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 The Cheese Stands Alone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Cheese Stands Alone. Show all posts
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Monday, October 14, 2013
The Cheese Stands Alone: Uncanny X-Men #230
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.
Uncanny X-Men #230 is one of the cheesiest X-Men stories I've read. But it's also one of my favorites, because it does everything right. It re-introduces the team, their powers, and their personalities. It explains their current status quo even while adding to it. Most importantly, it exemplifies a kind of heroism that is too rare in superhero books—simple acts of decency, done under the radar and without violence, without any desire for recognition on the part of the good guys. There are no villains to battle in this story, but there's still evil to undo, and the X-Men handle it with grace, intelligence, and honor. Plus it's the best use of Longshot's best power that I've ever seen.
Written by Chris Claremont when he was already deep into his lengthy run on the title, Uncanny X-Men #230 takes place only shortly after the team decided to let the world think they were dead. I've read the issues leading up to that decision, but only kinda/sorta remember the details of what happens. For the purposes of this issue, though, the how isn't what matters so much as the why. In order to operate as superheroes without being the big, obvious target for supervillains that they've been in the past, the X-Men hide out and allow everyone else, including their friends, believe they died in a big, highly-publicized fight. Their hope is that this will allow them to attack the baddies with the element of surprise on their side, and then disappear into "death" so that other evildoers don't come looking for them. Not a bad plan, but also not one they've thought all the way through yet. How will they pick their targets? What exactly do they hope to accomplish that they couldn't have done when the world knew they were alive? These kinds of questions have no firm answers at this point, because their fake deaths are still relatively new, and they are therefore still figuring out the best way to take advantage of that situation.
In the meantime, they're training, and adjusting to life in their new base of operations, which is the former base of operations of their enemies the Reavers. It's a huge space with several structures and a super high-tech system of monitors and scanners keeping track of everything that goes on. But it's also filthy, because the Reavers were slobs. So we get to see the X-Men use their powers toward the atypical goal of cleaning their new home—Storm floods the buildings so all the garbage ends up in a tidy pile that Havok can then destroy with his plasma blasts. This happens early in the issue, but only after we see the full team engage in a combat training exercise, so that the versatility of their various skills is on display right away. It's an important thing to establish, because the main narrative of the issue centers on Longshot using one of his talents to accomplish something that normally wouldn't fall under the X-Men's purview.
Though Longshot is best known for his exceptional luck and blade-throwing, my favorite of his powers, and the one which is front and center here, is his ability to get psychic readings off of inanimate objects. When he touches an item, he can see its history, former owners and locations and experiences it's been through. Normally, this is just kind of a neat trick, or a means of getting information on a foe, but in Uncanny #230, it's used for something far nobler. The Reavers had an enormous underground cavern where they kept their massive horde of stolen treasure, accumulated over many years of international thievery and other crimes. These stolen goods call out to Longshot through his powers, even from a distance, because there are so many of them and they all want the same thing: to be returned to their rightful owners. Overwhelmed by the treasure's psychic cries, Longshot collapses when he finds the treasure room, and when he comes to days later, he's determined to give the stolen loot back to the people from whom it was originally taken.
It's an ambitious task, no doubt, and not one that everybody's on board with right away. Wolverine points out that with the Reavers already defeated, the X-Men have done their duty as far as avenging the villains' victims. But the question becomes, is that really enough? Is being a hero just about stopping future evil, or should it not be about repairing past evil as well? Guess what answer the team lands on.
With the help of teleporter Gateway, who the X-Men have only just met and who used to work with the Reavers (though not necessarily by choice), the heroes travel all over the world secretly dropping off the stolen items back where they belong. Claremont lays it on a little thick by having this take place on Christmas Eve, but hey, if you're going to do a heavy-handed narrative about the true meaning of being a good person, might as well go all the way with it. We're only shown a handful of the X-Men's doubtlessly innumerable trips, but each one is an opportunity to show one member of the team being affected by their own potential to positively influence the world even as background players. It's touching if a shade saccharine, particularly the scene where the New Mutants are shown mourning the X-Men's "deaths," as well as the all-to-real death of their own teammate, before Storm lifts their spirits by simply lessening the intensity of a the falling snow. Then at the end of the issue, the X-Men do some good for one another, with Wolverine giving Dazzler a motorcycle, Rogue and Gateway definitively forming some kind of friendship, and the whole team getting to enjoy a holiday celebration together in spite of their isolated new home.
They find a quieter, less dangerous, less violent means of being heroic, and it lifts their collective spirit about the strangeness and loneliness of their current circumstances. They become closer as a team, and more importantly, they operate as one, completing a common goal by concentrating their efforts and using their individual powers together so that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Longshot gets his readings off the treasure, and Psylocke broadcasts those images to the rest of the team, who then get sent all over the globe by Gateway, each of them going somewhere suited to his or her own talents. If this was your first issue of Uncanny X-Men, you'd walk away with everything you needed to know about their capabilities, personalities, dynamics, and lives.
Marc Silvestri pencils the issue, with inks by Joe Rubinstein and colors from Glynis Oliver. The art never exactly drops my jaw, but it does manage to fit a lot of story into a fairly tight package. The entire training sequence, involving all eight of the X-Men who aren't Longshot, only takes four pages, the first of which is a splash of just Storm flying. Five scenes in five different geographical locations are seen during the team's Christmas Eve travels, and that all takes only three pages. This efficiency of space is how the issue has time to give the reader a full taste of the entire cast, while also introducing a new mission for them to carry out and having them do so in full before the final page. Silvestri was new enough at this time to not quite be displaying the overfull, kinetic style he'd ultimately develop. These pencils are far simpler and cleaner, with everyone having a smooth complexion and the backgrounds being generally sparse. Yet the characters are still plenty emotive, particularly Longshot, who has a kind of childishness about him that serves him well in his central role in this story. He is the bleeding heart who's so powerfully touched by the pain the Reavers caused that he pushes the rest of the team to reverse it. It's important that his investment be believable and earnest, that he be convincingly saddened by what he sees, and in that Silvestri and Rubinstein succeed. They also do a great job with the big moment of Longshot discovering the treasure, making the impact it has on him and the size of the space equally evident.
Oliver's colors, like the linework from the other artists, is mostly straightforward, but where she does her best work when Longshot sees the various thefts and the lives led by the stolen things before the Reavers took them. She does these flashbacks in blue and white, except for the items themselves, which are seen in full color. This coloring helps distinguish these scenes from the present, and the paleness of the blue adds to the sense that they are old memories. Yet having the stolen good be colored as they are in the present keeps the focus on them, and places them firmly as the narrators and stars of their own stories.
These visual touches are just the cherry on top, though. The heart of this issue is in its narrative, and the way it both reinforces and progresses what the X-Men are all about. No longer in the public eye, and with no bad guys as an immediate threat, they find a new way to do good, and a new source of pride and satisfaction in their work. Claremont isn't subtle about it, but in this instance I think that's a beneficial decision, because it cuts to the chase and gets the whole story told in a single issue. Is it a bit too on-the-nose with its message, and is that message overly optimistic and corny? I'd say yes on both counts, but I still enjoy the hell out of Uncanny X-Men #230 every time I revisit it. It's doing a lot, and doing it well, setting up the book's central heroes as people worth rooting for, and who give me a lot of faith as a team.
Uncanny X-Men #230 is one of the cheesiest X-Men stories I've read. But it's also one of my favorites, because it does everything right. It re-introduces the team, their powers, and their personalities. It explains their current status quo even while adding to it. Most importantly, it exemplifies a kind of heroism that is too rare in superhero books—simple acts of decency, done under the radar and without violence, without any desire for recognition on the part of the good guys. There are no villains to battle in this story, but there's still evil to undo, and the X-Men handle it with grace, intelligence, and honor. Plus it's the best use of Longshot's best power that I've ever seen.
Written by Chris Claremont when he was already deep into his lengthy run on the title, Uncanny X-Men #230 takes place only shortly after the team decided to let the world think they were dead. I've read the issues leading up to that decision, but only kinda/sorta remember the details of what happens. For the purposes of this issue, though, the how isn't what matters so much as the why. In order to operate as superheroes without being the big, obvious target for supervillains that they've been in the past, the X-Men hide out and allow everyone else, including their friends, believe they died in a big, highly-publicized fight. Their hope is that this will allow them to attack the baddies with the element of surprise on their side, and then disappear into "death" so that other evildoers don't come looking for them. Not a bad plan, but also not one they've thought all the way through yet. How will they pick their targets? What exactly do they hope to accomplish that they couldn't have done when the world knew they were alive? These kinds of questions have no firm answers at this point, because their fake deaths are still relatively new, and they are therefore still figuring out the best way to take advantage of that situation.
In the meantime, they're training, and adjusting to life in their new base of operations, which is the former base of operations of their enemies the Reavers. It's a huge space with several structures and a super high-tech system of monitors and scanners keeping track of everything that goes on. But it's also filthy, because the Reavers were slobs. So we get to see the X-Men use their powers toward the atypical goal of cleaning their new home—Storm floods the buildings so all the garbage ends up in a tidy pile that Havok can then destroy with his plasma blasts. This happens early in the issue, but only after we see the full team engage in a combat training exercise, so that the versatility of their various skills is on display right away. It's an important thing to establish, because the main narrative of the issue centers on Longshot using one of his talents to accomplish something that normally wouldn't fall under the X-Men's purview.
Though Longshot is best known for his exceptional luck and blade-throwing, my favorite of his powers, and the one which is front and center here, is his ability to get psychic readings off of inanimate objects. When he touches an item, he can see its history, former owners and locations and experiences it's been through. Normally, this is just kind of a neat trick, or a means of getting information on a foe, but in Uncanny #230, it's used for something far nobler. The Reavers had an enormous underground cavern where they kept their massive horde of stolen treasure, accumulated over many years of international thievery and other crimes. These stolen goods call out to Longshot through his powers, even from a distance, because there are so many of them and they all want the same thing: to be returned to their rightful owners. Overwhelmed by the treasure's psychic cries, Longshot collapses when he finds the treasure room, and when he comes to days later, he's determined to give the stolen loot back to the people from whom it was originally taken.
It's an ambitious task, no doubt, and not one that everybody's on board with right away. Wolverine points out that with the Reavers already defeated, the X-Men have done their duty as far as avenging the villains' victims. But the question becomes, is that really enough? Is being a hero just about stopping future evil, or should it not be about repairing past evil as well? Guess what answer the team lands on.
With the help of teleporter Gateway, who the X-Men have only just met and who used to work with the Reavers (though not necessarily by choice), the heroes travel all over the world secretly dropping off the stolen items back where they belong. Claremont lays it on a little thick by having this take place on Christmas Eve, but hey, if you're going to do a heavy-handed narrative about the true meaning of being a good person, might as well go all the way with it. We're only shown a handful of the X-Men's doubtlessly innumerable trips, but each one is an opportunity to show one member of the team being affected by their own potential to positively influence the world even as background players. It's touching if a shade saccharine, particularly the scene where the New Mutants are shown mourning the X-Men's "deaths," as well as the all-to-real death of their own teammate, before Storm lifts their spirits by simply lessening the intensity of a the falling snow. Then at the end of the issue, the X-Men do some good for one another, with Wolverine giving Dazzler a motorcycle, Rogue and Gateway definitively forming some kind of friendship, and the whole team getting to enjoy a holiday celebration together in spite of their isolated new home.
