Dirty Dozen is a semi-regular feature with twelve disconnected thoughts on the first twelve issues of a current ongoing series.
1. I go back and forth over whether or not Simon Cooke is the worst protagonist ever. It seems to fluctuate issue-to-issue; once in a while he says something legitimately interesting that brings me back to his good side, but most of the time he's so boring it gives me a stress headache. He's an over-privileged, self-important jackass who can't figure out how to interact with the world, and watching him pretend to try while whining and constantly resisting has grown tiresome. If he died, it would be a relief, and open the book up for its numerous more interesting characters.
2. Piotr Kowalski was new to me when this series began, but I suspect I'll follow him pretty much anywhere in the future. Though I'm not always wild about what it is he draws in this book, he does a mighty find job of drawing it with meticulous detail in every panel. It's too bad that he has to waste much his talent on so many shots of Cooke staring blankly and mundane sex scenes, but when he gets to branch out it's always worth it. And his cityscapes are bananas good.
3. The sex scenes often feel like they exist more to justify the title than for any necessary story reason. Also, they are very repetitive, and disappointingly tame, considering the possibilities of the medium.
4. While my feelings on Cooke are hard to predict at any given moment, The Old Man is always the worst, most simplistic, uninspired, laughable caricature of a villain I've seen or ever hope to see again. Every scene he's in is the worst kind of empty shock value violence horseshit, and all he's ever done is torture and interrogate other villains. He did it to one cipher character for several issues, and as soon as that finally ended, he turned around and did the exact same thing to another boring bad guy. Which is what's happening now, meaning in 12 issues The Old Man has failed to rise above the role of pointless torturer. Maybe it's leading somewhere cool, but it could not possibly be worth wading through this swamp.
5. When it comes to cast- and world-building, I think that Joe Casey's writing is maybe at its strongest ever on this title, except for the fact that the main character is exceedingly dull. The supporting cast is considerably livelier, and very diverse in voice and point of view. It's a full, massive world Casey's cobbled together, and the cast grows all the time with new characters of all sizes. There are lots of balls in the air, and they can't all get equal attention, but nothing is ignored for too long. It all moves forward all the time, even when we're not watching it, and it that sense I'm very impressed with the story. There's a lot to like in here, but it's all built around a flimsy central character.
6. The Saturnalia was so stupid. Big build-up about the mystery for the answer to be, "it's an orgy."
7. My problems with Cooke and The Old Man are significantly mitigated by my total fascination with Keenan and his whole deal. I'm a sucker for any sidekick coming of age story, and the added element of Cooke having walked away from his superhero days makes it even better. Keenan is on his own and ferociously determined to prove he can pull it off. So far, he's doing just that, and in a level-headed and self-reflective way that gives me a lot of faith is his continued success. Keenan is the reason to read this series, the best character and star of the only regularly interesting plotline. His one present-tense interaction with Cooke is the best Cooke has ever been. And unlike 90% of them, Keenan's sex scenes serve a real narrative purpose, because his relationship matters a lot, and it develops in these moments of intimacy. Again, I vote for killing Cooke off somehow and giving Keenan twice as many pages. Some issues just plain don't have him in them, which is horrible.
8. Brad Simpson rules, and is just as much a part of my love for Sex's art as Kowalski. Simpson doesn't just do the colors, he's responsible for the lighting, which is a big deal in this book. Cooke's business world is neon, but at home he tends to live in more normal colors. The streets and poorer parts of the city, though, are dim and sickly in their tone. Kowalski puts the same heart and life into all of these places, but Simpson makes them distinct with some simple, natural coloring choices that have become an integral part of the aesthetic.
9. Annabelle's eye problems were a nice touch, and I'd like to see more stuff like that, especially from her. As a madam she's pretty stereotypical, but the notion of an ex-super-person paying in tangible ways now for their past is interesting, and Annabelle's commitment to her tough and capable reputation makes her a particularly strong choice to suffer those kinds of consequences. It'd be good to see Cooke go through some of that, too, but whoever it happens to, I definitely want this concept to be further explored.
10. I'm not super clear on why we never get to see the Armored Saint in full. Is a big reveal coming someday? Just kind of a fun game to play with the audience, like the neighbor on Home Improvement? Or am I missing some symbolism in his hidden appearance?
11. The highlighted words in the dialogue drive me crazy. I don't know if they are chosen by Casey, letterer Russ Wooton, or some combination, but they're so frustratingly inconsistent and arbitrary that I just ignore them now. Whatever they were supposed to do, all they actually accomplish is adding superfluous spots of color in an already arrestingly colorful book.
12. I've said it before, and it's still true: I just don't know whether or not Sex is a comic I really want to keep following. I was hoping that making it the focus of this column would help with that decision. It did not.
Showing posts with label Joe Casey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joe Casey. Show all posts
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Why am I Still Reading Sex?
I bought the first issue of Sex because I usually like Joe Casey's writing. I bought the second because I was so impressed with Piotr Kowalski art and Brad Simpson's art. Since then, I've struggled with whether or not to get each of the other issues, because a story that initially seemed like it was gearing up for better things has grown tired, bordering on dull, in only six chapters. So far I've continued to follow the title, but many aspects of it grate my nerves and don't seem to be getting any better. Yet the few redeeming qualities it has are always just good enough to keep me coming back, making Sex a frustrating but thus far effective mix of good, bad, and ugly.
The primary problem I have with this book is its protagonist, Simon Cooke. He's barely a character. Though his history is the foundation of the supposed premise of the entire series, in the present he is a passive un-man, wallowing in...I don't even know what. Self-pity? Self-loathing? Ennui? Quiet seething rage? Whatever emotion(s) he's feeling, feeling them is all he ever does. He never acts, speaks in vague and foolish terms, and offers no insight or assistance to his fellow cast members or the audience as to what's going on in his mind. Cooke used to be a superhero called the Armored Saint, but has given that up now and is struggling to find meaning in his life without the alter ego to rely on. I can see why giving up the costumed crimefighting lifestyle would be a rocky transition, but to see even a half-step of effort on Cooke's part would go a long way. This isn't the story of him trying and failing to establish a "normal" life. It's him saying he'll try but then refusing to do so, instead ending up in a stagnant state, neither living his old life nor his new one.
