universe humming along, peacefully, if separately, coexisting with the new.

'Even if the Ultimate are successful, they'll eventually face the same problems.' However, if the Ultimate line were to continue to be a success, would Marvel honestly be able to resist creating more Ultimate titles? And if, a few years down the line, Marvel has 15 top-selling Ultimate lines and only a handful of successful Old Universe lines, well, would any of us have any trouble reading the writing on that particular wall?

And, of course, even if the Ultimate concept proves wildly successful without rendering the old obsolete, it still has its own expiration date. Thirty years from now, if it's still around, it'll be facing the same old problems. What lies ahead for my comic book reading great-grandchildren? Four separate, staggered "Marvel Universes?"

Time will tell. But it seems clear that, no matter what, the essential paradox will remain impossible to resolve. As long as there's a Marvel, there'll be a Spider-Man, and, more importantly, an unlucky-in-love, vaguely teenish, Aunt May-lovin' Spider-Man. As long as there's a DC (and, in this case, probably even longer) there'll be a Superman - and it won't be a 75 year old retired Superman.

The characters might never die, but they'll never grow either. And, to some extent, fans of mainstream superheroes will always be frustrated by this inability of theirs to change. That is the nature of this Great Dichotomy. One may not like the weather, but to complain about is a pointless affair. All one can do is describe it, elucidate its contrary pleasures, and try not to let it get to you.

John Connors is a business writer and editor, currently pursuing a masters in creative writing from William Paterson University.

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