They find a quieter, less dangerous, less violent means of being heroic, and it lifts their collective spirit about the strangeness and loneliness of their current circumstances. They become closer as a team, and more importantly, they operate as one, completing a common goal by concentrating their efforts and using their individual powers together so that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Longshot gets his readings off the treasure, and Psylocke broadcasts those images to the rest of the team, who then get sent all over the globe by Gateway, each of them going somewhere suited to his or her own talents. If this was your first issue of Uncanny X-Men, you'd walk away with everything you needed to know about their capabilities, personalities, dynamics, and lives.
Marc Silvestri pencils the issue, with inks by Joe Rubinstein and colors from Glynis Oliver. The art never exactly drops my jaw, but it does manage to fit a lot of story into a fairly tight package. The entire training sequence, involving all eight of the X-Men who aren't Longshot, only takes four pages, the first of which is a splash of just Storm flying. Five scenes in five different geographical locations are seen during the team's Christmas Eve travels, and that all takes only three pages. This efficiency of space is how the issue has time to give the reader a full taste of the entire cast, while also introducing a new mission for them to carry out and having them do so in full before the final page. Silvestri was new enough at this time to not quite be displaying the overfull, kinetic style he'd ultimately develop. These pencils are far simpler and cleaner, with everyone having a smooth complexion and the backgrounds being generally sparse. Yet the characters are still plenty emotive, particularly Longshot, who has a kind of childishness about him that serves him well in his central role in this story. He is the bleeding heart who's so powerfully touched by the pain the Reavers caused that he pushes the rest of the team to reverse it. It's important that his investment be believable and earnest, that he be convincingly saddened by what he sees, and in that Silvestri and Rubinstein succeed. They also do a great job with the big moment of Longshot discovering the treasure, making the impact it has on him and the size of the space equally evident.
Oliver's colors, like the linework from the other artists, is mostly straightforward, but where she does her best work when Longshot sees the various thefts and the lives led by the stolen things before the Reavers took them. She does these flashbacks in blue and white, except for the items themselves, which are seen in full color. This coloring helps distinguish these scenes from the present, and the paleness of the blue adds to the sense that they are old memories. Yet having the stolen good be colored as they are in the present keeps the focus on them, and places them firmly as the narrators and stars of their own stories.
These visual touches are just the cherry on top, though. The heart of this issue is in its narrative, and the way it both reinforces and progresses what the X-Men are all about. No longer in the public eye, and with no bad guys as an immediate threat, they find a new way to do good, and a new source of pride and satisfaction in their work. Claremont isn't subtle about it, but in this instance I think that's a beneficial decision, because it cuts to the chase and gets the whole story told in a single issue. Is it a bit too on-the-nose with its message, and is that message overly optimistic and corny? I'd say yes on both counts, but I still enjoy the hell out of Uncanny X-Men #230 every time I revisit it. It's doing a lot, and doing it well, setting up the book's central heroes as people worth rooting for, and who give me a lot of faith as a team.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
The Cheese Stands Alone: Deathlok #11
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.
Most of the time, a successful standalone issue requires a narrowed focus and tightened pacing. With only 20-30 pages in which to tell a complete story, there's not a lot of room for enormous action sequences or too many different ideas, be they new or old or both. It's about zeroing in on a character or concept for the length of an issue and filling in the details. In Deathlok #11, Dwayne McDuffie goes the opposite route, cramming into a single issue enough new material for a much longer arc, on top of reexplaining the core concept of the series' protagonist and anchoring the whole thing with an extended fight scene against a giant robot. And while are there sections where I think this story might actually have benefited from some decompression, it is a well-done one-shot with just enough ambition to be impressively full without bursting at the seams.
The issue begins confusingly by design, not exactly in medias res but not properly at the beginning of the story, either. An unknown and unnamed character in a strange robotic suit of armor narrates as he breaks into "the main complex of Magnum Munitions." His reasons for doing so are ignored for the time being so that the details of both the complex's defense systems and the trespasser's suit can be explained. It makes for a fun and rich heist/action scene with very little background information but a lot of present-tense info and personality. The whys and wherefores can be filled in later; for now McDuffie wants the reader to have questions, to be hooked by the confusion itself. From there, he begins to rather quickly provide answers, keeping the audience engaged by satisfying the initial curiosities while at the same time promising bigger, more death-defying action to come. And, just in case this is anyone's first time with the title, there is a retelling of Deathlok's origin story, as well as a new character introduced (or, more accurately, an old character repurposed) to be a sort of inverse or mirrored version of that story.
Deathlok is the brain of pacifistic scientist Michael Collins implanted into the body of a cyborg killing machine. Collins' mind was stolen for this purpose by Cybertek, the company he worked for, when he discovered what they were up to with the Deathlok program. Able to overcome Deathlok's central programming with the strength of his mental resolve, Collins refused to kill for Cybertek, and fought against them until the company went under. Now, he works to keep their tech out of evil hands while seeking his original body so his brain can be returned to its proper home. He is pulled into the robbery at Magnum Munitions because they are the current owners of Cybertek's work, and it is Cybertek information that the unknown armored thief takes in the issue's opening scene. Deathlok's computer brain, which acts as a sort of second, uncontrollable internal monologue for the character, alerts him to the developing situation, and so the grumpy anti-hero sets out to ensure that Cybertek technology is not misused again.
However, what Deathlok finds isn't some maniacal criminal bent on usurping Cybertek's work to meet maleficent ends. On the contrary, the thief is High-Tech, real name Curtis Carr, a reformed supervillain-turned-legitimate-scientist who wants to develop more advanced prosthetics with the stolen information. This goal lines up quite nicely with the work Collins did before his brain was taken from him, so rather than battle Carr or try to retrieve what he took, Deathlok decides to defend him against the inevitable retribution from Magnum.
And it's one hell of a retribution, too. The Terrordome is like a gigantic, flying, robotic jellyfish covered in guns that is sent after Carr with every intention of killing him once it gets back everything he stole. Piloted by Mr. Lawson, the man who Carr violently incapacitated during the initial heist, the Terrordome bursts right through the wall at Stark Prosthetics (where Carr works) and the fight which ensues makes up most of the issue's third act. Deathlok wins the day without too terribly much difficulty, becuase by the time Terrordome shows up there isn't really space left to have the good guys be on the ropes for very long. But it's still a lot of fun, with some choice explosions and consistently clear action and tons of Deathlok responding snarkily to the warnings his computer brain gives him. This closing combat alone is entertaining and bombastic enough to make Deathlok #11 a worthwhile read, even if it's just a straightforward shootout between mechanical warriors of different shapes and sizes. But a well-crafted fight scene alone won't make a single issue stand out. It is the work McDuffie does leading up to the finale battle that really fleshes out this story and helps it leave a longer-lasting impression on its readers.
Deathlok and High-Tech have interestingly similar yet significantly distinct origin stories. Michael Collins was a good man trying to help the world who was pushed into the role of violent vigilante by external forces. He now uses a body designed for war and murder to instead protect others. Curtis Carr, on the other hand, started out as the villain Chemistro, and it was only after an accident claimed one of his legs that he had a change of heart and began working in prosthetics. Even then, he relies on illegal methods to further his research, building the High-Tech suit specifically to steal from Magnum Munitions. So while they begin on opposite ends of the morality spectrum, ultimately they land in similar realms, each of them using robotic bodies to try and do good, but with methods that are questionable at best. Yes, Deathlok uses a "no-killing parameter" to keep himself in check, but he's still toting massive firearms and engaging in fights that endanger innocent lives. And while Carr's day-to-day work is clearly noble and important, it does not necessarily justify trespassing, theft, and assault.
Both men are aware of the gray areas they slide into, and they understand and even respect one another because of that. Deahtlok has no problem with ripping off corporations like Cybertek and Magnum if it means creating something helpful/healing instead of just more advanced weaponry. And Carr certainly isn't going to turn down assistance from a battle-ready cyborg who also has scientific knowledge that can assist him in his prosthetics work. So after a brief, obligatory clash between the two men when they first meet (which ends in Deathlok absolutely demolishing the High-Tech armor), they learn each other's backgrounds and decide to work together for as long as they have before the Terrordome attacks. This decision is reached somewhat hurriedly, McDuffie giving Carr a single page to tell his story and Deathlok only half that. But the obvious parallels in their histories and hopes for the future make them naturally fast allies, and McDuffie takes the time to return to Deathlok's internal monologue once the two of them get to work so the reader can understand how gratifying it is for him to participate in something other than violence. And it's not as if the brevity of the origin tales detracts from them or makes them harder to understand. They are exactly as detailed as needed to get the information across and provide insight into each of the characters' personalities. And they're about as detailed as anyone could be expected to be when relating a summary of their entire life to a stranger with whom they'd just finished fighting.
McDuffie's script is oddly structured, but always in the service of telling a complete story while maintaining a certain level of action and fun. The beginning is confounding but fast-paced, skipping over the unimportant beats to get to the meat of Carr breaking in and then breaking back out. It's a smart hook, giving the reader something exciting right at the top that raises enough questions to carry them through the rest of the narrative. Then the middle gets even faster, to the point of feeling almost rushed, with Deathlok going after Carr, the birth of their friendship, and their subsequent collaboration all being squeezed into a handful of pages. Yet upon close examination, one can find in those pages a deliberate exploration of what makes Deathlok who he is as a man, a cyborg, and a reluctant hero, all through the lens of his interactions with Carr. Finally, we get the high-octane resolution, a typical but stimulating fight where the bad guys have more firepower but the good guys beat 'em anyway. It's a predictable ending, perhaps, but still a blast. Terrordome gets more than its share of good shots in, but Deathlok's never really down, and it's refreshing in a way to watch the hero achieve victory without first being put through the ringer.
If your script is going to race to the finish line, you'd better hope the art can keep up, and overall I think it does so deftly here. Denys Cowan provides the pencils for the issue, inked by Mike Manley with colors from Gregory Wright. The art is smartly done, with generally looser lines to fit the looser story. That style also helps to underline Deathlok's human side, and the human elements of the issue as a whole, rather than playing up the robotic aspects. When Terrordome shows up, there is a real sense of motion to each of its dangling metal limbs, and that adds tremendously to the effectiveness of the fight scene that follows. What Cowan and Manley's linework does best, though, is to bring out Deathlok's personality. His gruffness and sarcasm are beefed up by his detailed-yet-rough expressions, as are the underlying sadness and loneliness that drive him. Not just a tough guy cyborg action hero, Deathlok is also a broken man trying to reassemble himself, and both of those sides of his character are given equal weight by the art.
