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Scott takes the time to focus on one book. Did he like it or not?

Scottlight On: Batman #22

02 Friday Aug 2013

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Batman, Greg Capullo, Harper Row, Red Hood, Scott Snyder, The Joker

It’s no secret: I’ve been down on Batman for a while now. In fact, Derek and I were so very down on #21 (6/12) that we designated superstar scribe Scott Snyder as the Biggest Dis(appointment) for the month of June. (Didn’t help that he was also responsible for the June blechbuster Superman Unchained #1.) But I’m not going to dwell on that here because–get this–I’ve got good things to say about #22!

Batman #22

Batman #22

Well, mostly good things; see: to get to the good stuff, I’ve got to fly over the overblown opening blimp sequence, which lacks a certain je ne sais…“Pop!” Je sais this, however: there’s a pacing problem predicated upon the ruddy-domed villain’s verbosity.  Oh, that Red Hood’s a regular Chatty Cathy with a silly streak, ain’t he? Kind of reminds me of what I didn’t like about the Joker during the–ugh–insipid Death of the Family arc. Kind of reminds me of…

Wait a sec.

Could it…?

Nah.

Yeah?

Hmm…

Sure, we get to see Bruce stretch his wings a bit as Batman-in-training, but there’s more going on here, isn’t there?  It’d be too easy to say this sequence has a singular purpose–especially since Batman is, under the cowl, about duality more than anything else.  Makes sense, then, that Snyder’d be doubling down on this origin story, doesn’t it?  That puts a second spotlight on Red Hood, who, if we’re doing our math properly, must be a villain-in-training–and not just any villain: he must be the soon-to-be Joker.

Presumptuous of me?  I don’t think so.  In fact, I think Snyder’s a bit too in-your-face about it–unless, of course, he’s not and I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, that isn’t real at all.

Speaking of in-your-face, but in a good way, Snyder keeps it real by having Alfred keep it even more real: after a bitter back and forth, the loyal butler gives Bruce a killer behavior assessment that invokes the latter’s late parents–“Well, I think they’d be ashamed”–and then slaps the hot-headed hero wannabe across his frighteningly feral face. Oh, he deserved it, all right!  And so did we: for goodness sake, it’s finally an act that has some gravitas, some authenticity–much more than, say, when newcomer Harper Row rips into Batman in issue #18. (Come on, you know it: that was a terribly unlikely and wholly unbelievable situation born more so of a father’s–Snyder’s–love for his child–Harper–than of anything else.) Not to get all touchy-feely and stuff, but Alfred’s hand became, in a mano a mano meta moment, my hand; and it felt good to put the brazen Bruce Wayne in his place.  After the all-too-obvious grappling hook gag (“I was talking to the hook”), it really felt good, after all this time, to look forward to a page turn in Snyder’s Batman.

It felt even better to believe in the book again.

Page turned, the panel that so graciously greeted me–“…for old times’ sake,” indeed!–shows Bruce walking into the jaws of a tyrannosaur (you know how much I adore dinosaurs), which foreshadows the trap Philip Kane springs a page turn later. As inconvenient as that outing happens to be for Bruce, it works well as a segue into Bruce’s meeting with Edward Nygma, which features, as one might expect, some prolific paronomasia and a standout splash of a serpentine Egyptian board game that winds its way to the center with the smirking Riddler holding the upper hand–that is, until Bruce unscrambles an early riddle and runs/scrambles “up a head” to make yet another escape in an issue that generously serves up several sayonaras.

Sticking with the circle motif, the main story wraps up with a rushed return to Red Hood: he closes the show with a lame joke–further evidence, perhaps, of the evolution of the Clown Prince of Crime–and an impotent explosion that obviously does not spell the end of a suddenly contrite “Brucie.”  But, hey, banal bookends aside, Snyder and artist Greg Capullo have pulled off the seemingly impossible: while pushing boldly toward an origin story that befits the complex nature of Batman–and, perhaps, his arch enemy–they’ve yanked me back from the brink; that’s right: I’ll be sticking around for #23.

Turning pages,

Scott

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Scottlight on: Doctor Atlantis Vol. 2

24 Sunday Mar 2013

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In a comic book world of over-hyped relaunches, reboots, and non-reboot reboots, it’s refreshing to see a book like Doctor Atlantis—a steam-powered swashbuckling adventure tale from Rare Earth Comics, an up-and-coming publisher from Connecticut–rise above the madness by living under the radar.  But it won’t be living there much longer, especially if the creators, Ian Ally-Seals and Carl Mefferd, maintain the high standard they’ve set with this fanciful throwback that’s not entirely unlike a popular Disney franchise or a Spielbergian spectacle.

