The Cheese Stands Alone is a semi-regular column featuring examinations of single issues that can be understood and appreciated on their own, without reading any of the preceding or following issues of the series.
Before I start, I should mention that pretty much any issue of Daytripper could be the subject of a Cheese Stands Alone post. The premise of the entire series is that each issue tells a self-contained story about the same character at a different point in his life, and at the end of every one, he dies. There are a couple twists on that concept in the later issues, but that's the basic foundation of the book, so I could definitely have chosen any individual chapter for this column. Daytripper #3 isn't even necessarily my favorite, though certainly it's in the running. I picked it because it does something particularly nice with its conclusion by making the tragic, violent, sudden death of the protagonist into a happy ending. That's an impressive trick, and done quite well, optimistic even while it reminds us of our own mortality.
The star of Daytripper is Brás who, in this particular issue, is 28 years old (which I know because the title of the issue is "28"). In the first scene and several other times throughout the issue, we see him fighting/breaking up with his longtime girlfriend, whose name I don't believe we ever learn. Actually, a more accurate phrasing of that would be that we see her fighting/breaking up with him, since Brás is largely a passive observer in those flashback scenes, watching and listening as the woman he supposedly loves tears him down verbally before walking out of his life. Brás gets his licks in here and there, but always in a desperate attempt at self-defense. He doesn't really want the fight to continue, so he isn't adding much fuel to the fire, but it doesn't matter because it's already burning his world down.
Separating these snippets of Brás' past-tense break-up are scenes of its present-tense aftermath, as Brás wallows in and wanders through his newfound loneliness. He talks about his ex with his best friend, discusses love in general with his father, and mopes around his home, work, and city in a state of disinterest and/or malaise. Daytripper #3 is, for the most part, a portrait of the specific brand of depression which can only come from heartbreak. Brás, so used to sharing his life with someone, now finds himself in a whole new world, one in which he is on his own for the first time in years. It's a difficult adjustment, because even as he sincerely wants and tries to acclimate himself to his new situation, he continues to pine for that former life, too. It hangs over him and slows him down, like an oversized fur coat he refuses to take off even though the sun is out and he's sweating like crazy.
It would be a pretty boring comic if all that happened was Brás being upset in various locations, though that is definitely the bulk of the issue. Then in its third act, Daytripper #3 switches gears quite suddenly when Brás, out for a bit of coffee and self-pity a full year after his break-up, makes pseudo-flirtatious eye contact with a young woman for whom he instantly falls. Though they don't interact, Brás can feel his love for her overtake him immediately, which catches him somewhat off-guard. He was not prepared to stumble across the love of his life that morning, and initially he walks away, not really sure how to react. He doesn't get far before he realizes he absolutely must turn around and go meet the woman who so enchanted him, and it is in that moment of confidence and hope that this story finds its happy ending. After spending 2/3 of the issue exploring all the ins and outs of Brás at his lowest, it launches him upward again in a bold and bright new direction. And then he dies.
Because that's what happens in Daytripper, as I mentioned: Brás dies at the end of every chapter. In this case, he's hit by a delivery van while racing across the street to find his mystery woman, dying with all the abruptness and surprise of his love-at-first sight moment a few minutes before. More, really, because Brás seeing the girl gets a few pages, while his death takes a mere three panels (or two, depending on whether or not you count the final shot of onlookers staring in shock at his body). You might think that this death would bring things back down to a negative place, closing the issue with the same kind of darkness that took up so much of it. But the beauty of Daytripper #3 is that Brás' death still feels like an upbeat occurrence, since it happens to him when he is happier than he's been since the story started. No longer sour over a lost love, he is energized over the prospect of a new one, and while it is tragic that he doesn't get to actually experience it, having him go down right at the peak of his hopefulness still seems like a win.
