Written by Victor Quinaz; Drawn by Brent Schoonover
Archaia; $19.95

The premise of Mr. Murder is Dead isn’t a unique one. It’s the story of a retired, Dick Tracy-like, police detective whose arch-enemy turns up murdered. As the cops investigate the crime, the detective – who may or may not have committed the act; that’s part of the mystery – wrestles with his own aging and what it means to his life that such a central part of it is now gone. Aging heroes aren’t new, nor is the technique of looking back on their lives through a series of retro-looking comics, but Quinaz and Schoonover bring depth to the concept that’s missing from similarly-themed books.

Most of the books like this that I’ve read have a strong meta-context to them about the history of heroic fiction. Depending on the author’s point-of-view, the point is often to either glorify or demonize the past in comparison with contemporary trends in adventure stories. If it’s venerating the Good Old Days (the more popular choice, I’ve noticed), the elderly hero will rail against the complicated darkness of modern stories by longing for simpler times depicted with clean lines and basic colors. If it takes a cynical view of Days of Yore, a younger protagonist may reflect on old injustices and stereotypes with art that highlights those elements. Mr. Murder, on the other hand, isn’t all that concerned about commenting on the past. At least, not our collective past. Its story is more personal than that and more affecting.

A better comparison for Mr. Murder would be something like Joshua Hale Fialkov and Noel Tuazon’s Tumor, also published by Archaia. The books are completely different in plot and tone, but they share an interest in looking at an old detective’s struggle to come to terms with his more exciting past. In Tumor, that takes the form of invasive memories making it difficult for Frank Armstrong to separate the past from the present. Mr. Murder’s Gould Kane (aka The Spook) is all there mentally, but has a ton of emotional crap to sort out: the murder of Kane’s fiancée on her wedding day, Kane’s later relationship with his dead bride’s best friend, the child that he may or may not share with her, his changing feelings about the law and what society owes him after so many years of service and sacrifice. Kane is a complex character and Mr. Murder rightly chooses to focus on him and his flaws. It’s not as interested in referencing or paying homage to crime noir stories as it is just being one itself. It goes about the business of doing that in a really interesting way though.

I’ve tried to deemphasize the format of Mr. Murder because it’s secondary to the story and I know how easy it is to let the presentation overwhelm what the book is actually about. But it would be a disservice not to mention how visually exciting and cool the look is. I’ve always loved Schoonover’s retro style and he tweaks it even more for the flashback sections of Mr. Murder to recreate the look of Golden and Silver Age comics. But “flashback” doesn’t properly describe the way those sections are used. Rather than segue into past events, Quinaz and Schoonover use them to interrupt the present’s storyline at opportune moments. That breaks up the flow of the narrative – visually as well as textually – in a way that doesn’t slow down the story, but keeps the book interesting and propels the reader forward. There are also games and activities at the chapter breaks. These work better as interesting visual pauses than as things to actually do, but they’re still appreciated.

I don’t want to make it sound like Schoonover’s art is drudgery to look at. It’s the opposite of that and gets especially thrilling in the book’s climax when something simultaneously awful and amazing happens to Kane. But most graphic novels have a feeling of sameness from page to page and Mr. Murder purposely fights that tendency in its design.

Hark! A Vagrant
by Kate Beaton
Drawn and Quarterly, 168 pages, $19.95.

The thing that amazes/impresses me the most about Kate Beaton’ comics is how much everyone loves them. OK, not everyone — I do know one or two stragglers that refuse to find anything amusing in her sly little comics — but a lot of people from disparate fan bases really like her stuff. Indie readers like Kate Beaton, Superhero fans like Kate Beaton,, and (perhaps most notably) people who hardly ever (if at all) read comics like Kate Beaton (like my wife). She crosses boundaries in a way I don’t think I’ve seen any modern cartoonist do, let alone a webcartoonist. I think that’s even more impressive when you consider how often she relies upon (relatively) obscure historical figures and literature as the basis for her strips.

Other than that I really don’t have much to say, except that those who own her first book, Never Learn Anything From History, and haven’t bought this one yet because they’re worried it reprints the same material can relax; it doesn’t. Basically if you appreciate intelligence, wit (or smartassery) and the chance to learn something on the side, then this is the book for you.

More reviews after the jump …

Pope Hats #2

Pope Hats #2
by Ethan Rilly
AdHouse, 40 pages, $6.95.

Man did I love the hell out of this comic. Just about every aspect of it appealed to me — the pacing, the dialogue, the plot, but especially Rilly’s assured, graceful line which manages to combine cartoonishness with a eye for realism that gives off a strong ligne claire feel but not feel like a slavish, Americanized version. It’s its own thing, if that makes any sense.

The bulk of the comic follows the adventures of a harried legal clerk as she moves up the corporate ladder, questions her general direction in life and eyes her much more free-spirited roommate with a good deal of envy. It’s one of those sharp character portraits that makes you long for a sequel — you want to see where this person ends up in six months or two years down the road. Plus, the inclusion of a few back-up strips When people talk about how they miss the days of alt-comic pamphlets and the rewards, they’re talking about comics like this one.

Mickey Mouse Vol. 2
by Floyd Gottfredson
Fantagraphics Books, $29.99

Gottfredson is in much stronger form here than in the first volume, drawing upon the early Mickey cartoons for ideas — mad scientists, treasure hunts, mail pilots — but then expanding and developing them in a way those early Disney shorts were incapable of doing. Over time, Mickey’s personality becomes more refined as well; scrappier, tougher and more determined to seek justice (or an adventure) regardless of the odds.

Again, part of the enjoyment for me with this series is the rich amount of historical material editors Gary Groth and David Gerstein are able to provide. From foreign material to biographies of various ancillary contributors, supplemental art, character histories and more, this series is rich with detail, both in the strip itself and in the editorial handling of the material, that puts other reprint projects to shame.

Bake Sale

Bake Sale
by Sara Varon
First Second, 160 pages, $16.99

Anya’s Ghost
by Vera Brosgol
First Second, 224 pages, $15.99

As insufferably precious as Sara Varon’s comics can seem at first glance, they’re frequently suffused with a melancholy that belies their outward cutie-pie nature. Most of her books deal with the tricky nature of friendship, both our essential human need for connection and companionship and also how we often define our own identity through our contact with others. She rarely sugarcoats these relationships, either — Robot Dreams had a rather nasty betrayal at its focal point after all. That all can seem like heady stuff for an all-ages book, but Varon smartly refuses to delve too deep into psychology blather, preferring to keep the actions and visuals as simple and self-explanatory as possible.

Bake Sale is set in a food-anthropomorphic world (albeit one with dogs, cats and people) and focuses on a cupcake that runs a bakery. Yes, I know, but bear with me here. The cupcake, called, appropriately enough, Cupcake, dreams of traveling to Turkey with his friend Eggplant to meet the world-famous pastry chef Turkish Delight, and starts scrimping, saving and working overtime in order to afford a plane ticket. But then circumstances forces him to give up his ticket in order to help his friend.

And it’s here that Varon shows how she’s a much smarter and tougher author than first appearances would suggest. In a simpler book, Cupcake’s generosity would be the main point of the tale and the book would end with a happy moral about being selfless spelled out in big glowing letters, smiles all around. That’s not the case here. Cupcake actually suffers a bit for his generosity. His confidence and self-esteem falters and his bakery skill suffers, as though bereft of such a consuming dream and missing his friend, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s this sort of emotional honesty and willingness to let if not dark, at least sad moments happen that makes Varon’s work worth reading. Plus, she draws a really cute cupcake.

Anya's Ghost

Friendship, self-esteem and maturity are also the themes of Anya’s Ghost, though unlike Bake Sale, it’s aimed at a slightly older audience (there’s smoking and intimations of budding sexuality).

The book’s title character is a sullen, self0involved teen (and Russian emigre) who accidentally and quite literally stumbles upon the ghost of a girl about the same age, though many centuries dead. Although understandably creeped out at first, Anya discovers the ghost girl makes for a useful, if somewhat needy, friend, capable of getting test answers and helping her hook up with the school dreamboat. Soon, however, the ghost’s friendliness takes a rather sinister turn and Anya starts to wonder whether the supernatural friendship comes at an unsustainable price.

This is Brosgol’s first major comics work, apart from some entries in the various Flight anthologies, which makes the book’s confidence, stellar pacing and insight all the more remarkable. You don’t expect someone to produce a graphic novel this good right out of the gate. Brosgol doesn’t hit a single wrong note here — she understands her characters and their motivations intuitively and conveys them to the reader not through reams of expository dialogue but via subtle body gestures and facial expressions.

What’s more, Brosgol has an appealing, big-eyed, round-headed, thick-lined style that I adore, especially in some of the smaller scenes  — the way Brosgol makes Anya just a bit hippy so you can tell she has body image issues; the ghost’s gradual transformation from mousy and meek to controlling and aggressive; the scene where Anya realizes her teen crush is a bit of a dirtbag. Despite it’s fantasy trappings, Anya’s Ghost, like Bake Sale, isn’t content to merely offer up conventional plot points and safe, easy-to-swallow platitudes, but attempts to say something authentic about identity and self-esteem but without coming off as didactic or simpering. It’s one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Resistance, Volume 2: Defiance
Written by Carla Jablonski; Illustrated by Leland Purvis
First Second; $16.99

I have fond memories of reading the first volume of Resistance. I was on a road trip with my family last year and took it with me to read in the car along with First Second’s other kids-vs-nazis book, City of Spies. I couldn’t help but be struck by the different approaches each creative team took to their similar subject matter. City of Spies is a romping adventure book while Resistance looks seriously at the reality of what opposing the Germans must have been like for children. It’s a fascinating juxtaposition and I loved both approaches so much that in comparing the two I missed some other themes, at least in Resistance. I may have missed some in City of Spies too, but reading the second volume of Resistance all by itself has allowed me to see aspects of it that go deeper than just “boy, it must have been scary for kids in those days.”

There were several themes that I expected to find in Defiance: freedom, loyalty, courage; stuff like that. What I was surprised by was a strong message that hit closer to home than those lofty ideals: relationships – especially family ones – and how incredibly hard they are. It’s difficult to live with other people – even ones that you love – and balance the variety of needs and priorities that come with several people sharing their lives. Traditional family roles can help with that (for good or ill), but what happens when your country is occupied by invading forces and everything you know and are familiar with has been turned upside down if not completely destroyed? As a mother whose husband has been taken by the Germans to work in their labor camps, how do you balance the needs of your children with the demands of putting food on the table, especially when those very Germans are extorting your livelihood for their needs?

