A Rough Kind Of Magic : Frances Cordelia Beaver’s “On A Cute One”

Posted on February 16, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

Can earnestness and heart alone carry a 600-plus-page graphic novel?

It’s a question I’d never thought to ask myself before, but was forced to upon completion of Philadelphia-based cartoonist Frances Cordelia Beaver’s new self-published tome On A Cute One, both because of where and how the book shines and where and how it comes up short. To be clear : what it does well, it does really well, and the ways in which it misses the mark aren’t “deal-breakers” by any stretch, so maybe I’ve answered my own introductory question here already, but nevertheless, let’s dig a bit deeper. After all, this is an ambitious work and has earned the right to be examined closely —

It’s clear right from the copyright indicia here that Beaver is straddling a fine line between memoir and fantasy, in a manner referred to in the literary world as “auto-fiction,” so it’s a given that many of protagonist Cordie’s thoughts, feelings, and experiences are rooted firmly in the artist’s own — but then there’s the whole Gorgon thing she’s got going on so, ya know, expect a fair degree of creative license, as well. Essentially, this is a travelogue relating a cross-country-and-back-again journey Cordie takes on a “Superliner” train (I guess a kind of Amtrak on steroids?), but it’s peppered with flashbacks and reminiscences generally related to her coming out and subsequent process of transition, so in that respect it has some thematic resonances and commonalities with celebrated recent works such as Maia Kobabe’s Gender Queer and L. Nichols’ Flocks — but to Beaver’s credit, she largely eschews delivering a “primer” of sorts on issues relating to the non-binary community in favor of speaking to audiences who may or may not be trans themselves, but at least have a degree of social familiarity with trans individuals. Her narrative starting point, then, is not with early-days gender dysphoria but rather is considerably, for lack of a more readily available term, further down the road. That’s refreshing, as are Beaver’s emotively-articulated points of view on various issues trans folks face, particularly her detailed examination of trans women’s quest for acceptance among cis women, which is a recurring theme here that she deals with in an admirably open, honest, and candid fashion.

In fact, candor in general is something this book certainly doesn’t lack — Beaver’s authorial tone is remarkably frank and has no time for pretense, which is something I think we can all appreciate. What I will say, however, is that she probably could have used the services of an editor here. The pacing of the marrative is generally relaxed and fluid, but every once in awhile she’ll insert a jarring page loaded down with far too much exposition for its own good that puts the breaks on the rhythm of her storytelling, and I also found some of her flashback scenes to be handled a bit — -well, perhaps not so much clumsily as confusedly. There are instances where it’s not really clear at first when something is occurring and again, it seems to me that a pair of editorial eyes could have helped with that.

A couple things worth mentioning vis a vis the always-nebulous “style points” category : a LOT of this book is composed of double-page spreads, and they break right in the middle, as you can see above. Beaver is putting this out via the auspices of Lulu, so there’s probably nothing much that can be done about that, but it’s a shame, because her cartooning is well-thought-out, expressive, quite often imaginative and, when she’s drawing landscapes, flat-out gorgeous. It’s a travesty to see it bisected. One thing more firmly within Beaver’s control that I think lets the side down, though, is her decision to use computer-font lettering. I get it, this is a well and truly homemade project and one only has so much time, but Beaver’s hand lettering (utilized primarily, ironically, when she’s showing Cordie’s phone screen) is superb, and mechanical lettering can’t help but feel sterile and cold, which means in this case that it’s working directly against the otherwise-entirely-heartfelt aesthetics of the book as a whole.

All that being said, perhaps because this is so obviously a labor of love, in some ways I can’t help but find its technical and production “flaws,” as well as some of the overall amateurism on display (there are any number of questionable grammar choices, the monster metaphor at the heart of the narrative is sometimes too oblique for its own good, other times too obvious) to be more than a bit endearing in their own way. I do believe in granting “points for trying,” so while it’s never in doubt that Beaver is clearly “learning on the job,” so to speak, in my estimation that almost always makes for an interesting and exciting ride, even if it’s necessarily a bumpy one. There’s a world of difference between putting it all on the page and pouring your all into a page, and given the choice, I’ll opt for the latter every time — on that most crucial score, this is a book that I can say in all honesty absolutely never fails to deliver.

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On A Cute One is available for $45.50 at https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/frances-beaver/on-a-cute-one/paperback/product-685m56.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Check out Frances Cordelia Beaver’s website at https://www.francescordeliabeaver.com/

The Crowded Abyss : Garresh’s “Disco Lavante”

Posted on February 15, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

Here’s the thing : on paper, at least, there’s no compelling reason why Scottish cartoonist Garresh’s Disco Lavante (Strangers Publishing, 2022) shouldn’t all make sense. It’s straightforward, uncomplicated, maybe even tidy. We’ve got lost souls endlessly roaming the void that exists beyond the pale courtesy of a good, old-fashioned suicide cult, and finding that — generally speaking — whatever sort of “existence” there is after this one ends probably isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Kinda like life on Earth, I suppose, only weirder, more oppressive and, if you can believe it, even more pointless. Except —

That might not be what’s going on here at all, even if it is. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s very likely only part of what’s going on here. Rest assured, however, that my aim here isn’t to confuse you — more to honestly convey the confusion that this nicely-done oversized comic ‘zine stirred up in me. Which, for the record, is no complaint — regular readers know I enjoy a challenge and don’t mind spending a fair amount of time wrapping my head around something. But the possibilities here are are, in spite of what the previous paragraph would have you believe, bordering on the myriad, and the same is true of the number of considered analyses one can can derive from the book . This is one of those things you’re better off, at the risk of sounding glib, feeling your way through.