To make matters worse, the only people Cooke ever interacts with are his assistant Larry and his lawyer Warren, neither of whom are especially interesting. Larry is at least good at her job, and is the only person capable of getting Cooke to actually do anything as far as running his company or at all behaving like member of society. Don't get me wrong, I don't give a shit if the heroes of the things I read act like regular members of society, but since that is what Cooke claims is his whole goal, it's nice to see someone who legitimately wants to help him achieve it. Without Larry, the infinitesimal amount of forward progress this narrative has managed to accomplish wouldn't even have happened. What doesn't work about Larry is that she's a one-note character. Because Cooke is so stubbornly unwilling to become the man he says he wants to become, all Larry ever has the time or space for is reminding her boss of his obligations and doing her damnedest to convince him to fulfill them. She gets almost no story of her own, save for being aggressively hit on by a politician in the most recent issue.
Warren is just a scumbag who I'd rather not spend any more time with. I get that he's a lawyer for rich pricks like Cooke, and therefore a bit of a prick himself necessarily, but that doesn't make him easier to swallow. He's not a villain, but he's a bad guy through and through, and seeing him give half-hearted and self-interested advice to Cooke, which Cooke then refuses to take because he's so boneheaded, is wearing me down.
There is one person in Cooke's life who I'm interested in and want to see more of, but she's dead and only appears in flashback. Her name is Quinn, and from what we've seen she was essentially Alfred to Cooke's Batman, and her death is the whole reason he gave up being the Armored Saint. The details of their relationship haven't been revealed, but the few scenes she's been in have established Quinn as smart, capable, and self-assured, not qualities that many others possess in this series. A small but significant part of why I haven't dropped Sex yet is my eagerness to get to know Quinn and figure out why she ever teamed up with Cooke, and what exactly motivated her to ask him to retire from her deathbed.
Even worse than Cooke and his associates is the character being built up as the main villain of this tale, The Old Man. Here's what we know about this guy: he's evil. How do we know that? He murders women he's having sex with in the middle of having sex with them. He has his own Pulp-Fiction-style gimp who tortures people with anal sex so The Old Man can interrogate them. Basically, his role is to combine sex and violence in trite yet highly offensive ways that make no sense and serve no purpose just so the reader can keep being reminded that "THIS IS THE VILLAIN!" Nevermind that we were told right away that the dude was a major crime boss with a long history of wickedness who plans on using the Armored Saint's recent departure to take over the underworld once again. Apparently we need to be shown just how depraved The Old Man can be, more than once, over far too many pages. It's insulting to my intelligence to have to get through these scenes that say nothing new about the character or the story just so the book can justify its title.
So the lead hero and lead villain both drive me crazy. What could I possibly be reading Sex for? Surely there's more to like about it than the slight chance that I might get some new Quinn scenes (which hasn't actually happened in a few issues).
First of all, there's the art. I meant what I said up top; the main reason I picked up Sex #2 was because of how impressive the debut's visuals were. The sheer number of lines Piotr Kowalski draws in every issue is astonishing, particularly when he gets to do a cityscape. There is such immense detail in the buildings, rather than having them merely be looming suggestions of skyscrapers. Every window is actually there, and it happens even when all that's visible are glimpses of a few random buildings in the background of a panel. This carries over to all of the various settings—large offices, nightclubs, hospitals, etc. And the characters, too, especially The Old Man, whose face is so wrinkled he looks like a dried up reptile. But everyone has their own look, individualized personalities and fashions that say a lot about them, even the drabbest characters. It's a well-thought-out world Kowalski has built, as varied and full as our own. There's not a ton of violence, but what's there is always done efficiently, not overblown for shock value but still quick and brutal and sometimes hard to look at. There is, naturally, a lot of sex, and even though it rarely adds anything of import to the story, Kowalski at least makes it fittingly realistic. People are proportioned like people, and their whole bodies are involved.
Brad Simpson's coloring is equally fantastic. He's playful with it, not worried about realism in the same way as Kowalski seems to be, and the combination is what makes Sex look so good. There are a lot of flat colors, figures done in all one color against backgrounds done in a contrasting one. Some whole pages are washed in a single color, while others are done in a more down-to-Earth manner, with everything colored more or less as it would actually be. And these decisions are not made arbitrarily; Simpson is more responsible for establishing mood than any of the other creators. Brash colors flare up momentarily to match characters' emotions doing the same. Flashbacks are marked by their soft grayness, allowing them to appear in the middle of present-tense panels without ever being confusing. There is a mix of neon and muted hues that works surprisingly well, and underlines that Cooke abandoned one world for another but doesn't really operate in either. This series is fun and stimulating to look at, and while not a great deal actually goes on in a given issue in terms of the narrative, the images are always dynamic and gripping.
Good art alone doesn't make Sex worth the price of admission, at least not six issues deep. There's got to be something in the story that I care about enough to put up with the garbage, and in the case of Sex, it's mostly the stars of the B-plot that are holding my attention. Where Cooke and The Old Man turned me off a long time ago and have never improved one inch, Keenan Wade and The Alpha Brothers continue to be people worth watching.
The Alpha Brothers are the dual heads of an illegal organization of some kind, and as people they're not all that deep. They might be actual brothers, might be boyfriends, might be both, but their personalities are largely indistinguishable and they're activities aren't any more or less exciting than any other baddy in any other book. What I like about them is their matter-of-fact, businesslike approach to what they do. In the middle of killing a guy who owes them money, the brothers get into a spat over exactly how much he owes them, which leads them to pull out their smartphones and compare the numbers they each have on file. This outlook makes me laugh, talking about crime in terms of clients and reports and data. It makes sense for the modern world, and may well be what current real-world criminals necessarily have to do, but either way it feels different for a superhero comicbook and I always appreciate that. Like Quinn, The Alpha Brothers don't get a massive amount of stage time, but I always look forward to their moments in the spotlight, and rely on them for a bit of comic relief and intelligent conversation in this series.