There’s so much going on in the life of poor Mme. Tessier that it’s tempting to focus on her, but this isn’t her story. Mostly it’s Paul’s, her only son, but also it’s Paul’s sisters, teenaged Sylvie and young Marie. Though not quite a teenager himself, Paul struggles with what it means to be the man of the family; balancing that responsibility with his passion for undermining the Germans’ control on his town any way that he can. He’s not doing a very good job of it though. It’s too much to ask of a young boy and helping the Resistance is getting in the way of supporting his mom, especially when he learns that the militant Maquis are camped in the woods nearby. Joining them would mean making a real difference; much more dramatic than drawing propaganda posters and distributing flyers.

Marie and Paul

Little Marie also struggles, though her needs are simpler. Her birthday’s coming up and she wants her dad home. She also wants to believe that Philippe Pétain, Chief of State of “Free” France has the country’s best interests at heart. Though Pétain is collaborating with the Germans and encouraging the people to do so too, it’s a sentiment shared by much of the town, including Marie’s teachers and her Aunt Celia who’s now living with the Tessier family. It’s another level of tension because it’s easy to understand the desire to hunker down and hope this all eventually blows over. Paul disagrees of course and argues with Marie about it constantly.

Sylvie’s caught too between reality and the desire to be a normal teenager. The boy she really likes is in the Resistance and only seems interested in using her to get information from German soldiers. Sadly, the only opportunity she has to go out and have a good time is to fraternize with the Germans, something she’s conflicted about. More than either of her siblings, Sylvie’s on the fence between rebelling against her country’s weak leadership and simply accepting The Way Things Are like Aunt Celia.

There are plenty of thrills and suspense in Defiance, but it’s the family drama that sticks with me longest after closing the book. And it’s that that has me most eager to finish the trilogy when the next volume comes out. After all, I can’t turn around in a comic book store – or even my own home library – without hitting thrills and suspense. But there’s only one place to get the story of the Tessiers.

Olympians, Volume 3: Hera - The Goddess and Her Glory

Olympians, Volume 3: Hera – The Goddess and Her Glory
Written and Illustrated by George O’Connor
First Second; $9.99

I used to hate Hera. Still do, most of the time; the way she’s portrayed. I mean, even in the Greek mythology I read as a kid, Hera was always picking on Hercules; sneaking snakes into his crib; getting him to kill his own kids. And I liked Hercules. I grew up reading comics about him and catching the occasional Steve Reeves movie on Saturday afternoon TV. How could you not like a guy who killed an invulnerable lion and then wore its skin as armor? And none of those stories – right up to and including the ones with Kevin Sorbo – had anything good to say about Hera. Not until George O’Connor.

O’Connor’s been teasing his interpretation of the Queen of the Gods since the first volume of Olympians. That one was about Zeus, whom O’Connor presented as a hero, but one who couldn’t control his own libido. He’s not defined by his sex addiction, but it certainly influences his choices and makes life miserable for the women in his life. When Zeus first notices Hera in that volume, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. She’s just minding her own business, talking with a friend, and Zeus appreciates her from afar. “Oh, no,” I thought, knowing where that story would eventually end up.

This third volume of Olympians is where it ends up. Over the last couple of installments – and in interviews and on his blog – O’Connor’s been saying that Hera is his favorite goddess. He explains it again in the Author’s Notes to this book. “Part of it,” he writes, “is because she’s the one person that Zeus well and truly fears.” But the reason for that – and the reason she has the reputation that she does as a shrewish, jealous wife – is because Zeus is a terrible husband. The emphasis is O’Connor’s. So, though Hera’s always been my least favorite goddess, I’ve been eagerly awaiting O’Connor’s stab at changing my mind. His first two volumes, Zeus and Athena were so excellent that I had high expectations for Hera. If anyone could turn her into a hero, it was O’Connor.

This oughta be good.

Spoiler alert: he succeeds. He does it mostly with humor, a touch that he also gave to Zeus and Athena’s stories. Hera goes into her relationship with Zeus open-eyed. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less when he cheats on her, but it does allow her to have a sense of humor about things. She never winks at his infidelity though. Her humor is about keeping her sanity. Because she really does love this man and wants a good life with him, but she’s smart enough to know that she can’t. There are other reasons for her to stay with him though (it’s not a bad gig being Queen of the Gods, for one thing), so she does. And it’s heart-breaking to see how lonely that makes her as the other gods understandably stay far away from her and her relationship with Zeus. But she hasn’t forgotten how to smile and that’s a powerful thing about the way O’Connor portrays her.

Like with the Athena volume, Hera doesn’t spend all its time exclusively on its title character. Athena included stories about Perseus and Medusa; Hera spends a lot of time on the character who inspired the book’s sub-title: Heracles. My son’s also a big fan of these books, as well as a big fan of Hercules in general, so this was bedtime reading for a couple of nights. The first time I pronounced the name “Heracles,” he corrected me. “Hercules.” I couldn’t help but agree with him. I almost always prefer the Greek names of these characters over the Roman ones – Zeus instead of Jupiter; Hera instead of Juno – but Hercules is the exception, undoubtedly thanks to the comics and movies I grew up with. As O’Connor explains though, the name Heracles is an integral part of the story, since it means “Glory of Hera.” Like I said, it’s right there in the sub-title.

Where Hera’s story is all about style and trying to remain graceful under pressure (without always succeeding), Heracles’ story is of course about adventure and great deeds. All twelve of the labors get at least a couple of panels (with some of the more famous one like the Nemean lion, the Hydra, and cleaning the stables’ getting multiple pages). O’Connor also includes Heracles’ time with Jason and the Argonauts, even making homage to Ray Harryhausen’s version of that story. Because O’Connor has such an eye for depicting classic creatures in new ways, even a fight as well-known as Heracles’ battle against the Hydra feels fresh and exciting.

Heracles vs. the Nemean Lion

O’Connor’s successful at integrating Heracles’ story into Hera’s, because he lets Heracles’ tale comment on who Hera really is. I wouldn’t dream of spoiling how he does it, but O’Connor offers a profound insight that – for me, anyway – turns the Hera-Heracles relationship on its head.

A word of warning though. O’Connor’s not doing the work of a biographer here. He has a thesis – an image of Hera that he wants to create – and he picks the stories that best fit it. There are plenty of stories that do that, but he leaves out – for instance – Hera’s involvement in Heracles’ murdering his own children. (In fact, he omits the entire filicide incident.) That’s okay though. If you think trying to collate DC or Marvel history into sensible chronologies is daunting, it’s nothing compared to doing that with the scattered myths and legends of the ancient Greeks.

O’Connor’s not creating an exhaustive collection of Hera myths. He’s done a ton of research and offers a view of Hera that’s way more authentic than any I grew up with, but he never pretends that he’s been complete. It doesn’t matter though. Having seen what else O’Connor’s capable of, I suspect that – had he chosen to include Hera’s role in Heracles’ killing his kids – he could have figured out how to do that in a way that fit with his glorious interpretation of the goddess. It just would’ve been more depressing.

Captain Easy Vol. 2

Captain Easy, Soldier of Fortune: The Complete Sunday Newspaper Strips Vol. 2 (1936-1937)
by Roy Crane; edited by Rick Norwood
Fantagraphics Books, 156 pages, $39.99

Roy Crane may have been one of the progenitors of the adventure comic strip, but he stood quite apart from those who followed in his wake.

While the people who picked up his torch — folks like Milton Caniff, Hal Foster, Burne Hogarth, Alex Raymond and the like — shared a fondness for the same genre trappings — exotic locales, tough guy leading men, crazy cliffhangers, bursts of fisticuffs and pretty girls — those artists were devotees of a highly illustrative, almost photo-realistic style. It was a style that quickly became one of the most predominant in the medium, at least where melodrama was concerned, as folks like Raymond influenced folks like Joe Kubert, Alex Toth and Neal Adams, who then influenced folks like George Perez and John Romita Jr. and so forth and so on, until we end up at Rob Liefeld on one end and Greg Land on the other.

But unlike all of those folk, Crane was a cartoonist of the big foot, “plop” pratfall school, less interested in perfectly capturing than in giving a guy a funny potato nose or having stars appear in circles around someone’s noggin after getting whacked upside the head with a bat or broom or even a walking cane. He was just as interested in a quick, and maybe even occasionally cheap, laugh as he was at chronicling the rip-roaring adventure stuff.

That’s nowhere more evident than in Captain Easy Vol. 2, the second and latest collection of Sunday strips following Crane’s titular swashbuckling Southern gentleman. In the first collection, Easy was more or less the central focus of the strip, as he discovered lost civilizations, searched for underwater treasure or battled pirates. And while the strip certainly didn’t lack for humor, it was clear that both Easy and his harrowing exploits were the central focus.

That all changes ever so slightly in Vol. 2, as Easy starts to segue from lead role to supporting character in his own strip, much as Will Eisner’s the Spirit did in later years. His spotlight is pushed aside slightly so equal time can be made for a revolving cast of colorful characters, many of which bear goofy accents, eccentric habits or just downright foppish behavior.

For instance, one lengthy sequence involves a bum who actually turns out to be heir to a throne, with the joke being he really is happier and better suited to be a bum. While Easy expends a good deal of energy trying to overthrow the would-be king’s usurper and get his buminess seated on the throne, most of the strip’s center on Hoot (as he is called) and his craven, comical behavior. Most of the fighting goes on in the background.

There’s lots more folks like Hoot in here, like the millionaire who gets embroiled in a scandal, or so he thinks, the other millionaire who wants nothing more than to avoid his family, the other, other millionaire who’s got a secret formula that could change everything but seems bemused that nefarious forces would want to steal it, and so forth.

Crane draws all of this in a disarmingly charming cartoonish style. Within the confines of his 12-panel grid, he delineates a number of goofball types featuring as many silly-looking noses, bald spots, chins, hairstyles and beards as possible. A master of expressions, his favorite seems to be one where the characters eyes roll up and tongue lolls out in a self-satisfied look of rapture, usually caused by the presence of an attractive woman. Indeed the sexual desire seems so potent in these instances that you can tell if the character is going to kiss the girl or pass out from the mere thought of doing so.

