Tag Archives: The New 52

Back and Forth: Infernal Affairs

26 Saturday Jan 2013

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Batman #16 Cover

Scott Carney: I kinda feel like I’m about to break the law or punch my ticket to hell or something with what I’m about to say about Batman #16 (DC); but I’m going to say it anyway because it’s my honest-to-goodness opinion, and that’s what Images and Nerds is all about; so here it goes: dude, I ain’t feelin’ it.  And what I am feeling–if this qualifies as a feeling–feels forced, kind of like “How can I take a character who is so far over the top by nature–and by cinematic nurture–that even he can’t see the top anymore and make him over-the-top-er?”  Maybe it has nothing to do with Snyder’s storyline at all.  Maybe it has nothing to do with his take on the Joker.  Maybe it has everything to do with the over-the-top expectations–especially after the revelation that was The Court of Owls arc.  Well, whatever it is, Death of the Family has been decidedly underwhelming.  This issue, in particular, seems to be all about the shock value–and knowingly so–all the way to the electrifying final panel of the story proper, where Batman plays the role of a Tesla plasma lamp.  (He sat so quickly that he must have a trick up his sleeve–or rubber drawers on.  I’m leaning toward the latter; I mean, you know he’s prepared for this; he had amazingly absorbent balls in his belt, apparently, which he used to rescue the Arkham Asylum Dancers.  By the way: I did like the dancers, so it wasn’t a total disappointment!)  How does Batman get there in the first place?  Simple: he fights his way through a bunch of armed inmates over the course of three less-than-spectacular–more so muddled and surprisingly, for Greg Capullo, meager–pages; he “RRRAAAAAHHHH”s his way past a royally horrific–in concept, but, sadly, not in execution–tapestry depicting a history of Bat-tragedies and comprised of, umm, well, people sporting PEG-tubes, which is clearly meant to ratchet up the creepiness, all of them stitched together by the Dollman and rendered–ironically–lifelessly by Capullo and–to be fair–inker Jonathan Glapion and colorist FCO Plascencia, who collectively fail to provide the “pop” as promised while the Joker waxes nostalgic about his equal parts woeful and awful living “love letter” to Batman; he walks through three Rogues (Mr. Freeze, Clayface, and Scarecrow) with ridiculous–almost pointless–ease, as if he’s being guided expertly by some geek through yet another level in some Batman/Arkham video game, and knocking off sub-bosses on his way to the final boss, the Joker, who is flanked, unnecessarily, as it turns, by three more anemic antagonists: the Penguin, the Riddler, and Two-Face; he seems to lose his will to live after watching video footage of the members of the Bat-family getting their Bat-butts handed to them; and, finally–maybe even mercifully–he sits.  Yup: that’s how it goes; and I couldn’t care less–especially since the back-up story just inexplicably continues the primary story, but with a co-writer and a different artist, who nudge the hanger back up onto the cliff for a few pages, only to confuse him by offering him another chance to test his grip.  Oh no!  What’s under the cloche?  Come on: does it really matter what’s on the platter?  Credit where credit is due: Jock’s Joker is exceedingly more terrifying than Capullo’s; and, wouldn’t you know, the story’s undeniably better, perhaps thanks to James Tynion IV’s hand in the telling.  That ain’t how it should be, but that’s how it is.  And here’s another “how it is”: as good as Owls was, its end was pretty darned awful.  So, color my expectations low for the conclusion of this claptrap.

Phew.  OK, well, I guess I’m ready for the comic Geekstapo to come cuff me and cart me away.

Derek Mainhart: Yeah, I’m completely with you here. The whole point of this seems to be Snyder turning the Joker dial up to 11. Between the human tapestry bit (which I was even less impressed with; what’re we, drawing inspiration from Human Centipede now?) and the goofy Bat-gadgets for every occasion, this whole exercise is steering dangerously close to camp. This makes Alan Moore’s The Killing Joke (its claim to definitive Joker story still unchallenged) seem positively restrained by comparison. (Perhaps such comparisons are unfair, but when your publicity machine ramps up expectations this high, they’re inevitable.)

