The Comics I Bought at Comic-Con
In a recent article for Geekscape, I wrote that the true beating heart of the annual San Diego Comic-Con is the portion of the convention floor devoted specifically to, well, comics. While the movie previews in Hall H are still the most in-demand events of the convention, and panels on cult TV shows are passionately attended, it’s the hardworking artists and writers who sit patiently at their booths that really provide the spirit of comic books that made Con the sizable event that it has become. If Comic-Con ever withers in popularity, and the big studios eventually put further and further away from it, it will be the comic book people who will remain. The wonks who sell them, the artists who make them, and the weirdos like me, who buy them.
I spent a good deal of the Con wandering about the floor, looking for deals, and trying to discover something new to read on the trip home. I ended up buying several books, and have now, a mere few weeks later, finished reading them all. I have returned now with reviews of the comics I bought.
Know that I’m very much behind on my superhero consumption. The last superhero comic I bought in earnest was in 1998, and the last I bought for nostalgia purposes was in about 2001. Since then, in my occasional comics intake, I’ve been cleaving closer to autobiographical comics, and weird, one-shot personal projects. For those of you looking for an in-depth dissection of Green Lantern mythology, you’ll be disappointed to learn that I’ll be talking about artists like Evan Dorkin, Joe Matt, and Doug TenNapel.
Here’s what I’m reading:
Ghostopolis
by: Doug TenNapel
Doug TenNapel is a friendly, lanky fellow who is probably best known as the creator of the video game “Earthworm Jim,” one of the strangest video games I have played. TenNapel is strangely preoccupied with giant bugs, beetles and other nightcrawlers, and seems to take a great deal of pleasure in drawing them. In “Ghostopolis,” the bad guy’s lead henchman is a cockroach with a handlebar mustache, and the city is powered by a giant lightning bug. It may be about trips to the afterlife, but bugs will be bugs.
The story of “Ghostopolis” follows a teenage boy named Garth, living with his single mother, who finds he is dying of an unnamed disease. We also meet a grizzled cop named Frank Gallows (fitting name, right?) whose works for a special division of the police force assigned to capture ghosts and send them back to the afterlife. Frank is bored with his job, and frequently screws up. Although it’s an old conceit, I’ve always liked the depiction of policemen or enforcers of supernatural phenomenon as sort of bored. Even if your job involves ghosts, monsters or aliens, you can still get beaten down by the workaday drudgery of it all. Anyway, while Frank is chasing a Nightmare (depicted as a horse skeleton), he accidentally sends Garth into the afterlife with it. Oops.
Frank must now reunite with an old flame, the dead Claire, a pixie-haired mechanic, to travel to the afterlife to retrieve Garth and keep his job. To get to the afterlife in this universe, one must use a teleporting machine that requires so much energy, the batteries take years to charge up. While it’s a little too conveient a widget, this teleporting machine, TenNapel at least makes sure that they can’t be used too often.
Meanwhile in the afterlife, Garth finds a nightmarish landscape, populated by mummy squirrels, evil skeleton warriors, zombies and ghosts. Each creatures has their own territory, and the entire afterlife is overseen by the cadaverous Vaugner, who, it is explained, took power in a clever piece of Shakespearean political manipulation. Time doesn’t work the same way in the afterlife, so we’re not sure when all this went down. Garth manages to find Cecil, the ghost of his grandfather, who still has some family secrets, and who takes Garth around Ghostopolis to find his way back to the land of the living. There is, evidently, a ghost underground being run a saintly ex-Tuskegee Airman named Joe.
The story does get more complicated from there.
The book is the first of TenNapel’s that I’ve read that’s in color, and the artwork, compared to earlier works like “Earthboy Jacobus,” “Creature Tech,” and “GEAR,” is far more sophisticated; a lot of love and time went into this book. The people are still long-necked, bug-eyed caricatures, but the backgrounds are swirling surreal landscapes of exquisite detail. It’s hard to imagine TenNapel’s art getting better than in this this book.
TenNapel, though, still has a kind of pat approach to some of his material. It’s appreciated, in fantasy works, that the fantastical elements are presented as frankly as possible, so as not to alienate the readers, but when extraordinary things happen to the outsider characters, they hardly seem astonished. When Garth finds himself in the afterlife, he’s a little surprised, but is more annoyed than anything. Later, when he finds he has some eerie magical powers, he doesn’t comment on them at all. It would have been nice if he talked a little bit about his feelings on such a strange occurrence. If you found that you could suddenly fire energy blasts from your fists, and blow through a line of ghouls, surely you’d have some comments on the matter.