Wright's coloring is never spectacular, though it certainly never messes up any of the visuals, either. There is one page where he makes his mark more definitively, though, when Deathlok is relating his history to Carr. Wright does the flashback sequence in a wash of pale blue, which not only helps distinguish it from the present-tense action on the second half of the page, but also deepens the sadness and hopelessness of the scene itself. It is a story of a good man made worse by an evil corporation, suddenly and perhaps permanently, so highlighting the dismal nature of that tale is a strong and intelligent choice. None of the rest of the issue is quite so soft or dark, which means the main character's origin is particularly noticeable and memorable. A good move for a standalone issue, especially.
I have to assume that letterer Ken Lopez provides the many sound effects found in this issue, though I suppose it's always possible they were a part of Cowan's original artwork. Whoever is responsible, the effects add a lot of energy and life to the story. They are used rather often, arguably too often, and in a different title or with a different story they might feel overpowering. But because of the breakneck speed of this narrative and the extended action sequence that wraps it up, having bold and attention-grabbing sounds fits perfectly with the overall feel. They amp up the fights, match the rough and ragged style of the pencils, and help to fill the few empty spaces in a jam-packed issue.
McDuffie, Cowan, and crew approach this one-off a bit strangely, setting things up quickly so that the final fight can have all the room it needs to be as big and badass as it wants. But they're careful not to omit any necessary pieces; they maintain clarity and even reintroduce the series' central character just in case. It may not be as tightly crafted as other standalone issues, but it's certainly as much fun and as complete as any of them. Two strong action scenes, exploration and development of the protagonist, a full narrative (there is a cliffhanger ending but it comes in the epilogue and isn't really a threat for the immediate future), and a surprising amount of humor and heart. It may not be the perfect issue, but it leaves little to be desired, either, hitting all the beats it needs to for the story it wants to tell, and having a damn good time doing it.
Most of the time, a successful standalone issue requires a narrowed focus and tightened pacing. With only 20-30 pages in which to tell a complete story, there's not a lot of room for enormous action sequences or too many different ideas, be they new or old or both. It's about zeroing in on a character or concept for the length of an issue and filling in the details. In Deathlok #11, Dwayne McDuffie goes the opposite route, cramming into a single issue enough new material for a much longer arc, on top of reexplaining the core concept of the series' protagonist and anchoring the whole thing with an extended fight scene against a giant robot. And while are there sections where I think this story might actually have benefited from some decompression, it is a well-done one-shot with just enough ambition to be impressively full without bursting at the seams.
The issue begins confusingly by design, not exactly in medias res but not properly at the beginning of the story, either. An unknown and unnamed character in a strange robotic suit of armor narrates as he breaks into "the main complex of Magnum Munitions." His reasons for doing so are ignored for the time being so that the details of both the complex's defense systems and the trespasser's suit can be explained. It makes for a fun and rich heist/action scene with very little background information but a lot of present-tense info and personality. The whys and wherefores can be filled in later; for now McDuffie wants the reader to have questions, to be hooked by the confusion itself. From there, he begins to rather quickly provide answers, keeping the audience engaged by satisfying the initial curiosities while at the same time promising bigger, more death-defying action to come. And, just in case this is anyone's first time with the title, there is a retelling of Deathlok's origin story, as well as a new character introduced (or, more accurately, an old character repurposed) to be a sort of inverse or mirrored version of that story.
Deathlok is the brain of pacifistic scientist Michael Collins implanted into the body of a cyborg killing machine. Collins' mind was stolen for this purpose by Cybertek, the company he worked for, when he discovered what they were up to with the Deathlok program. Able to overcome Deathlok's central programming with the strength of his mental resolve, Collins refused to kill for Cybertek, and fought against them until the company went under. Now, he works to keep their tech out of evil hands while seeking his original body so his brain can be returned to its proper home. He is pulled into the robbery at Magnum Munitions because they are the current owners of Cybertek's work, and it is Cybertek information that the unknown armored thief takes in the issue's opening scene. Deathlok's computer brain, which acts as a sort of second, uncontrollable internal monologue for the character, alerts him to the developing situation, and so the grumpy anti-hero sets out to ensure that Cybertek technology is not misused again.
However, what Deathlok finds isn't some maniacal criminal bent on usurping Cybertek's work to meet maleficent ends. On the contrary, the thief is High-Tech, real name Curtis Carr, a reformed supervillain-turned-legitimate-scientist who wants to develop more advanced prosthetics with the stolen information. This goal lines up quite nicely with the work Collins did before his brain was taken from him, so rather than battle Carr or try to retrieve what he took, Deathlok decides to defend him against the inevitable retribution from Magnum.
And it's one hell of a retribution, too. The Terrordome is like a gigantic, flying, robotic jellyfish covered in guns that is sent after Carr with every intention of killing him once it gets back everything he stole. Piloted by Mr. Lawson, the man who Carr violently incapacitated during the initial heist, the Terrordome bursts right through the wall at Stark Prosthetics (where Carr works) and the fight which ensues makes up most of the issue's third act. Deathlok wins the day without too terribly much difficulty, becuase by the time Terrordome shows up there isn't really space left to have the good guys be on the ropes for very long. But it's still a lot of fun, with some choice explosions and consistently clear action and tons of Deathlok responding snarkily to the warnings his computer brain gives him. This closing combat alone is entertaining and bombastic enough to make Deathlok #11 a worthwhile read, even if it's just a straightforward shootout between mechanical warriors of different shapes and sizes. But a well-crafted fight scene alone won't make a single issue stand out. It is the work McDuffie does leading up to the finale battle that really fleshes out this story and helps it leave a longer-lasting impression on its readers.
Deathlok and High-Tech have interestingly similar yet significantly distinct origin stories. Michael Collins was a good man trying to help the world who was pushed into the role of violent vigilante by external forces. He now uses a body designed for war and murder to instead protect others. Curtis Carr, on the other hand, started out as the villain Chemistro, and it was only after an accident claimed one of his legs that he had a change of heart and began working in prosthetics. Even then, he relies on illegal methods to further his research, building the High-Tech suit specifically to steal from Magnum Munitions. So while they begin on opposite ends of the morality spectrum, ultimately they land in similar realms, each of them using robotic bodies to try and do good, but with methods that are questionable at best. Yes, Deathlok uses a "no-killing parameter" to keep himself in check, but he's still toting massive firearms and engaging in fights that endanger innocent lives. And while Carr's day-to-day work is clearly noble and important, it does not necessarily justify trespassing, theft, and assault.
Both men are aware of the gray areas they slide into, and they understand and even respect one another because of that. Deahtlok has no problem with ripping off corporations like Cybertek and Magnum if it means creating something helpful/healing instead of just more advanced weaponry. And Carr certainly isn't going to turn down assistance from a battle-ready cyborg who also has scientific knowledge that can assist him in his prosthetics work. So after a brief, obligatory clash between the two men when they first meet (which ends in Deathlok absolutely demolishing the High-Tech armor), they learn each other's backgrounds and decide to work together for as long as they have before the Terrordome attacks. This decision is reached somewhat hurriedly, McDuffie giving Carr a single page to tell his story and Deathlok only half that. But the obvious parallels in their histories and hopes for the future make them naturally fast allies, and McDuffie takes the time to return to Deathlok's internal monologue once the two of them get to work so the reader can understand how gratifying it is for him to participate in something other than violence. And it's not as if the brevity of the origin tales detracts from them or makes them harder to understand. They are exactly as detailed as needed to get the information across and provide insight into each of the characters' personalities. And they're about as detailed as anyone could be expected to be when relating a summary of their entire life to a stranger with whom they'd just finished fighting.
McDuffie's script is oddly structured, but always in the service of telling a complete story while maintaining a certain level of action and fun. The beginning is confounding but fast-paced, skipping over the unimportant beats to get to the meat of Carr breaking in and then breaking back out. It's a smart hook, giving the reader something exciting right at the top that raises enough questions to carry them through the rest of the narrative. Then the middle gets even faster, to the point of feeling almost rushed, with Deathlok going after Carr, the birth of their friendship, and their subsequent collaboration all being squeezed into a handful of pages. Yet upon close examination, one can find in those pages a deliberate exploration of what makes Deathlok who he is as a man, a cyborg, and a reluctant hero, all through the lens of his interactions with Carr. Finally, we get the high-octane resolution, a typical but stimulating fight where the bad guys have more firepower but the good guys beat 'em anyway. It's a predictable ending, perhaps, but still a blast. Terrordome gets more than its share of good shots in, but Deathlok's never really down, and it's refreshing in a way to watch the hero achieve victory without first being put through the ringer.
If your script is going to race to the finish line, you'd better hope the art can keep up, and overall I think it does so deftly here. Denys Cowan provides the pencils for the issue, inked by Mike Manley with colors from Gregory Wright. The art is smartly done, with generally looser lines to fit the looser story. That style also helps to underline Deathlok's human side, and the human elements of the issue as a whole, rather than playing up the robotic aspects. When Terrordome shows up, there is a real sense of motion to each of its dangling metal limbs, and that adds tremendously to the effectiveness of the fight scene that follows. What Cowan and Manley's linework does best, though, is to bring out Deathlok's personality. His gruffness and sarcasm are beefed up by his detailed-yet-rough expressions, as are the underlying sadness and loneliness that drive him. Not just a tough guy cyborg action hero, Deathlok is also a broken man trying to reassemble himself, and both of those sides of his character are given equal weight by the art.
Wright's coloring is never spectacular, though it certainly never messes up any of the visuals, either. There is one page where he makes his mark more definitively, though, when Deathlok is relating his history to Carr. Wright does the flashback sequence in a wash of pale blue, which not only helps distinguish it from the present-tense action on the second half of the page, but also deepens the sadness and hopelessness of the scene itself. It is a story of a good man made worse by an evil corporation, suddenly and perhaps permanently, so highlighting the dismal nature of that tale is a strong and intelligent choice. None of the rest of the issue is quite so soft or dark, which means the main character's origin is particularly noticeable and memorable. A good move for a standalone issue, especially.
I have to assume that letterer Ken Lopez provides the many sound effects found in this issue, though I suppose it's always possible they were a part of Cowan's original artwork. Whoever is responsible, the effects add a lot of energy and life to the story. They are used rather often, arguably too often, and in a different title or with a different story they might feel overpowering. But because of the breakneck speed of this narrative and the extended action sequence that wraps it up, having bold and attention-grabbing sounds fits perfectly with the overall feel. They amp up the fights, match the rough and ragged style of the pencils, and help to fill the few empty spaces in a jam-packed issue.
McDuffie, Cowan, and crew approach this one-off a bit strangely, setting things up quickly so that the final fight can have all the room it needs to be as big and badass as it wants. But they're careful not to omit any necessary pieces; they maintain clarity and even reintroduce the series' central character just in case. It may not be as tightly crafted as other standalone issues, but it's certainly as much fun and as complete as any of them. Two strong action scenes, exploration and development of the protagonist, a full narrative (there is a cliffhanger ending but it comes in the epilogue and isn't really a threat for the immediate future), and a surprising amount of humor and heart. It may not be the perfect issue, but it leaves little to be desired, either, hitting all the beats it needs to for the story it wants to tell, and having a damn good time doing it.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The Cheese Stands Alone: Batman #422
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.