Doctor Atlantis #1

Vol. 2 of this action-packed high-seas romp–the further exploits of Dr. Julius Fowler and Chosot (think Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe and Friday if you haven’t already)–is loaded to the gills with the same twists and tacks that made Vol. 1 such a pleasure to read.  The tide is high from the get-go, with wave after relentless wave of monsters: those from the depths of the ocean and those who ride upon it in cannon-laden crafts ironically emblazoned with the Crown of Civilization.  Fowler and friends–including the loyal Edward, a salty dog, indeed, who’ll chew his way into your heart–fight off the fiends and break out a bit o’ the old Bond–James Bond–in order to do so.  But even before the good ship Atlantis converts–“wrrrrr,” “crank,” “clang”–into a submarine and dives in a dazzling defensive maneuver, the creators dive into the doctor’s backstory, driving home with the subtlety of a cyclone the brutality of the British Empire as it necessarily expanded its reach in order to score precious resources enough to keep calm and carry on–even as Fowler himself has sailed as far from home as humanly possible.

The splashes are humbly epic, the tempered tone just an illusion perpetuated by Mefferd’s black and white art, which doesn’t need the rainbow to render effervescently Fowler’s colorful personality.  The doctor’s over-the-top delivery, which I enjoyed reading out loud to my wife, adds a remarkable element to the character, one that will keep him in mind until the next eagerly anticipated volume.

Ally-Seals–also the editor-in-chief of Rare Earth Comics–has a uncanny knack for lulling his reader into the comfort of a cliche and then disrupting that complacency with something wholly unexpected.  And the surprises are real “Whoa!” moments–more, they’re whoaments!–well worth the price of admission.

You may be wondering: does one need to read Vol. 1 to enjoy Vol. 2?  No.  But I’d recommend it–especially considering how the former finishes off.  Either way, do yourself a favor and check out Doctor Atlantis.  Fowler, Chosot and their creators “have a world to explore” and you do not want to be left behind.

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Scottlight on: Time Samplers #1

08 Thursday Nov 2012

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Alexander Graham Bell, David Pinckney, Ed Brubaker, Erik Koconis, Greg Rucka, Jeff Lemire, Nicolas Colacitti, Paranoid American, review, Scott Snyder, Steven Forbes, superheroes, Terry Moore, Thomas Gorence, Time Samplers, time travel

When it comes to comics, I’m a superhero guy.  I’m not ashamed to say: I tend toward the caped and the masked, toward the bulked up idealists who stand for truth and justice in a corporate way.  I suppose it’s, in part, because of the ingenious branding of the Big Boys: the ubiquitous logos, themselves branded on my brain over the course of thirty-some years.  But while I’m drawn specifically to those books, while they make me feel hopeful, safe, I’m not afraid to take a chance every now and again with something different, something more independent of spirit.

I’ve always been a fan of Terry Moore (Strangers in Paradise and, more recently, Rachel Rising); I’ve enjoyed much of the spandex-free fare of super-scribes like Ed Brubaker (Fatale), Greg Rucka (Whiteout, Stumptown), Jeff Lemire (The Underwater Welder) and Scott Snyder (Severed).  Hey: a strong story is a strong story; and doubtless some of the strongest are those that don’t rely on colorfully costumed vigilantes and scantily clad demigods.  Instead, maybe they rely on—oh, I don’t know—a butt-ass naked, historically important inventor, like Alexander Graham Bell, for instance.

A quantum leap outside my usual comic-reading comfort zone, Paranoid American’s premiere offering Time Samplers #1 exposes Bell to be a bit of a bulky madman in cahoots–crazy, conspiratorial cahoots–with the moneyed movers and shakers of the early Twentieth century, many of whom the reader should recognize, if only by name. The book’s triad of writers—David Pinckney; Erik Koconis; and Thomas Gorance, also the series’ creator—plays with possibilities, as it rewinds the twine of time to, according to http://www.timesamplers.com, “unravel the ugly truths of recorded history.”