And let’s be clear here, sex is never far from Crane’s mind as Captain Easy is filled near to the brim with pretty girls, all looking slightly peeved with bee-stung lips, big eyes, wavy hair and form-fitting (and stylish) outfits. Crane’s women are never pushovers or mere decoration — indeed they’re usually nail-tough dames that aren’t afraid to let you know where you stand with them, even if it means socking you on the jaw once or twice (though they often get spanked by Easy for their efforts, an act which suggests things about Crane that perhaps are best left ignored). But at the same time, Crane will frequently bring them up close to the foreground of the panel as if just to remind you (and him no doubt), “Oh, hey, pretty girl!”

Though he was one of the genre’s pioneers, Roy Crane’s Captain Easy is arguably the most idiosyncratic of all the adventure strips. But it’s this blend of loud slapstick, young-boys-styled adventure and blatant sex appeal that make Captain Easy such a winning, fun strip to read. It’s a pity Crane’s followers focused so much on getting the anatomy right. They should have spent more time on the potato noses.

Snarked #0
By Roger Langridge
kaboom!

Roger Langride, writer of the Muppet Show comics and Thor: Mighty Avenger, set the bar pretty high when he decided to use Lewis Carroll’s characters, the Walrus and the Carpenter, in his new comic, Snarked. Carroll is a tough act to follow, and there’s a big risk that the new characters will fall flat compared to the original.

Langridge has succeeded admirably, however, in not only making an enjoyable comic but making one in which his story is both an original creation and true to its roots. Carroll’s walrus and carpenter use witty-sounding conversation as misdirection while they lure unsuspecting oysters to their dinner plates. Langridge’s characters, cast as lovable swindlers in some vague past, fast-talk their way into the palace to steal some food from the king’s kitchen, but unlike in the poem, they wind up with empty stomachs after all.

Snarked #0 is a tease, a one-dollar prequel to the series, which launches with issue #1 in October. This comic features an eight-page story, plus some special bonus content—puzzles, a fake diary and newspaper that relate to the story, and all of Carroll’s poems “The Hunting of the Snark” and “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” with the original illustrations.

The story itself is a bit of fluff, but it introduces the characters and sets up the basics of the story. The Walrus is a con man, of the WC Fields subtype, who talks a good game but is a bit dim under his fine words. The carpenter is his even more dim-witted sidekick. As for the snark, people talk about it a lot but it has yet to show up.

The comic starts with the Walrus learning that the king is out of town and deciding to raid the palace kitchens. He and the Carpenter fast-talk their way past the guards only to run into the young princess and prince. They charm the royal youngsters while filling their sack with goodies, but then they get distracted…

And here, alas, is the story’s one flaw, a narrative hiccup that left me wondering if there was a page missing from my digital review copy. Langridge cuts from the Walrus gazing at a gold statue of the king to the two con men being chased from the palace. What happened? The princess’s diary in the endmatter fills in the gap (they try to steal the statue, which alerts the guards), but the comic itself completely punts on what should be a key scene. That’s a lot of narrative to show by implication only.

That aside, there’s a lot to like about this comic. Langridge’s style is easy on the eyes and he has some cute little bits of business that are straight out of the animator’s handbook, as when the princess flies up in the air rather than taking a step. Colorist Rachelle Rosenberg has developed a nice, lively palette for the book and helps bring the story to life without being intrusive.

Snarked #0 comes out in August, but June 30 is the deadline for ordering it from the June Previews. I’m going to issue a “buy” recommendation on this one, especially as it only costs a dollar. Heck, if you hate it, give it to some lucky kid; you’ll get a dollar’s worth of satisfaction from that alone.

Still not sure? Check out our own Tim O’Shea’s interview with Langridge, which includes a four-page preview of Snarked.

Mickey Mouse Vol. 1

Walt Disney’s Mickey Mouse Vol. 1: Race to Death Valley
by Floyd Gottfredson; edited by David Gerstein and Gary Groth
Fantagraphics Books, 288 pages, $29.99

It must seem difficult for younger generations to fully understand just how integral Mickey Mouse once was to the  Disney franchise. While at one time his smiling, three-circle face was the iconic symbol for the company, today that image has been shoved aside to make room for Cinderella’s castle. The Disney bread is now officially buttered by a bunch of divas and Buzz Lightyear. These days Mickey is relegated to stalwart supporting cast member, fit for entertaining the preschooler crowd on daytime television, though efforts like the recent Epic Mickey video game show an interest in making him a viable player in their stable once more.

Even for my generation (that’s Gen X for those of you keeping score), understanding Mickey’s appeal was a tough proposition at times given how bland he seemed to appear in various cartoons and other products we or our parents were expect to shell good money out for. Everything about him stank of goody-two-shoes pitchman. No wonder he eventually faded from the limelight.

Of course, twas not always thus. As has been acknowledged time and again whenever various pundits write about Walt and his empire, Mickey Mouse was something of a rapscallion at first, given to casting a lustful glance towards Minnie, socking an oversize enemy or smacking around barnyard animals for humorous (and musical) effect. That avenue quickly dried up as Mickey became more popular and dull, until the only place you could see a remnant of that character was on the comics page. There, cartoonist Floyd Gottfredson and a carousel of artists and assistants created a Mickey that was funnier and decidedly ballsier than anything found in other media.

While it would be unfair to say Gottfredson’s work has been ignored by the comics cognoscenti — anyone who’s read the strips has acknowledged Gottfredson as a master of the medium — it’s not like it’s gotten its just due, either. Most attempts at reprinting the strips have been slipshod at best, with only the occasional anthology or FCBD issue to entice readers.

Now Fantagraphics has risen to the fore with “Race to Death Valley,” the first in a multi-volume plan to release most (if not quite all, since the later work shifted to more gag-friendly material) of Gottfredson’s Mickey Mouse strips. It’s a pretty spiffy package, sharply designed and full of smart, well-written essays that provide a rich portrait of the artist and his times, as well as some great comics.

It’s interesting to note how many stumbling blocks the Disney crew ran into before they found a formula that succeeded on the newspaper pages. Initially, Disney and animator Ub Iwerks simply attempted to adapt some of their cartoons to a gag-a-day formula. That proved unsuccessful, however, (and little wonder, those initial strips are rather awkward to put it mildly) and the syndicate suggested changing the focus to make it more of an adventure strip, similar to The Gumps, which was the big thing back in 1930. This proved better fare, but Disney found the chore of writing a daily strip too much of an extra burden, he passed the job on to Gottfredson, who managed to smooth out a lot of the strips rough edges (most notably perhaps being Disney’s penchant for making awkward similes).

Which is not to say that Gottfredson’s genius appeared full blush upon the very first page. It clearly took some time for the creator to find his bearing. The intial title story suffered through a number of awkward lulls (not to mention a head-scratching denouement), though you can sense Gottfredson growing more confident as the story continues. Future storylines found the artist trying on (and discarding) a couple of supporting characters and inserting Mickey in a variety of different situations — at the circus; in a boxing ring; at a camping site, thwarting nefarious gypsies; and facing up against neighborhood bullies. At one point a heartbroken Mickey even contemplates suicide after a would-be suitor starts muscling in on his turf. By the time we get towards the end of the book, though, Gottfredson has Mickey’s basic traits — full of pluck and determination, industrious — and the strip’s rhythm – fast-paced  but not immune to the occasional bit of slapstick — down rather well.

As impressive as Gottfredson’s work is, it’s in the ancillary materials or “special features” that makes this book really shine. Editors Gary Groth and David Gerstein have gone the extra mile here so that we not only get background on the strip and Gottfredson himself, but also biographies of the numerous contributors, international translations and spin-offs, the afore-mentioned early strips, memorabilia and much more. With its shameless abundance of riches, Mickey Mouse Vol. 1 sets a new standard in reprint publication.

In writing Mickey’s adventures, Gottfredson managed to create a near-magical American small town where loopy, daring adventures lurked around nearly every corner, but you still had time to play Cupid to your friends or visit the cranky fireman that lived downtown. That, combined with Mickey’s “never say quit” attitude must have seemed awfully appealing to modern audiences. It’s a tribute Gottfredson’s talents that it still seems rather appealing today.

Garden
by Yuichi Yokoyama
Picturebox, 320 pages, $24.95.

It might seem odd at first glance to describe Yuichi Yokoyama’s work as dynamic, given his minimalist, antiseptic style that edges ever so closely to outright abstraction without ever crossing the line. Yet a close inspection of his work, particularly his latest book, Garden, shows what an utterly apt adjective it is. Nothing of significance ever happens in Yokoyama’s world, at least not in the sense we think of it when talking about narrative. There’s precious little plot per se, no threats or crisis, and no character development to speak of. Yet everything is in constant motion, in constant flux, if not already transforming then ready to be transformed into something else or at least be moved about. No one stands still in Garden, and their actions are depicting in tight close ups, off-kilter worm’s-eye-views or panoramic vistas. He’s Jack Kirby without the bombast or violence.

Garden starts out simply enough: a large group of people (or what passes for people in Yokoyama’s world) find a break in a wall in what is described as a “very good” garden and walk in and start to explore it.

And that’s about it. The build-up comes from the increasingly surreal and complex creations the group stumbles upon. Rivers made of rubber balls and tree planters made out of cars give way to rooms filled with soap bubbles, libraires that contain books that are ten feet tall or a mile wide, and a town set entirely on casters. Who made these objects and what, if any, functional purpose they serve is unimportant. Destinations and revelations are unimportant in Yokoyama’s work and honestly would only spoil the mystery. The discoveries made along the journey is all that matters.

As with Yokoyama’s previous works, New Engineering and Travel, Garden explores Yokoyama’s fascination with not only motion but architecture and landscape, and, more significantly, how mankind and technology can often blend the two in strange and unexpected ways.

Yokoyama also has an obsession with depicting things at odd angles or through strange viewpoints. In Travel it was exemplified by a lengthy sequence that showed the way rain water moved down a window and was reflected on a passenger’s face. In Garden, there are breathtaking sequences involving photos of the cast being projected on giant walls and water surfaces, a seemingly endless hall of mirrors and watching shapes twist and distort as their images are filtered through the afore-mentioned soap bubbles.

Another idiosyncratic aspect of Yokoyama’s comics is that he seems unable or at the very least unwilling to let his characters resemble normal humans. They normally feature instead some sort of bizarre or elaborate headgear. One character has a baseball for a head. Another’s head consists of the nose of an airplane. Still anothers’ seems to be a honeycomb and so on. Throughout the book, there’s a character who constantly takes pictures of the surroundings (an act which does aid have some muted significance at the end), but at about the halfway point I began to wonder if maybe he wasn’t really taking picctures, but that his head design was simply that of a guy taking pictures if you see what I mean. Such are the directions your thought processes take when reading a book of this nature.