Frankenstein: Agent of S.H.A.D.E. #16 (DC): Now here’s a book that could’ve used some publicity. (Hey, we tried.) This comic is not only the latest casualty of the New 52, but also the second Jeff Lemire-related book we’ve lost in the last couple of weeks (after the elegaic Sweet Tooth). If you wanted over-the-top action mixed with a generous amount of high camp, then this book was for you (emphasis on “was“). Series writer Matt Kindt (like Lemire, an emigre from the indy world) brought a distinct, knowing sensibility to the proceedings; this was well-orchestrated chaos. That being said, this issue seemed a bit of a rush; understandable given that it’s the final issue. Still, Kindt gives fans of the book everything they’ve come to expect: arcane conspiracies, outlandish tech with ridiculous acronyms (B.I.G.F.O.O.T. – you’ll have to read it), explosive violence, and wading through it all, the tragicomic figure of Frank, equal parts determination and reluctance. Kindt frames the story from the point of view of a garden variety secret agent from Homeland Security who witnesses Frank and his fellow monsters wreak havoc upon his well-laid plans. At first I thought this was annoying, even superfluous, taking away precious space in what is, after all, a last issue. Then, at the end, said agent submits his account of the action to his superiors. They recommend he take a leave of absence. Further, they inform him they will be editing his report because it is too “…insane”. Could this be sly commentary on the book’s premature cancellation? Either way I’m saddened that this ragtag misfit of a book, like Frankenstein himself, couldn’t find a place in the world. I’ll miss Alberto Ponticelli’s visceral renditions of viscera. I’m glad to see him on Dial H, a book even odder and better than this one. I hope it doesn’t soon suffer the same fate.

Goodbye Frankenstein!

Goodbye Frankenstein!

SC: Yeah, this is a major loss–not just because we’re losing a consistently clever book, but because we’re also losing another forum for the considerable talents of Matt Kindt.  Was I happy with this hastily-stitched-together goodbye?  Not really.  While I liked Frank’s matter-of-fact well-timed bomb–“That’s why I brought explosives”– and a depressed Frank’s knowing countenance as carved out by Ponticelli in the first panel of page 11, I was put off–as you were initially, anyway–by the insinuation of Agent Martin.  Unfortunately, unlike you, I wasn’t able to analyze my way toward any sort of appreciation.  But, ultimately, that’s my fault and my right, right?

DM: Or maybe you’re just lazy.

SC: Luckily, Frankenstein, the character, isn’t suffering the same fate as the monthly that carried his name: according to Lemire, he’ll be a part of the “core” four of Justice League Dark.  So, in a way, he’s Hrrm-ing his way home.

DM: JLD? Color me less than excited.

SC: But if you like your heroes big and green, they don’t come much bigger or greener than the big green guy in Indestructible Hulk #3 (Marvel).  What a smash hit this series has been through its first three issues!  Looks like Mark Waid has found another perfect partner in Leinil Yu.  But while Chris Samnee, Waid’s daring better half on DD, finds success in humorous subtlety, Yu is all about power–both the potential for and the expression of.  The Hulk’s rage has never been captured as well as when Yu unleashes it in massive splashes–in this case, two ridiculously outrageous splashes: one, page 13, will be a classic rendering of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s newest W.M.D.; and two, page 23, Hulk’s Shining moment: Heeeeeere’s Hulkie!  Great stuff.  But that’s all fluff compared to my favorite part of the book: I mean, I could be wrong, but it looks like Waid’s taking a page from the prescription pad of television’s recently retired Dr. House.  By building a team of quirky scientists around Banner, Waid is, like Yu, playing with potential: the door is now open for witty dialogue–one of Waid’s strengths–and complex human interaction, which will most assuredly balance out–or, more likely, outclass–the inevitable monster moments that may tend to ring hollow no matter how spectacular the visuals are.  (See Bendis’s Miles-heavy issues of Ultimate Spider-Man for the ultimate example of  secret identities besting their costumed alter-egos when it comes to compelling narratives.)  And even though the final few panels petered out with an all-too-familiar–and much too goofy–punch to the gob of R.O.B.–a silly Skeets wannabe and instantly obsolete version of a monitoring device assigned to Banner–this is the superhero book I’m most excited about right now.  