Time Samplers #1 Cover

It turns out that our introduction to this possi-Bell-ity is just a trial run for our protagonists, our pair of primed time samplers: Cal, a cool cat with a hat and a pipe perpetually pinched between his lips; and Lex, bald—as anyone named Lex should be—and just brave enough to put himself in an iffy situation.  (Lex is essentially the Yin to Cal’s Yang.)   Helping them take their trippy tumble—which is freshly rendered by Nicolas Colacitti in a flashy splash with the symbols of secret societies and covert power players sprinkled about—are two loyal teammates: the bespectacled Doc, who shocked my synapses into semi-submission with his W.I.L.D.-ly scientific elucidations and who plots the counterclockwise course for our chrono-corsairs; and Carmot, a pawnshop proprietor who tuning forks things up for his pals Lex and Cal and who acts as my personal page-bound proxy as he asks, “How’s about putting that into English…” while in the dark about Doc’s  shadowy concept of “experimenting with a temporal copy of history.”  Thanks, Carmot!

Thanks to the Writers Three, as well: they keep their reader grounded, even as Doc and Bell electrify the uninitiated with lectures on mind control through the manipulation of modulations and frequencies, waves and whatnot.  That’s right: it all makes sense—especially in the context of the first “worthy few” pages, which really stimulated my left temporal lobe: it’s ominously conspiratorial, sure, but it’s a hauntingly honest reflection of how the Big Machine consumes its clueless cogs.

If I’m being honest, though, I’m not a big believer in conspiracy theories.  Never have been.  But that doesn’t mean I won’t entertain them every now and again, especially when they’re presented in an exceedingly entertaining manner—and when my “brainwaves [are cycling] between 7 and 12hz,” apparently.  Time Samplers #1 is an exceedingly entertaining book that is well researched and well written.  The art—well, the art boasts bold black lines and plenty of purplish hues and, ultimately, is a bit cartoony for my taste; but, all told, it rings just right—especially when a bare-breasted Alexander Graham Bell hilariously hoists a head high into the air and with insanely-pitched pride shouts, “SHEEPLE!”  Yes, people: sheeple.  Do the math—or the cross-species hybridization—for yourself.

I don’t think that it’s much of a leaple to say that that singular panel—an amalgam of goofy and grotesque—is more than just a simple, albeit psychotic, plot device.  It’s also a promise: it’s Paranoid American’s promise that their flagship book is and will be worth your time and mine.

And, dammit, I baaa-lieve ‘em.

Turning pages,

Scott

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Scottlight on: Swamp Thing #0

22 Saturday Sep 2012

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Action Comics, Anton Arcane, comics, God, Grant Morrison, Kano, Nathan Fairbairn, Satan, Scott Snyder, Superman, Swamp Thing, The New 52, Yanick Paquette, zero

(Keep in mind: this reflects the week of 9/5.)

I think we can all agree: Action Comics #0 is an instant classic.  It is a super treatment of the superhero; it is the promise of the New 52 come true–finally.  And, all hyperbole aside, what could be my favorite sequence since Electra’s death at the hands of Bullseye rests inside.

But it’s not my book of the week.

See: Swamp Thing #0 was next on the pile.

Swamp Thing #0 Cover

It sat there innocently, waiting, waiting.  It let me bask in the brilliant moment that Morrison manufactured just for me, a superfan waiting for his Superman.  When it came time to test its spine, I lifted the comic carefully, set it in my right hand, and peeled back Paquette and Fairbairn’s  powerful cover with a pinch of my left.

I cracked the spine to find an unexpected setting: a snow-covered Canadian forest.  Hmm.  Our initial narrator?  A sweet young girl heroically searching for “the green man”; she needs him, she tells us, to save her dying town.  The Good Samarathing, circa 1897, finds her, shelters her, and feeds her the flora of his own body; in that, he proves himself to be more than a simple Good Samarathing: he’s a Christanthemum!  While nursing her back to health, he discovers that she is closer to death than he could have ever anticipated; it’s just not to her own that she’s close to–it’s to his.

Her change to Anton Acane–a rabid Rotweiller, indeed!–is horrific; it’s enough to make your skin crawl–off!  The poorly stitched together panels are well done and add a sprinkle of abhorrence to the transformation and to the overall tone of the story.

What really cemented this Satanically sexy book as my favorite for the week is on page 6–6–6: as Arcane sinks his scraggly teeth into the swampy savior’s skull, Snyder snakes his way into my unsuspecting heart.  Devilishly delicious!