This is the longest of Yokoyama’s works that’s been translated in English so far and also the one with the most amount of dialogue (only a few stories from New Engineering had any dialogue). It’s purely functional, however, as the characters merely comment to each other about the objects they encounter, uttering statements like “What is this place?” and “Let’s go in here.” But remember: the characters are not there to show personality or depth or growth. They are there to explore, observe and report.

It’s become a cliche to describe a cartoonist as original, but Yokoyama truly stands apart from his peers, both here and in his native country of Japan. At first glance Garden may seem foreboding, stand-offish or perhaps even downright dull. It’s anything but however. In fact, I wish mainstream comics had a tenth of the imagination and energy Yokoyama exhibits here. Despite it’s placid appearance, Garden is a one heck of a thrilling book.

Disclaimer: Picturebox publisher Dan Nadel also happens to be one of the editors at the new Comics Journal website, where I am an occasional contributor.

Onward Towards Our Noble Deaths

Onward Towards Our Noble Deaths
by Shigeru Mizuki
Drawn and Quarterly, 368 pages, $24.95.

Disclaimer: At the request of the publisher, I wrote a letter of recommendation when they were applying for a grant from a nonprofit organization to aid in the publication and promotion of this book.

Onward Towards Our Noble Deaths is nothing less than a spit in the face of militarism, war and feudal attitudes. It is an angry book, but it doesn’t shriek its indignation, though the temptation certainly seems to be there. There are few histrionics on display or scenes of outright, explicit condemnation. Rather, the book is content to let the general inhumanity on display speak for itself.

Shigeru Mizuki is not a name well known to Western readers. In fact, this is apparently the first book by him to ever reach these shores, at least in English. In his native country, however, he is beloved enough that his characters and images (and even a bronze statue of the cartoonist) dot the streets of his hometown. Indeed judging by what people both in this book and across the Interwebs have to say about him it seems perhaps only giants like Osamu Tezuka are more well known and honored.

Onward doesn’t resemble the characters Mizuki is best known for — the yokai (i.e. folklore monsters) and other creatures that make up his most famous work, Ge Ge Ge no Kitaro. Instead the book offers a somewhat fictionalized account of the author’s time spent in what would eventually become Papua New Guinea during the height of World War II (an experience that cost Mizuki one of his arms). Here, a handful of soldiers are given the task of holding the island back from American troops, a no-win situation that might seem more acceptable if it weren’t for the fact thousands of Japanese troops are being held in reserve only miles away.

At first the soldiers only seem at prey to the elements, wild animals and their own stupidity (one soldier attempts to grab a fish with his mouth and ends up choking on it). As the situation worsens, however, and the enemy draws near they are forced to make a suicide charge by their commanding officer. Mizuki makes clear this is an unwise military strategy; the captain stresses that gurilla tactics would be better, but the commanding officer is green, arrogant and vainglorious, his head full of fairy tales about samurai bravely sacrificing themselves for the greater good.

Indeed, sacrifice is frequently requested and expected by the officers, but with little rhyme, reason or reward. Mizuki portrays Japanese army life as one of not just hardship but outright abuse. The lower ranks and rookies are routinely beaten and kicked because their low status ranks them as little more than cattle. The suicide charge just underscores how dispensable they truly are. And when it all goes wrong and some soldiers make the mistake of surviving, measures are taken to ensure that dignity and decorum is preserved, even if it means a further cost of human life (or, perhaps by extension, winning the war).

Though the backgrounds are heavily detailed almost to the point of pure photorealism (a sequence of American bombs falling and wrecking havoc is one of the most stunning visual sequences in the book) the characters themselves are barely sketched out — little more than basic cartoon shapes actually. Ostensibly, this shouldn’t be too much of a problem, and indeed the juxtaposition between the cartoonish cast and the realistic setting leads to some disturbing moments, particularly in the more violent episodes, and it allows for Mizuki to indulge in the occasional bit of slapstick humor to keep things from getting too dour.

But Onward has a large cast, and despite the character guide offered in the beginning, it’s very hard to tell the soldiers apart, with only shape of their head, body size and a few other distinguishing characteristics, like glasses, to help the reader out. With one or two exceptions, no one in the cast really distinguishes themselves either. We don’t really get to know these men, their past lives and their hopes and fears the way we do in a more traditional war story. While this does help underscore the expendable nature of the grunt soliders, it also has the unfortunate effect of distancing the reader somewhat from the proceedings.

If Onward resembles any Western comic, it is almost certainly It Was the War of the Trenches, Jacques Tardi’s searing indictment of World War I. Like that book, it takes the grunt soldier’s point of view to condemn those in the higher ranks for their general savagery and forcing the men they claim to be responsible to sacrifice the lives of themselves and those around them for selfish, petty reasons. Of the two, I think Trenches is the better book, if only because you become more involved in the rank and file’s inner thoughts, but that’s not to suggest Onward suffers grievously in comparison.

I’ve criticized Drawn and Quarterly in the past for skimping on background and biographical information on their gekiga line. I’m happy to say that’s not the case here. A including a nice introduction by Fredrick Schodt, some helpful footnotes, an afterword by Mizuki and an interview with the author. All of these things add to a deeper appreciation of both the book and Mizuki’s talents and I hope D&Q continues to contribute more text pieces like these in their future manga releases.

For those fascinated by military history and WWII in particular, Onward Towards Our Noble Deaths provides a penetrating look at the suffering and absurd injustice inflicted on Japanese soldiers by their very own army. Some, I suspect, might balk at the author’s portrayal of average grunts, given the atrocity of Japanese war crimes like the Bataan Death March. While he doesn’t directly address these injustices, there can be little doubt after reading the book as to where Mizuki’s sympathies lie. You know who’s side he’s on.

BOOM!’s new series doesn’t do that exactly, but it gets awfully close and ends up presenting something that I didn’t realize I wanted, but really do. Set long after Battle for the Planet of the Apes, BOOM!’s comic shows readers a time in which apes and humans are technically equal, but bigotry towards humans and an imbalance of power in favor of the apes have created a tense situation. That doesn’t sound all that different from the last couple of movies in the series, but it is in at least one important way. Where Conquest and Battle were set more or less on then-contemporary Earth (or that’s the impression I gathered from reading Revolution), enough time has passed between then and the new series that the world’s starting to look something like the original movie.

One of the coolest things about the first film was that its version of Earth was a post-apocalyptic fantasy world. So much of what made it awesome was the look of it: the apes’ costumes, the buildings; the primitive humans. It was a world ripe for exploration, which is why it’s so disappointing that the films immediately went away from that in favor of traveling to the relative mundaneness of the past; our present. BOOM!’s series is back in the fantasy world, though it looks better than any that’s been presented on screen.

That’s all thanks to artist Carlos Magno who’s created a jungle world of spired cities, airships, and medieval fashions. Though both humans and apes are dressed interestingly, the class difference between the two is immediately apparent. Humans are dressed like commoners, though cool, swashbuckling ones with tied-up sleeves and buckles and sashes. Apes on the other hand wear intricately ornate designs, some of which would make the Virgin Queen envious. And of course there are lots of horses and gorillas to ride them. It’s a wonderful world, not just worthy of the Planet of the Apes name, but better than it.

The story is worthy too. Though there’s still some social commentary inherited from the PotA movies, that’s background for the real plot: a murder mystery. It involves an assassination that threatens the fragile peace between apes and humans. So while the stakes are deeply connected to the discussion of equality, the comic avoids preaching about that issue. Instead, writer Daryl Gregory introduces two women – one human; one ape – and gives readers a reason to care about each.

Alaya is the granddaughter of the assassinated Lawgiver of the apes. She’s mourning her loss and trying to find some answers that will let her make sense of it. She knows that the assassin was human, but doesn’t know why they targeted her grandfather, a man who faithfully endorsed peace between the two species. The human is Sullivan, a down-to-earth, free-spirited, and very pregnant woman who was raised by the Lawgiver alongside Alaya and is now the unofficial leader of the humans. She’s also trying to find out who killed the Lawgiver, partly out of respect for him; partly because she needs to prevent the apes from retaliating against all humanity. And then there’s the strained relationship between these two women who grew up as playmates and sisters. It’s potent stuff, made awesome by being set in Magno’s world.

Pepper Penwell and the Land Creature of Monster Lake
Written and Illustrated by Steph Cherrywell
SLG; $14.95

I hope it came through in my review of The Incredible Change-Bots that what I liked most about it was its ability to lovingly kid the things that Transformers fans like most about that cartoon while at exactly the same time successfully reproduce those qualities. That’s so difficult to do, which is why most of the time we see skewering, Mad Magazine-style parodies of things instead. As rare as it is though, lightning struck my reading pile again when I got to Pepper Penwell.

I wasn’t much into the kid-sleuth genre as a youngster, other than Hanna-Barbera’s Legion of Meddling Kids. I had one Hardy Boys book and a Tom Swift, but my childhood heroes were mostly grown-ups: James Bond, Sherlock Holmes; Hercule Poirot. It hasn’t been until my adult years that I’ve experienced much interest in stories about child detectives. Maybe it’s an attempt to re-experience childhood; maybe it’s just a search for great literature for my son; maybe my wife – a big Nancy Drew fan – is starting to influence me. Whatever the reasons, I’m finding myself drawn to stories about tween or teenaged detectives and titles like The Clue in the Crumbling Wall or The Case of the Mysterious Handprints.

These stories are the inspiration for Steph Cherrywell’s Pepper Penwell and the Land Creature of Monster Lake, a book about a genius girl detective who’s kicked out of her posh boarding school for uncovering so much crime at the institution that parents are beginning to pull their kids out. Having nowhere else to go, she visits her police inspector father in Monster Lake, a quiet village in the English countryside where he’s investigating the disappearance of a young girl. Pepper’s looking over the case files before she even arrives.

The Land Creature of Monster Lake isn’t a straight homage to these kinds of books. Like Incredible Change-Bots, it pokes a lot of good-natured fun at its genre. Almost all of Pepper’s old cases seem to involve weapons and tools made of ice for instance. “We simply can’t figure out how the thief did it. The only thing out of the ordinary at the crime scene is this mysterious puddle of water!” There’s also the cute, but unhelpful boy; the plucky friend; the smart-but-not-quite-as-smart-as-his-daughter father; and more suspicious villagers than you can wag a finger at.