Keenan Wade is the real reason to buy Sex, though, far and away a better character than anyone else. He's just a young waiter right now, but has ambitions of being the next great hero, basically seeing himself as a replacement for the Armored Saint, as far as I can tell. But his methods are unorthodox; it's Keenan who fucks with The Alpha Brothers' numbers, and he's currently considering joining a revived street gang called The Breaks so he can battle the baddies from the inside. He's got fighting skills, displayed when he wrecks some dickhead who's abusing his girlfriend in the club where Keenan works. And he's just a downright decent dude, as seen through his honest and caring attitude with his own girlfriend, perhaps the only truly affectionate relationship in the book. He also has some sort of unknown history with Cooke and Quinn, and is just as disgusted and disinterested in the man Cooke is now as I am, making Keenan a uniquely relatable member of the cast. It also gives me the smallest sliver of hope that Cooke might actually turn into someone I want to read about, should his and Keenan's stories ever collide due to whatever connection already exists between them. We've already seen Keenan break into Cooke's house, planning to announce his intentions of becoming the new head vigilante in town. But once he sees what a waste Cooke is these days, Keenan bails, setting off on his own to do things his way.
I can't yet tell what Sex wants to say, about superheroes or modern life or anything at all. It's getting to its point far too slowly and unsteadily, and it centers on characters that mostly range from the dissatisfying to the despicable. The few people I care about are minor players, and though I adore the artwork, it's not going to keep me around indefinitely. I'm hesitant to drop it because, for all its flaws, it's still different than most of the cape comics on the shelves, and every issue does something to delight and/or surprise me. Also, Cooke still has plenty of potential to grow into a likable leading man. He's flimsy and underdeveloped so far, which is bad, but leaves ample room for details to be revealed or added that would redeem him. So I guess I'm holding out hope, putting maybe a bit too much trust in creators I admire, and crossing my fingers that this is all headed somewhere. My desire to keep spending my time in this world is waning rapidly, though, and if things don't turn around soon, I'm hard-pressed to believe I'll be reading Sex for more than another couple issues.
The primary problem I have with this book is its protagonist, Simon Cooke. He's barely a character. Though his history is the foundation of the supposed premise of the entire series, in the present he is a passive un-man, wallowing in...I don't even know what. Self-pity? Self-loathing? Ennui? Quiet seething rage? Whatever emotion(s) he's feeling, feeling them is all he ever does. He never acts, speaks in vague and foolish terms, and offers no insight or assistance to his fellow cast members or the audience as to what's going on in his mind. Cooke used to be a superhero called the Armored Saint, but has given that up now and is struggling to find meaning in his life without the alter ego to rely on. I can see why giving up the costumed crimefighting lifestyle would be a rocky transition, but to see even a half-step of effort on Cooke's part would go a long way. This isn't the story of him trying and failing to establish a "normal" life. It's him saying he'll try but then refusing to do so, instead ending up in a stagnant state, neither living his old life nor his new one.
To make matters worse, the only people Cooke ever interacts with are his assistant Larry and his lawyer Warren, neither of whom are especially interesting. Larry is at least good at her job, and is the only person capable of getting Cooke to actually do anything as far as running his company or at all behaving like member of society. Don't get me wrong, I don't give a shit if the heroes of the things I read act like regular members of society, but since that is what Cooke claims is his whole goal, it's nice to see someone who legitimately wants to help him achieve it. Without Larry, the infinitesimal amount of forward progress this narrative has managed to accomplish wouldn't even have happened. What doesn't work about Larry is that she's a one-note character. Because Cooke is so stubbornly unwilling to become the man he says he wants to become, all Larry ever has the time or space for is reminding her boss of his obligations and doing her damnedest to convince him to fulfill them. She gets almost no story of her own, save for being aggressively hit on by a politician in the most recent issue.
Warren is just a scumbag who I'd rather not spend any more time with. I get that he's a lawyer for rich pricks like Cooke, and therefore a bit of a prick himself necessarily, but that doesn't make him easier to swallow. He's not a villain, but he's a bad guy through and through, and seeing him give half-hearted and self-interested advice to Cooke, which Cooke then refuses to take because he's so boneheaded, is wearing me down.
There is one person in Cooke's life who I'm interested in and want to see more of, but she's dead and only appears in flashback. Her name is Quinn, and from what we've seen she was essentially Alfred to Cooke's Batman, and her death is the whole reason he gave up being the Armored Saint. The details of their relationship haven't been revealed, but the few scenes she's been in have established Quinn as smart, capable, and self-assured, not qualities that many others possess in this series. A small but significant part of why I haven't dropped Sex yet is my eagerness to get to know Quinn and figure out why she ever teamed up with Cooke, and what exactly motivated her to ask him to retire from her deathbed.
Even worse than Cooke and his associates is the character being built up as the main villain of this tale, The Old Man. Here's what we know about this guy: he's evil. How do we know that? He murders women he's having sex with in the middle of having sex with them. He has his own Pulp-Fiction-style gimp who tortures people with anal sex so The Old Man can interrogate them. Basically, his role is to combine sex and violence in trite yet highly offensive ways that make no sense and serve no purpose just so the reader can keep being reminded that "THIS IS THE VILLAIN!" Nevermind that we were told right away that the dude was a major crime boss with a long history of wickedness who plans on using the Armored Saint's recent departure to take over the underworld once again. Apparently we need to be shown just how depraved The Old Man can be, more than once, over far too many pages. It's insulting to my intelligence to have to get through these scenes that say nothing new about the character or the story just so the book can justify its title.
So the lead hero and lead villain both drive me crazy. What could I possibly be reading Sex for? Surely there's more to like about it than the slight chance that I might get some new Quinn scenes (which hasn't actually happened in a few issues).
First of all, there's the art. I meant what I said up top; the main reason I picked up Sex #2 was because of how impressive the debut's visuals were. The sheer number of lines Piotr Kowalski draws in every issue is astonishing, particularly when he gets to do a cityscape. There is such immense detail in the buildings, rather than having them merely be looming suggestions of skyscrapers. Every window is actually there, and it happens even when all that's visible are glimpses of a few random buildings in the background of a panel. This carries over to all of the various settings—large offices, nightclubs, hospitals, etc. And the characters, too, especially The Old Man, whose face is so wrinkled he looks like a dried up reptile. But everyone has their own look, individualized personalities and fashions that say a lot about them, even the drabbest characters. It's a well-thought-out world Kowalski has built, as varied and full as our own. There's not a ton of violence, but what's there is always done efficiently, not overblown for shock value but still quick and brutal and sometimes hard to look at. There is, naturally, a lot of sex, and even though it rarely adds anything of import to the story, Kowalski at least makes it fittingly realistic. People are proportioned like people, and their whole bodies are involved.