TenNapel is a Christian, it must be said, and it’s easy to see that Joe is a metaphor for God. I know the phrase “Christian comics” can turn the stomach of just about anyone (“You’re not making Christianity better! You’re making rock ‘n’ roll worse!” -Hank Hill), so let me assure you that, while TenNapel bothers to put God in his comics, he is not one of those obnoxious, sanctimonious preachy types like Jack Chick. He is, instead, putting a few subtle (and occasionally not-so-subtle) religious references in his books. And, since he’s actually concerned with things like story and scenario, the books hold up as actual stories, and don’t ever feel preachy. I talked to TenNapel about this at the Con, and he feels that if you try to write a Christian comic with an agenda, you’re actually doing an anti-Christian thing. If you are merely a churchgoer who wants to draw comics, it’s still o.k. to include violence, foul language, monsters and weirdos. Good for him.
“Ghostopolis” has been option for film adaptation by Disney and, as of this writing, is being produced by Hugh Jackman. It’ll be interesting to see the bizarro worlds of Doug TenNapel on the big screen.
The Poor Bastard
by: Joe Matt
Joe Matt is probably most famous for a cult Canadian comic called “Peepshow,” which is an ongoing autobiography about his own life, inspired largely by the works of Harvey Pekar. Joe Matt details his everyday life on the streets of Canada, shopping for comics, ogling girls, and obsessing over old Viewmaster reels.
Joe Matt is also a pornography addict, a middle-brow jerk, and outright misanthrope, and has a disturbing tendency to alienate everyone around him. When he does, he is thrown into vast inky depth of unbecoming self-pity. In “The Poor Bastard,” we see him at his worst. Or perhaps, I fear, we don’t. I have a feeling Joe Matt is constantly as horrible as he depicts himself in this book. He seems to be writing this book as a form of attrition. A way of confessing his sins to the world. He is embarrassingly candid about his lust for strangers, the type of woman he like (he has a weakness for ultra-skinny Asians and ethnic types), his intent on seducing the girlfriends of others, and his masturbation habits.
He also shows how enraged the world is with him, and how frustrating it is to date him. His long-suffering girlfriend hates him, and he clearly is uncomfortable with her. She disapproves of porn, and they never have sex. It’s surprising how long they stayed together. When they finally separate, it’s not a relief, but and excuse for Matt to wallow in more self-pity.
The comic is full of darkness and hate, and will leave you covered with a residue of depression. And I think that’s the point. Matt needs to get his darkness out of himself, and he is making us part of his purgative. Which of course begs the question, how much of this is self-indulgence, and how much of it is candid artistic confession? For small portions, it feels like Matt is being candid and self-aware. Over the long run, though, we begin to see the comic as abuse. Of himself and perhaps of us. It’s a kind of autobiography that opens up dark recesses and ask some important questions.
Who’s Laughing Now?
By: Evan Dorkin
Evan Dorkin is a refreshing blast of adolescent humor after the heaviness of Joe Matt’s porno confessions. His regular comic, “Dork,” has been collected into a few TBS, of which “Who’s Laughing Now?” is the first. “Dork” is essentially a freewheeling collection of brief sketches that Dorkin has collected over the years, compiled into a hard-edged compendium of his bleak, delightfully mutated sensibilities. Evan Dorkin is definitely for the happy mutant. A book for people who appreciate the joy of Godzilla, Magic 8-Balls, and Wooly Willy. But y’know, who can still giggle at a baby being exploded in a microwave oven. Actual piece of writing: “Crazy, huh? Just think, if this really happened… a couple’a pounds of steaming, burst infant… covered in a thick sauce of innards and milk or formula puke. Yeesh. And imagine the utter embarrassment–.” I laughed and laughed. Dorken then instructs you how to recreate the incident with a hot dog in a diaper. I think you already know if you’re on board or not.
Some of the regular features in “Dork” were decidedly dark, most notably, the sitcom spoof “The Murder Family,” which came complete with a theme song and canned laughter. The titular family would spend a good deal of the strip killing others, bandying about with severed heads, and texidermying their schoolteachers, all while making deliberately lame sitcom jokes. It’s a thin premise that proved satisfyingly twisted. Like a particularly funny issue of “Tales from the Crypt.”
Dorkin also liked to re-draw famous works of literature, wherein the characters were all drawn as armless Fisher Price figurines. This is a lame joke, to be sure, but I admired the hard work and research that clearly went into these pieces. The joke may not last for very long, seeing Holden Caulfield as a little round-headed smiley-man, but Dorkin clearly knew The Catcher in the Rye very well.
My favorite part of the comic, though, was the few pages where Dorkin merely listed the things that made life worth living. Dorkin has struggled with depression in the past, so these little simple reprieves seem heavenly and sincere. Pixie Sticks. Rene Magritte, The “Mission: Impossible” theme song. Checkered Vans. I like the way this guy thinks.
“Dork,” sadly, doesn’t necessarily age well. Much of the comic is devoted to a cynical deconstruction of the mid 1990s grunge scene, and asks questions about things like ska ‘zines, which are considered relics by today’s standards. As a teen of that era, I could relate, and I did feel a great deal of nostalgia, but it’s hardly relevant today. If you were born from, say 1975 to 1983, you might dig it. Otherwise, have someone of that age you can ask.