In part, admittedly, it's easy not to be too bummed by Brás dying here because he's done it twice before in this series and by now we know he'll be coming back. The point of this column, though, is to look at stories that don't rely on previous or following issues to make them work, and I still think Daytripper #3 qualifies, because the effect of Brás' death is more or less the same even if you don't know he won't stay dead for long. Writers/artists/brothers Fábio Moon and Gabriel Bá do such a thorough job of delving into Brás' depression in the beginning of the issue, and then take great care to drive home the impact the woman at the end of the story has on him, the joy of that encounter easily outlasts the awfulness of Brás getting run over. His newfound vibrance and excitement are what stick, not the dull thud of the crash that kills him.
Turning a main character's death into a positive event is just one of many such tricks Daytripper pulls off over the course of its ten issues. By ending Brás life at many different points, Moon and Bá get to tell numerous contrasting stories that at the same time all tell one story, which is a character study of this fairly normal guy. The creators enrich his normalcy with their care for him and for the comicbook itself. Daytripper #3 is an especially nice example of this, in that it gives us two extremes in Brás' emotional spectrum: depressed detachment and active romanticism. In providing these polar opposite views of the man, they present a full picture of him in this one issue, and by infusing his demise with so much sweet, budding love, they create a moving, memorable tale without needing to fall back on the tragedy of it all.
Showing posts with label Gabriel Bá. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gabriel Bá. Show all posts
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Superb Heroes: The Umbrella Academy
Superb
Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary
and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.
I'd argue that superhero stories are soap operas more often than not. The emotions are big, even exaggerated; the plots and character relationships are vast and complex to the point of sometimes becoming convoluted; the casts are large and always growing and/or shifting; the villains are extra villainous, selfish schemers with some personal grudge against the heroes; and so on. This doesn't apply universally, but it tends to be true. So while it is undeniably, wholeheartedly a superhero comicbook, Gerard Way & Gabriel Bá's The Umbrella Academy is just as much a family soap opera, and it uses that fact to its advantage as often as possible. Completely embracing the tropes and cliches of both worlds, it becomes something grander than either, and throws in a fat sack of elements from other genres (sci-fi, fantasy, what have you) for good measure as well. It makes for a big, boisterous, kitchen-sink type of series---well, technically it's two series but I'll get to that---with something for everyone to love, yet still maintains a strong clarity and consistency in both the story and art. As fun and funny as it is dark and hard-hitting, as critical of superheroes as it is celebratory, Umbrella Academy is a storm of talent and originality drenching the far-too-similar and often-quite-dull comicbook landscape.
The members of The Umbrella Academy are a group of adopted siblings who were brought together by the cold and uncaring Reginald Hargreeves so he could train them to save the world. Though he successfully developed their powers, Hargreeves was godawful as an actual parent, and so there is rampant dysfunction amongst his children in their adult lives. They secretly love or openly hate each other, are scattered across the globe (except Spaceboy, who lives on the moon), and each and every one of them is emotionally still a child in one regard or another. They are powerful, yes, but still petty and immature, and though we see them save the world twice, in both cases they find themselves unable to fully deal with the whys and hows of their adventures. The world may remain intact, but The Umbrella Academy always winds up far more broken and battered than they were when they started. And not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically, because they are ill-equipped to handle the kinds of insanity their superhero lifestyle forces them to regularly face. You might think that after a time the team would become jaded, unable to be so deeply affected by what they do. That may be true in the case of The Kraken, the dark and brooding anti-hero loner of the group (though I don't think so, really), but for the rest of them there is too much emotional investment in their work. For various reasons, they cannot separate their individual identities from their superpowered personas, and it makes saving the world into an ugly and deeply personal business.
Apocalypse Suite, the first of the two six-issue series that make up The Umbrella Academy*, pits the family against one of its own members: Vanya, also known as Number Seven and, over the course of the story, The White Violin. Vanya was the only sibling to not have any metahuman abilities as a child, and as such was left out of the exciting and dangerous escapades of her brothers and sisters. Obviously, this led to jealousy and bitterness, so when, as an adult, Vanya is offered immense power and a chance to destroy the world, she accepts fairly eagerly (after her family pushes her away) and finds that the role of villain fits her like a glove. But even though her plan is to erase the entire planet from existence, she can't help but start things off with a more personal attack, murdering Pogo, the sentient chimp who helps to run the Hargreeves household, and blowing up the family's luxurious home. That single moment is, to me, the entirety of this title in a nutshell: no matter how powerful they become or how enormous the events they're dealing with, for this group of characters family drama will always come first.