Cherrywell doesn’t stop there either. As she says just after Pepper’s expelled, “The story of Pepper Penwell, Girl Detective was at an end. The story of Pepper Penwell, Girl Spunky Adventurer with Detective Elements, on the other hand – that one was just beginning.” And so The Land Creature of Monster Lake includes mysterious druids, an ancient vampire-hunting priest, a mad scientist, a spooky castle, and of course a weird creature that drools acid. All of this is blended together into a bona fide mystery that holds together as a story and makes sense at the end.

And it’s hilarious. The crotchety old priest for example spends his spare time writing strongly worded, illuminated letters to Stakes and Crosses Magazine protesting their selection of the Celtic as the Cross of the Decade. I laughed a lot at that guy.

Something else impressive about Pepper Penwell and the Land Creature of Monster Lake is that – like its title – it’s really long, but you don’t care. There are two-hundred pages, which might have been a chore had the book been less entertaining. But the laughs, the mystery, and the adventure are so consistently fun and funny that turning pages becomes a joy and each is as rewarding as the last. It could have gone for another two-hundred pages and I wouldn’t have minded. In fact, I hope the forty-something fake names of other books in the Pepper Penwell “series” that Cherrywell includes on the copyright page – The Dreadful Drapes, To Catch a Yorkshireman, etc. – are an indication that she’s got a lot more of this up her sleeve. I’m in the mood for more and while I could read some Nancy Drew, I’d much rather read more of this.

Incredible Change-Bots 2

As Transformers 3 draws inexorably nearer, I find myself dreading the conversations I know I’m going to have.

My friends will ask, innocently, “Have you seen Transformers 3, yet?”

“No,” I’ll reply, hoping they’ll lose interest and change the subject.

“Why not? It looks great! I thought you were into all that sci-fi, comic booky stuff.”

At which point I’ll either have to lie and say that I just haven’t gotten around to it yet (a tactic I’ll feel horrible about later), or tell the truth about hating Michael Bay movies and come off sounding like a complete snob. Which of course I am, but nobody likes defending themselves against that, especially when it’s true.

You see, my friends just don’t get it. If it’s big, if it’s blockbustery, if it’s got giant robots and it’s based on a popular cartoon from the ‘80s, they’ll go see it regardless of how crap it is. “I know it’s not great,” they’ll tell me, “but come on. It’s fun!” I could argue that last point, but by now I’m tired of the conversation.

I know I’m going to get this because I went through it two years ago with Transformers 2. I don’t want to go through it again. Fortunately, this year I have something with which to deflect the conversation into a positive direction. I have Incredible Change-Bots.

Jeffrey Brown

I passed on the first volume mostly because it came out the same year as the first Transformers movie. As I would later learn, that was my mistake, but as curious as I was to see Jeffrey “Every Girl is the End of the World for Me” Brown try out some fun, happy material instead of his usual, gloomy, autobiographical comics (and I write that as someone who likes Jeffrey Brown’s autobiographical comics, I promise), I thought that the Transformers movie would probably be enough Transformers for me that year. This was when I was just Michael Bay Skeptical instead of full-blown Michael Bay Done.

I caught occasional episodes of the Transformers cartoon as a kid, but I wasn’t a faithful watcher. Which means that while I’m not a fan, I’m familiar with the concept and – more importantly – the flavor of the show. And though it’s a parody, Incredible Change-Bots captures that flavor in a way that the movies haven’t even tried. It pokes fun at some of the goofier aspects and very gently nudges some current social and political events in the ribs, but it does it all with a wonderful, uncynical sense of humor that lets the reader have a great time while reading it. In short – and in direct contrast to those movies – it really is fun.

If you’ve read the first volume – in which the evil Fantasticons and the not-as-evil Awesomebots leave Electronocybercircuitron and come to Earth – you know what I’m talking about. You’ve thrilled to the race between the two groups of robots to establish their bases before each other. You’ve laughed at robot love and Shootertron’s assessment of why the Fantasticons always fail in battle. You’ve cried over the death of – oops. Spoilers.

If you're not laughing, I can't help you.

But you haven’t laughed as loudly or often as you will in the sequel. And not only are the jokes even better, but the story’s more touching too. The space-bound Awesomebots and Fantasticons not only have to learn to integrate, but when they accidentally return to Earth they must also face Shootertron, the former Fantasticon leader they left for dead. He’s still alive, of course, but he’s lost his memory and is living with a kindly old farm couple. Or he is until the military gets their hands on him anyway.

I know Transformers fans who are as frustrated with the movies as I am, but feel like they have to keep seeing them because they think that the movies are all there is for them right now. I’m going to loan out my of copies Incredible Change-Bots right away so that they know there’s something better. That way I can hopefully have them back again when Transformers 3 comes out so that when my less quality-conscious friends say, “Have you seen it yet?” I can happily reply, “Nope. Have you read Incredible Change-Bots?” I don’t expect I’ll deter them from seeing the movie, but I’ll at least be able to open a conversation about comics, which is a lot more fun than defending my dislike of Michael Bay.

The last page

The Arctic Marauder

The Arctic Marauder
by Jacques Tardi
Fantagraphics Books, 64 pages, $16.99

Based on what’s been translated in English so far, it seems as though are two kinds of Jacques Tardi books. The first is the dark, grim and gritty type, best represented by books like the wonderful but harrowing It Was the War of the Trenches and the steely-eyed noir West Coast Blues. The second is what I’d dub (rather awkwardly, because I can’t for the moment find better terminology) his goofier, more tongue in cheek style, best seen in the Adventures of Adele Blanc Sec series (and, to a certain extent, the satirical You Are There).

The Arctic Marauder, Fantagraphics’ latest entry in their Tardi line, easily fits in the second category. It’s a wickedly sly take on classic turn-of-the-century pulp adventures that nevertheless manages to both tweak and evoke those stories. It is, in short, a blast to read.

In many ways Marauder, which was originally published in French in 1974, points forward to the Blanc Sec series, which he would start in ’76. Like Blanc Sec, it is very clearly designed to remind readers of the type of fantastic fiction of the late 19th and early 20th century, particularly the work of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, though Marauder in particular probably owes quite a bit as well the Fantomas, Dr. Mabuse type of pulp villains that ran rampant through European novels around that time.

The story involves young, fresh-faced Jerome Plumier, who, while navigating the Arctic Ocean, comes across a icy, abandoned ship perched on top of an iceberg, just before his own vessel mysteriously explodes. One hospital recovery later, he’s searching for his missing scientist uncle, who may or may not have something to do with all of these ships blowing up in the Arctic, not to mention the mysterious old lady who keeps following him around and shooting strangers in train compartments. Could there be some sort of vast conspiracy at work? (Answer: Yes.)

Tardi writes all of this as if he was getting paid by the exclamation point. The book’s nameless narrator throws as many 50-cent adjectives out there as possible, while asking rhetorical questions like “Why are we always so disappointed in the ones we love?” If the prose were any more purple, it would bruise.

But as much fun as the overwrought text is, the art is the book’s main draw. Each page is laid out in an ornate art nouveau fashion, with circular panels, rounded corners and  symmetrical patterns giving off the languid, fluid style of the fin de siecle era. Long, narrow panels dominate the page, to add a sense of scale, particularly when icebergs, ships or ornate, villainous hideouts are involved. In order to best evoke the woodcut engravings of the era, Tardi used scratchboard style, drawing in the main characters and then using a variety of knife and comb-like tools to carve out the backgrounds. Apparently it was such an arduous chore that he swore never to do it again, but the effect here is magnificent. Marauder looks quite unlike any comic you’ve read before.

Whatever problems the current comics marketplace has (and there are plenty to be sure), I continue to be amazed and grateful that it can (after all these years) accept an artist like Tardi and a quirky book like Arctic Marauder into its fold. I hope you’ll join me in welcoming its arrival.

I had been wanting to read Parker: The Outfit, Darwyn Cooke’s adaptation of the Richard Stark (Donald Westlake) novel, but this is the busiest time of year for me, and I hadn’t gotten a review copy. So there I was, with my best-of-the-year list due the next day, with no copy of a book that I was quite sure deserved to be on the list. Fortunately, IDW, which publishes the Parker books, has just decided to put its graphic novels in the iTunes store as standalone apps, and Parker: The Outfit is available for $9.99.

In general, I think $10 is too much for an e-book, which is essentially an ephemeral thing. You don’t really buy e-books, you rent them, although it’s more of a long-term lease. I still have books that I bought 30 years ago; the same will not be true of my e-books. That said, ten bucks for the Parker book is better than a 50% savings off the price of the print book. And it’s Darwyn Cooke, dammit. So I bit.

Best ten bucks I ever spent.

Let’s talk content first. Parker: The Outfit is a tale of revenge, pure and simple: Someone in the criminal syndicate known as the Outfit has put a hit out on Parker, and he sets out to avenge himself and put the threat to rest permanently. This is, of course, preposterous, but everything about Parker is preposterous. He’s the perfect antihero, capable of taking on three guys at a time and leaving them all bloody without ever getting a hair out of place.

So when a hit man surprises a Parker in his hotel room, Parker handily dispatches the guy without firing a shot, instead throwing his gun across the room to hit him in the head, knocking him into the wall hard enough to cause a concussion. That sets the action in motion, as Parker quickly figures out who ordered the hit and works his way up the chain of command to the head of the Outfit.

Parker is a super-thief, specializing in complicated jobs, and before the action begins in The Outfit, he has gotten plastic surgery to make himself unrecognizable to his enemies. He bankrolls this surgery with an armored-car robbery that involved several double-crosses and left one of his confederates dead. (This story was told in the one-shot comic The Man with the Getaway Face and is included as a flashback in this book.) Only that confederate, Slim Lasker, didn’t die and was the one who gave Parker up to the Outfit.

Parker quickly dispatches Slim and then does something that seems quaint now: He sends letters to all his friends, asking them to rob the Outfit’s businesses (gambling joints and roadhouses), just to harass them. Then, with a bit of help from his friends, he goes after the leadership of the organization.

In one way, the story is straightforward: Parker meets his enemies and takes them on one by one. He’s clever of course, and much of the entertainment in this book comes from simply sitting back and watching him work. Cooke breaks it up in the middle of the book by presenting several capers as if they were in a magazine, a technique he also used in The New Frontier: Each is presented in a different style, the first as a prose story, the others as little cartoons, and each story carefully details how the crime is pulled off. It not only breaks up the story, it allows him to present a complicated bit of narrative in a simple format.