Technically speaking, Batman #422 is the conclusion of a two-part story begun in the previous issue, but it works all by itself for a couple of reasons. First of all, the opening page efficiently recaps all the information you need: two men, Karl Branneck and Vito Procaccini, have been murdering women together, and now Batman is on to them, which frightens Vito but only strengthens Branneck's resolve. Secondly, Batman #422 focuses narrowly on Branneck, who narrates for most of the story and is on more pages than anyone else, and because it's more a character study than it is the latter half of a Batman story, we get a full portrait of this serial killer contained in a single issue. Not a flattering portrait, or even necessarily an enjoyable one, but a complete one nonetheless.
Karl isn't just a scumbag and a murderer, he's an aggressively sexist egomaniac who sees his killing spree as a political statement on contemporary gender dynamics. Pissed off over women who refuse to be subservient to men, Branneck views his actions as righteous, and seems to consequently think of himself as not only beyond reproach but, to some extent, untouchable and/or invincible. He isn't at all bothered by Batman being on his trail, apparently unimpressed by the hero's abilities, and even describes himself as a "match" for the Dark Knight. And even after Bats breaks his jaw and brings him in, Branneck stays smug and self-assured, to the point that when his case is thrown out of court, he decides that it's because he was "born under a lucky star." This level of hubris, coupled with his excessive, insane hatred of the opposite sex, immediately makes Branneck a truly despicable villain, and the more captions we get in his ignorant and rage-filled voice, the more disgusting he becomes as a character.
In fact, I'd say that Branneck's narration, more than anything else, is what makes Batman #422 such an effective tale. Early on, it starts to feel like maybe writer Jim Starlin could've cut a handful of the caption boxes, because Branneck seriously never shuts up, and after a while all his misogyny and cockiness becomes wearisome. But it is right around the time that you start to think you can't take another panel of this madman's self-important ranting that his next would-be victim suddenly turns the tables and slashes his throat with a straight edge razor. Of course, even as he bleeds to death in the street, Branneck doesn't let up, but it is much easier to read his nonsense when you're watching him die. Whether or not Starlin intended it to be this way, having Branneck's internal monologue be so constant and repetitious ends up being the most unlikable (and therefore important) part of the character, right up to the very end of his life. While I might normally complain about the excessive amount of heavy-handed captions, here they are a necessity, because they make me so sick and tired of this horrible man that I am actually able to root for his killer and cheer at his death.
The woman who finally takes Branneck out is Judy Koslosky, sister of one of his previous victims, who's been tracking Branneck & Vito for a long time. When she finally discovers who they are, she begins following Branneck around everywhere he goes, and we see him notice her several times in the issue before their final confrontation. She gets his attention on purpose, staring at him, making sure she's right there whenever he turns around, until he grows so sick of seeing her that, naturally, he selects her as his newest target. Unfortunately for him, this is exactly what Judy wants, because it allows her to get close enough to exact her revenge. When questioned by the police, Judy shows no remorse. She's not even the least bit shaken up about killing a man. She calmly, proudly confesses, points out that no jury will convict her, and argues that what she did wasn't murder, it was putting down a "mad dog."
The moment where Judy strikes her fatal blow is easily the strongest scene of the issue. We know ahead of time that she'll be an important character, because she is so strongly set up throughout the issue by Branneck noticing her wherever he goes. But there's no reason, necessarily, to expect her to be anything other than another victim, perhaps a woman who Batman will save at the last minute or who will act as a way for the audience to really see Branneck at work. Instead, in a single, sudden panel, she becomes his downfall. Though Mark Bright's pencils are strong and clear for all of Batman #422, it is this scene where they really shine. Not only because of how quickly and determinedly Judy strikes, but also the subsequent shock and horror we get from Branneck. Looking down at the blood on his hand and realizing it's pouring from his jugular, Branneck becomes a terrified child, literally crawling away from his attacker in desperation and fear. After all the smirking and swagger he's shown us so far, it's immensely satisfying to watch him so quickly become scared and pathetic. And then we get a gorgeous full-page splash wherein Branneck is visited by the ghosts of his victims, surrounding and overwhelming him in his final moments. Here his terror reaches its peak, and again, it's a warm and welcome feeling to see this self-important ass finally brought down several pegs and given a taste of his own medicine.
I know it sounds like I am endorsing the notion of murdering a murderer, when really I am against it conceptually. I'm not a proponent of this kind of eye-for-an-eye justice, yet in reading Batman #422 I wholeheartedly support and side with Judy Koslosky. Even though really, with her self-righteousness and smug attitude, there's a fairly thin line between her and Branneck. Why is it, then, that I so completely agree with Judy's actions? Partly, as I've said, there's all the legwork done by Starlin, Bright, and company to make me utterly despise Branneck while he's alive. And of course there's the fact that he's a fictional character, so his death isn't as heavy as it would be if he were real. But perhaps more than either of those factors, there's the weak, insincere (or, at best, half-sincere) speech Batman gives to Robin at the issue's close. The Robin in question is Jason Todd, and this issue comes only a handful of months before the Joker kills him, so by now he's firmly established as the angry, out-of-control Robin with something to prove. So he, too, sides with Judy in this case, as happy to have Branneck dead as she is. Batman, as is his duty, tries to convince Jason that this is not the right answer, that taking the law into your own hands and killing someone, no matter how awful they may be, is always going to be the wrong decision. Yet he says this all in decidedly lackluster fashion, even admitting out loud that he sometimes wishes things were different, i.e. that he could just go ahead and take his opponents out permanently. And it's just one page in a comicbook chock full of pages devoted to making the reader wish Branneck would go away forever. The weakness of this counterpoint, both in terms of the space it's given and the lack of enthusiasm with which it's delivered, is likely the strongest reason for my cheering Judy on. Without being given a convincing or even inviting alternative, I remain as pleased as ever that Branneck is dead.
It's a strange place to land at the end of a superhero comic, to be sure. I'm not usually left rooting for the morally ambiguous character and thinking of the "good guys" as wimps, but here we are. Is this the intention of the issue? Hard to say. But it's the result, regardless of what the creators were aiming for. They did such an outstanding job making Branneck into an unbearable prick that watching him die in the street felt great. And I assume that this is precisely what they wanted, that the whole point of the issue is to make the reader root for Judy despite, perhaps, our better judgments. It's certainly the effect it has on me every time I read it, and it always makes me reexamine my stance on the concept of capital punishment, revenge, etc. Ultimately it's not persuasive enough to change my mind in the long-term, but that a single issue could even raise such powerful doubts is impressive enough. Batman doesn't kill, but doesn't and shouldn't are two very different things. It's a facet of the classic character well worth exploring, remembering, and, once in a while, reconsidering.
Technically speaking, Batman #422 is the conclusion of a two-part story begun in the previous issue, but it works all by itself for a couple of reasons. First of all, the opening page efficiently recaps all the information you need: two men, Karl Branneck and Vito Procaccini, have been murdering women together, and now Batman is on to them, which frightens Vito but only strengthens Branneck's resolve. Secondly, Batman #422 focuses narrowly on Branneck, who narrates for most of the story and is on more pages than anyone else, and because it's more a character study than it is the latter half of a Batman story, we get a full portrait of this serial killer contained in a single issue. Not a flattering portrait, or even necessarily an enjoyable one, but a complete one nonetheless.
Karl isn't just a scumbag and a murderer, he's an aggressively sexist egomaniac who sees his killing spree as a political statement on contemporary gender dynamics. Pissed off over women who refuse to be subservient to men, Branneck views his actions as righteous, and seems to consequently think of himself as not only beyond reproach but, to some extent, untouchable and/or invincible. He isn't at all bothered by Batman being on his trail, apparently unimpressed by the hero's abilities, and even describes himself as a "match" for the Dark Knight. And even after Bats breaks his jaw and brings him in, Branneck stays smug and self-assured, to the point that when his case is thrown out of court, he decides that it's because he was "born under a lucky star." This level of hubris, coupled with his excessive, insane hatred of the opposite sex, immediately makes Branneck a truly despicable villain, and the more captions we get in his ignorant and rage-filled voice, the more disgusting he becomes as a character.
In fact, I'd say that Branneck's narration, more than anything else, is what makes Batman #422 such an effective tale. Early on, it starts to feel like maybe writer Jim Starlin could've cut a handful of the caption boxes, because Branneck seriously never shuts up, and after a while all his misogyny and cockiness becomes wearisome. But it is right around the time that you start to think you can't take another panel of this madman's self-important ranting that his next would-be victim suddenly turns the tables and slashes his throat with a straight edge razor. Of course, even as he bleeds to death in the street, Branneck doesn't let up, but it is much easier to read his nonsense when you're watching him die. Whether or not Starlin intended it to be this way, having Branneck's internal monologue be so constant and repetitious ends up being the most unlikable (and therefore important) part of the character, right up to the very end of his life. While I might normally complain about the excessive amount of heavy-handed captions, here they are a necessity, because they make me so sick and tired of this horrible man that I am actually able to root for his killer and cheer at his death.
The woman who finally takes Branneck out is Judy Koslosky, sister of one of his previous victims, who's been tracking Branneck & Vito for a long time. When she finally discovers who they are, she begins following Branneck around everywhere he goes, and we see him notice her several times in the issue before their final confrontation. She gets his attention on purpose, staring at him, making sure she's right there whenever he turns around, until he grows so sick of seeing her that, naturally, he selects her as his newest target. Unfortunately for him, this is exactly what Judy wants, because it allows her to get close enough to exact her revenge. When questioned by the police, Judy shows no remorse. She's not even the least bit shaken up about killing a man. She calmly, proudly confesses, points out that no jury will convict her, and argues that what she did wasn't murder, it was putting down a "mad dog."
The moment where Judy strikes her fatal blow is easily the strongest scene of the issue. We know ahead of time that she'll be an important character, because she is so strongly set up throughout the issue by Branneck noticing her wherever he goes. But there's no reason, necessarily, to expect her to be anything other than another victim, perhaps a woman who Batman will save at the last minute or who will act as a way for the audience to really see Branneck at work. Instead, in a single, sudden panel, she becomes his downfall. Though Mark Bright's pencils are strong and clear for all of Batman #422, it is this scene where they really shine. Not only because of how quickly and determinedly Judy strikes, but also the subsequent shock and horror we get from Branneck. Looking down at the blood on his hand and realizing it's pouring from his jugular, Branneck becomes a terrified child, literally crawling away from his attacker in desperation and fear. After all the smirking and swagger he's shown us so far, it's immensely satisfying to watch him so quickly become scared and pathetic. And then we get a gorgeous full-page splash wherein Branneck is visited by the ghosts of his victims, surrounding and overwhelming him in his final moments. Here his terror reaches its peak, and again, it's a warm and welcome feeling to see this self-important ass finally brought down several pegs and given a taste of his own medicine.