Be aware, though, that the process of doing so is necessarily a pretty fucking grim one. “Feel-good” material this is not. It’s not without its humorous moments and instances, that’s for sure, but it’s “gallows humor” all the way, and to the extent that it sustains a cohesive tone, that tone is decidedly nihilistic — for the most part, at any rate. Garresh seems to be positing that there is, in fact, a way out of (or should that be beyond?) the idea that all is lost, but he certainly takes his time getting to that conclusion, and seems a bit ambivalent about it once he (sort of) arrives at it.

Of course, I could have it all wrong — I told you there were any number of ways of looking at this comic, and another perfectly plausible one is that what I take to be an afterlife is actually a post-apocalyptic wasteland that’s entirely real (as in, it exists on the physical plane) populated by displaced refugees “overseen” (if that’s the term we want to use) by a Rip Van Winkle-type who is viewed in undeservedly messianic terms by the masses. It’s hard to say for sure — but again, you might find it as simple to interpret as I have this strange, lingering feeling that it’s meant to be. Hell, I’d go so far as to say that I earnestly hope you do.

What’s not up for debate is the quality of Garresh’s cartooning — dark, evocative, nuanced, foreboding, and textured in the extreme, I may be having a hard time processing everything he’s communicating narratively, but visually his work rings loud, clear, and true. He’s definitely mining some heavy — and heady — conceptual territory, but his ravishingly grotesque artwork functions as a tonal tour guide that leads you through some uncomfortable (to put it mildly) places in such a way that you can’t help but give it your full and undivided admiration. You may not want to go where he’s leading you, but you sure won’t want to look away once you’re on the path — even if it would probably do your overall mental and emotional disposition some good to cut tail and run, trust me when I say that simply isn’t an option here.

So — where does that leave us? Hoo-boy, I wish I knew. But given that I freely admit I was in over my head from the start here, I can’t claim to be any more flummoxed by this book by the time I reached the end of it, so there’s that. I loved the art, obviously. And I appreciate the raw power of Garresh’s visuals and how they convey precisely the sort of atmosphere that’s required for this comic to work — which is an admission that it really does work. And Eddie Raymond at Strangers is to be applauded for publishing something this challenging and, frankly, demanding. But you’re going to want to make sure you approach this knowing full well how relentlessly and unapologetically dark it is. Be prepared for it to stick with you for quite some time — for good, for ill, or for some of both.

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Disco Lavante is available for $10.00 from Strangers Publishing at https://strangerspublishing.com/products/disco-lavante-by-garresh

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative indeed if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

A Mystery “Unfolding”

Posted on February 10, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

I’m all for formalist experimentation — even for its own sake — but Kimball Anderson’s self-published mini Unfolding (which I think was released in the latter part of last year, but I could be wrong about that — in any case, that’s when I got it) is formalist experimentation with an added layer of purpose beyond “just” or “only” that tacked on : utilizing typed text and collage, it manages, in the space of just 12 pages, to interrogate the very nature of information-gathering and information-sharing on levels both practical and conceptual.

Consider : there is something about someone or something (or both) that’s written (whoops, typed, sorry) on a small piece of folded paper. As you slowly open it, you find out more, each outward unfolding offering up a fragment of a larger puzzle that is actually, all told, no puzzle at all. It only appears to be such due to the fragmented nature of the, to borrow a lame term, “reveal.” But what if said “reveal” was — errrmmm — revealed by other means?

Buckle up, because we’ve got to take things a couple steps further here, okay? Suppose the process I just laid out is actually reversed, and the slip of paper is being folded up, but is being read section by section as it’s folded, so that you’re well and truly learning more while seeing less — textually speaking, that is. On the other side of the paper, there’s an image, nominally related in some subtle way to what’s wri — typed! Caught myself that time! —and now suppose this process is being repeated four times over, with four different pieces of paper. Following me so far? Good, since we’re not quite done yet.

Now, further suppose that each of these paper scraps contains a discrete piece of information that tells a small “story” unto itself — but that all four descriptive passages are actually interconnected even though they’re separate. Starting to get the picture? I dearly hope so, because “getting the picture” is precisely what this innovative-yet-simple project is all about.