All these individual jobs are a break in the main storyline—they don’t push the plot forward at all, but they are entertaining in their own right, especially for those of us who are young enough not to remember how the numbers racket actually worked. Cooke’s technique of pulling them out and handling them in a separate style works well; if the reader wants to skip them, it’s easy to see where the main narrative picks up again.

Anyone thinking of adapting a prose book to graphic novel format should study the Parker books, because Cooke does a superb job of not just illustrating the story but retelling it in the new medium, making full use of all its strengths. This starts with his style, which reflects the setting of the books (1963); his choice of black and white and a single color, as well as his drawing style, is strongly reminiscent of magazine illustration of the time. He uses paneling to control the pacing of the story in an almost cinematic fashion, using full-page establishing shots, focusing in tightly on details, and breaking down complicated movements into a series of small frames, almost like an animated film. He manages to include enough of Parker’s narration to make this feel like a first-person story without getting overly wordy. And he creates a quirky look for each of the side characters—this is not a book where you can’t tell one character from another.

While I have no doubt the print edition is a beautiful book, the digital version has a lot to be said for it. IDW preserved the book’s vintage feel (even on the iPad) by using a creamy color for the background rather than stark white; it also makes the book a bit easier on the eyes. Cooke’s sharp strokes show up well in this backlit format. I wasn’t sure if the iPad would be a comfortable fit for a long-form book, but it flows smoothly and it was an effortless read. The app only allows the reader to turn pages by swiping, not tapping, but that’s a minor inconvenience. The “see all” tab at the top of the page allows the reader to see the whole book in thumbnails, which makes navigation easier if you want to flip back and check something.

Overall, I think ten bucks for this book was a good deal. It’s a high quality book, presented well, and I’ll definitely read it more than once. I would like to be able to lend it to people without handing them my iPad, but the app is a big enough savings over the price of the print book (even online) to overcome that minor inconvenience.

The Zabime Sisters

The Zabime Sisters
by Aristophane
First Second, 96 pages, $16.99

The Zabime Sisters follows a day in the life of three girls who live on the Caribbean island nation of Guadeloupe. That description will, I suspect, cause many readers to assume that this is a book heavy in political and social import, as we’ve become come to expect any graphic novel set in or focused on a culture that’s not specifically North America or Eastern Europe to be some harrowing tale of life lived under a harsh totalitarian regime, poverty, colonialism, or some other real-world horror. But Zabime Sisters is not that book at all.

If there’s any other comic it resembles, it might be the Aya trilogy, published by Drawn & Quarterly. Like that series, Sisters avoids simple, negative assumptions about race and culture to tell an easily identifiable story without sacrificing period details. At the same time, however, it avoids Aya’s soap opera stylings in favor of something more naturalistic and meandering.

From 'Zabime Sisters'

In fact, it more or less avoids any plot whatsoever. Summer vacation having officially begun, the book follows the three Zabime sisters as they spend the day exploring their neighborhood, playing in the nearby creek, climbing trees, meeting up with friends and getting into (or narrowly avoiding) trouble. They and their friends and acquaintances gossip, worry, threaten and offer advice. A potential, much-discussed fight at the schoolyard between the local bully and an unknown kid is the only object of suspense that ties the book together. Like a lazy summer day, Sisters seems content to simply follow the children wherever they happen to wander to and not push them in one direction or another too hard.

And at this point you might be thinking “Oh no, not another nostalgia-fueled, sun-dappled, Hallmark tear-stained potrayal of childhood, thank you very much.” But you’d be wrong again. Not that the Zabime Sisters doesn’t indulge in a bit of nostalgia — it’s clear Aristophane had a lot of affection for his cast and that he’s drawing upon his own experiences here — but it isn’t trapped or weighed down by it either. Any potential wistfulness or simpering sentimentality is handily dispensed with by Aristophane’s sharp observation of how children interact, think and behave.

From 'The Zabime Sisters'

The key is the omniscient narration, which frequently clues us in on the characters’ various emotional states and trains of thought while the action transpires. As a result, we discover a lot about the individual cast members — not just the sisters, but virtually every character, to the point where the book feels less about the three girls than it does about the group of kids as a whole. Aristophane’s narration picks up on their insecurities and fears (the bully, for instance, really a bit of a coward who just wants to prove himself) and thus, underscores the casual cruelty the children inflict on each other. The children in Zabime display an all-too-familiar ignorance, by which I mean not that they’re stupid or uneducated, but that they seem blithely unaware of the sort of influence and repercussions their taunts and insults and rumors they spread have. Significantly, only one boy seems to have the awareness to stand apart from the fray, and he chides one of the sisters for stealing mangoes and her callousness towards a younger child.

It’s telling perhaps that, except for the Mother in the beginning of the book, there are no adults anywhere to be found. They are much discussed and feared and little understood, but they are not present. Perhaps to compensate for their absence, the children in Zabime are often seem attempting to behave in what they believe are adult ways — a lot of their actions are obviously mimicking adult behavior — but like many kids they seem unsure and hesitant about how to best do so, and tend to mimic the bad behavior more often than the good.

I’ve spent a good deal of time talking about the story and themes of Sisters but not very much about the art. Which is a bit shameful of me as the art is an integral, perhaps the most essential part of the book. Employing a dry brush technique, Aristophane fills his panels with slashes of thick black ink in a manner that at first seems hurried but upon closer detail reveals a good deal of care and consideration. The way he is able to convey a worried look or the detail on a dress from a collection or rough, slashing lines is nothing short of astonishing. His splotchy panels, filled with foliage and background details, constantly threaten to become overcrowded or too busy but never do. This is one of those book that draws impressed gasps upon first opening.

This is the only work by French Aristophane that’s been translated in English so far. It’s also the last work he completed before dying in 2004. It seems a tragedy that it took this long to get his work overseas (Sisters was originally published in France in 1996) not to mention that someone of his artistic caliber was lost to us so soon. Hopefully the release of Sisters in America will draw more interest in him and his work. This is a deeper, more thoughtful book than first glance or a one-sentance summation can suggest. It’s too knowing, too heartfelt and too honest to be dismissed.

The Great Treasury of Christmas Comic Book Stories
Edited by Craig Yoe
IDW, 176 pages, $34.99

When I was a kid, the word “treasury” promised delights beyond measure, and Christmas was the time when treasuries—of comics, fairy tales, Christmas stories, and other delights—showed up under the tree.

Craig Yoe’s The Great Treasury of Christmas Comic Book Stories is a throwback to those days when a big, fat, colorful book was the centerpiece of the Christmas swag. It is very much a baby-boomer book, chock full of colorful stories from the 1940s and 1950s, but most of the material has aged pretty well and there are some solid classics in there. Of course there are some clinkers, too, but that’s the way of anthologies.

Most notable among the good stuff are several stories by Walt Kelly. His Santa tales are a far cry from Pogo, with a massive, good-natured Santa surrounded by cherubic elves, while his winsome animal stories are more familiar but all sweetness and no bite. The most imaginative of his stories is “The Great Three-Flavored Blizzard,” a classic fairy-tale type story in which weather problems threaten Christmas (no snow, no sleigh) until an elf and the Easter Bunny solve the problem by using ice cream for snow.

John Stanley, the longtime Little Lulu writer (and sometime artist), is another well known creator who is well represented in these pages. His work is more uneven: In the slapstick “Santa’s Problem,” three bumbling polar bears try to help out at the North Pole, with calamitous results, and in “Santa’s Return Trip,” one of Santa’s elves (all of whom could be extras from a Little Lulu story) ends up getting wrapped as a gift by accident. The art in these stories is confident and professional. “The Helpful Snowman,” on the other hand, is awkward and poorly drawn, with the slightest of stories.

There are some other well known names here as well, including Richard Scarry, who retells “The Shoemaker and the Elves” in a charmingly simple style, and Klaus Nordling, who wrote and drew a very fifties-style tale about pirates at the North Pole.

Most of the stories ooze period charm, but a few stick out rather oddly among the sugarplums and stockings. Al Fago’s “Atomic Mouse in The Night Before Christmas,” in which Atomic Mouse delivers a sound drubbing to a faux Santa, seems incongruously violent in this book, especially as it follows a more straightforward adaptation of Clement Clark Moore’s famous poem. Dan Noonan’s “Teddy Bear in Toyland” is another weirdly violent tale in which disgruntled toys knock out a guard at the local arsenal and steal a sack of guard uniforms so they can bust out of Toyland and avoid ending up under some kid’s Christmas tree.

The strangest story in the whole book, though, is Nordlings hashish dream of a tale, “Joe and Jennifer in The Wonderful Snowhouse.” This starts out as an absolutely typical 1950s kid story with a generic boy and girl and a talking snowman, but things get weird right way when the snowman, rather than telling them where to get a Christmas tree, suggests that they are very tired and should take a nap in his house, a small dome made of snow. Like the Tardis, this house is bigger inside than out, with tunnels that lead to a roomful of confused Santas, a frozen pond, and a homesick fortuneteller. The space stretches out in dreamlike ways, people pass through walls, and in one scene, it actually looks like little Joe is smoking a joint. Even the ending, in which the gypsy’s stove melts the house and the children flee, leaving the snowman in a crumpled heap of slush and soggy accessories, feels kind of surreal. Had this been published 15 years later, it would have fit right in to the psychedelic era; as it is, it works as both a strange kid story and fun for the grownups.

The book also includes a highly compressed, Classics Illustrated-style rendering of “A Christmas Carol” that looks like it owes a debt to the classic 1951 movie starring Alistair Sim, and another realistic version of the nativity story (it’s odd to see St. Matthew listed as the writer of a comic). These are OK in an eat-your-peas sort of way—here, read your classics and then we’ll have more elves.

The book itself is big and beautiful, quite suitable for a holiday gift for young or old alike. The paper quality is probably far better than the originals, and the page size is certainly bigger, which lends the comics a certain clarity but also a harshness—the colors come across as too pure and gaudy in some comics, and the smears and registration errors are very noticeable in places. In one story, the art seems to have bled through or transferred from one page to the next, although it’s hard to see if that is an artifact of the original or a problem with the reproduction in the current book.

There is one thing this book lacks, and that’s context. Editor Craig Yoe has presented each story exactly as it originally appeared, which means that bylines are absent except in the table of contents, and the original publication data is only on the copyright page. It would have been nice to have a brief introduction to these comics, putting them in context and telling a bit about the creators.