I know it sounds like I am endorsing the notion of murdering a murderer, when really I am against it conceptually. I'm not a proponent of this kind of eye-for-an-eye justice, yet in reading Batman #422 I wholeheartedly support and side with Judy Koslosky. Even though really, with her self-righteousness and smug attitude, there's a fairly thin line between her and Branneck. Why is it, then, that I so completely agree with Judy's actions? Partly, as I've said, there's all the legwork done by Starlin, Bright, and company to make me utterly despise Branneck while he's alive. And of course there's the fact that he's a fictional character, so his death isn't as heavy as it would be if he were real. But perhaps more than either of those factors, there's the weak, insincere (or, at best, half-sincere) speech Batman gives to Robin at the issue's close. The Robin in question is Jason Todd, and this issue comes only a handful of months before the Joker kills him, so by now he's firmly established as the angry, out-of-control Robin with something to prove. So he, too, sides with Judy in this case, as happy to have Branneck dead as she is. Batman, as is his duty, tries to convince Jason that this is not the right answer, that taking the law into your own hands and killing someone, no matter how awful they may be, is always going to be the wrong decision. Yet he says this all in decidedly lackluster fashion, even admitting out loud that he sometimes wishes things were different, i.e. that he could just go ahead and take his opponents out permanently. And it's just one page in a comicbook chock full of pages devoted to making the reader wish Branneck would go away forever. The weakness of this counterpoint, both in terms of the space it's given and the lack of enthusiasm with which it's delivered, is likely the strongest reason for my cheering Judy on. Without being given a convincing or even inviting alternative, I remain as pleased as ever that Branneck is dead.
It's a strange place to land at the end of a superhero comic, to be sure. I'm not usually left rooting for the morally ambiguous character and thinking of the "good guys" as wimps, but here we are. Is this the intention of the issue? Hard to say. But it's the result, regardless of what the creators were aiming for. They did such an outstanding job making Branneck into an unbearable prick that watching him die in the street felt great. And I assume that this is precisely what they wanted, that the whole point of the issue is to make the reader root for Judy despite, perhaps, our better judgments. It's certainly the effect it has on me every time I read it, and it always makes me reexamine my stance on the concept of capital punishment, revenge, etc. Ultimately it's not persuasive enough to change my mind in the long-term, but that a single issue could even raise such powerful doubts is impressive enough. Batman doesn't kill, but doesn't and shouldn't are two very different things. It's a facet of the classic character well worth exploring, remembering, and, once in a while, reconsidering.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
The Cheese Stands Alone: Automatic Kafka #4
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.
Automatic Kafka was an incredible, short-lived series created by writer Joe Casey and artist Ashley Wood in 2002. Over the course of just nine issues, Casey and Wood delved into the problems of government corruption, the arbitrary and sometimes destructive nature of fame, the dangers of technology, and even a meta-discussion about the frustrations faced by the modern comicbook creator. All of this was explored through the eyes of the title character, a washed-up android superhero who just wanted to get as close as he could to something like humanity. It's an excellent series that is jam-packed with all manner of crazy, lewd, violent, and daring material, and I wholeheartedly recommend it. But for Automatic Kafka #4, Casey and Wood briefly set aside all of the people and things they had been and would be developing, and devoted an entire issue to the characters from the beloved newspaper comicstrip Peanuts. All grown up now, Charlie Brown and company still have largely the same relationships with one another that they had as children. The difference is that as adults, those relationships have become several shades darker.
It's remarkable the care that both creators took in composing this issue. Everything and everyone you could want to see from Peanuts is there, but twisted and/or pushed to its logical extreme so that we get a much different version of these oh-so-familiar faces and ideas. There's Pig-Pen as a homeless man, Woodstock as a tiny yellow bird whom Snoopy kills as a gift for his master, The Great Pumpkin as a delusion so powerful Linus must spend his days in an insane asylum. Schroeder shows up to play a concert, now a successful musician, but no less detached or wry than ever. And remember Lucy's five-cent psychiatry stand? Well she's a practicing therapist now, and Charlie Brown is still her patient/mental torture victim. He's also her estranged husband, and their dysfunctional, depressing marriage is the central focus of Automatic Kafka #4. Or perhaps more accurately, the focus is on Charlie's personal dysfunction and depression.
The basic arc of the story is this: Charlie Brown returns home after losing as a contestant on a game show (hosted by Automatic Kafka himself in the preceding issue), and is forced to live another day in a life that he despises. After an abusive therapy session with his wife, Charlie and his sister visit her husband (Linus) in the asylum where he now lives, and the doctor there gives them a pretty hopeless assessment of his condition. Then Charlie goes to Schroeder's concert, where he drinks all alone and watches Lucy shamelessly throws herself at their old friend. Also at the event is the Little Red-Haired Girl, now shallow and self-important and working at a makeup counter, and Charlie gazes at her from afar as she hits on some random, sleazy schmuck. Eventually, Charlie's inebriation and jealousy get the best of him, and he breaks, screaming at the aforementioned schmuck about how not everyone is beautiful or popular or successful or happy. Finally, he is thrown out of the party (at Lucy's shrill demand), and he stumbles into Pig-Pen living on the street. Returning home, Charlie finds the dead bird offering Snoopy left him, and then sets to writing a somewhat desperate letter asking for a second chance to appear on the game show on which he was so recently defeated. Basically, life dumps all over him, and even though he sees how sad and hopeless things really are, he tries to keep his chin up and look for potential routes to happiness in his dismal world.
Of course, this is exactly who Charlie Brown has always been: a sad sack buried in depression but aiming for optimism. It's what made him so charming and relatable in Peanuts, and it has the same effect in Automatic Kafka #4. Honestly, even if you'd somehow never heard of Charles Schulz's comic strip, this issue would still be great. I admit that the first time I read it, the Peanuts connection went entirely over my head, but everything is so well-scripted and the themes so universal that I loved the story anyway. You don't need to know everything about everyone's histories to understand the fucked up nature of all of their relationships in the present. We've all felt jealousy, hopelessness, and lust. We all have friends we've lost touch with, and others we wish we could. Everybody, at one time or another, takes stock of their lives and feels something comparable to, "Good grief." It's why Peanuts was and is so popular, and why it deserves this kind of thoughtful, brilliant homage. It's also why Automatic Kafka #4 can be read and adored without any prior Automatic Kafka or Peanuts knowledge whatsoever.
Then again, understanding the numerous, specific details which Casey and Wood include can only serve to improve the experience. Every page, if not every panel, has a tribute to the source material, a twist on it, and a bit of heartbreak. Even the cover is an allusion to Snoopy battling the Red Baron from atop his doghouse. Automatic Kafka #4 is a poignant and respectful examination of what made Peanuts so great, as well as a mirror held up to the comicstrip's darkest aspects.
Automatic Kafka #4 was published by WildStorm Productions and is dated December 2002.
Automatic Kafka was an incredible, short-lived series created by writer Joe Casey and artist Ashley Wood in 2002. Over the course of just nine issues, Casey and Wood delved into the problems of government corruption, the arbitrary and sometimes destructive nature of fame, the dangers of technology, and even a meta-discussion about the frustrations faced by the modern comicbook creator. All of this was explored through the eyes of the title character, a washed-up android superhero who just wanted to get as close as he could to something like humanity. It's an excellent series that is jam-packed with all manner of crazy, lewd, violent, and daring material, and I wholeheartedly recommend it. But for Automatic Kafka #4, Casey and Wood briefly set aside all of the people and things they had been and would be developing, and devoted an entire issue to the characters from the beloved newspaper comicstrip Peanuts. All grown up now, Charlie Brown and company still have largely the same relationships with one another that they had as children. The difference is that as adults, those relationships have become several shades darker.
It's remarkable the care that both creators took in composing this issue. Everything and everyone you could want to see from Peanuts is there, but twisted and/or pushed to its logical extreme so that we get a much different version of these oh-so-familiar faces and ideas. There's Pig-Pen as a homeless man, Woodstock as a tiny yellow bird whom Snoopy kills as a gift for his master, The Great Pumpkin as a delusion so powerful Linus must spend his days in an insane asylum. Schroeder shows up to play a concert, now a successful musician, but no less detached or wry than ever. And remember Lucy's five-cent psychiatry stand? Well she's a practicing therapist now, and Charlie Brown is still her patient/mental torture victim. He's also her estranged husband, and their dysfunctional, depressing marriage is the central focus of Automatic Kafka #4. Or perhaps more accurately, the focus is on Charlie's personal dysfunction and depression.
The basic arc of the story is this: Charlie Brown returns home after losing as a contestant on a game show (hosted by Automatic Kafka himself in the preceding issue), and is forced to live another day in a life that he despises. After an abusive therapy session with his wife, Charlie and his sister visit her husband (Linus) in the asylum where he now lives, and the doctor there gives them a pretty hopeless assessment of his condition. Then Charlie goes to Schroeder's concert, where he drinks all alone and watches Lucy shamelessly throws herself at their old friend. Also at the event is the Little Red-Haired Girl, now shallow and self-important and working at a makeup counter, and Charlie gazes at her from afar as she hits on some random, sleazy schmuck. Eventually, Charlie's inebriation and jealousy get the best of him, and he breaks, screaming at the aforementioned schmuck about how not everyone is beautiful or popular or successful or happy. Finally, he is thrown out of the party (at Lucy's shrill demand), and he stumbles into Pig-Pen living on the street. Returning home, Charlie finds the dead bird offering Snoopy left him, and then sets to writing a somewhat desperate letter asking for a second chance to appear on the game show on which he was so recently defeated. Basically, life dumps all over him, and even though he sees how sad and hopeless things really are, he tries to keep his chin up and look for potential routes to happiness in his dismal world.
Of course, this is exactly who Charlie Brown has always been: a sad sack buried in depression but aiming for optimism. It's what made him so charming and relatable in Peanuts, and it has the same effect in Automatic Kafka #4. Honestly, even if you'd somehow never heard of Charles Schulz's comic strip, this issue would still be great. I admit that the first time I read it, the Peanuts connection went entirely over my head, but everything is so well-scripted and the themes so universal that I loved the story anyway. You don't need to know everything about everyone's histories to understand the fucked up nature of all of their relationships in the present. We've all felt jealousy, hopelessness, and lust. We all have friends we've lost touch with, and others we wish we could. Everybody, at one time or another, takes stock of their lives and feels something comparable to, "Good grief." It's why Peanuts was and is so popular, and why it deserves this kind of thoughtful, brilliant homage. It's also why Automatic Kafka #4 can be read and adored without any prior Automatic Kafka or Peanuts knowledge whatsoever.
Then again, understanding the numerous, specific details which Casey and Wood include can only serve to improve the experience. Every page, if not every panel, has a tribute to the source material, a twist on it, and a bit of heartbreak. Even the cover is an allusion to Snoopy battling the Red Baron from atop his doghouse. Automatic Kafka #4 is a poignant and respectful examination of what made Peanuts so great, as well as a mirror held up to the comicstrip's darkest aspects.
Automatic Kafka #4 was published by WildStorm Productions and is dated December 2002.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Cheese Stands Alone: Secret Avengers #20
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.