I’m also fully cognizant of the fact that I’m probably-to-definitely making the whole thing sound more convoluted than it really is, but perhaps the sample pages included with this review explain it all far better than my uncharacteristically (but then I would say that) linguistic fumbling is managing to accomplish. Language is a big part of what Anderson is experimenting with here (and by “a big part,” I mean half) — using it in fragmented form to draw attention to its shortcomings as a means of communication — but so are pictures, and while this may not be a traditional “comic” per se, its premise (by default and by design in fairly equal measure) teases out what comics do so well, which is to say : they convey information by means both verbal and visual. And by deconstructing the ability to do both in plain sight, this ‘zine gives readers a newfound appreciation for the inherent strengths and possibilities of illustrated sequential storytelling.

Are Anderson’s goals here ultimately — shudder! — ironic, then? Nah, I really don’t think so, I just think that there’s some “natural,” if you will, irony woven into the framework of the project’s metaphorical DNA. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and all that. In any case, this is a work that got me to thinking — about what it was, about what it was doing, and about how it was doing it. That’s more food for thought than you normally get out of 120 pages, let alone 12. Saying “highest possible recommendation” is a pretty formal note to end things on, admittedly, but hey, this is formalist stuff, so — if the shoe fits, right?

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Unfolding is available for $5.00 from Austin English’s Domino Books distro at http://dominobooks.org/unfolding.html

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

Creativity While “Isolated”

Posted on February 9, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

When we look on things a few years from now (assuming we make it that far), there’s a damn good chance that 2020 will be seen as a turning point for small press, self-published, and otherwise independent comics. Not only did we have the “heavy hitters” like Simon Hanselmann’s Crisis Zone and Alex Graham’s Dog Biscuits, we had diary comics galore from any number of cartoonists, as well as a smattering of “lockdown”-themed anthologies — artists, like the rest of us, were looking for anything to keep them sane while they were (by and large) stuck indoors, and new (predominantly digital) distribution methods were utilized, both by choice and necessity, to get their work out there. In many ways, sure, it seems like only yesterday, but in others it seems like a lifetime ago, so completely has the landscape shifted. And the changes to production and distribution that the pandemic engendered have proven to be every bit as resilient as has COVID-19 itself, really — I mean, how many comics are you reading on Instagram these days? I bet it’s more than you were in 2019.

I was somewhat surprised, then, to receive in the mail recently a handsomely-produced little anthology called Isolated, edited and published by Tana Oshima and featuring work produced primarily (with some exceptions) during the “height” of the lockdowns, that is available only in printed form. This is not a complaint, mind you — I made mention of Instagram comics a moment ago, but the truth is I don’t even have an Instagram account myself and prefer to keep things as “old school” as is humanly possible. I’m well aware, however, of what’s happening in the digital comics realm in a general sense, and so the idea of a a collection of pandemic-themed strips that bucks the trends and stays with the tried-and-true is inherently appealing to a stick in the mud such as myself — and even more importantly, so are the comics that Oshima is presenting here.

Of course, how could they not be given the veritable “murder’s row” of international talent she’s managed to put together? Roll call, in order of appearance : Celine Hudreaux on covers, with interior stories by Pedro Pablo Bacallao, E.A. Bethea, Angela Fanche, Ana Galvan, Jessica Garcia, November Garcia, Ness Ilene Garza, Marie Gilot, Kim Lam, Drew Lerman, Lui Mort, Roman Muradov, Hue Nguyen, Weng Pixin, Areeba Siddique, and Lane Yates. Veteran readers of my blathering will no doubt recognize many a cartoonist I’ve sung the praises of included in this list of luminaries, but there are a handful of names that I admit were new to me here as well, and lo and behold, they contribute some of the strongest entries in the book, so that admittedly shop-worn “something old, something new” axiom with regards to putting together a successful anthology? It absolutely rings true in this case.

Everyone is given four pages to work with (apart from Galvan, who only uses two), and as one would expect, pretty much all these strips are autobiographical in nature, but even the ones that aren’t in form are in spirit, given the same thing was resting heavy on everybody’s shoulders all over the world at the time — which rather brings me to my main point here : expect a uniquely unpleasant and harrowing reading experience with this as you look back on a time that absolutely no one is nostalgic for. These are all cartoonists operating at the full height of their considerable powers, so that semi-apocalyptic sense of dread we all felt in 2020? You’re gonna feel it all over again. It hangs over all in Sword of Damocles fashion, even in the strips with a nominally “lighter” tone. So if you’re understandably not yet ready to go down that road, while I’d still strongly urge you to get this book — after all, who knows how many copies are even out there — I’d likewise advise that you put it aside until you really feel up to it. Please. For your own sake.

Speaking for myself (because that’s the only person I’m remotely qualified to speak for in the first place), the predominant sensation this collection evoked in me was the strange dichotomy of those times — we were all going through the same thing, but since we were separated, we all experienced and processed it in highly personal ways. It didn’t help, I suppose, that politics did its level best to wrest control of the situation from science — and I’ll always find it as tragic as it was predictable that the same assholes who lectured us about “coming together” in the wake of 9/11 so they could pursue bloodthirsty and profit-driven wars of conquest abroad were the ones telling us to piss in the face of unity during the lockdowns — but by and large the very nature of isolation itself gave rise to myriad interpretations of both what the lockdowns meant and how best to navigate them. This book, by dint of the wide range of distinctive voices it presents, captures the essence of what it means to individually experience a collective nightmare.