This “enjoyable” murder leads directly to the introduction of the more familiar Alec Holland, a scientist with–according to Arcane–a “staggering” relationship with the Green.  This relationship may be responsible for the miracle formula he’s created from an “acidic fruit of [a] little creeping vine”: a formula with the power to “change the world” and to “save lives”–to conceivably renew a fallen Eden.  The nod to God is hard to miss; the connection to Christ is nailed with the final splash–which is actually, with Holland’s hand emerging from the water, the opposite of a splash.

Well before Holland’s resurrection–before his death, even–Snyder and Kano bravely deliver, perhaps, the most disturbing page ever stapled into a mainstream comic: on page 14, Arcane proudly describes having “killed [babies] in their cribs,” and the images unapologetically show how it was done–all the way down to the dying baby’s quivering hands.  The sequence, while vile, is terrifyingly effective: my stomach turned and turned, even after I turned the page.

The rest of the story runs a rather expected route: Arcane, wearing the flesh of others, gets close enough to send Holland to a fiery end–or so it would seem to the impatient amongst the members of the Parliament of Trees.  The layouts during this stretch are all over the place and happen to create a visual experience that is far more violent than the story itself.  Doesn’t matter, though.  This time around, awe trumps awkward.

And, in terms of my ranking my pile of books for the week, I never would have guessed, but I can admit with glee and such, rotting malefaction trumps a magical Action–but not by much.

Turning pages,

Scott

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Scottlight on: Spider-Men #4

19 Sunday Aug 2012

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Aunt May, Bendis, comics, Gwen Stacy, MJ, Peter Parker, Pichelli, review, Spider-Men, ultimate

I’m pretty sure that the Aunt May and the Gwen Stacy of this Ultimate universe never in their wildest dreams expected to see Peter Parker in the flesh again.  And, I’m damn sure that I never in mine expected to enjoy this book as much as I did.  I certainly never expected to love it.  But I did.  Yes, indeed: Spider-Men #4 is a surprise top of the pile for the week of 8/8.

Spider-Men #4 Cover

Early on, Pichelli’s powerfully palpable panels–of May’s slapping and felling a stunned Peter on page 2 and of Peter’s apology, culminating in May’s passing out into Gwen’s arms on page 3–anticipate a magically emotional reunion of sorts, effortlessly conveyed through Bendis’s realistic, and often very funny, dialogue.

Speaking of the dialogue: the playful and heartfelt conversation amongst Peter, Gwen, Miles, and, eventually, May, upstairs at May’s house, reminds me of another terrific turn by Bendis: Miles’ conversation with his dad in Ultimate Spider-Man #2.  Amazing work.  Worthy of a wow.  But, wouldn’t you know, while I was reading, I didn’t think Wow.  Instead, I just fell into it; in fact, I felt like I was in the room with them: I laughed with them; I wondered with them; I even hugged them.

One of my favorite page turns: the transition from the bottom of page 15–where May says, with Peter in her eyes, “Oh my God, it is you.  Look at you.”–to the top of page 16, where Peter and May embrace for the first time.  Beautiful stuff.  The look on May’s face–a marriage of belief and disbelief, punctuated with a tear of joy–is perfect for the moment.  So, too, is Miles’ face, which shows just a smidgen of sadness; which tells a silent truth: that he wishes that he could wear his costume without his mask and hug his father in much the same way.

Another touching–or in this case, not touching–moment is when Peter sees MJ and, on the first panel of page 21, reaches for her in such a manner that he looks like he’s going to shoot a web at her to keep her from getting away.  I was so invested in the moment–in the story as a whole–that I wanted him to go ahead and shoot a web at her; I did not want him to let her go.  Even as he closed his hand into a fist–effectively surrendering to the fact that this was not his world, not his MJ–I was still rooting for him; and just like that, I was hurting for him as he got into the car–and hurt for MJ, perhaps even more,  as Peter headed toward heaven again.  I’d say that, like MJ, I was left speechless; but it doesn’t seem that way, does it?  I promise: I was.

The book pretty much ended for me there; so I’m going to end my review with this:

In an earlier post, I wrote that this series–as fun as it might be–doesn’t really have much of a point.  I was wrong.  With issue #4, it’s undeniable: Spider-Men has an exclamation point.

Turning pages,

Scott

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