Brad Simpson's coloring is equally fantastic. He's playful with it, not worried about realism in the same way as Kowalski seems to be, and the combination is what makes Sex look so good. There are a lot of flat colors, figures done in all one color against backgrounds done in a contrasting one. Some whole pages are washed in a single color, while others are done in a more down-to-Earth manner, with everything colored more or less as it would actually be. And these decisions are not made arbitrarily; Simpson is more responsible for establishing mood than any of the other creators. Brash colors flare up momentarily to match characters' emotions doing the same. Flashbacks are marked by their soft grayness, allowing them to appear in the middle of present-tense panels without ever being confusing. There is a mix of neon and muted hues that works surprisingly well, and underlines that Cooke abandoned one world for another but doesn't really operate in either. This series is fun and stimulating to look at, and while not a great deal actually goes on in a given issue in terms of the narrative, the images are always dynamic and gripping.
Good art alone doesn't make Sex worth the price of admission, at least not six issues deep. There's got to be something in the story that I care about enough to put up with the garbage, and in the case of Sex, it's mostly the stars of the B-plot that are holding my attention. Where Cooke and The Old Man turned me off a long time ago and have never improved one inch, Keenan Wade and The Alpha Brothers continue to be people worth watching.
The Alpha Brothers are the dual heads of an illegal organization of some kind, and as people they're not all that deep. They might be actual brothers, might be boyfriends, might be both, but their personalities are largely indistinguishable and they're activities aren't any more or less exciting than any other baddy in any other book. What I like about them is their matter-of-fact, businesslike approach to what they do. In the middle of killing a guy who owes them money, the brothers get into a spat over exactly how much he owes them, which leads them to pull out their smartphones and compare the numbers they each have on file. This outlook makes me laugh, talking about crime in terms of clients and reports and data. It makes sense for the modern world, and may well be what current real-world criminals necessarily have to do, but either way it feels different for a superhero comicbook and I always appreciate that. Like Quinn, The Alpha Brothers don't get a massive amount of stage time, but I always look forward to their moments in the spotlight, and rely on them for a bit of comic relief and intelligent conversation in this series.
Keenan Wade is the real reason to buy Sex, though, far and away a better character than anyone else. He's just a young waiter right now, but has ambitions of being the next great hero, basically seeing himself as a replacement for the Armored Saint, as far as I can tell. But his methods are unorthodox; it's Keenan who fucks with The Alpha Brothers' numbers, and he's currently considering joining a revived street gang called The Breaks so he can battle the baddies from the inside. He's got fighting skills, displayed when he wrecks some dickhead who's abusing his girlfriend in the club where Keenan works. And he's just a downright decent dude, as seen through his honest and caring attitude with his own girlfriend, perhaps the only truly affectionate relationship in the book. He also has some sort of unknown history with Cooke and Quinn, and is just as disgusted and disinterested in the man Cooke is now as I am, making Keenan a uniquely relatable member of the cast. It also gives me the smallest sliver of hope that Cooke might actually turn into someone I want to read about, should his and Keenan's stories ever collide due to whatever connection already exists between them. We've already seen Keenan break into Cooke's house, planning to announce his intentions of becoming the new head vigilante in town. But once he sees what a waste Cooke is these days, Keenan bails, setting off on his own to do things his way.
I can't yet tell what Sex wants to say, about superheroes or modern life or anything at all. It's getting to its point far too slowly and unsteadily, and it centers on characters that mostly range from the dissatisfying to the despicable. The few people I care about are minor players, and though I adore the artwork, it's not going to keep me around indefinitely. I'm hesitant to drop it because, for all its flaws, it's still different than most of the cape comics on the shelves, and every issue does something to delight and/or surprise me. Also, Cooke still has plenty of potential to grow into a likable leading man. He's flimsy and underdeveloped so far, which is bad, but leaves ample room for details to be revealed or added that would redeem him. So I guess I'm holding out hope, putting maybe a bit too much trust in creators I admire, and crossing my fingers that this is all headed somewhere. My desire to keep spending my time in this world is waning rapidly, though, and if things don't turn around soon, I'm hard-pressed to believe I'll be reading Sex for more than another couple issues.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Superb Heroes: Butcher Baker, the Righteous Maker
Superb
Heroes is a semi-regular column celebrating comics that are exemplary
and/or exceptional in their treatment of superoheroism.
There is a subgenre in the world of superhero fiction that focuses on pointing out the flaws of superheroes, the dangers and hypocrisies they represent. And some really excellent stuff has come from this, because there's no shortage of material. Superheroes, even the best and most classic characters, get a lot wrong and often cause as much or more harm as they do good. And there is something fundamentally flawed with the very notion that the best use of superhuman powers is to fight crime using a codename and costume. It's really very short-term, shallow, unambitious thinking.
But I fucking love superheroes, despite seeing the cracks in the wall and sometimes even because of it. They may not be the most level-headed bunch, but they are thoroughly entertaining, and they stand for the best and worst parts of human potential in equal turn. Butcher Baker, the Righteous Maker takes all of the worst accusations leveled at superheroes, within their worlds and from ours, and finds a way to condemn and applaud them at once. Its protagonist is a narcissistic superhero sadist with an engine for a heart, but self-aware and experienced enough to know exactly what his sins are. A warped lens through which to view the genre, but a powerful one, pointed at all the right places.
As a character, Butcher Baker is a non-stop force of manic egotism and machismo. He loves the violence inherent in his job, and gets grim but very deep satisfaction in putting his enemies down. There is no concern for collateral damage, nor any indication that Baker is at all motivated by some desire to protect the public. What drives him forward is the mere promise of more action, more bloodshed, more opportunities to prove to himself and the world what an indestructible badass he is. It makes him hubristically reckless as a hero, throwing himself blindly into situations and then improvising his way through them. This overgrown sense of self-worth and the carelessness it causes in Baker's career are the foundations of the series' simultaneous celebration and denouncement of common superhero shortcomings.
Take, for example, his failed attempt at destroying the Bertrand Institute, the prison that houses all the supervillains of this world. Baker is hired to kill everyone inside, but because he is so over-confident, he merely blows the building up with excessive explosives and then leaves, assuming the job is done. These are freaking supervillains, so of course some of them can survive a single explosion, no matter the size, and ultimately Baker frees a handful of his enemies rather than slaying them. This is a more direct, literal version of something superheroes are blamed for all the time: the existence of their villains. If there were no superheroes, goes the classic argument, there'd be no supervillains to fight them. They need each other, and they necessitate one another, an unbreakable cycle of evil rising up to match the good in the world and vice versa. Maybe you agree with that argument and maybe you don't, but within the pages of Butcher Baker, it's fairly clear that the good guy is responsible for what the bad guys are up to this time. Because not only is he the one who sets them loose anew, but the destructive actions they take afterward are all targeted at him directly, revenge for his attempt on their lives.