Zero Girl
by: Sam Kieth
After his groundbreaking “The Maxx,” Sam Kieth still had a lot on his mind. It’s weird, my relationship to Sam Kieth. As a teenager, I responded to his weird art and his bugnuts sense of mysticism. I lovedhis monsters and superhero sendups. Nonconformist fans of ’90s MTV probably know “The Maxx” well, as an animated version appeared occasionally late at night. As an adult, though, I can see just how relevant and mature the comics are in terms of rape, mother/daughter issues and the like. While he did like to draw monsters and weirdos, he really had some profoundly important feminist issues on his mind. His interest in such things has not diminished, as proven by the three of his comics I got at the Con.
The first one, “Zero Girl,” is about a young girl named Amy, 15, who has a strange affinity for circles, and a strange aversion to squares. Indeed, they seem to have magical powers for her. Toilet paper tubes defend her from bullies, and square buses are monsters. When Amy gets embarrassed, her feel leak a mysterious blue liquid. If you’re capable of getting past these weird magical conceits, you’ll be ready to tackle to meat of the book.
Amy is an outsider, who dresses kind of freaky, and doesn’t have any friends. Amy doesn’t seem to have a home or parents, and is looked after by her guidance counselor Tim, a handsome 22-year-old divorcee. As Tim and Amy banter, it soon becomes clear that they are very much attracted one another. Amy seems capable of having a real adult relationship (of sorts), and Tim doesn’t want to admit that he has feelings for Amy, as it is, after all, illegal to date her.
Kieth seems to be raising some rather spiky questions that are all too often reduced to back-and-white. Can a teenage girl have a real, loving relationship with an adult? What does age mean? How moral is it to pursue such a relationship? What is “maturity,” anyway? How do sexual dynamics work? Domination? And what are you going to do about the square-headed creatures that are trying to kill you? O.k. Maybe not that last one?
Kieth himself married a woman over a decade his senior, whom he met when he was still a teenager, so these questions are important to him. It’s a goofy, colorful comic full of monsters that manages to be kind of important and challenging.
Zero Girl: Full Circle
by: Sam Kieth
Fast forward several years, and we meet Tim’s daughter Nikki, a would-be lesbian, now in her 15th year, and showing a tendency toward square bullyism. Amy is called, much to her chagrin, top help out. Tim and Amy fell out years ago, of course, and their romance was never realized. Now we have Nikki in the picture, and she seems to be attracted to Amy. Cue similar these as the first book, but hinging less on the romance, and more on Nikki’s absent mother issues.
“Full Circle” is a lot stranger than the first “Zero Girl,” and seems a little less focused. It does finally complete the story that seemed unfortunately unsatisfying from the first “Zero Girl,” (dealing, as it does, with Tim and Amy’s stalled romance), but it also has some weird hallucinatory magical conceits that are hard to get my mind around. Nikki, for instance, seems to have the magical power to control other people, and puppet them against their will. Despite some weird magical moments in the first series, “Full Circle” seems to skew a little too close to superhero-dom. It’s not until the end that we see what’s really going on.
At the end of the day, though, “Full Circle” is about a confused, angry teenage lesbian coming to terms with her sexuality. But not in that angsty way that infuses the genre (and it is a genre). Kieth is more interested in real people and their emotions, and uses his surreal aspects as coded ciphers. The man is brilliant.
Four Women
by: Sam Kieth
And now, the least surreal of Kieth’s works to date, which contains no magic, no creatures, and no superhero costumes. Now we just have 75 pages of one single harrowing situation. Four women are trapped in a broken down car with potential rapists trying to break in and rape them or kill them or both. Tense, claustrophobic, Kieth doesn’t let up for this one.
But more than a thriller, “Four Women” is very much about sexual dynamics, and how women react to a situation where they are going to be sexually brutalized merely because of their gender. Bev, Donna, Marion and Cindy are all of different ages, classes and experience and attitude, and yet they are friends. What happens when these dynamic and interesting people become reduced to their sex as their only defining characteristic? Whither feminism when rapists are outside the door?
I don’t want to describe any of the book’s story or events, as it’s a series of twists and thrills that should not be revealed. I won’t even say if anyone makes it out alive. I will say that it is the darkest Kieth has ever been, and yet how deeply personal he can be. In terms of feminist writers, Kieth is probably the most personal author working in the form.
The Monkees
It turns out that The Monkees, in addition to their TV show, were also the star of a short-lived comic book series. The comic is just like the show: wacky, full of dumb puns, and pointedly shallow to the point of parody. The Monkees are, in their own way, more interesting than The Beatles, and following their career can be far more edifying. I did find it curious that the comic’s artist, though, chose to give Mike Nesmith pointed ears.
Witney Seibold is a reader of old, weird books. He lives in Los Angeles. He writes film reviews for his ‘blog Three Cheers for Darkened Years!, contributes the Free Film School on Crave Online, and is half the voice of The B-Movies Podcast. He loves you.
