After winding around three or four times, I find the line’s end, well beyond the pirate ship, settling onto the cold cement of the harborwalk. The guy sitting next to me grins. “You think we’ll get in for Warner Brothers?” I ask about the first panel.
“Dude,” he laughs, shaking his head. “We might not get in today.”
Excellent read about the fever, elation and ugliness of Hall H on Saturday.
Comic-Con needs the military efficiency of a Disney theme park, the organizational rigor of a playoff football game. An entity with larger ambitions and skin in the game, frankly — as opposed to a nonprofit — might be what’s ultimately required.
Instead, the four-day marathon is heavily staffed by volunteers, whose answer to every question generally seems to be either a shrug or simply directing you to go stand in yet another line.