But Baker is still a superhero, and that means two things: 1. He openly admits, to the reader, anyway, that he botched the job and is responsible for the consequences, and 2. Even in the aftermath of his flub, he's still the only guy who can get the job done. When three of the baddies, Angerhead, The Abominable Snowman, and El Sushi, start a brawl with Baker in Times Square, the military is sent in to contain all four of them. Predictably, the evil superhumans tear through the hapless soldiers like tissue paper, and only Baker has the quick thinking and sheer might to stop their rampage. He may have blown it on his first try, but he was still the right choice to take out this collection of maniacs, and by the time the series reaches its conclusion, Baker has made certain there are no leftover Bertrand survivors.
This is what I mean when I say the book both holds up and looks down on the darker side of superheroes. Writer Joe Casey places Baker squarely in the role of hero-responsible-for-his-villains, but then reminds us why the first word of that hyphenated string is "hero." Because when enormous, superpowered evil turns up, it takes someone of equal power to defeat it. And someone with the courage and wits to see it through. Yet even as day-saver, Baker is brutal, fatal, and irresponsible, raising the question of whether super-people should be operating at all. I can't claim to know for certain that any of this was Casey's intention, but there's no shortage of examples to pull from.
For a long time, Baker's relationship with policeman Arnie B. Willard is exemplary of the typical complaint that superheroes place themselves above the law and/or threaten to replace the current law enforcement system. The two make fast enemies, with Baker always very condescending toward Willard's red-faced demands for respect. This lasts until the story's conclusion, when the two men find themselves suddenly on the same side of a fight. They connect, reach a bizarre understanding of one another, and save each other's lives. And once that conflict ends, Baker is able to find a tiny bit of redemption in the way he resolves his issues with Willard.
Superhero comics get a bad rap for being aggressively violent, and Butcher Baker is unarguably, unabashedly that. Baker himself finds his few faint pleasures in excessive punching (and sex), and for the bulk of the eight issues, the series seems to agree with his viewpoint. Again, though, things change in the closing. The final battles in Baker's journey end up being won mostly through mental maneuvers. There's still some bloodshed, but it is his brain that ultimately saves him.
The list goes on. The book is dramatically hypersexualized, another common anti-superhero argument, yet there is an emptiness to Baker's sex life, apparent in the degree of its hedonism and flash. Baker is about as ridiculously macho as a person can be, right down to his big rig being his weapon, but it's played as much for comedy as anything, a good laugh at the typical level of testosterone in a cape comic. Et cetera, you know? Casey packs it to the gills with the funniest, most enjoyable versions of the worst that superheroes have to offer. Not so much a defense of the genre as it is an argument along the lines of, "Yes, superheroes can be depraved, bloodthirsty, insane, and destructive, but that doesn't mean they can't still be amazing and admirable characters."
And then there's Mike Huddleston's artwork, which says something else entirely. I like that the art chooses to go off in its own direction, not worried about borrowing elements from classic superhero series like the narrative does. Instead, its focus is on relaying the tonal and emotional thrust of the story.
Huddleston brings an almost schizophrenic style to this series. The visual texture often changes between panels, sometimes through a shift in medium, sometimes coloring, and occasionally because Huddleston just brings a new technique to the page. It doesn't look like any typical superhero book, nor does it resemble other work I've seen from Huddleston. But it captures the spirit of this story and, above all, its protagonist perfectly. Kinetic and laid out somewhat claustrophobically, the art carries the story at a rapid-fire pace.
Huddleston also has a real knack for character design, striking a careful balance between goofy and serious elements. Or even whole characters. El Sushi is just a visual gag. Jihad Jones is not, though he's still a verbal one. The Absolutely is neither. It helps both the zanier and the more intense moments of Casey's scripts land, and makes the cast—most of whom need to be introduced quickly before they die—that much easier to connect with and differentiate.
I mean, most of them are egotistical lunatics, Baker included, but they all have their own spin on it, which Huddleston helps establish or at least underline. And maybe that's the real point of this series, that good or bad, superpowered or not, people are fucking crazy. Maybe it's not about what I am claiming at all. Whatever its aims, though, this book functions as an extensive and highly entertaining look at the arguments against superheroes and, even while admitting their validity, turns them into arguments for superheroes. It's a cool trick to pull off during such a wild ride, and it's what I find most fascinating about this twisted, trippy series.
There is a subgenre in the world of superhero fiction that focuses on pointing out the flaws of superheroes, the dangers and hypocrisies they represent. And some really excellent stuff has come from this, because there's no shortage of material. Superheroes, even the best and most classic characters, get a lot wrong and often cause as much or more harm as they do good. And there is something fundamentally flawed with the very notion that the best use of superhuman powers is to fight crime using a codename and costume. It's really very short-term, shallow, unambitious thinking.
But I fucking love superheroes, despite seeing the cracks in the wall and sometimes even because of it. They may not be the most level-headed bunch, but they are thoroughly entertaining, and they stand for the best and worst parts of human potential in equal turn. Butcher Baker, the Righteous Maker takes all of the worst accusations leveled at superheroes, within their worlds and from ours, and finds a way to condemn and applaud them at once. Its protagonist is a narcissistic superhero sadist with an engine for a heart, but self-aware and experienced enough to know exactly what his sins are. A warped lens through which to view the genre, but a powerful one, pointed at all the right places.
As a character, Butcher Baker is a non-stop force of manic egotism and machismo. He loves the violence inherent in his job, and gets grim but very deep satisfaction in putting his enemies down. There is no concern for collateral damage, nor any indication that Baker is at all motivated by some desire to protect the public. What drives him forward is the mere promise of more action, more bloodshed, more opportunities to prove to himself and the world what an indestructible badass he is. It makes him hubristically reckless as a hero, throwing himself blindly into situations and then improvising his way through them. This overgrown sense of self-worth and the carelessness it causes in Baker's career are the foundations of the series' simultaneous celebration and denouncement of common superhero shortcomings.