But that’s a minor point. This is a really, really nice book, and the stories are simple enough for children yet, in many cases, smart enough for adults as well—at least, for adults who have a fondness for vintage comics to begin with. The bright colors, cute kids, even cuter animals, and good-natured stories make this the comics equivalent of cookies and milk, comfort food for the holiday season.

CBGB
By various authors, edited by Ian Brill
BOOM! Studios, $14.99

CBGB is a graphic novel anthology of short stories about the legendary punk nightclub CBGB and the people who hung out there. The music of the era plays a huge part in the stories, especially the introductory tale, but overall the book is really about the things that went with the music—drugs, sex, ambition, rebellion, being young and living in New York City—and most of the characters are on the floor watching the music, not onstage playing it.

For an anthology about punk rock and New York life in the 1970s, CBGB is remarkably colorful. The art leans more toward neon colors than the blacks and grayed-out colors one might expect, although there is quite a range of styles and story types.

The first story sets the scene and provides a mini-introduction to the genre. It’s told as a parody of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, with two snarky ghosts of punk rock past, one a hipster and the other a stickler for facts, who walk a hapless would-be musician through the history of punk rock and of CBGB itself.

Most of the rest of the stories are about what the music means to people, rather than the experience of making it. “Rock Block,” written by Ana Matronic and illustrated by Dan Duncan, starts out with a description of the down-at-the-heels feeling New York had in the 1970s and then focuses on a young would-be novelist who goes to CBGB to escape her writer’s block and ends up finding her muse there. In “Advice to a Young Artist,” written by Robert Steven Williams and Louise Staley and drawn by Giorgio Pontrelli, a college professor smokes a joint and travels back in time to his CBGB days, where he comes to a new realization—and inadvertently changes history. And “Count 5 or 6,” written by Kelly Sue DeConnick and illustrated by Chuck BB, is a cheerful, cartoony story about a young girl who comes to the big city and finds love in the unlikeliest of places—CBGB.

Not all the stories work this well. Kim Krizan’s “Of and Concerning the Ancient, Mystical, and Holy Origins of That Most Down and Dirty 20th Century Rock and Roll Club” is, just like its title, a tad pretentious and way too long. The story of primitive musicians rebelling against their tribes is nice, but there isn’t enough there to sustain the number of pages. Fortunately, Toby Cypress pulls it off with beautiful, colorful art.

The weakest story is also, in some ways, the most touching. “Oozi-Suzi-Q-Tip,” written and drawn by Mr. Sheldon, is about a girl who is nervous because she is seeing her favorite band for the first time, and their music always evokes an unwanted response. That’s a great theme—this is the only story that admits that underneath the studied cool and gritty exterior was a bunch of awkward teenagers and young adults. Unfortunately, the physical response is bizarre and icky: The girl’s ears blow up and turn into giant vaginas. As the crowd jeers, the lead singer of the band breaks the fourth wall and reminds them that their music is all about being yourself, and that means accepting differences. The crowd roars their approval and shoots phallic beams of approval into all Suzi’s orifices. It works really well on one level but on another, it’s just gross.

There is a wistfulness to many of these stories. CBGB closed down in 2006, and the punk-rock scene ended many years before that. The book takes a romantic view of a time and a place that were better to look back on than to have lived through, a time when anything was possible, as long as you wanted it bad enough, where everyone was cool, the music was hot, and rebellion was everything.

American Vampire Vol. 1

When DC announced it was shuttering the Wildstorm and Zuda imprints back in September, after having announced the shutterings of the CMX line less than six months ago (and only two years since they canceled the failed Minx experiment), all eyes started moving uneasily towards Vertigo, the first and final imprint DC had left. It didn’t help that DC had also announced they were going to be absorbing certain Vertigo characters like Swamp Thing back into the superhero fold. Add to that the recent cancellation of such series as Air, Unknown Soldier and Greek Street, and many ended up wondering not just if Vertigo was being sized up for the chopping block but when the ax would fall (I’ve got $20 in the office pool down for May 2011).

Mark Oliver Frisch aside, we don’t have access to DC’s actual, total sales numbers, however, so it’s nigh-impossible to tell exactly how well Vertigo books are selling and how essential the line is to DC as a publishing and licensing entity. Perhaps the only  way we can make any assumptions at all about the health of the line is to look at the comics that Vertigo has published in the past few months. Which is exactly what I plan on doing after the jump.

American Vampire Vol. 1
By Scott Snyder, Stephen King and Rafael Albuquerque
Vertigo, 192 pages, $24.99

If Vertigo is known for anything, it’s as a publisher of fantasy/horror comics. There’s some wiggle room there, of course, which I’ll get to in a moment, but many longtime comics readers still associate the imprint with titles like Sandman, Preacher and Hellblazer (still going strong after all these years).

So it’s not too surprising then that Vertigo would release something like American Vampire. Not only does the book offer a clever hook and supernatural twist that their books always seem to thrive on (in this case, American vampires are stronger and more rapacious than their European brethren and can handle sunlight), but it’s got the added bonus of being co-written by a noted prose author. And not just any author mind you, but “master of horror” Stephen King himself! If ever the phrase “tailor made” seemed appropriate, it would be with the joining of this particular comic with this publisher.

Volume One, which collects the first five issues of the series, lays some pretty solid groundwork. While far from being frightening or even slightly unnerving, American Vampire remains a solid page-turner in the best Vertigo tradition. The main thrill here is watching protagonist and newbie vamp Pearl take out Clint Eastwood-style the old school, European bloodsuckers that have wronged her. Writer Snyder uses this classic revenge motif to good effect, turning Pearl into a sympathetic protagonist (who still kicks ass) and playing up the old world/new world analogies enough so they’re front and center, but aren’t rubbed in your face ad nauseum either. In fact, the King-penned sections focusing on the origin of the first American vampire, Skinner Sweet, and set in the Old West, aren’t nearly as engrossing or entertaining. I don’t know if Vampire can maintain that level of interest once it moves away from Pearl’s thirst for revenge onto other characters and plot lines but certainly the potential is there for this to be one of the more solid Vertigo series of late.

The Green Woman
by Peter Straub, Michael Easton and John Bolton
160 pages, $24.99

The Green Woman

Of course, Vertigo has published just as many bad fantasy horror comics as it has good ones. Case in point is The Green Woman, a stand-alone graphic novel that is almost the mirror opposite of Vampire. It even has a well-known horror author attached to the project, in this case Peter Straub.

But where American Vampire plays it quick, clever and breezy, Green Woman is a dull, confusing slog. Moving back and forth in time, the book focuses on the cat and mouse games between a psychic cop and a uber-deadly serial killer. Lots of allusions to previous Straub books are dropped, which only serve to obfuscate unfamiliar readers all the more. Bolton’s stiff, overly photo-referenced art doesn’t help matters much either — he’s a consummate craftsman, but doesn’t seem to understand sequential storytelling much at all. Several sequences are difficult to follow because of Bolton’s choice of perspective or color and he does little to guide the reader in terms of setting and time. In many ways, Green Woman calls to mind not Vertigo’s past successes as much as previous failures — ponderous painted tomes like Shadows Fall and Faultlines. It doesn’t make one fearful for the imprint’s future as much as it does warily remind them of past missteps.

Revolver
by Matt Kindt
Vertigo, 192 pages, $24.99

Revolver

Lately Vertigo has been (wisely I think) attempting to extend its range by courting cartoonists from the indie and alt-comix side of town, most notably folks like Harvey Pekar and Jeff Lemire. Matt Kindt of Super Spy fame is the latest player to join the team, with his sci-fi-ish graphic novel Revolver. Again, the book rests on a clever (and — dare I say it — movie-ready) hook — a seemingly average man inexplicably finds himself moving between two parallel universes. In one he’s an average schlub with a dead-end job and materialistic girlfriend. In the other, he’s literally fighting for his survival in a post-apocalyptic landscape.

I have a bit of a problem with one of the central themes of the book, which seems to be “we spend a lot of our time focusing on useless things and not enough on the stuff that matters.” I don’t need to be thrust into a doomsday scenario to know that and it cheapens the horror of the alternate world by having it exist solely as a macguffin to allow the main character to re-assess his values. To his credit, Kindt seems to understand that and attempts to subtly address it, especially in the finale, which suggests that learning what’s important doesn’t always result in a cheery ending or lack of bloodshed. Despite his best efforts, however, the book ultimately feels a bit too pat, both in its themes and its characterizations. I think for many the central conceit and Kindt’s speedy, rough-hewn art will be enough of a draw, but I doubt the book will resonate for them beyond a rather superficial level.

A Sickness in the Family
by Denise Misa and Antonio Fusa
Vertigo, 192 pages, $19.99

A Sickness in the Family

Of course, Vertigo has been known to dabble in other genres beyond fantasy and horror. The success of 100 Bullets led the powers that be to start a line of crime/noir books, the rather obviously titled Vertigo Crime line (imprints within imprints!), A Sickness in the Family, being the latest example. I haven’t exactly fallen in love with the Vertigo Crime books up till now, as they’re so mired in genre that they seem unable to avoid even the hoariest cliches.

Sickness is rather enjoyable though. The book is basically Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None set amidst a dysfunctional family. So yes, there are few surprises plot-wise, but I liked how the characters’ various rivalries and tics, as broadly telegraphed as they were, played off each other over the central plot, especially in the case of youngest son Sam and his issues over being adopted. There are a number of plot holes and I’m not sure I buy the final denouement, as poetically apt as it may be, but the bottom line is Sickness manages to succeed as the slyly dark little page-turner it sets out to be.

The most striking thing about the book, however, was the awful lettering job by Clem Robins. Robins uses an unnatural, stiff, computerized sans serif font that (much like the recent Twilight adaptation) constantly called attention to itself and divorced me from the reading experience. Even if this wasn’t their intention, what this sloppy decision said to me was “Vertigo doesn’t care enough about this line to bother with getting decent lettering for their books.” (I should note here that Robins does an excellent lettering job on many other Vertigo books, including the one listed at the bottom of this post, which, I think makes his choices here seem all the more peculiar and jarring.) As a result, even if Vertigo doesn’t fall, I don’t have high hopes for Vertigo Crime to make it to 2012.

Dark Rain
by Mat Johnson and Simon Gane
Vertigo, 160 pages, $24.99.