Also worth noting : thanks to the efforts of Oshima and her predecessor on the project Andrew Losowsky, grant funding was secured so that all of the contributors were paid for their efforts — and we all remember how vital that was at the time. You can feel good about buying this comic, then, even if it’s not a “feel-good” collection per se — it is, however, a vital and necessary one, as well as a testament to art’s ability to help us get through the roughest of rough times.

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Isolated is available for $12.00 from Austin English’s Domino Books distro at http://dominobooks.org/isolated.html

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

Hava Nagila For “Megillah”

Posted on February 8, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

Toward the tail end of last year, a nice-looking squarebound anthology arrived my way courtesy of its editor, Chad (In Amsterdan) Bilyeu, and to say its contents lived up to its impressive presentation is putting it mildly — probably far too mildly, at that. Co-published by Bilyeu’s own Bistro Books imprint in association with De Stichting Openbare Bibliotheek Amsterdam (who lists one Gabriel Ercicia as the project’s “Executive Producer”), Megillah #1 eschews a central theme in favor of a central idea – giving six artists eight pages each to do with as they see fit. Did I mention already the results are impressive? I believe I did.

Underneath the appealingly disturbing cover by EKS Graphics/Iva Spasojevic we find stories that well and truly run the gamut from memoir to slapstick superhero revisionism to surreal caper to just plain old surreal, each distinct in its “stand-alone” nature, yet all combining to form a makeshift tapestry that, to drag things back to the cover, “stitches together” in a kind of haphazardly fluid fashion. Aside from the length of each contribution, they don’t have a hell of a lot of similarities other than being good, but in the end, that’s what an anthology — in this critic’s humble (I hope) estimation — should do : provide an expansive view of what’s happening in the various corners of the indie comics world and let the chips fall where they may. As a primer of sorts, then, this is about as polished as they come, and anyone new to “the scene” is sure to discover a couple of artists (at least) whose work they feel sufficiently compelled to track down more of.

“Ah,” you say, “but what about us grizzled veterans?” Never fear, our particular needs and whims are catered to, as well — I mean, who’s going to say no to new, exclusive work from favorites like James The Stanton, E.S. Glenn, and even the legendary Bernie Mireault? And while fellow contributors Eryc Why, Maia Matches, and Larie Cook are not, as yet, “household names” for many of us, they *all* demonstrate the chops to make a solid case that one day they will be. Yes, of course, some stories are better than others, that’s to be expected, but I kid you not in the least when I state for the record that I don’t consider there to be so much as a single, solitary “clunker” in the bunch.

If unique auteur visions are your bag, this package offers six of them, all at various points along the curve in terms of their tethering to consensus reality — what they unquestionably have in common, though, is that they’re all exceptionally well-drawn, make the most of the book’s top-quality production values (the coloring on each and every strip will impress the shit out of you), and understand how to make the most of the unique opportunities afforded by the short-form comics story. There’s some wild stuff on offer, sure, you’ve probably already figured that much out, but each is narratively-based and formally recognizable as a discrete entities unto itself — what Bilyeu has done that further sets this apart from other anthologies, though, is that he’s arranged them in a de facto “running order” that ensures for smooth transition from one to the next even when their themes don’t necessarily logically “mesh” in any concrete way. All of which is me saying read this thing cover to cover without skipping around — you’ll be glad you did.

According to the definition provided on the inside front cover, a Megillah is a “long, involved story or account,” and while some of these strips do pack a lot into a comparatively tight space, I’d be lying if I said any of them felt “long” because, well, they aren’t. What they most assuredly are, though, is involving in the extreme, to the point where you won’t be ready for some to end. That’s okay, though, right? I mean, it’s preferable to any of them over-staying their welcome, that’s for sure. And besides, you can always go back and re-read any or all as you see fit — as I’ve done myself. Twice so far. With more to come, I’m sure.

Count me as a true believer, then — and a firm one, at that — in what Bilyeu is doing here, and I’m curious (as well as anxious) to see where this project goes next. I’d love to see a rotating cast of returnee artists with newcomers mixed in, but hey — it ain’t my show. I’m more than happy to trust our tour guide. And you should be more than happy to take this inaugural trip. Bring on number two, please!

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Megillah #1 is available for a well-spent $12 from any number of places, but for North American readers I’ll direct you to our friends at Birdcage Bottom Books, where you can find it by clicking on https://birdcagebottombooks.com/collections/comic-books/products/megillah?variant=41235668664496

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the world of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

Dude, That’s So Metal : Nick Bunch’s “Blood Horn”

Posted on January 26, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

I’ve been singing the praises of Philadelphia’s Reptile House anthology to anyone who would listen for the last couple of years, and to date no one who’s bought it on my advice has done anything other than thank me for turning them onto it — and a big part of what made the first issues (the first five issues, specifically) so special was the first serialized “adventure” of cartoonist Nick Bunch’s barely-fictitious band Blood Horn. These strips had everything you could want in a music-themed comic, in fact they had everything you could want in any sort of comic : relatable characters, quick-witted dialogue, anti-authoritarian attitude, and an unhealthy fixation on gross-out style laughs. It was a “fuck you” comic made by somebody who wasn’t making anything like “fuck you” money for writing and drawing it, and as far as I’m concerned shit doesn’t get any more real than that.