It's equally true in Dallas, the follow-up to Suite that has Number Three (a.k.a. The Rumor or Allison) and Number Five (no code name or real name due to being lost in the future for 20 years) traveling back to 1963 in order to stop another, older version of Number Five from preventing the Kennedy assassination. Got all that? Two of our "heroes" go back in time to ensure that JFK is killed. And why would they agree to such a thing? Because the Temps Aeternalis, an agency responsible for protecting the time stream, threatens to kill Number Five's mother in the past while she is still pregnant with him and his twin brother, Number One (a.k.a. Spaceboy or Luther). And Number Three is in love with Number One, despite their supposed sibling relationship, so in order to save his life she takes the life of a US President. Talk about personal/familial issues trumping all other concerns, amiright?
The point being, The Umbrella Academy's superheroics only extend so far, because their lifelong problems as a family unit constantly, inescapably get in the way. At the same time, their family matters never get fully resolved because their obligations as superheroes incessantly interrupt. Their father's funeral ends abruptly because of a robot attack. Luther and Allison's romance is cut short by Vanya's vengeance. Number Five finally makes it back home from the distant future only to be dragged back to the past to murder JFK. And every time one of these superpowered events goes down, it fucks up the family dynamics even further. These characters were raised from infancy to be masked protectors of the planet, and as much as they might want to make dealing with their interpersonal issues a priority, none of them quite know how and the world won't let them, anyway. They're actually pretty great at saving the day, but that's all they're good at, and they don't even seem to genuinely enjoy it.
You know...I was not expecting this post to zero in so narrowly on the dysfunctional nature of the Hargreeves clan and the reasons behind it. I was expecting that to be only one of several points made, all the while discussing the creative team's amazing work. Gerard Way is an exceptional writer, especially for this to be his first foray into the comicbook medium. He expertly paces every issue, finding a careful balance between necessary moments of long exposition (there are some complex ideas to explain and stories to tell) and scenes of intense action, and he laces a playfulness and powerful sense of humor throughout. Meanwhile, Gabriel Bá, along with colorist Dave Stewart, builds a world that is familiar and singularly strange all at once. There is such a powerful and unique sense of design in this series, from the characters to the settings to the props, and it's one of the biggest reasons for the book's overall quality. But where Bá most stands out and impresses is in the fight sequences, all beautifully choreographed and structured for the optimum sense of excitement and danger. Particularly when The Umbrella Academy battles Dr. Terminal's robots at the carnival. Just some stunning comicbook violence there.
But The Umbrella Academy is an examination of what a lifetime of superheroism could and likely would do not only to an individual, but to a group of people sharing in the experience, and so that accidentally became the focus of this column. Even without the family element, growing up as a costumed crime fighter would be necessarily traumatic, and lead to deep-seeded problems later in life. Add the typical sibling rivalries, arguably inappropriate romantic feelings, and a father who never showed any love or even concern for his children, and it's a wonder all seven of these kids haven't ended up in an asylum or jail cell or coffin by now. They keep playing hero, decades later, and even after their dad's death. Hell, for some of them (namely The Rumor), it is Reginald's demise that brings them back into the superhero arena in the first place. Unable or unwilling to lead a more normal life, they chug along in the only one they've ever known, even though they can see how miserable and damaged it's made them. Saving the world has never been sadder.
*So far. There is supposed to be a third series, Hotel Oblivion, in the not-too-distant future. And there are actually a handful of short stories in addition to the two limited series, but I haven't read any of them so they are not a part of this discussion.