Take, for example, his failed attempt at destroying the Bertrand Institute, the prison that houses all the supervillains of this world. Baker is hired to kill everyone inside, but because he is so over-confident, he merely blows the building up with excessive explosives and then leaves, assuming the job is done. These are freaking supervillains, so of course some of them can survive a single explosion, no matter the size, and ultimately Baker frees a handful of his enemies rather than slaying them. This is a more direct, literal version of something superheroes are blamed for all the time: the existence of their villains. If there were no superheroes, goes the classic argument, there'd be no supervillains to fight them. They need each other, and they necessitate one another, an unbreakable cycle of evil rising up to match the good in the world and vice versa. Maybe you agree with that argument and maybe you don't, but within the pages of Butcher Baker, it's fairly clear that the good guy is responsible for what the bad guys are up to this time. Because not only is he the one who sets them loose anew, but the destructive actions they take afterward are all targeted at him directly, revenge for his attempt on their lives.
But Baker is still a superhero, and that means two things: 1. He openly admits, to the reader, anyway, that he botched the job and is responsible for the consequences, and 2. Even in the aftermath of his flub, he's still the only guy who can get the job done. When three of the baddies, Angerhead, The Abominable Snowman, and El Sushi, start a brawl with Baker in Times Square, the military is sent in to contain all four of them. Predictably, the evil superhumans tear through the hapless soldiers like tissue paper, and only Baker has the quick thinking and sheer might to stop their rampage. He may have blown it on his first try, but he was still the right choice to take out this collection of maniacs, and by the time the series reaches its conclusion, Baker has made certain there are no leftover Bertrand survivors.
This is what I mean when I say the book both holds up and looks down on the darker side of superheroes. Writer Joe Casey places Baker squarely in the role of hero-responsible-for-his-villains, but then reminds us why the first word of that hyphenated string is "hero." Because when enormous, superpowered evil turns up, it takes someone of equal power to defeat it. And someone with the courage and wits to see it through. Yet even as day-saver, Baker is brutal, fatal, and irresponsible, raising the question of whether super-people should be operating at all. I can't claim to know for certain that any of this was Casey's intention, but there's no shortage of examples to pull from.
For a long time, Baker's relationship with policeman Arnie B. Willard is exemplary of the typical complaint that superheroes place themselves above the law and/or threaten to replace the current law enforcement system. The two make fast enemies, with Baker always very condescending toward Willard's red-faced demands for respect. This lasts until the story's conclusion, when the two men find themselves suddenly on the same side of a fight. They connect, reach a bizarre understanding of one another, and save each other's lives. And once that conflict ends, Baker is able to find a tiny bit of redemption in the way he resolves his issues with Willard.
Superhero comics get a bad rap for being aggressively violent, and Butcher Baker is unarguably, unabashedly that. Baker himself finds his few faint pleasures in excessive punching (and sex), and for the bulk of the eight issues, the series seems to agree with his viewpoint. Again, though, things change in the closing. The final battles in Baker's journey end up being won mostly through mental maneuvers. There's still some bloodshed, but it is his brain that ultimately saves him.
The list goes on. The book is dramatically hypersexualized, another common anti-superhero argument, yet there is an emptiness to Baker's sex life, apparent in the degree of its hedonism and flash. Baker is about as ridiculously macho as a person can be, right down to his big rig being his weapon, but it's played as much for comedy as anything, a good laugh at the typical level of testosterone in a cape comic. Et cetera, you know? Casey packs it to the gills with the funniest, most enjoyable versions of the worst that superheroes have to offer. Not so much a defense of the genre as it is an argument along the lines of, "Yes, superheroes can be depraved, bloodthirsty, insane, and destructive, but that doesn't mean they can't still be amazing and admirable characters."
And then there's Mike Huddleston's artwork, which says something else entirely. I like that the art chooses to go off in its own direction, not worried about borrowing elements from classic superhero series like the narrative does. Instead, its focus is on relaying the tonal and emotional thrust of the story.
Huddleston brings an almost schizophrenic style to this series. The visual texture often changes between panels, sometimes through a shift in medium, sometimes coloring, and occasionally because Huddleston just brings a new technique to the page. It doesn't look like any typical superhero book, nor does it resemble other work I've seen from Huddleston. But it captures the spirit of this story and, above all, its protagonist perfectly. Kinetic and laid out somewhat claustrophobically, the art carries the story at a rapid-fire pace.
Huddleston also has a real knack for character design, striking a careful balance between goofy and serious elements. Or even whole characters. El Sushi is just a visual gag. Jihad Jones is not, though he's still a verbal one. The Absolutely is neither. It helps both the zanier and the more intense moments of Casey's scripts land, and makes the cast—most of whom need to be introduced quickly before they die—that much easier to connect with and differentiate.
I mean, most of them are egotistical lunatics, Baker included, but they all have their own spin on it, which Huddleston helps establish or at least underline. And maybe that's the real point of this series, that good or bad, superpowered or not, people are fucking crazy. Maybe it's not about what I am claiming at all. Whatever its aims, though, this book functions as an extensive and highly entertaining look at the arguments against superheroes and, even while admitting their validity, turns them into arguments for superheroes. It's a cool trick to pull off during such a wild ride, and it's what I find most fascinating about this twisted, trippy series.
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, April 10, 2012
Dearly Departed: Vengeance
Dearly Departed is a semi-regular column where I look back on recently completed or canceled series.
The covers for the six issues of Vengeance each sport an incredible image of one of the most significant villains in Marvel history: Magneto, Bullseye, Doctor Octopus, Loki, Red Skull, and Dr. Doom. And that is pretty much where the similarities between this series and other modern superhero comics end, because Vengeance is about parts of the Marvel Universe (and parts of the whole comicbook hero-villain dichotomy) that you rarely ever see. It's primarily a story about a team of "good guys" (The Teen Brigade) protecting various old school "bad guys" from a new team of younger "bad guys" (The Young Masters). But even that oversimplifies the plot, because what The Teen Brigade is really protecting is the balance of order and chaos needed to keep the universe intact. Their goals are much loftier than those of your average superhero. The Teen Brigade isn't out to merely thwart the plans of the newest baddies in town or even to act as a symbol of hope and justice for the common man. What they do is more nuanced, and ultimately higher-stakes: working behind the scenes to keep the whole machine operating, helping to prevent evil and disaster and the end of all things without ever asking for or even desiring recognition. And this attitude is a big part of what makes Vengeance so gripping from the start. Even the opening page of the opening issue immediately expresses the belief that people like The Teen Brigade are a necessity, because the world is too damaged and unthinkable to be saved by the ideals or heroes of times past. The biggest, ugliest evils lie in the shadows, and they can only be defeated by opponents who operate just as comfortably there.