Indestructible Hulk #3 Cover

Indestructible Hulk #3 Cover

DM: From superheroes to the supernatural: Rachel Rising #13 (Abstract Studio).  Okay, so I’m late to this party. But I’ve been hearing the accolades (not to mention your constant badgering, Scott), so I gave in and picked up the first trade. Then the second. And now I’m picking up the single issues, such is my craving for this unholy thing. And unholy really is the word. Creator Terry Moore (of Strangers in Paradise fame) has concocted an intoxicating brew of simmering supernatural suspense set against the seemingly quaint town of (the tellingly named) Manson. The story follows Rachel, a young woman who was recently murdered, and who has since, inexplicably, risen from the grave. Not quite alive, not quite dead, Rachel searches for answers behind her death and current state. She doesn’t have to search very far though, because the answers are also looking for her.

The story has a leisurely, atmospheric pace, with entire passages told wordlessly, that owes something to manga. But the narrative itself is firmly rooted in Americana. Rachel’s predicament has some connection to horrific witch trials that took place in Manson 300 years past. Biblical figures (who often play an outsize role in the American imagination) such as the Devil (or a devil) and Lilith are invoked. And then there’s that most American of fiends (judging from TV and movies), the serial killer.

The current issue (13, how apropos) widens the scope of the mythology with the inclusion of Charles Perrault and the “true” story of Sleeping Beauty (you’ll never look at the fairy tale the same way again). Meanwhile Lilith’s dread agents begin putting  her nasty plan for the town in motion, in revenge for the witch trials. The reader may ask, as Rachel does in an earlier issue, what relevance could such long ago events have on the present? In fact, one of Moore’s themes is the insidious way acts of violence reverberate down through history. Furthermore, the type of violence he’s exploring is specifically, intimately, brutally, violence against women. Just a cursory glance at our world of honor killings and gang rape will show that this theme could hardly have more currency.

Sound too heavy? In lesser hands it might be. But Moore displays a light touch; first in his art, with its delicate interplay of line and texture, positive and negative space, and perfectly balanced use of black and white (I wouldn’t want to see a color version of this book). And, just as importantly, in the relationships of his characters: the warmth, resiliency and wry humor of Rachel’s makeshift family, so reminiscent of Strangers in Paradise, offers a refreshing, necessary tonic to all of the awful things that happen to them.

As I said, I’m late to this party. But, as Rachel herself is ample proof of, better late than never. Needless to say, Book of the Week. And one of the best books being published period.

Rachel Rising #13 Cover

Turning pages,

Scott & Derek

Back and Forth: The Great Struggle

01 Thursday Nov 2012

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Scott Carney: I know we talked about skipping last week’s uninspiring lot, but, as it turns, along with high winds, lots of rain, and destructive storm surge, Hurricane Sandy brought plenty of time with her–time enough for me to tear through the four books that made up my bag for the week of the 24th.

I’ll kick things off with The Flash #13.  It’s no mystery: I’ve been beating myself up over this title since issue #2; and I’ve made mention in previous posts that I’ve been one issue away from giving up on it–month after underwhelming month–but Francis Manapul keeps drawing me in with his beautiful artwork and with his sticking to a plum plan: the relatively expected rolling out of the Rogues.  And, yes, I’m a sucker for Grodd, going way back to The Challenge of the Super Friends cartoon in ’78, which explains why I’ve been on board through this issue.  Well, guess what.  I’m out.  That’s right: this chapter of the Speedster’s saga has finally pushed me off the treadmill.  In a tortoise shell: the artwork is literally sketchy and the storytelling is tedious.  I dare you to disagree.  In fact, I demand that you make a pledge: that you, too, will drop this exercise in mediocrity–as quickly as you can.

Derek Mainhart: Oh man, do we really have to review this week’s batch of disappointment? I admire your intrepidity. I also accept your dare: I still like the art. And the dismemberment didn’t do it for your innate sense of bloodlust? But I definitely agree that this is close to running on empty. Next issue’s promise of Grodd running around with the speed force will bring me back, as long as Manapul draws it. After that?…

SC: I’m also going to drop Batman Incorporated.  Sure, Grant Morrison lit my fire with Matches Malone in #3; and I liked his turn here at the beginning of #4.  But there’s a bit too much tying back to the original BI series–which I’m not familiar with–for me; and Morrison’s style, as a result, becomes more of a drag than a selling point.  So, going forward, I’m going to pass on this.  Sad, right?  I mean, how many Batman titles are there per month?  A thousand?  And only one–Snyder’s Batman–is worth reading.  A major disappointment, especially this far into the grand experiment.