I'd argue that superhero stories are soap operas more often than not. The emotions are big, even exaggerated; the plots and character relationships are vast and complex to the point of sometimes becoming convoluted; the casts are large and always growing and/or shifting; the villains are extra villainous, selfish schemers with some personal grudge against the heroes; and so on. This doesn't apply universally, but it tends to be true. So while it is undeniably, wholeheartedly a superhero comicbook, Gerard Way & Gabriel Bá's The Umbrella Academy is just as much a family soap opera, and it uses that fact to its advantage as often as possible. Completely embracing the tropes and cliches of both worlds, it becomes something grander than either, and throws in a fat sack of elements from other genres (sci-fi, fantasy, what have you) for good measure as well. It makes for a big, boisterous, kitchen-sink type of series---well, technically it's two series but I'll get to that---with something for everyone to love, yet still maintains a strong clarity and consistency in both the story and art. As fun and funny as it is dark and hard-hitting, as critical of superheroes as it is celebratory, Umbrella Academy is a storm of talent and originality drenching the far-too-similar and often-quite-dull comicbook landscape.
The members of The Umbrella Academy are a group of adopted siblings who were brought together by the cold and uncaring Reginald Hargreeves so he could train them to save the world. Though he successfully developed their powers, Hargreeves was godawful as an actual parent, and so there is rampant dysfunction amongst his children in their adult lives. They secretly love or openly hate each other, are scattered across the globe (except Spaceboy, who lives on the moon), and each and every one of them is emotionally still a child in one regard or another. They are powerful, yes, but still petty and immature, and though we see them save the world twice, in both cases they find themselves unable to fully deal with the whys and hows of their adventures. The world may remain intact, but The Umbrella Academy always winds up far more broken and battered than they were when they started. And not just physically, but emotionally and psychologically, because they are ill-equipped to handle the kinds of insanity their superhero lifestyle forces them to regularly face. You might think that after a time the team would become jaded, unable to be so deeply affected by what they do. That may be true in the case of The Kraken, the dark and brooding anti-hero loner of the group (though I don't think so, really), but for the rest of them there is too much emotional investment in their work. For various reasons, they cannot separate their individual identities from their superpowered personas, and it makes saving the world into an ugly and deeply personal business.
Apocalypse Suite, the first of the two six-issue series that make up The Umbrella Academy*, pits the family against one of its own members: Vanya, also known as Number Seven and, over the course of the story, The White Violin. Vanya was the only sibling to not have any metahuman abilities as a child, and as such was left out of the exciting and dangerous escapades of her brothers and sisters. Obviously, this led to jealousy and bitterness, so when, as an adult, Vanya is offered immense power and a chance to destroy the world, she accepts fairly eagerly (after her family pushes her away) and finds that the role of villain fits her like a glove. But even though her plan is to erase the entire planet from existence, she can't help but start things off with a more personal attack, murdering Pogo, the sentient chimp who helps to run the Hargreeves household, and blowing up the family's luxurious home. That single moment is, to me, the entirety of this title in a nutshell: no matter how powerful they become or how enormous the events they're dealing with, for this group of characters family drama will always come first.
It's equally true in Dallas, the follow-up to Suite that has Number Three (a.k.a. The Rumor or Allison) and Number Five (no code name or real name due to being lost in the future for 20 years) traveling back to 1963 in order to stop another, older version of Number Five from preventing the Kennedy assassination. Got all that? Two of our "heroes" go back in time to ensure that JFK is killed. And why would they agree to such a thing? Because the Temps Aeternalis, an agency responsible for protecting the time stream, threatens to kill Number Five's mother in the past while she is still pregnant with him and his twin brother, Number One (a.k.a. Spaceboy or Luther). And Number Three is in love with Number One, despite their supposed sibling relationship, so in order to save his life she takes the life of a US President. Talk about personal/familial issues trumping all other concerns, amiright?
The point being, The Umbrella Academy's superheroics only extend so far, because their lifelong problems as a family unit constantly, inescapably get in the way. At the same time, their family matters never get fully resolved because their obligations as superheroes incessantly interrupt. Their father's funeral ends abruptly because of a robot attack. Luther and Allison's romance is cut short by Vanya's vengeance. Number Five finally makes it back home from the distant future only to be dragged back to the past to murder JFK. And every time one of these superpowered events goes down, it fucks up the family dynamics even further. These characters were raised from infancy to be masked protectors of the planet, and as much as they might want to make dealing with their interpersonal issues a priority, none of them quite know how and the world won't let them, anyway. They're actually pretty great at saving the day, but that's all they're good at, and they don't even seem to genuinely enjoy it.