As much as, in my heart of hearts, I want every issue of every series to stand on its own and tell a complete story, I recognize that fitting something wholly self-contained into a mere twenty comicbooks pages is far easier said than done. Similarly, it's no simple task to tell a satisfying time travel story, even though in theory it's a fascinating topic. Fiction, science and otherwise, has explored the questions/problems inherent in time travel fairly extensively by now, and we often get little more than some slight variation on the typical character-accidentally-displaced-in-time-tries-to-find-a-way-back story. In Secret Avengers #20, Warren Ellis scripts a tale that begins and ends entirely within the single issue, and also one that takes a fresh, fun approach to the time travel narrative. Black Widow doesn't move through time by accident, and she isn't simply attempting to return to her own time. She wants to change it without changing anything about it. She needs to save it, but worries her attempts to do so may end up destroying it. Yet even in the face of such a daunting, apparently contradictory mission, Natasha remains always the perfect picture of a level-headed heroine. Anyone else in her position would doubtlessly have a moment of pure freakout, but not Black Widow, not under Ellis' pen, and her attitude toward the whole situation may be the most important component of the issue's ultimate success.
It's worth noting that any one of Ellis' six Secret Avengers issues would be a worthwhile topic for this column. Each of them is an exceptional standalone issue, and the whole run was recently released as a trade, so I highly recommend tracking that down. But there are several factors which make Secret Avengers #20 the creamiest of that very creamy crop, not the least of which is the detailed, moody, pitch-perfect artwork by Alex Maleev.
In the opening scene, it is Maleev more than Ellis who grabs our attention with a four-page shitstorm of a fight scene. A small team of Avengers battles a much larger group of Shadow Council operatives in front of a massive, bright, gaping portal of some kind, and though we don't understand exactly why this is taking place, Maleev makes one thing painfully clear: the good guys are getting their asses kicked. Right in the first panel we see Captain America being blasted through the air like a rag doll, and we know then and there that the situation is dire. This is quickly followed by a two-page spread of mad, explosive action---Black Widow against the horde. Already, she is the last hero standing, and already she demonstrates composure under fire. Even as she takes the "Escape Hatch" device from War Machine as a last ditch effort to save the day, she is calm, determined to help her friends but not frantic or scared because of the insanity surrounding her. And honestly, while it surprises her for a minute, even showing up at a safe house five years in the past doesn't phase Natasha.
It is after this time jump that Ellis' script kicks into gear and becomes the issue's driving force, but Maleev's work continues to enhance the effects of the story and highlight the best parts of Black Widow's character. Because his linework lies somewhat closer to the sketchy side of things, there is a natural feeling of chaos to the art, a sense that everything is only tenuously held together. This goes hand-in-hand with the notion that Natasha wants to alter the future without upsetting the time flow, and it adds to the disorientation both she and the reader feel. She races through her mission, jumping around in time and location, unable or unwilling to take any pauses because of the seriousness of her work, and the story moves at the same dizzying pace. Maleev's drawings amplify that rapidity, but there are also a lot of carefully chosen visual details, like the Escape Hatch's text or the intricate pieces of technology in Harry Evans' lab, and these remind the reader to pay close attention to each and every panel, even while the larger narrative rushes over us. Also, Maleev, along with colorist Nick Filardi, creates a general mood of unsettling, dark creepiness (just look at their take on Dr. Druid!) and this helps to underline Black Widow's cool, collected demeanor. There are things at work which she perhaps does not fully understand, and the hypothetical consequences of her failing are incalculable, but she never loses her head or, even, her humor. In an awesome sequence set forty-four years ago, for which Maleev switches momentarily to an old-school, newspaper comicstrip format and style, Natasha kidnaps Count Oscar Khronus, an essential part of her endgame. But even in this violent, significant scene, she finds time for levity: while charging toward him, she corrects Khronus' husband and bodyguard Kongo, saying, "He's not a real count."
When I said before that Ellis' script turns into the driving force behind the issue, this is the kind of thing I was talking about. As another example, Natasha's wry, semi-serious "I hate you" relationship with the Escape Hatch computer is developed early on and quickly demonstrates her intelligence and her ability to stay cool in the face things overwhelming. The same is true of her brief scene with Beast, where she knows exactly what to say and, more importantly, what not to say in order to have him answer her questions without tipping her hand or otherwise disturbing the time flow. She's a professional, is the point, a top notch super secret agent, and while it is clear she appreciates the gravity and delicacy of what she's doing, she never lets it fluster or derail her. There is no break down, no moment of I can't do this on my own! Black Widow is too experienced, too self-assured to let a little time travel and the possible death of her entire team shake her, and every step of the way, right up to her closing line, she remains confident, strong, and sure.
This is not to say that she's emotionally detached from her mission. In fact, Ellis & Maleev do an excellent job of letting their protagonist's feelings shine through. The panel where she cries at Khronus' grave is the strongest single example, but really it is the care and concern Natasha has for her teammates that fuels everything she does. She may not express this out loud---because quite frankly that would be a waste of time and I don't get the impression that wasting time is Black Widow's style---but her goal is, first and foremost, to keep her friends from dying.
Of course, she accomplishes that goal by the issue's close, and manages to tie up all of her loose ends along the way. Sometimes, a story can feel too tidy when there is nothing left hanging, making things seem unrealistically wrapped up for the purpose of reaching an ending. In the case of Secret Avengers #20, though, the tidiness of the conclusion is key. Because at the start of the story, and most of the way through, the reader has to live with a certain amount of confusion, unsure of how long this all has been going on or how, exactly, it will be resolved. But once we reach the final scene, the details of Natasha's plan have sneakily become clear to us, as well as how her actions and their influence on history have made that plan both possible and necessary. The Escape Hatch was built only because she commissioned it, she can disable the Shadow Council's guns because she's the one who made it possible for them to obtain the weapons' design in the first place, and so on and so forth in the infinite, head-scratch-inducing time loop Ellis so skillfully builds. By the time Natasha comes to the rescue, her doing so has shifted from being seemingly impossible to totally inevitable. It's tight and impressive storytelling from Ellis and company, landing on a note of utter satisfaction for Black Widow and the reader alike.
Despite its title, Secret Avengers #20 is a Black Widow comicbook, and it makes a strong case that the world could do with more of the same. I'd like to see this character in any and every situation I've ever seen other superheroes in, because she's got a much more interesting approach to it than the rest of them. She uses deception, careful dialogue, and strategy more than any of her combat skills (which she also has plenty of) to get this job done, and all without ever questioning it, or even really straying off track. In 18 weeks she modifies the course of history, but with a class and subtlety, not to mention a total lack of desire for credit or recognition, that is charmingly, disarmingly rare in mainstream comicbook protagonists. This is a high-stakes, grand-scale adventure told in a through a more low-key main character, but that doesn't detract from the overall urgency, excitement, or quality one bit.
Secret Avengers #20 was published by Marvel Comics and is dated February 2012.
As much as, in my heart of hearts, I want every issue of every series to stand on its own and tell a complete story, I recognize that fitting something wholly self-contained into a mere twenty comicbooks pages is far easier said than done. Similarly, it's no simple task to tell a satisfying time travel story, even though in theory it's a fascinating topic. Fiction, science and otherwise, has explored the questions/problems inherent in time travel fairly extensively by now, and we often get little more than some slight variation on the typical character-accidentally-displaced-in-time-tries-to-find-a-way-back story. In Secret Avengers #20, Warren Ellis scripts a tale that begins and ends entirely within the single issue, and also one that takes a fresh, fun approach to the time travel narrative. Black Widow doesn't move through time by accident, and she isn't simply attempting to return to her own time. She wants to change it without changing anything about it. She needs to save it, but worries her attempts to do so may end up destroying it. Yet even in the face of such a daunting, apparently contradictory mission, Natasha remains always the perfect picture of a level-headed heroine. Anyone else in her position would doubtlessly have a moment of pure freakout, but not Black Widow, not under Ellis' pen, and her attitude toward the whole situation may be the most important component of the issue's ultimate success.
It's worth noting that any one of Ellis' six Secret Avengers issues would be a worthwhile topic for this column. Each of them is an exceptional standalone issue, and the whole run was recently released as a trade, so I highly recommend tracking that down. But there are several factors which make Secret Avengers #20 the creamiest of that very creamy crop, not the least of which is the detailed, moody, pitch-perfect artwork by Alex Maleev.
In the opening scene, it is Maleev more than Ellis who grabs our attention with a four-page shitstorm of a fight scene. A small team of Avengers battles a much larger group of Shadow Council operatives in front of a massive, bright, gaping portal of some kind, and though we don't understand exactly why this is taking place, Maleev makes one thing painfully clear: the good guys are getting their asses kicked. Right in the first panel we see Captain America being blasted through the air like a rag doll, and we know then and there that the situation is dire. This is quickly followed by a two-page spread of mad, explosive action---Black Widow against the horde. Already, she is the last hero standing, and already she demonstrates composure under fire. Even as she takes the "Escape Hatch" device from War Machine as a last ditch effort to save the day, she is calm, determined to help her friends but not frantic or scared because of the insanity surrounding her. And honestly, while it surprises her for a minute, even showing up at a safe house five years in the past doesn't phase Natasha.
It is after this time jump that Ellis' script kicks into gear and becomes the issue's driving force, but Maleev's work continues to enhance the effects of the story and highlight the best parts of Black Widow's character. Because his linework lies somewhat closer to the sketchy side of things, there is a natural feeling of chaos to the art, a sense that everything is only tenuously held together. This goes hand-in-hand with the notion that Natasha wants to alter the future without upsetting the time flow, and it adds to the disorientation both she and the reader feel. She races through her mission, jumping around in time and location, unable or unwilling to take any pauses because of the seriousness of her work, and the story moves at the same dizzying pace. Maleev's drawings amplify that rapidity, but there are also a lot of carefully chosen visual details, like the Escape Hatch's text or the intricate pieces of technology in Harry Evans' lab, and these remind the reader to pay close attention to each and every panel, even while the larger narrative rushes over us. Also, Maleev, along with colorist Nick Filardi, creates a general mood of unsettling, dark creepiness (just look at their take on Dr. Druid!) and this helps to underline Black Widow's cool, collected demeanor. There are things at work which she perhaps does not fully understand, and the hypothetical consequences of her failing are incalculable, but she never loses her head or, even, her humor. In an awesome sequence set forty-four years ago, for which Maleev switches momentarily to an old-school, newspaper comicstrip format and style, Natasha kidnaps Count Oscar Khronus, an essential part of her endgame. But even in this violent, significant scene, she finds time for levity: while charging toward him, she corrects Khronus' husband and bodyguard Kongo, saying, "He's not a real count."
When I said before that Ellis' script turns into the driving force behind the issue, this is the kind of thing I was talking about. As another example, Natasha's wry, semi-serious "I hate you" relationship with the Escape Hatch computer is developed early on and quickly demonstrates her intelligence and her ability to stay cool in the face things overwhelming. The same is true of her brief scene with Beast, where she knows exactly what to say and, more importantly, what not to say in order to have him answer her questions without tipping her hand or otherwise disturbing the time flow. She's a professional, is the point, a top notch super secret agent, and while it is clear she appreciates the gravity and delicacy of what she's doing, she never lets it fluster or derail her. There is no break down, no moment of I can't do this on my own! Black Widow is too experienced, too self-assured to let a little time travel and the possible death of her entire team shake her, and every step of the way, right up to her closing line, she remains confident, strong, and sure.