While this behind-the-scenes-superheroes idea is definitely one of the most interesting aspects of the title early on, the glue that holds it together throughout isn't any one concept, character, or theme. It is the magnificent storytelling from writer Joe Casey and artist Nick Dragotta. In a story which argues that chaos and order need each other, Casey and Dragotta manage to prove that point by so deftly balancing those two forces within the comic itself. There are panels or even whole pages offered to us that are meant to be confusing or seemingly random at first, but each and every one of them leads us to a big payoff down the line, often in the form of a major plot development (e.g. Tiboro's one-panel appearance in the final moments of #1, only to have him properly introduced and explained in #5...but in such a spectacular way!) For the first two issues, you might legitimately believe you were reading three distinct and separate stories: one about The Teen Brigade finding a new and mysterious recruit, one about The Young Masters forming, and a third about Kyle Richmond and his Defenders trying to track down whoever is leaking top-secret S.H.I.E.L.D. information. Then you dig into #3, and the connections between those stories fall into place so naturally and quickly that the entire last half of the series gets to just steadily ramp up the madness and importance of the plot, adding new complications and revelations at each turn.
In the hands of lesser creators, a narrative so layered and constantly evolving would most likely be fumbled. Key pieces of the puzzle would be poorly explained or left out, the aforementioned confusing scenes would never have their necessary resolutions, etc. But Dragotta can make a four-person psychic trip look as stunning, natural, and comprehensible as a massive demonic invasion of Latveria or a crowded nightclub scene or just Red Skull standing in the snow. He is a perfect artist for this book, because it relies on heavy detail, intense action, moments of great disorientation, and heavy emotion. Dragotta delivers reliably on all fronts for all six issues. He also finds an excellent partner in colorist Brad Simpson, who highlights all the right aspects of Dragotta's pages and maintains the clarity in even the most psychedelic scenes. And it seems to me that the overall effect of The In-Betweener---his distinct role as a character who has his own unique knowledge, perspective, and therefore side in the conflict---is due as much to his stark black-and-white coloring as any of his actions or dialogue
The true creative force of nature behind this incredible title, however, is Joe Casey. My understanding is that a large number of the cast and concepts central to Vengeance had been used in Casey's previous work for Marvel, of which I have admittedly read very little. But my lack of familiarity with what came before didn't seem to make Vengeance any less full or enjoyable an experience. I suppose I don't really know how much would be added if I did read all of Casey's earlier Marvel material, but Vengeance does such a fantastic job of introducing and developing all of its characters, themes, and big ideas that it could almost be read without even that much preexisting comicbook knowledge. Certainly the big-name villains who show up each issue are best appreciated if you're up on your Marvel U history, but the major themes of the book are universal, and the most important characters are instantly clear, relatable, and consistent, even if most of them have extreme personalities. Casey handles his massive cast with remarkable skill. It's not just the unique voices of each character, but their carefully individualized viewpoints, motives, and moods as well. Even though each team works together, it is rare that you find two members of the same team who are there for quite the same reasons. Or who even have the same opinions about how to handle whatever situation they're in. It makes the combat a little looser, the adventure a little bit more free-form, and the whole story much more compelling to have so many shades of good and evil constantly bumping up against one another (in some cases literally) for so many different reasons.
Take Ultimate Nullifier's (leader of The Teen Brigade) one night stand with Black Knight (half-hearted member of The Young Masters) after their initial conflict. Both of them know he's there to get information as much or more than sex, but Black Knight never resists or even tries to play him for her own gains. Instead, she volunteers more information than he wants or needs, of a kind he wasn't seeking. She lets him in on an old and horrible government secret, in an attempt to prove to him not just the futility of his own actions, but also the actions and goals of the entireties of both their teams. Of course, in what has by that point become his typical quick-witted, laid-back, devil-may-care fashion, Ultimate Nullifier responds with a partially sarcastic nod to one of the book's major themes: Of course the world has powerful, hideous, unknown evils. That's why it needs equally powerful, sexy, unknown agents of good.
So much of what we thinks of as part of the make-up of a typical superhero character is his or her reputation. Not just how well-known they are in our world outside of the comic community, but public opinion within their own stories. Sometimes the people of Gotham see Batman as their champion, sometimes as a dangerous maniac. Ditto the X-men. Spider-Man's relationship with the media has always been a contentious issue. Even in Grant Morrison's recent re-imagining of Superman in Action Comics, a running thread has been Metropolis' reaction to their new alien citizen. And let's face it...they almost all wear masks or disguises. They use code names. These people are worried about how the world sees them.
Vengeance offers a new model for the superhero and therefore, arguably, for the superhero comicbook. These are heroes who actively avoid being recognized for their work, even by their allies. At the end of the series, as The Defenders stand around in the post-battle afterglow, The Teen Brigade jets off as quickly and quietly as they can, because they all agree, sticking around would have been pointless. That world-saving mission is accomplished, on to the next one.
I wish so much that the adventures of these characters didn't end there, but I doubt if we'll get to see any further exploits of Casey's Teen Brigade anytime soon. Their reasons for being, their modus operandi, and the scale at which they operate are all outside of the mold of standard superhero stories. So we will have to live with just these six issues, I suppose, for the foreseeable future. Of course, I say "just these six," but the fact is there is a wealth of enjoyable material contained within them. Because it's not just a great story, it's an exemplary use of both the genre and the medium in which it tells its tale.
Vengeance was published by Marvel Comics and is dated September 2011-February 2012.