You know...I was not expecting this post to zero in so narrowly on the dysfunctional nature of the Hargreeves clan and the reasons behind it. I was expecting that to be only one of several points made, all the while discussing the creative team's amazing work. Gerard Way is an exceptional writer, especially for this to be his first foray into the comicbook medium. He expertly paces every issue, finding a careful balance between necessary moments of long exposition (there are some complex ideas to explain and stories to tell) and scenes of intense action, and he laces a playfulness and powerful sense of humor throughout. Meanwhile, Gabriel Bá, along with colorist Dave Stewart, builds a world that is familiar and singularly strange all at once. There is such a powerful and unique sense of design in this series, from the characters to the settings to the props, and it's one of the biggest reasons for the book's overall quality. But where Bá most stands out and impresses is in the fight sequences, all beautifully choreographed and structured for the optimum sense of excitement and danger. Particularly when The Umbrella Academy battles Dr. Terminal's robots at the carnival. Just some stunning comicbook violence there.
But The Umbrella Academy is an examination of what a lifetime of superheroism could and likely would do not only to an individual, but to a group of people sharing in the experience, and so that accidentally became the focus of this column. Even without the family element, growing up as a costumed crime fighter would be necessarily traumatic, and lead to deep-seeded problems later in life. Add the typical sibling rivalries, arguably inappropriate romantic feelings, and a father who never showed any love or even concern for his children, and it's a wonder all seven of these kids haven't ended up in an asylum or jail cell or coffin by now. They keep playing hero, decades later, and even after their dad's death. Hell, for some of them (namely The Rumor), it is Reginald's demise that brings them back into the superhero arena in the first place. Unable or unwilling to lead a more normal life, they chug along in the only one they've ever known, even though they can see how miserable and damaged it's made them. Saving the world has never been sadder.
*So far. There is supposed to be a third series, Hotel Oblivion, in the not-too-distant future. And there are actually a handful of short stories in addition to the two limited series, but I haven't read any of them so they are not a part of this discussion.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Dearly Departed: Casanova: Avaritia
Dearly Departed is a semi-regular column where I look back on recently completed or canceled series.
Hot and heavy. That's how I would describe Casanova: Avaritia. Not in the sexual sense, although there's plenty of passionate, psychedelic lovemaking going on. But when I say hot and heavy, I'm referring more to the emotional impact of the series. There is a heat to the pace and, even more so, the art of this book. Blazing guns, explosions, rocket ships, and oh so much blood, all done in a palette founded in stark, warm reds. It's as if there was a burner underneath the story, being slowly but steadily cranked up, forcing the characters to charge ever faster toward their individual destinations. As for the heaviness, it comes from the content and, more specifically, the attitude of our titular hero, Casanova Quinn. The ne'er-do-well charm and smugness which were such definitive aspects of Cass's personality in the previous two series are largely absent here. He's no longer playing a game in which he finds any joy, instead feeling trapped in a life of ceaseless violence and pain. Though no less likable a lead, his is definitely less fun and funny here than in the past, and it adds a significant weight to the events of Avaritia. It's hot and it's heavy, and while I'm not yet convinced that it's my favorite of the Casanova titles, it made for the most intense and challenging read.
The choice of red as a base color this time out is an excellent one. Cris Peter uses a variety of crimson shades to underscore the high-octane action and deep sadness of the narrative equally. When violence erupts, so do the colors, as harsh and striking as any of the images they display. But the reds can also be dulled and/or darkened as needed for those times when Casanova is grappling with his depression. In his quieter, more brooding scenes, there tend to be either calmer reds or, more often, simply fewer of them. Peter makes careful use of soft greens and white space to add depth to these more contemplative moments. Cass's hope is fading, and so the world around him becomes muted, especially in contrast to the brash hues of the fight sequences.