Dark Rain

Although not a part of Vertigo’s crime line, Dark Rain also fits neatly into the genre, in this case the traditional heist format. It’s about an odd-couple pair of ex-cons who try to rob a New Orleans bank during the Katrina floods only before a bunch of Blackwater-style mercenaries get there first. When I first heard of the book’s plot, I groaned inwardly. Wasn’t Katrina a horrific and dramatic enough story without the need to slap on such a tired plot device?

But Dark Rain proves to be a gripping and solid bit of entertainment. Johnson (whose previous work includes Incognegro, a book I didn’t much care for) manages to avoid coming off like he’s exploiting the tragedy for the sake of a quick read, mainly by filling his cast with relatable, diverse characters and harkening back to the seriousness of the real event without feeling like a cheap TV movie of the week. He also finds a near perfect collaborator in Gane, whose rubbery line allows for just enough exaggeration to imbue his characters with life but is realistic enough to make the reader feel like the story is, in fact, taking place in New Orleans and not Anytown, U.S.A. There are a million ways Dark Rain could have gone horribly wrong, and while it’s far from perfect (the central villain is about as unsubtle as you can get) it manages to avoid enough pitfalls to be worthy of recommendation.

Cuba, My Revolution
by Inverna Lockpez and Dean Haspiel
Vertigo, 144 pages, $24.99

Cuba: My Revolution

But never mind crime, horror and fantasy! We know what kinds of comics really sell and get all the praise, at least among the comics cognoscenti — memoirs! Just about every publisher that’s not Marvel seems to have its eye on nabbing the next Persepolis or Fun Home these days. Hence, Cuba: My Revolution, Lockpez’s story of how as a young Cuban woman she initially welcomed Fidel’s new Marxist government, only to slowly awaken to the censorship, torture and injustice the new regime brings.

There’s no question that Lockpez’s story is harrowing. She suffers through a vast array of ugly, brutal experiences that would fell lesser folk on her quest for freedom. But the story falters under the weight of its ambitions. The supporting characters frequently talk in clumsy swaths of exposition and, except for the protagonist, never coalesce as characters. Haspiel does what he can, and his angular, dynamic art style serves the story well, particularly in a sequence where Lockpez is locked up and tortured. But the book feels cluttered, like it’s in too much of a hurry to move to the next plot point, and there’s never any room to rest on a particular moment or sequence. As a result, I felt a constant remove from Lockpez and her tale — I was constantly aware that I was being told a story and rarely felt like I was immersed in one, if you can see the difference. Lockpez’s story is important and worth telling, but it deserves a better rendition than what’s provided here.

How to Understand Israel in 60 Days or Less
by Sarah Glidden
Vertigo, 208 pages, $24.95.

How to Understand Israel in 60 Days or Less

As almost a direct counterpoint to Cuba, Vertigo just released How to Understand Israel in 60 Days or Less, an involving, informative and surprisingly moving tale of the author’s travels in the country during a “Birthright” tour.

Sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, Glidden portrays herself as an eternal skeptic (to put it mildly), constantly questioning what she’s being told and seen by her various tour guides and desperately trying to sift through the hype and propaganda to find some sort of truth about the country and its place in the world. What she discovers, of course, is that her pre-conceived notions are challenged time and again, and that the issues and people are much more complicated than first glance would suggest.

Strictly adhering to a nine-panel grid, and continually framing her subjects at a mid-level, Glidden provides a variety of viewpoints and voices without anyone coming off as a cardboard spokesperson for a particular point of view. Her graceful watercolor art seems overly minimal at first but manages to convey a wealth of detail and experiences the further into the book you delve. While Glidden may portray herself as confused and searching, Understand a smart, assured book that refuses to shy away from tough questions or simplistic viewpoints. It’s one of the best things Vertigo has published in years.

—-

So what have we learned from this little tea-reading exercise? What do these books suggest about Vertigo’s position in the market? Is there any sort of vision or editorial guidance that ties them all together? Because if you can see a connecting thread here you’re better at this industry analysis stuff than I am.

And I think that’s really the central problem. Looking over these titles, the best I can come up with is Vertigo is attempting a “see if it sticks to the wall” approach, which doesn’t inspire a ton of confidence in their viability as a publisher. Of course, they’ve always attempted to expand beyond their genre comfort zone – remember, they published Peter Kuper’s The System way back in the ‘90s – but regardless of quality, the above mish-mosh of genres, styles and stories doesn’t suggest any overarching editorial guidance or vision the way other publishers, be they Fantagraphics or Marvel, seem to have.

I suppose one uniting thread is the fact that, except for Vampire (and, I suppose, Israel, which Glidden originally published as a series of mini-comics), these are all designed as done-in-one graphic novels. That’s an understandable shift in format, as interest in pamphlet-style comic books that don’t involve the Big Two’s superheroes appears to be withering away, but there’s a double-edged sword here in that books serialized over time have a greater chance at generating conversation and interest. A book like Vampire, it seems to me, can build up buzz more consistently and slowly over time, and stand a better chance of generating new readers long after its initial release date, as Y The Last Man and Fables continue to do. A book like Dark Rain, on the other hand, could well be forgotten a month after it comes out.

That’s if they even get talked about at all. With all the different kinds of comics being published these days, both online and off, getting your book noticed above the din is tougher than ever, even for a company like DC. It doesn’t help that, except for Israel, few of these books rise into the truly inspired territory. The best of them enter a middlebrowish “good read” territory, which, while absolutely nothing to sniff at, isn’t necessarily enough to result in strong sales. There are an awful lot of “good reads” around these days, all clamoring for equal time.

As hard as it is to ascertain what sort of future Vertigo has in DC’s brave new world of comics publishing, I’m not feeling terribly encouraged by their current output to suggest they’re home free. Quality aside, the vast variety and style of these books suggest a bit of desperation, of searching about for a “sure, winning formula” more than it does a willingness to experiment. I hope I’m wrong. As down as I can get on it at times, I do think Vertigo has been a valuable imprint and can continue to be in the future. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

Acme Novelty Library #20 by Chris Ware

Acme Novelty Library Vol. 20
by Chris Ware
Drawn & Quarterly, 72 pages $23.95

(Note: I shall endeavor to be as spoiler-free as possible, but obviously if you’re the sort who would rather dive into a book like this knowing as little as possible then you may not want to click on that “continue reading” link.)

Acme Novelty Library #20 is about an asshole. The book’s main character, one Jordan W. Lint, is a bully, a coward, an adulterer, a drunkard, is frequently callous and cruel to friends and family, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In some regards he is an outright monster.

And yet, Ware manages to make us not only care, rather deeply, about this unlikeable figure but also sympathize and, to a surprising degree, understand his plight. Without condoning or excusing his behavior, Ware manages to offer a portrait that is nuanced enough to make us reflect upon our own foibles and fears. If that’s not the mark of a great artist, I’m not sure what is.

The book follows Lint’s entire life, from birth to death, in chronological order, with each page (more or less) focusing on a significant event from each successive year (again, more or less). And so we begin with a collection of small black and red circles (the only colors babies can recognize) that coalesce into a face. As the pages move on, abstract forms and images slowly become more concrete, and we watch as Jordan grows up with a rather large chip on his shoulder due to his mother’s untimely death and his father’s distant demeanor and constant disapproval. But we also see how that chip hardens and affects his life decisions as he moves into adolescence, adulthood and old age. By the end of the book, we feel we have a complete picture of Lint, despite only getting such brief encounters with him.

Or perhaps not. Ware reminds us several times throughout the book how memory and perception can alter our knowledge of any particular event. An early, significant childhood memory is thrown asunder at one point, and a horrific buried memory comes to the surface towards the end and throws (or perhaps in a sad way confirms) everything we have assumed about Lint up till that point. Ware deconstructs Lint’s life as much as he builds it up, reminding us that there may be issues and that we are not privy to (much is hinted but little seen about his father’s alcoholism for instance).

This type of story arc is a direction that Ware has been moving toward ever since Jimmy Corrigan first took shape. He’s always been an artist concerned with showing you the “big picture,” how things connect and how characters’ past experiences inform their present behavior. The old saw that you can’t really know a person, any person, until you’ve seen his or her whole life laid out before you is one that Ware seems to take great stock in. So in Jimmy Corrigan we not only see Jimmy’s childhood past, but learn learn about his grandfather’s as well, and even get to see his genealogy spread out over several pages. In Building Stories we follow the unnamed one-legged woman over several years as she moves past depression, gets married, had children and starts to build a life for herself. In the previous chapter of Rusty Brown (which Lint is actually a part of) we went back in time to learn about Rusty’s father, thereby shedding light on Rusty’s present and future. And now Jordan, one of Rusty’s various school tormentors, has his life laid open before us.

Ware brings a variety of visual motifs, both old and new, to the fore here. In addition to the afore-mentioned early childhood abstractions, reoccurring visual metaphors — a red smudge that serves at various times as blood, ink and illness; little black ants that creep along the page — abound. Jumbled words and images clutter the outside of various panel borders to signify Lint’s random thoughts and emotional state.

And then there’s the penultimate, go-for broke section, a stunning five-page sequence where Ware completely alters his style completely, adopting a Gary Panter-esque, surreal primitivism in order to fully convey the stark emotional and physical horror of the scene in question (which I wouldn’t dream of giving away).

If any complaints towards the book could be made it might be that it’s perhaps a little too psychologically pat. Ware seems to draw easy lines between Lint’s ugly, guilty behavior and the death of his mother, his father’s indifference and an early adolescent tragedy.I think there’s the chance that some readers will think Ware is being a bit too simplistic in laying out the case for how Lint ends up where he does.

But is that really the case here? Again, Ware constantly drops hints that Jordan’s memory is selective and thus not to be trusted as gospel. To put it another way, just because Lint feels emotionally wounded doesn’t mean he actually was. As Sean Collins noted in his review, the notion of how we attempt to narrate our lives, and how that narration ultimately fails to cohere properly or provide any sense of truth or solace seems to be one of the central themes of the book.

But even if Ware is asking readers to connect the dots in a rather simplistic fashion, there’s still no question that Acme Novelty Library #20 remains a stylistic tour de force and one of the most striking and emotionally devastating books of the year. It’s become very easy to dismiss Ware lately with a wave of the hand and a “Yeah, he’s great. Seminal influence. Move on.” We label him as a cold or indifferent artist, or one who is so immersed in solipsism, nostalgia and aspirations of high (i.e. pretentious) art that he’s incapable of achieving the goals he so grandly sets out for himself as an artist. I think Lint will finally quiet a lot of those criticisms. At least I hope it does.