The covers for the six issues of Vengeance each sport an incredible image of one of the most significant villains in Marvel history: Magneto, Bullseye, Doctor Octopus, Loki, Red Skull, and Dr. Doom. And that is pretty much where the similarities between this series and other modern superhero comics end, because Vengeance is about parts of the Marvel Universe (and parts of the whole comicbook hero-villain dichotomy) that you rarely ever see. It's primarily a story about a team of "good guys" (The Teen Brigade) protecting various old school "bad guys" from a new team of younger "bad guys" (The Young Masters). But even that oversimplifies the plot, because what The Teen Brigade is really protecting is the balance of order and chaos needed to keep the universe intact. Their goals are much loftier than those of your average superhero. The Teen Brigade isn't out to merely thwart the plans of the newest baddies in town or even to act as a symbol of hope and justice for the common man. What they do is more nuanced, and ultimately higher-stakes: working behind the scenes to keep the whole machine operating, helping to prevent evil and disaster and the end of all things without ever asking for or even desiring recognition. And this attitude is a big part of what makes Vengeance so gripping from the start. Even the opening page of the opening issue immediately expresses the belief that people like The Teen Brigade are a necessity, because the world is too damaged and unthinkable to be saved by the ideals or heroes of times past. The biggest, ugliest evils lie in the shadows, and they can only be defeated by opponents who operate just as comfortably there.
While this behind-the-scenes-superheroes idea is definitely one of the most interesting aspects of the title early on, the glue that holds it together throughout isn't any one concept, character, or theme. It is the magnificent storytelling from writer Joe Casey and artist Nick Dragotta. In a story which argues that chaos and order need each other, Casey and Dragotta manage to prove that point by so deftly balancing those two forces within the comic itself. There are panels or even whole pages offered to us that are meant to be confusing or seemingly random at first, but each and every one of them leads us to a big payoff down the line, often in the form of a major plot development (e.g. Tiboro's one-panel appearance in the final moments of #1, only to have him properly introduced and explained in #5...but in such a spectacular way!) For the first two issues, you might legitimately believe you were reading three distinct and separate stories: one about The Teen Brigade finding a new and mysterious recruit, one about The Young Masters forming, and a third about Kyle Richmond and his Defenders trying to track down whoever is leaking top-secret S.H.I.E.L.D. information. Then you dig into #3, and the connections between those stories fall into place so naturally and quickly that the entire last half of the series gets to just steadily ramp up the madness and importance of the plot, adding new complications and revelations at each turn.
In the hands of lesser creators, a narrative so layered and constantly evolving would most likely be fumbled. Key pieces of the puzzle would be poorly explained or left out, the aforementioned confusing scenes would never have their necessary resolutions, etc. But Dragotta can make a four-person psychic trip look as stunning, natural, and comprehensible as a massive demonic invasion of Latveria or a crowded nightclub scene or just Red Skull standing in the snow. He is a perfect artist for this book, because it relies on heavy detail, intense action, moments of great disorientation, and heavy emotion. Dragotta delivers reliably on all fronts for all six issues. He also finds an excellent partner in colorist Brad Simpson, who highlights all the right aspects of Dragotta's pages and maintains the clarity in even the most psychedelic scenes. And it seems to me that the overall effect of The In-Betweener---his distinct role as a character who has his own unique knowledge, perspective, and therefore side in the conflict---is due as much to his stark black-and-white coloring as any of his actions or dialogue
The true creative force of nature behind this incredible title, however, is Joe Casey. My understanding is that a large number of the cast and concepts central to Vengeance had been used in Casey's previous work for Marvel, of which I have admittedly read very little. But my lack of familiarity with what came before didn't seem to make Vengeance any less full or enjoyable an experience. I suppose I don't really know how much would be added if I did read all of Casey's earlier Marvel material, but Vengeance does such a fantastic job of introducing and developing all of its characters, themes, and big ideas that it could almost be read without even that much preexisting comicbook knowledge. Certainly the big-name villains who show up each issue are best appreciated if you're up on your Marvel U history, but the major themes of the book are universal, and the most important characters are instantly clear, relatable, and consistent, even if most of them have extreme personalities. Casey handles his massive cast with remarkable skill. It's not just the unique voices of each character, but their carefully individualized viewpoints, motives, and moods as well. Even though each team works together, it is rare that you find two members of the same team who are there for quite the same reasons. Or who even have the same opinions about how to handle whatever situation they're in. It makes the combat a little looser, the adventure a little bit more free-form, and the whole story much more compelling to have so many shades of good and evil constantly bumping up against one another (in some cases literally) for so many different reasons.
Take Ultimate Nullifier's (leader of The Teen Brigade) one night stand with Black Knight (half-hearted member of The Young Masters) after their initial conflict. Both of them know he's there to get information as much or more than sex, but Black Knight never resists or even tries to play him for her own gains. Instead, she volunteers more information than he wants or needs, of a kind he wasn't seeking. She lets him in on an old and horrible government secret, in an attempt to prove to him not just the futility of his own actions, but also the actions and goals of the entireties of both their teams. Of course, in what has by that point become his typical quick-witted, laid-back, devil-may-care fashion, Ultimate Nullifier responds with a partially sarcastic nod to one of the book's major themes: Of course the world has powerful, hideous, unknown evils. That's why it needs equally powerful, sexy, unknown agents of good.
So much of what we thinks of as part of the make-up of a typical superhero character is his or her reputation. Not just how well-known they are in our world outside of the comic community, but public opinion within their own stories. Sometimes the people of Gotham see Batman as their champion, sometimes as a dangerous maniac. Ditto the X-men. Spider-Man's relationship with the media has always been a contentious issue. Even in Grant Morrison's recent re-imagining of Superman in Action Comics, a running thread has been Metropolis' reaction to their new alien citizen. And let's face it...they almost all wear masks or disguises. They use code names. These people are worried about how the world sees them.
Vengeance offers a new model for the superhero and therefore, arguably, for the superhero comicbook. These are heroes who actively avoid being recognized for their work, even by their allies. At the end of the series, as The Defenders stand around in the post-battle afterglow, The Teen Brigade jets off as quickly and quietly as they can, because they all agree, sticking around would have been pointless. That world-saving mission is accomplished, on to the next one.
I wish so much that the adventures of these characters didn't end there, but I doubt if we'll get to see any further exploits of Casey's Teen Brigade anytime soon. Their reasons for being, their modus operandi, and the scale at which they operate are all outside of the mold of standard superhero stories. So we will have to live with just these six issues, I suppose, for the foreseeable future. Of course, I say "just these six," but the fact is there is a wealth of enjoyable material contained within them. Because it's not just a great story, it's an exemplary use of both the genre and the medium in which it tells its tale.
Vengeance was published by Marvel Comics and is dated September 2011-February 2012.
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