While the coloring is a powerful component, as it has always been in the world of Casanova, without Gabriel Bá's insane and insanely gorgeous artwork it would be far less visually stunning. The colors may highlight the book's intense moods, but it is Bá who captures and displays those mood in the first place. Casanova's despair, Luther's innocence and fear, Sasa Lisi's confidence, Seychelle's wickedness...Bá has his entire cast down to a T. Yet even as he delivers nuanced performances from the characters, his style remains generally broad and chaotic, which adds tremendously to the ultimate feel of the series. At its heart, this is still a madcap sci-fi adventure, so the story's severity doesn't mean Bá's art is any more subdued. Quite the opposite, in fact. Early on there is mind-blowing splash page where Casanova is pulled out of a dying universe and back into his own, and from there things only get more artistically astounding. There are pages covered by grids displaying the same events over multiple realities, each rendered just as convincingly and beautifully as the next. Countless new locations, scenes of chaotic action, tender moments of intimate romance, and everything in between are all handled deftly. And, my god, there is an amazing sequence in the final issue that feels like the entire nightclub experience, designer drugs and thumping music and flashing lights all, translated into comicbook form. It's a singular feat of graphic storytelling.
There's no denying the impressive work done by all parties involved in expressing the larger feelings and ideas of this narrative, and Matt Fraction's script is just as essential a facet as the images which accompany it. Casanova is forced by his father Cornelius to eviscerate entire realities in an attempt to erase his arch-enemy, Newman Xeno, from existence. These universe-wide genocides begin to take their toll on Cass, and even when he learns Newman's real name, Luther Desmond Diamond, all that changes is that rather than wipe out whole worlds, Casanova becomes a reality-hopping assassin, incessantly murdering new versions of the same guy. It's a gripping set-up, and it ultimately leads to Cass and his girlfriend Sasa Lisi fighting against Cornelius' goals and rescuing one of the innumerable Luthers to bring into their hearts and their bed. An ultra-violent, sometimes meta-fictional, spacetime travel action love story. No wonder it never has the time (or space) to catch its breath.
One slightly negative result of this pedal-to-the-metal approach is there are a few plot details which end up being rushed passed or glossed over. I've read Avaritia several times, and, I admit, there are a handful of things which still confuse me. The workings of the Lacuna, for instance. Is it where they send Luther in the end, or is it what Cass uses to escape? It appears to be the latter, but then what, exactly, do they do with Luther, and why don't Cass and Sasa merely do the same with themselves? And either way, why did Sasa build a spacetime machine that only one person could use to get away? What was the purpose of suddenly introducing Suki Boutqiue to the story only to just as immediately remove her from the board? And did Kaito murder Cornelius, or is it his cancer that finally does him in as promised in the first issue? Based on what we have here, feels like it could go either way.
Here's the thing, though: I don't really care to find answers to these questions. I'm sure some of them are contained within the book's pages, and as I reread this and the other Casanova titles, those which came before and the ones to follow, I suspect I'll notice more and more until my confusion disappears. But even if that's not the case, I enjoyed the ever-living daylights out of Avaritia, possibly in spite of its breakneck pace but also in part, I think, because of it. Right around the time most of my questions arise, Sasa Lisi describes this whole mess as a "Race to get fucked to infinity," and that's precisely what it feels like. These characters, at least initially, are unable to avoid the violence and death which surround and engulf them, and so they each find their own twisted ways to embrace it instead. They throw themselves headfirst into the muck and, once they meet each other down there, try to kill one another. That is, they do until Cass and Sasa, fueled by their own love, decide to push back against this impulse and, instead, protect a life or two. They spare Suki (may that's why she's in here!), rescue Luther, and in the end Sasa helps Casanova himself escape. The specifics of the methods they use to accomplish all of this saving and fleeing my be unclear, but they're also unnecessary. What matters is that it happens, that in the midst of a seemingly unbreakable cycle of violence these two characters actually manage to protect some lives. Ideally it'd all be understandable, but I'll take emotional/conceptual relevance over total story clarity any day.