It makes perfect sense that Reptile House (the publisher, that is, not the series — although, I dunno, they’re pretty much one and the same thing) would collect this “arc” into a single volume, but what was surprising to me upon receiving it (some four or five months back — yes, I really am that far behind on reviews) was the extent to which they pulled out all the stops, production values-wise, on Blood Horn in this “stand-alone” iteration. Not only is the paper nice and thick, the cardstock cover is even nicer and thicker, and it’s printed in a really snazzy and apropos gold ink that jumps right out at you. This royal treatment couldn’t have been cheap, but the price of the comic itself still is, so hats off to RH for giving readers absolutely terrific value for money.

Of course, any book, regardless of how impressive it is purely as a physical object, is only as good as the contents it presents, and while we’ve touched on that subject already, it never hurts to elaborate further. Simply stated, Bunch is one hell of a cartoonist, and even better, while he’s clearly taking a lot of stylistic cues from the underground tradition (Spain Rodriguez, in particular, seems to be a notable influence), he’s not in any way tethered to the ethos of a bygone era. He may amp up the outrageousness to a degree that would make the Zap gang proud, but this is still a decidedly contemporary comic that reflects the concerns — as well as the sensibilities — of today’s 20-something artists, as well as their admirable lack of respect for people and institutions that aren’t worthy of any. Cops are certainly the most natural enough target in this regard, of course, but in a broader sense, Bunch is castigating the entire rotting edifice of late-stage capitalist hypocrisy, and he’s doing it with a smile on his face. This comic isn’t going to start a revolution or anything, but your average revolutionary — even of the armchair variety — is bound to get a kick out of it just the same.

In a pinch, I think irreverence sums up the tone here best, but it’s a smart, pointed, thought-through sort of irreverence that comes from lived experience. Anyone who’s ever been part of a band — or even just had friends who were in a band — is going to immediately recognize many of these characters, nod in knowing agreement at the ways in which they think, act, and speak, and generally enjoy being in their company. The plot, centering around preparations for an upcoming “battle of the bands,” is simple enough, but the road blocks (some self-generated from within, others imposed from without) our erstwhile “heroes” have to deal with are almost preposterously convoluted, so it behooves readers to pay close attention to everything on the page here, because you don’t want to be caught napping on what is a fluid and ever-changing series of strung-together absurdities.

In addition, there are any number of fiendishly clever sight gags that you likewise don’t want to miss out on. Bunch jam-packs every panel with visual information, never takes short cuts with his illustration, and is a virtuoso of cartoonish exaggeration. The social and economic margins are always a good vantage point from which to poke fun at the uptight self-importance of the “straight” world, sure, but it takes a special talent to communicate a sense of disdain for “The Man” through art every bit as much as through dialogue, and Bunch is — no BS — a bona fide master at doing exactly that. Partly he’s done his homework, partly he’s got street-smart Philly attitude to spare, and partly he’s just, to the extent that one subscribes to the idea of such a thing, a born cartoonist.

I’m of a mind that we all need more fun in our lives — even the lucky few who have plenty of fun already. And comics don’t get any more fun than this, so seriously — what the hell are you waiting for?

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Blood Horn is available for the ridiculously cheap price of $6.00 from Reptile House at https://www.reptilehousecomix.com/publications/p/blood-horn

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to check it out by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

Swords, Sandals — And Subversion? Brian McCray’s “Krania”

Posted on January 25, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

Admittedly, I’m not a close follower of the mainstream comics scene and so can’t speak with any authority on what may or may not be happening in it now, but unless there’s been some sort of below-the-radar (like, way below-the-radar) resurgence of which I’m entirely unaware, it’s safe to say that the “swords and sandals” genre reached its apex in this little medium we all love (most of the time) back in the 1970s, when a bevy of four-color “floppies” and full-sized black and white magazines regaled readers month in and month out with the exploits of Conan the Barbarian, Red Sonja, Kull the Conqueror, and too many also-ran imitators to count. As newsstand distribution gave way to the direct market, though, super-hero readers found their tastes increasingly catered to while fans of Robert E. Howard-esque fantasy were nudged further and further to the sidelines, ultimately being relegated to “afterthought” status.

I’ve heard that Conan is back at Marvel these days after a long hiatus that saw the character wandering through a series of smaller publishers, but his exploits appear to be confined to only standard-format comic books now, with the “mature readers” (as in, they can show boobs and butts) B&W mag apparently a thing of the past — and while that probably makes all kinds of sense from a financial and commercial perspective, it still leaves the grizzled nostalgist out in the cold, stuck poring over dusty back issue bins to find PG-13- and R-rated tales of the Hyperborean Age. Or does it?