This is not to say that she's emotionally detached from her mission. In fact, Ellis & Maleev do an excellent job of letting their protagonist's feelings shine through. The panel where she cries at Khronus' grave is the strongest single example, but really it is the care and concern Natasha has for her teammates that fuels everything she does. She may not express this out loud---because quite frankly that would be a waste of time and I don't get the impression that wasting time is Black Widow's style---but her goal is, first and foremost, to keep her friends from dying.
Of course, she accomplishes that goal by the issue's close, and manages to tie up all of her loose ends along the way. Sometimes, a story can feel too tidy when there is nothing left hanging, making things seem unrealistically wrapped up for the purpose of reaching an ending. In the case of Secret Avengers #20, though, the tidiness of the conclusion is key. Because at the start of the story, and most of the way through, the reader has to live with a certain amount of confusion, unsure of how long this all has been going on or how, exactly, it will be resolved. But once we reach the final scene, the details of Natasha's plan have sneakily become clear to us, as well as how her actions and their influence on history have made that plan both possible and necessary. The Escape Hatch was built only because she commissioned it, she can disable the Shadow Council's guns because she's the one who made it possible for them to obtain the weapons' design in the first place, and so on and so forth in the infinite, head-scratch-inducing time loop Ellis so skillfully builds. By the time Natasha comes to the rescue, her doing so has shifted from being seemingly impossible to totally inevitable. It's tight and impressive storytelling from Ellis and company, landing on a note of utter satisfaction for Black Widow and the reader alike.
Despite its title, Secret Avengers #20 is a Black Widow comicbook, and it makes a strong case that the world could do with more of the same. I'd like to see this character in any and every situation I've ever seen other superheroes in, because she's got a much more interesting approach to it than the rest of them. She uses deception, careful dialogue, and strategy more than any of her combat skills (which she also has plenty of) to get this job done, and all without ever questioning it, or even really straying off track. In 18 weeks she modifies the course of history, but with a class and subtlety, not to mention a total lack of desire for credit or recognition, that is charmingly, disarmingly rare in mainstream comicbook protagonists. This is a high-stakes, grand-scale adventure told in a through a more low-key main character, but that doesn't detract from the overall urgency, excitement, or quality one bit.
Secret Avengers #20 was published by Marvel Comics and is dated February 2012.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
The Cheese Stands Alone: 100 Bullets #38
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.
Cole Burns will always be my favorite Minuteman. I'm sure it's partially because he's the first one we meet, and maybe somewhat because he has the coolest codename ("The Wolf") but mostly Cole just won me over with his understated swagger and love of fine tequila. So in a series with numerous successful standalone stories, I choose 100 Bullets #38 at least in part because it is a Cole-centric issue. And a hell of a fine one, too.
Titled "Cole Burns Slow Hand," 100 Bullets #38 actually tells two complete stories that are largely self-contained, only tying together through the titular character in the final six pages. Each of the two tales is pretty straightforward and familiar---a man rejected by his former lover and an armed robbery at a bar---but they're told so tightly and laced with such humanity and humor that they hit the reader hard and remain memorable long afterward.
The robbery portion of the narrative has an interesting shape to it. What at first seems like a pair of hardened criminals pulling an easy, small-time caper slowly reveals itself to in fact be two total amateurs losing all control over a simple crime. As Joe and Ronnie's complete lack of preparation and skill becomes more and more apparent, the tension in the room gradually builds. The hostages don't know what to expect from these half-cocked masked men, and the crooks themselves fall victim to infighting, steadily exacerbating an already tenuous situation. It's very well-scripted, but the real star of these scenes is artist Eduardo Risso. The perfectly menacing-yet-comical animal masks worn by the robbers, the goofy-but-sincerely-terrified bartender, the dirty looks passed between Ronnie and Joe, Cole's face when they open the door and point a gun at him---all of these purely visual details enrich and enliven what could've been an overly dark or ridiculous story in the hands of a less capable artist. That's not to say writer Brian Azzarello doesn't shine in the bar scenes, too, but where his script really pops off is in the other half of the issue, the conversation between Cole and his lost love Sasha.
All it takes is two lines, one from each character, and the relationship between Cole and Sasha is fully explained to the reader. He lobs a bit of sexual innuendo her way, and not only does she dodge it entirely, she immediately goes on the offensive, trying to get him out of her apartment since he no longer has a place in her heart. From there what we get is Azzarello writing some of his best, most human dialogue. Cole tries every tactic he can think of to talk Sasha back into loving him, and Sasha steadfastly refuses, explaining to Cole that after the damage he did the first time out and the amount of time that's passed since then, his shot at a second chance is long dead and buried. Their back-and-forth is so quick, so casual, so full of quips and jabs and things unsaid or half-said, it is immediately clear how well these two knew each other once, and also how strained things are between them now. We don't get all the details of their past romance because we don't need them, and because this issue isn't really about their history. If anything, it is about their futures, their ability to get over each other and move on. Sasha, through what was clearly great effort, has already brought herself to a place where that's possible, and so she never buckles to Cole, always ready with an answer to his various pleas. And as their conversation develops, we get to watch Cole himself arrive at a similar place. He may not be happy about it, but in the end he truly and fully accepts that he lost Sasha forever, and when he does leave, the long-term finality of the exit is clear.
And then he wanders over to the bar, and we get one of the most satisfying conclusions of all time. Everybody gets just what they deserve in the end: Joe and Ronnie die, Sasha is free of Cole for good, and Cole...well, Cole goes right back to being the cold and efficient killer he was trained to be. If there is any way in which 100 Bullets #38 doesn't work on its own, independently from the rest of the series, it's that the end of the issue might be a tad confusing if you weren't familiar with Cole as a character beforehand. How, exactly, did this random guy manage to take down two armed felons who had the drop on him? But I would argue that, really, the final scene could just as easily clarify who Cole is as cloud the issue. It makes us all the more relieved that Sasha didn't take him back when we see him in the role of a merciless, callous, talented murderer. At the same time, because Cole's killing was not only in self-defense but also in defense of everyone else in the bar, and because Ronnie and Joe are such irredeemable characters, having Cole take them down in the end casts him, ultimately, as a hero. Well, hero of the robbery story, anyway.
And therein lies the true genius of "Cole Burns Slow Hand." The main character gets to be the bad guy in one of its narratives and the good guy in the other. We are most certainly not upset to watch Cole leave Sasha's place, but we are equally pleased to see him arrive at the bar. Like many people, he's not particularly likable or despicable. He's human, as are all of Azzarello's characters, and that means he brings the good with the bad like the rest of us.
There's a lot more I could discuss in this issue, because it really is brilliantly crafted. Like how deliciously paced the whole things is, never spending more than two or three pages at either location until the very end when the two tales collide. Or the awesome transitions Risso throws in, like when a smack or a fist clench or outstretched arms carry over from one story to the other. Or how when Sasha first enters her apartment, we hear Joe off-panel saying, "...and nobody gets hurt," so we know right away that Sasha is going to get hurt before the issue concludes. From the very beginning to the incredible closing line, 100 Bullets #38 is a fun, well-paced, thoroughly enjoyable read. But you don't have to take my word for it, because you can read and fully appreciate every page of it yourself right now.
100 Bullets #38 was published by Vertigo comics and is dated October 2002.
Cole Burns will always be my favorite Minuteman. I'm sure it's partially because he's the first one we meet, and maybe somewhat because he has the coolest codename ("The Wolf") but mostly Cole just won me over with his understated swagger and love of fine tequila. So in a series with numerous successful standalone stories, I choose 100 Bullets #38 at least in part because it is a Cole-centric issue. And a hell of a fine one, too.
Titled "Cole Burns Slow Hand," 100 Bullets #38 actually tells two complete stories that are largely self-contained, only tying together through the titular character in the final six pages. Each of the two tales is pretty straightforward and familiar---a man rejected by his former lover and an armed robbery at a bar---but they're told so tightly and laced with such humanity and humor that they hit the reader hard and remain memorable long afterward.
The robbery portion of the narrative has an interesting shape to it. What at first seems like a pair of hardened criminals pulling an easy, small-time caper slowly reveals itself to in fact be two total amateurs losing all control over a simple crime. As Joe and Ronnie's complete lack of preparation and skill becomes more and more apparent, the tension in the room gradually builds. The hostages don't know what to expect from these half-cocked masked men, and the crooks themselves fall victim to infighting, steadily exacerbating an already tenuous situation. It's very well-scripted, but the real star of these scenes is artist Eduardo Risso. The perfectly menacing-yet-comical animal masks worn by the robbers, the goofy-but-sincerely-terrified bartender, the dirty looks passed between Ronnie and Joe, Cole's face when they open the door and point a gun at him---all of these purely visual details enrich and enliven what could've been an overly dark or ridiculous story in the hands of a less capable artist. That's not to say writer Brian Azzarello doesn't shine in the bar scenes, too, but where his script really pops off is in the other half of the issue, the conversation between Cole and his lost love Sasha.
All it takes is two lines, one from each character, and the relationship between Cole and Sasha is fully explained to the reader. He lobs a bit of sexual innuendo her way, and not only does she dodge it entirely, she immediately goes on the offensive, trying to get him out of her apartment since he no longer has a place in her heart. From there what we get is Azzarello writing some of his best, most human dialogue. Cole tries every tactic he can think of to talk Sasha back into loving him, and Sasha steadfastly refuses, explaining to Cole that after the damage he did the first time out and the amount of time that's passed since then, his shot at a second chance is long dead and buried. Their back-and-forth is so quick, so casual, so full of quips and jabs and things unsaid or half-said, it is immediately clear how well these two knew each other once, and also how strained things are between them now. We don't get all the details of their past romance because we don't need them, and because this issue isn't really about their history. If anything, it is about their futures, their ability to get over each other and move on. Sasha, through what was clearly great effort, has already brought herself to a place where that's possible, and so she never buckles to Cole, always ready with an answer to his various pleas. And as their conversation develops, we get to watch Cole himself arrive at a similar place. He may not be happy about it, but in the end he truly and fully accepts that he lost Sasha forever, and when he does leave, the long-term finality of the exit is clear.
And then he wanders over to the bar, and we get one of the most satisfying conclusions of all time. Everybody gets just what they deserve in the end: Joe and Ronnie die, Sasha is free of Cole for good, and Cole...well, Cole goes right back to being the cold and efficient killer he was trained to be. If there is any way in which 100 Bullets #38 doesn't work on its own, independently from the rest of the series, it's that the end of the issue might be a tad confusing if you weren't familiar with Cole as a character beforehand. How, exactly, did this random guy manage to take down two armed felons who had the drop on him? But I would argue that, really, the final scene could just as easily clarify who Cole is as cloud the issue. It makes us all the more relieved that Sasha didn't take him back when we see him in the role of a merciless, callous, talented murderer. At the same time, because Cole's killing was not only in self-defense but also in defense of everyone else in the bar, and because Ronnie and Joe are such irredeemable characters, having Cole take them down in the end casts him, ultimately, as a hero. Well, hero of the robbery story, anyway.