The very, very end of Casanova: Avaritia, by which I mean literally the final two or three pages, is also a tad confounding. Presumably meant as a sort of lead-in to the next series, Acedia, it's not so much a resolution as a massive shift in status quo that is not, as of yet, explored. But again, this is not a complaint. While Cass may have managed to escape the situation he was in when this tale began, he clearly has not outrun all of his enemies or problems, and that's a logical place for him to end up. His circumstances were so dire at the start of this narrative, any amount of improvement feels like a major victory, so we get the payoff of seeing our hero succeed even if we know his satisfaction and safety are not going to last for long. The good guys may not win outright, but they accomplish their more immediate goals and also stop the villains from doing the same, so we get to be happy for them, even if only tentatively so. More importantly, though, is the wild ride which brings us to this endpoint. Having already pulled out all the stops in the preceding Casanova titles, Fraction, Bá, and Peter are free here to tell their most hard-hitting narrative to date. It may be more dismal and sometimes depressing than what came before, but it's all the more compelling and ultimately satisfying for it. Nobody is safe from the enormity of what goes on in this book. Not the characters, not the creators, and certainly not the readers. As Sasa Lisi says, "Everybody gets fucked to infinity."
Casanova: Avaritia #1-4 were published by Marvel Worldwide Inc. and are dated November 2011-August 2012.
Hot and heavy. That's how I would describe Casanova: Avaritia. Not in the sexual sense, although there's plenty of passionate, psychedelic lovemaking going on. But when I say hot and heavy, I'm referring more to the emotional impact of the series. There is a heat to the pace and, even more so, the art of this book. Blazing guns, explosions, rocket ships, and oh so much blood, all done in a palette founded in stark, warm reds. It's as if there was a burner underneath the story, being slowly but steadily cranked up, forcing the characters to charge ever faster toward their individual destinations. As for the heaviness, it comes from the content and, more specifically, the attitude of our titular hero, Casanova Quinn. The ne'er-do-well charm and smugness which were such definitive aspects of Cass's personality in the previous two series are largely absent here. He's no longer playing a game in which he finds any joy, instead feeling trapped in a life of ceaseless violence and pain. Though no less likable a lead, his is definitely less fun and funny here than in the past, and it adds a significant weight to the events of Avaritia. It's hot and it's heavy, and while I'm not yet convinced that it's my favorite of the Casanova titles, it made for the most intense and challenging read.
The choice of red as a base color this time out is an excellent one. Cris Peter uses a variety of crimson shades to underscore the high-octane action and deep sadness of the narrative equally. When violence erupts, so do the colors, as harsh and striking as any of the images they display. But the reds can also be dulled and/or darkened as needed for those times when Casanova is grappling with his depression. In his quieter, more brooding scenes, there tend to be either calmer reds or, more often, simply fewer of them. Peter makes careful use of soft greens and white space to add depth to these more contemplative moments. Cass's hope is fading, and so the world around him becomes muted, especially in contrast to the brash hues of the fight sequences.
While the coloring is a powerful component, as it has always been in the world of Casanova, without Gabriel Bá's insane and insanely gorgeous artwork it would be far less visually stunning. The colors may highlight the book's intense moods, but it is Bá who captures and displays those mood in the first place. Casanova's despair, Luther's innocence and fear, Sasa Lisi's confidence, Seychelle's wickedness...Bá has his entire cast down to a T. Yet even as he delivers nuanced performances from the characters, his style remains generally broad and chaotic, which adds tremendously to the ultimate feel of the series. At its heart, this is still a madcap sci-fi adventure, so the story's severity doesn't mean Bá's art is any more subdued. Quite the opposite, in fact. Early on there is mind-blowing splash page where Casanova is pulled out of a dying universe and back into his own, and from there things only get more artistically astounding. There are pages covered by grids displaying the same events over multiple realities, each rendered just as convincingly and beautifully as the next. Countless new locations, scenes of chaotic action, tender moments of intimate romance, and everything in between are all handled deftly. And, my god, there is an amazing sequence in the final issue that feels like the entire nightclub experience, designer drugs and thumping music and flashing lights all, translated into comicbook form. It's a singular feat of graphic storytelling.