Art abhors a vacuum every bit as much as nature does, so leave it to our always-intrepid friends at Strangers Fanzine to fill this particular one with the late-2021 release of cartoonist Brian McCray’s Krania, a magazine-formatted collection of short-form yarns centered around the exploits of a female barbarian warrior that hews a fine line between respectful homage and revisionist re-interpretation with just enough wink-and-nod pastiche thrown in to keep readers who find this sort of crap inherently ridiculous (I’ll take the fifth on whether or not that includes me) reasonably amused and enthralled, as well. It’s hardly revolutionary stuff by any means, but it’s not designed to be : McCray has set himself a fairly specific task with this project, and he proceeds to tackle it with energy and aplomb.

All of which is to say, don’t expect anything particularly taxing here, but do expect to be entertained. McCray’s cartooning is solid, stylish, and dynamic — his villainous creatures are imaginatively designed, his protagonist looks like a tough warrior woman should, and his fight scenes are fluidly paced with the appropriate emphasis given to impact in relation to action. He’s not overly concerned with details, relying on what appears to be the digital equivalent of zip-a-tone to do a lot of the heavy lifting in that regard, but he’s got all the basics of composition down pat and isn’t afraid to get creative with perspective and placement. Throw in a smattering of entirely unsubtle hat-tips to Jack Kirby’s Kamandi, and it’s awfully hard not to like what’s being served up here.

Okay, in fairness, this is about as self-aware a comic as you’re likely to find, but it doesn’t approach its subject matter with an eye toward narratively “cashing in” on easily-arrived-at irony — rather, as the title of this review suggests, there is some delicious (if obvious) subversion going on here with regards to traditional gender roles in so-called “heroic fantasy” that’s probably long (as in decades) overdue. I get the feeling McCray has plenty to say, but that he would rather say it through his stories than in his stories, and if that sounds like a distinction without a difference on its face, rest assured that if you decide to take the plunge and read this book — as well you should — you’ll understand what I’m (perhaps clumsily) getting at more or less immediately.

Count me in as a believer in what McCray is doing here, then, and also as someone who will almost certainly be on the lookout for more of his stuff. And if I were an actual fan of this genre, who knows? I’d have probably enjoyed this comic even more than I did — which, in case you hadn’t sussed it out already, was quite a bit indeed.

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Krania is available for $10.00 from Strangers Fanzine at https://strangerspublishing.com/products/krania

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

Don’t F*ck With Cats : Isaac Moylan’s “The Maspeth Witch”

Posted on January 21, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

There’s an old rule in storytelling : write (or, in the case of a comic, write and draw) what you know — and then tinker around with it at the margins just a bit. After all, you want what you’re writing (or, again, writing and drawing) to be at least marginally more interesting than “real” life, right?

That’s the theory, at any rate, and it’s served many a novelist (or, in this case, a cartoonist — I know, I know, I need to stop with this shit already) well over the years, the latest being Isaac Moylan, who parlays his intimate knowledge of the arts “scene” and the city of New York into an unassumingly absorbing tale and throws in a dash of the supernatural for good measure in his new self-published graphic novel, The Maspeth Witch. Just authentic enough to ring true, just fantastical enough to keep you turning the pages, for a full-length debut (Moylan’s apparently dabbled here and there in short-form comics but makes his living in freelance commercial illustration) it’s a surprisingly assured work that knows both how to maintain a reader’s attention and how to make sure what flaws it does have don’t in any way appreciably detract from the (sorry to be crass, but) finished product.

By way of brief (and deliberately truncated so as to avoid “spoilers”) synopsis, our protagonist here, grounded-but-nominally-ambitious young(-ish) artist Miriam is preparing for her “big break” gallery show when an act of casual cruelty toward a cat engenders a chain reaction of events that quickly turns the lives of her and her husband, Moshe, into — well, a “living hell” might be putting it strongly, but then again, by the time all is said and done, maybe it’s not. Suffice to say, both the title of this review and the title of the book itself make complete sense — I’m just being an asshole and not giving you full context for them in the here and now. Mama didn’t raise no snitches and all that, but you’re a smart person — you can probably figure it out. I mean, everybody knows what any self-respecting witch’s “familiar” animal of choice is, right?

The big “plus” here, as one would expect given his background, is Moylan’s richly detailed art. His people look like real people, both when it comes to their faces and their bodies, and the attention he pays to the so-called “little things” really pays off : he draws buildings, backgrounds, and environments really well. Normally I’m not a huge fan of photo-referencing, but I’ll give him a pass for leaning on it here because he utilizes it as an enhancement in his work, rather than making it the backbone of it, and that’s a crucial distinction because it means good, old-fashioned, freehand illustration is still what he most relies on for his visual storytelling — as any real artist damn well should, at least in this admittedly cantankerous old-timer’s opinion.