And therein lies the true genius of "Cole Burns Slow Hand." The main character gets to be the bad guy in one of its narratives and the good guy in the other. We are most certainly not upset to watch Cole leave Sasha's place, but we are equally pleased to see him arrive at the bar. Like many people, he's not particularly likable or despicable. He's human, as are all of Azzarello's characters, and that means he brings the good with the bad like the rest of us.
There's a lot more I could discuss in this issue, because it really is brilliantly crafted. Like how deliciously paced the whole things is, never spending more than two or three pages at either location until the very end when the two tales collide. Or the awesome transitions Risso throws in, like when a smack or a fist clench or outstretched arms carry over from one story to the other. Or how when Sasha first enters her apartment, we hear Joe off-panel saying, "...and nobody gets hurt," so we know right away that Sasha is going to get hurt before the issue concludes. From the very beginning to the incredible closing line, 100 Bullets #38 is a fun, well-paced, thoroughly enjoyable read. But you don't have to take my word for it, because you can read and fully appreciate every page of it yourself right now.
100 Bullets #38 was published by Vertigo comics and is dated October 2002.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
The Cheese Stands Alone: Green Arrow #20
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.
In Mike Grell's amazing 80-issue run on Green Arrow, he sort of took the "super" out of superhero. Nobody ever refers to Oliver Queen as "Green Arrow," he loses his mask early on, and he pretty much never interacts with any of the other super folks operating in the (presumably shared) DC Universe. He lives with Black Canary, of course, though she goes by Dinah Lance and is more often a florist than a hero under Grell's pen, but otherwise the cast of the book is fairly "normal." Even Queen's foes, while often highly-skilled, tend to be unpowered. However, in Green Arrow #20, we see a familiar face from the DCU for the first and, I believe, last time: Hal Jordan, the most prominent Green Lantern. Of course, this is still Grell's book, so even Green Lantern remains just Hal, never donning his ring or mask. He's not there to aid Oliver in battle against some gigantic threat; he wants only to help one of his oldest friends bounce back from a dark and tragic time. It is a simple, direct, and effective issue that completely stands alone.
Now, if you want to get technical about it, Green Arrow #20 is the second part of a two-parter titled "The Trial of Oliver Queen." But some of the strength of that story lies in the fact that both of its chapters more or less work on their own, each one putting the hero through a different sort of trial. In the preceding issue (#19), Oliver shoots---with an arrow, don't worry---and severely wounds a child who he believed at the time was about to gun down a police officer. It is discovered too late that the kid had only a paintbull gun, and so our hero is taken to court, where the judge comes down hard on him for his vigilante activities. Oliver then comes down on himself even harder, nearly drowning in alcohol and guilt. It's a great opening chapter, and well worth reading, but here's the thing: it pretty much gets summed up for you in the first six pages of Green Arrow #20 anyway. Through some tightly-scripted police dialogue and a visually dynamic dream sequence, Grell and penciller Ed Hannigan bring up to speed anyone who might be coming into this issue cold, and they do it in a way that still moves all the essential characters forward in their own stories. This kind of seamless, natural recap is a rarity in comics, and a tactic that could and should be used more often, and it is a major part of why I selected Green Arrow #20 for this column. Though it's hardly the only reason.
The best part of the issue is the scene between Oliver and Hal. At a campsite on Mt. Rainier, Hal forces his old friend to stop bingeing on booze and self-pity and start living again, which Oliver gets pretty pissed about at first. As their conversation becomes an argument and then a fistfight and then, finally, a moment of clarity followed by a hug, the reader learns just how much these two men mean to each other. It's clear even if you knew nothing about either of them beforehand, and even though the exact details of their history remain obscure. The way they speak to one another---with language that is simultaneously blunt and caring, comfortable and strained---and their transition from violence to tenderness make the depth of their friendship obvious. It is a well-handled scene, in both its words and images, and it gets Oliver back on his feet in a way that's space-efficient (in terms of page length) without feeling rushed or cheap. After understandably falling to pieces over harming and nearly killing a child, Oliver is reminded that no man, hero or otherwise, is infallible; what matters is how we handle our mistakes. As Hal says, "It's your choice. If you let it, it will destroy you."
This message is an old one, but still appropriate and true. Same goes for Oliver's speech at the end of the issue to Officer Egan, one of the cops involved in the accident with the paintballer. By the story's close, Egan is in a hospital bed after encountering another underage criminal, who this time had a real gun and used it. The policeman requests that Oliver visit him, and it is the first time in Green Arrow #20 that the two characters come together, even though the catalyst for each of their individual narratives is the same. Prior to the hospital, Egan's story in this issue is more or less separate from Oliver's, and in some ways the inverse. Where Oliver tried to run from his shame and let it ruin him, Egan deals with his own shaken confidence by diving right back into his job. And instead of ending up with a renewed sense of righteousness as Oliver does, Egan gets himself shot, presumably bringing his continued competency as a police officer even further into question than it was in the issue's opening pages. It is as sad a story as Oliver's is hopeful, and creates an interesting mood for their scene together. Oliver delivers a passionate pseudo-rant about the difference between "law" and "justice" and why the world needs men like him. It's almost a thesis statement for the character and the title, perhaps laid on a bit too thick in some of the specific examples and the generally overbearing tone. But the person to whom these words are spoken and the setting that surrounds him are so still and peaceful and tragic that Oliver's big, victorious finish is dampened, and it helps to bring what could've have been an over-the-top moment back down to Earth. Which is, of course, what the whole of Grell's run on Green Arrow did to the character and the superhero comicbook in general.
But I'm not here to discuss the entire run. I doubt if I could find the space. This is about a single, excellent installment, the tale of two men reacting to a horrible accident in very different ways and ending up in very different places. And also the tale of an old and meaningful friendship saving a tortured soul from itself. And also, remarkably, an explanation of vigilantism and superheroism in the big picture, and why one man does what he feels is necessary in the battle against evil.
Green Arrow #20 was published by DC comics and is dated July 1989.
In Mike Grell's amazing 80-issue run on Green Arrow, he sort of took the "super" out of superhero. Nobody ever refers to Oliver Queen as "Green Arrow," he loses his mask early on, and he pretty much never interacts with any of the other super folks operating in the (presumably shared) DC Universe. He lives with Black Canary, of course, though she goes by Dinah Lance and is more often a florist than a hero under Grell's pen, but otherwise the cast of the book is fairly "normal." Even Queen's foes, while often highly-skilled, tend to be unpowered. However, in Green Arrow #20, we see a familiar face from the DCU for the first and, I believe, last time: Hal Jordan, the most prominent Green Lantern. Of course, this is still Grell's book, so even Green Lantern remains just Hal, never donning his ring or mask. He's not there to aid Oliver in battle against some gigantic threat; he wants only to help one of his oldest friends bounce back from a dark and tragic time. It is a simple, direct, and effective issue that completely stands alone.
Now, if you want to get technical about it, Green Arrow #20 is the second part of a two-parter titled "The Trial of Oliver Queen." But some of the strength of that story lies in the fact that both of its chapters more or less work on their own, each one putting the hero through a different sort of trial. In the preceding issue (#19), Oliver shoots---with an arrow, don't worry---and severely wounds a child who he believed at the time was about to gun down a police officer. It is discovered too late that the kid had only a paintbull gun, and so our hero is taken to court, where the judge comes down hard on him for his vigilante activities. Oliver then comes down on himself even harder, nearly drowning in alcohol and guilt. It's a great opening chapter, and well worth reading, but here's the thing: it pretty much gets summed up for you in the first six pages of Green Arrow #20 anyway. Through some tightly-scripted police dialogue and a visually dynamic dream sequence, Grell and penciller Ed Hannigan bring up to speed anyone who might be coming into this issue cold, and they do it in a way that still moves all the essential characters forward in their own stories. This kind of seamless, natural recap is a rarity in comics, and a tactic that could and should be used more often, and it is a major part of why I selected Green Arrow #20 for this column. Though it's hardly the only reason.
The best part of the issue is the scene between Oliver and Hal. At a campsite on Mt. Rainier, Hal forces his old friend to stop bingeing on booze and self-pity and start living again, which Oliver gets pretty pissed about at first. As their conversation becomes an argument and then a fistfight and then, finally, a moment of clarity followed by a hug, the reader learns just how much these two men mean to each other. It's clear even if you knew nothing about either of them beforehand, and even though the exact details of their history remain obscure. The way they speak to one another---with language that is simultaneously blunt and caring, comfortable and strained---and their transition from violence to tenderness make the depth of their friendship obvious. It is a well-handled scene, in both its words and images, and it gets Oliver back on his feet in a way that's space-efficient (in terms of page length) without feeling rushed or cheap. After understandably falling to pieces over harming and nearly killing a child, Oliver is reminded that no man, hero or otherwise, is infallible; what matters is how we handle our mistakes. As Hal says, "It's your choice. If you let it, it will destroy you."
This message is an old one, but still appropriate and true. Same goes for Oliver's speech at the end of the issue to Officer Egan, one of the cops involved in the accident with the paintballer. By the story's close, Egan is in a hospital bed after encountering another underage criminal, who this time had a real gun and used it. The policeman requests that Oliver visit him, and it is the first time in Green Arrow #20 that the two characters come together, even though the catalyst for each of their individual narratives is the same. Prior to the hospital, Egan's story in this issue is more or less separate from Oliver's, and in some ways the inverse. Where Oliver tried to run from his shame and let it ruin him, Egan deals with his own shaken confidence by diving right back into his job. And instead of ending up with a renewed sense of righteousness as Oliver does, Egan gets himself shot, presumably bringing his continued competency as a police officer even further into question than it was in the issue's opening pages. It is as sad a story as Oliver's is hopeful, and creates an interesting mood for their scene together. Oliver delivers a passionate pseudo-rant about the difference between "law" and "justice" and why the world needs men like him. It's almost a thesis statement for the character and the title, perhaps laid on a bit too thick in some of the specific examples and the generally overbearing tone. But the person to whom these words are spoken and the setting that surrounds him are so still and peaceful and tragic that Oliver's big, victorious finish is dampened, and it helps to bring what could've have been an over-the-top moment back down to Earth. Which is, of course, what the whole of Grell's run on Green Arrow did to the character and the superhero comicbook in general.
But I'm not here to discuss the entire run. I doubt if I could find the space. This is about a single, excellent installment, the tale of two men reacting to a horrible accident in very different ways and ending up in very different places. And also the tale of an old and meaningful friendship saving a tortured soul from itself. And also, remarkably, an explanation of vigilantism and superheroism in the big picture, and why one man does what he feels is necessary in the battle against evil.
Green Arrow #20 was published by DC comics and is dated July 1989.
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