There's no denying the impressive work done by all parties involved in expressing the larger feelings and ideas of this narrative, and Matt Fraction's script is just as essential a facet as the images which accompany it. Casanova is forced by his father Cornelius to eviscerate entire realities in an attempt to erase his arch-enemy, Newman Xeno, from existence. These universe-wide genocides begin to take their toll on Cass, and even when he learns Newman's real name, Luther Desmond Diamond, all that changes is that rather than wipe out whole worlds, Casanova becomes a reality-hopping assassin, incessantly murdering new versions of the same guy. It's a gripping set-up, and it ultimately leads to Cass and his girlfriend Sasa Lisi fighting against Cornelius' goals and rescuing one of the innumerable Luthers to bring into their hearts and their bed. An ultra-violent, sometimes meta-fictional, spacetime travel action love story. No wonder it never has the time (or space) to catch its breath.
One slightly negative result of this pedal-to-the-metal approach is there are a few plot details which end up being rushed passed or glossed over. I've read Avaritia several times, and, I admit, there are a handful of things which still confuse me. The workings of the Lacuna, for instance. Is it where they send Luther in the end, or is it what Cass uses to escape? It appears to be the latter, but then what, exactly, do they do with Luther, and why don't Cass and Sasa merely do the same with themselves? And either way, why did Sasa build a spacetime machine that only one person could use to get away? What was the purpose of suddenly introducing Suki Boutqiue to the story only to just as immediately remove her from the board? And did Kaito murder Cornelius, or is it his cancer that finally does him in as promised in the first issue? Based on what we have here, feels like it could go either way.
Here's the thing, though: I don't really care to find answers to these questions. I'm sure some of them are contained within the book's pages, and as I reread this and the other Casanova titles, those which came before and the ones to follow, I suspect I'll notice more and more until my confusion disappears. But even if that's not the case, I enjoyed the ever-living daylights out of Avaritia, possibly in spite of its breakneck pace but also in part, I think, because of it. Right around the time most of my questions arise, Sasa Lisi describes this whole mess as a "Race to get fucked to infinity," and that's precisely what it feels like. These characters, at least initially, are unable to avoid the violence and death which surround and engulf them, and so they each find their own twisted ways to embrace it instead. They throw themselves headfirst into the muck and, once they meet each other down there, try to kill one another. That is, they do until Cass and Sasa, fueled by their own love, decide to push back against this impulse and, instead, protect a life or two. They spare Suki (may that's why she's in here!), rescue Luther, and in the end Sasa helps Casanova himself escape. The specifics of the methods they use to accomplish all of this saving and fleeing my be unclear, but they're also unnecessary. What matters is that it happens, that in the midst of a seemingly unbreakable cycle of violence these two characters actually manage to protect some lives. Ideally it'd all be understandable, but I'll take emotional/conceptual relevance over total story clarity any day.
The very, very end of Casanova: Avaritia, by which I mean literally the final two or three pages, is also a tad confounding. Presumably meant as a sort of lead-in to the next series, Acedia, it's not so much a resolution as a massive shift in status quo that is not, as of yet, explored. But again, this is not a complaint. While Cass may have managed to escape the situation he was in when this tale began, he clearly has not outrun all of his enemies or problems, and that's a logical place for him to end up. His circumstances were so dire at the start of this narrative, any amount of improvement feels like a major victory, so we get the payoff of seeing our hero succeed even if we know his satisfaction and safety are not going to last for long. The good guys may not win outright, but they accomplish their more immediate goals and also stop the villains from doing the same, so we get to be happy for them, even if only tentatively so. More importantly, though, is the wild ride which brings us to this endpoint. Having already pulled out all the stops in the preceding Casanova titles, Fraction, Bá, and Peter are free here to tell their most hard-hitting narrative to date. It may be more dismal and sometimes depressing than what came before, but it's all the more compelling and ultimately satisfying for it. Nobody is safe from the enormity of what goes on in this book. Not the characters, not the creators, and certainly not the readers. As Sasa Lisi says, "Everybody gets fucked to infinity."
Casanova: Avaritia #1-4 were published by Marvel Worldwide Inc. and are dated November 2011-August 2012.
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