Where Moylan could stand to hone his craft a bit more, though, is in the area of narrative fluidity. While most of his dialogue is reasonably crisp and authentic, and his main characters are genuinely likable (and still relatable even when they’re not), he has a tendency to use exposition as a crutch, both when he’s setting the stage initially and when he wants to move things along, and sometimes that can break up his story’s natural rhythm. To his credit, he always gets his footing back in fairly short order, but there is an art to hitting precise story “beats” in organic (or at least seemingly organic) fashion that Moylan is still learning. No harm or shame in that, of course, but prospective readers should be prepared to make allowances for a bit of “clunkiness” to rear its head from time to time within what is, all told, an otherwise enjoyable and well-crafted comic.

If I had to pinpoint Moylan’s greatest strength, in a word I’d say it’s his composition. He’s got an eye for truly cinematic “camera angles” and his sense of perspective is incredibly firm and even a bit on the playful side — which tells me that he knows what he’s inherently good at and isn’t afraid to get creative with it. As time moves on and he becomes more comfortable with the fundamental differences between drawing and cartooning, I have a feeling we may find he’s got a truly great comic or graphic novel in him. Until then, this book serves to announce the arrival of an intriguing new talent who’s the “chops” to go far, and it’s a fun, compelling, and interesting yarn, to boot. I’ll be keeping an eye out for what Moylan does next, and in the meantime I would be surprised at all to find myself re-reading this a time or two.

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The Maspeth Witch is available for $15 from Isaac Moylan’s website at https://isaacmoylan.net/maspethwitch

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the world of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very pleased if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse

A Velvet Glove Cast In Iron : B. Mure’s “Methods Of Dyeing”

Posted on January 20, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

Some stories don’t “unfold” so much as they’re peeled back, each layer revealing another underneath, until the reader finally arrives at the core. Such is the case with the fourth installment in British cartoonist B. Mure’s “Ismyre” series of graphic novels, Methods Of Dyeing (Avery Hill, 2021), and while one could make a strong case that the title itself is both too clever and too obvious by half, given the narrative centers around an investigation of a murdered botanist/professor whose particular area of expertise is plant-based dyes, it’s just as accurate to say that most everything else on offer here is shrouded in a definite air of mystery.

It’s a mystery of a very — and, for the record, appealingly — singular nature, though : one that takes its time, isn’t afraid to savor its own richness, and gently takes the reader along for the ride. Certainly there’s enough by way of revelations going on for this to have been a fast-paced, suspenseful work, if that was the direction Mure had chosen to go, but the fact that it concerns itself instead with establishing its own tempo and temperament speaks to the confidence this cartoonist has in both their methodology and their fictitious de facto “universe.” It’s a comic that’s entirely comfortable in its own skin, immune to the pressures of trying to be what audiences could, at first glance, be forgiven for assuming it either should or must be.

Speaking of audiences, while it’s fair to say that some working knowledge of the world of Ismyre certainly doesn’t hurt going into this, it’s in no way necessary, and I daresay any newcomers are likely to be impressed enough by what they discover here to find themselves sufficiently motivated to track down previous volumes — but the laconic pacing and efficiently minimalist dialogue may require some getting used to on the part of so-called “newbies.” That’s certainly not a criticism by any means — a comic that demands you meet it on its own level is, after all, usually the best kind of comic there is (hell, some might say comics of that nature are the only type worth reading, and I’m not prepared to refute that opinion) — but it does mean that it’s incumbent upon Mure to roll out the red carpet and welcome folks in, metaphorically speaking. No need to fear on that score, though — this story may not propel itself forward in any traditional sense, but it does exert an inexorable pull, a siren call that one can’t help but feel compelled to follow, wherever it may lead.

It also doesn’t hurt that it’s so damn gorgeous to look at. Mure’s cartooning is soft, wistful, warm, welcoming, offering a compelling contrast to the violence at the center of the proceedings and the dread as our gender-norms-bending anthropomorphic animal investigator — who would seem to be hiding a few secrets of her own — works toward solving the case. The fluid strokes of Mure’s brush line and the lithe application of watercolors are enough to fool you into thinking Ismyre is a peaceful idyll of a village, but underneath those surfaces beats what is, at the very least, a semi-dark heart. This might be a perfectly fine comic to show kids, sure, but tonally and thematically, a “kids’ comic” it is not.

And yet, there’s a tangible sense of wonder that informs everything here that’s well and truly childlike in terms of its sheer infectiousness. Mure is clearly having a blast hooking us on the line and reeling us in, and even appears to take a certain amount of glee in yanking us subtly in the wrong direction on occasion. These are all familiar enough tropes that are being exploited, it’s true — but that’s what makes their nod-and-wink subversion so effective. This isn’t a comic out to re-write any rulebook, but to play against expectation precisely because you know the rules — and Mure knows that you know them. I promise that last sentence makes sense — or at least, it will once you’ve read this book.

Which, not to put too fine a point on it, should be your next move. Methods Of Dyeing is a quiet little marvel that fully immerses you in a world you won’t won’t to leave — even as it becomes clear that world is fraught with more peril than appearances would initially suggest. Granted, appearances can always be deceiving — but the spell that this comic casts on you is as real as it gets.

