If you’ve ever felt crushed by the gap between childhood dreams and adult reality, this comic’s for you. The story’s split into eras, starting with the wide-eyed 1939 World’s Fair, where tech and space travel seemed just around the corner. But as decades pass, the optimism curdles—NASA’s budget gets slashed, the space shuttle feels like a downgrade from moon landings, and even Disney’s Epcot becomes a corporate shell of its original utopian vision. The dad’s enthusiasm becomes almost tragic; he clings to his 'World of Tomorrow' souvenirs like relics of a lost religion. Meanwhile, the son drifts between annoyance and pity, until he has his own child and finally understands that longing. The book’s genius is how it uses comic book tropes (like a fictional 'Captain Space’ serial) to show how pop culture sold us futures that never arrived. No villains, just entropy.
Fies’ book is like digging through your grandparents’ attic and finding their old sci-fi magazines—full of ray guns and rocket packs that never came true. The story’s framed around Expo exhibits and space race milestones, but really, it’s about how we cope when the future doesn’t deliver. The dad’s collection of futuristic memorabilia becomes a shrine to disappointment, while the son rolls his eyes until he’s older and catches himself doing the same thing. The art style shifts from clean-lined optimism to messy, emotional strokes as the timeline advances, which is such a subtle but effective trick. That last scene, where the grandson launches a bottle rocket? It’s tiny compared to the Saturn V, but it’s something.
The first time I flipped through Fies’ book, I expected a fun retro-futurism romp. Instead, it gut-punched me with generational melancholy. Structurally, it’s brilliant—each chapter mimics a different comic book era, from golden-age pulp to gritty '70s indie. The plot’s simple: a boy and his dad revisit the New York World’s Fair over the years, watching the 'future' decay from awe-inspiring pavilions to parking lots. The dad’s heartbreak is palpable; he bought into the hype of atomic-age optimism, only to see space colonies reduced to TV commercials. Even the comic-within-a-comic, 'Captain Space,' gets rebooted into darker, cynical versions, mirroring real-life disillusionment. By the 2000s, the son’s building DIY rockets in his garage, not because he believes in progress, but because it’s the only way to reclaim that stolen wonder. The ending’s bittersweet—no triumphant Mars colony, just a kid staring at stars, still dreaming. Makes you wonder what futures we’re blindly selling kids today.
I reread 'Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow?' recently, and it hit me differently this time. The graphic novel by Brian Fies is this gorgeous blend of nostalgia and disillusionment, framed through the lens of a father and son visiting the 1939 World's Fair. The dad’s obsessed with the futuristic promises of the era—rockets, flying cars, all that Jetsons-style optimism. But as the story jumps ahead to the '60s and '70s, the shine wears off. The Apollo program ends, the Space Age fizzles, and the dad’s dreams of a glittering future collapse into corporate mundanity. The son grows up in this gap between what was promised and what actually arrived.
What’s heartbreaking is how Fies parallels this with the comic industry itself—early issues are drawn in a vintage '40s style, but the art evolves as the timeline progresses, mirroring the loss of innocence. By the end, there’s no grand finale, just quiet resignation. The son, now an adult, builds a model rocket with his own kid, passing on the wonder but also the weight of unmet expectations. It’s a love letter and a eulogy for the future we thought we’d have.
2026-03-02 17:45:25
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Ever stumbled upon a comic that feels like a love letter to retro futurism? 'Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow?' by Brian Fies is exactly that—a bittersweet ode to the optimism and disillusionment of mid-20th-century space-age dreams. The story follows a boy and his dad through decades of imagined futures, from the 1939 World’s Fair to the Apollo era, all framed by a fictional comic-within-a-comic called 'Captain Cap.' The ending? It’s a quiet punch to the gut. The grown-up protagonist, now a father himself, visits a modern space exhibit with his son, realizing how far we’ve strayed from those grand visions of moon colonies and jetpacks. But there’s hope: his kid’s wide-eyed wonder mirrors his own childhood excitement, suggesting that the dream isn’t dead—just different. Fies doesn’t spoon-feed answers; instead, he leaves you nostalgic yet oddly uplifted, like finding an old rocket toy in the attic and remembering how it made you feel.
What sticks with me is how Fies contrasts the shiny, corporate-driven future we got with the communal idealism of the past. The final pages show the protagonist’s son playing with a homemade spaceship, a nod to the idea that curiosity and creativity keep the spirit of 'tomorrow' alive, even if it’s not the Tomorrowland we expected. It’s a meditation on generational change—how each era redefines progress, and how longing for the past can blind us to the magic of the present. The book’s mixed-media art (vintage ads, photos, and comics) amplifies this theme, making the ending feel like flipping through a family album where the future is always just out of reach.
I adored 'Whatever Happened to the World of Tomorrow?' for its nostalgic yet bittersweet take on futurism. The story revolves around two central figures: a wide-eyed kid nicknamed "Bud" and his unnamed father figure, who’s this gruff but lovable engineer type. Bud’s the perfect stand-in for that mid-20th-century optimism—always dreaming of rocket ships and jet packs—while his older companion represents the practical, sometimes jaded side of progress. Their dynamic carries the emotional weight, especially as the timeline jumps forward and you see how their relationship evolves alongside society’s fading space-age dreams.
What’s brilliant is how Brian Fies uses these two to anchor bigger themes. The comic isn’t just about characters; it’s a love letter to the 1939 World’s Fair, Apollo-era ambition, and even the disillusionment of the 1970s. You really feel Bud’s heartbreak when reality doesn’t match his childhood comics. And that silent panel where the older man stares at a discarded Space Race newspaper? Chills. Makes me dig out my old 'Popular Science' mags every time.
The first issue of 'Woman of Tomorrow' throws Supergirl into this gritty, almost existential space that feels so different from her usual stories. She's stranded on a distant planet, bruised and battered, but still standing—because that's Kara for you. The comic frames her as this weary traveler who’s seen too much, yet somehow keeps going. There’s a scene where she’s nursing a drink in some alien dive bar, and the way Tom King writes her internal monologue? Pure gold. You get this sense of loneliness, like she’s carrying the weight of Krypton even now.
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