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Methods Of Dyeing is available from Avery Hill Publishing at https://averyhillpublishing.bigcartel.com/product/pre-order-methods-of-dyeing-by-b-mure

A Whole New World : Hurk’s “Jinx Freeze”

Posted on January 19, 2022 by Ryan C. (fourcolorapocalypse)

It can be a fickle bastard of a thing, this critiquing business. In theory, at any rate, you’re judging a work on its own merits and nothing else — how well it succeeds at establishing the terms of what it is, first off, and then subsequently delivering upon them. But who are we kidding? Outside influences, both subtle and less so, almost always figure into the equation on some level, the so-called “soft tyranny” of expectations being foremost among them. “Was this book all that I wanted or hoped for it to be?” is a question most critics ask themselves — fair or not; whether they even realize it or not.

It’s just as well, then, that every so often something comes along that blows that whole framework out of the water : a comic that, by its very nature, is steadfastly resistant to the “expectations game” on the one hand, and to comparison of any sort on the other. Something that makes its own rules, does things its own way, operates according to the dictates of its creator and to nothing or no one else. That “something” being, in this case, UK cartoonist Hurk’s 2021 Avery Hill-published graphic novel Jinx Freeze.

The comics medium itself is no longer a young one, it’s true, and so works that are *completely* original are tough to come by — maybe even flat-out impossible — but a book like this serves to, at the very least, remind one that, of all forms of art, comics *remains* the one with the most untapped potential. And hey, even if I’m only saying so myself and asking you to take me at my word, that right there is a big reason why I felt myself drawn toward analyzing and reviewing them in the first place. Sure, you might very well be able to place Hurk’s work somewhere along a stylistic continuum that includes names such as Mark Beyer, Kaz, Max Huffman, or Marc Bell (among others), but the spot it carves out for itself is, in point of fact, utterly its own, and as ***Jinx Freeze*** unfolds, even the *least* astute reader out there will get a very real sense of an artist claiming his thematic and stylistic territory while he goes about weaving an apparently-haphazard-yet-actually-quite-intricate series of vignettes into a tapestry that’s hitherto unseen because, frankly, it’s hitherto *unimagined*. Even the parts that don’t make “sense” in the conventional — errrmmm — sense of the term do so within the hermetic de facto confines of what I’ll call, at least here in a pinch, the “Hurk-verse.” And I guess now’s the point at which I hope the cartoonist himself, should he ever actually read this, can forgive me for coining that unfortunate term on the fly. But I effing digress —

So what do we have here, in purely narrative and aesthetic terms? Well, in one respect it’s a classic caper. In another, it’s a surreal spin on police procedurals. In still another, a sprawling-ensemble slapstick yarn. And in yet one more, a futuristic sci-fi comedy thriller. Upping the ante still further, each of these respective genre sandboxes the narrative is playing around in is shot through with elements of pastiche, and so it’s fair to say Hurk is both marginally beholden to them and sending them up (or, as they’d say on his side of the pond, “taking the piss out of them”) simultaneously. Now throw in the added elements of each component riffing off the others and being in conversation with them, all while being recognizably part of the same world and story thanks to Hurk’s vivid, energetic, stylized, colorful, geometrically-informed cartooning, and the end result is something that should, by all rights, probably be a cacophony of literary and visual noise, but instead builds up in truly symphonic fashion.

Which isn’t to say, of course, that the occasional note of discord doesn’t linger in the background or, on occasion, force itself to the fore. There are punchlines that fall flat, story “beats” that miss the mark — but the overall trajectory of the piece is never derailed in any appreciable, lasting manner, and the only thing that quells the urge to keep turning the pages is the desire to spend more time “oohing” and “aahing” over the ingenious little flourishes of the one you’re already on. Don’t be afraid to take your time with this comic, then, even if the pace is rapid and frenetic, verging on the breakneck.

And so we return to our analysis of the phenomenon of critical analysis itself. Jinx Freeze is, perhaps, easier to praise than it is to describe, at least for someone of my meager capabilities — and it’s arguably greater on the whole than the sum of its parts would, upon first reading at any rate, suggest. Although, the more I pore over it, the more I come to see the “little things” that come together to form the “big picture” are all there, either in plain sight or hiding in it. Here’s what I do know : I didn’t want it to end, and when it did, I wanted to start reading it all over again. And whaddya know? That’s exactly what I did.

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Jinx Freeze is available from Avery Hill Publishing at https://averyhillpublishing.bigcartel.com/product/pre-order-jinx-freeze-by-hurk

Also, this review is “brought to you” by my Patreon site, where I serve up exclusive thrice-weekly rants and ramblings on the worlds of comics, films, television, literature, and politics for as little as a dollar a month. Subscribing is the best way to support my continuing work, so I’d be very appreciative if you’d take a moment to give it a look by directing your kind attention to https://www.patreon.com/fourcolorapocalypse