Batman Incorporated #4 Cover

DM: I don’t blame you for dropping this, having come to it late. This book was a casualty of the New 52. However, as someone who’s read Morrison’s run from the beginning, I thought this issue wasn’t bad. I do hope this wasn’t the climactic battle between Batman Inc. and Leviathan however. If it was, it went by too quickly. Similarly underwhelming was the reveal of Wingman’s identity. I didn’t even realize it was a significant plot point until this issue (and I’ve been reading this!) This did have wall-to-wall action, pretty art and clever moments. I’m also genuinely in suspense over the fate of young Damien (I really hope he isn’t written out of the Bat-universe just because Morrison’s leaving. I’ve really grown to like the kid!) Is it great? No. But to the long-time fan it’s certainly worth reading. And considering the rest of the haul, Book of the Week.

SC: Did I mention experiments?  I picked up Wolverine Max #1.  Figured it was worth a try.  I was wrong.  Billed as “Wolverine as you’ve wanted to see him,” this book–and writer Jason Starr–embraces the Max designation by serving up the f-word, which is so totally Max; and by giving us a glimpse of Logan’s hairy rump, which is not exactly how I wanted to see him.  Ugh.  So awful.  Even page seven, which explicitly portrays a shark’s biting the head off of some unnamed woman in Wolverine’s arms as he floats in an unnamed body of water, didn’t do it for me.  And, you know: I’m one who enjoys a good noggin’ noshin’.  But this book is so bogged down with nonsense that I wanted to bite my own head off for having bought it.  And the double-barreled artist attack?  Oh, man.  It’s just so–  Know what?  Hey Mr. Fine!  Why not find an artist who can handle two different styles if that’s what you need on a book that relies so heavily on flashback scenes?  Want to see that done well?  How about J.H. Williams III on Batwoman?  Now that‘s how you do it.  Unfortunately, they did it this way; so it’s a one and done for me.

Speaking of the two-artist approach on WM #1:  I just found this, which may be of interest.  It’s a statement by Connor Willumsen–the artist on the flashbacks–about his future on the book.  I wonder what the “disrespect of agreement” was.

DM: So that’s three books you’re not picking up next month. Might I point out my recent column 5 Comics You Should Be Reading for worthwhile replacements? (Truly I am a shameless hussy)

One comic that won’t be making that list anytime soon is Justice League Dark. This book is just all over the place. A major fault: Jeff Lemire (whom I’m big fan of, check the record) just does not have a good grasp on John Constantine, the central character. No matter how many cigarettes he lights, he seems like too much of a boy scout. And so his relationship with the rest of the characters, and of the book itself doesn’t rig true. The villain, (the laughably named) Nick Necro is a lightweight if ever there was one. The slick (though admittedly nice) artwork is at odds with the dark, mystical tone the story is trying to attain, like Keanu Reeves trying to play a certain cynical, magical con artist. In short, this book has no voice. Having now gone through two able writers (Mr. Lemire and the book’s previous scribe, Peter Milligan) I’m beginning to suspect its greatest problem lies in its very concept. “Justice League” and “Dark” simply don’t go together.

SC: I have to say that I like what Jeff Lemire’s doing with this title, and I like Mikel Janin’s work–even if he only did the layouts for this issue.  (Victor Drujiniu’s finishes make it look like Janin did the job himself.)  I’m actually looking forward to the Annual to see how this all plays out–to see the smug Nick Necro (yeah, so what if it sounds like a porn name) get his inevitable comeuppance.

Not a good bagging average for that haul.  But, hey: there’s always next Wednesday.

Turning pages,

Scott and Derek

Back and Forth: Laborious Bastards

04 Thursday Oct 2012

Posted by in Back and Forth, Microviews

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Scott Carney: Looks like I’ve finally hit the wall.  Or the bag.  Or something.  I’m staring at the stack for the week (all used, one abused) and I’m struggling–struggling because not a single comic struck me enough to make me bleed words.  So let me cut myself…

Derek Mainhart: I feel your pain. I was really excited about this week’s books. Two Grant Morrison books? Lots o’ Allred art? Sign me up! And yet I’m similarly uninspired. I guess we need to start with the book that seemed to have the most potential to make me Happy….

SC: Maybe an allusion to Clerks will make you happy: Seventy-two?  Seventy-two?  Grant Morrison used the f-word or some form of the f-word seventy-two times!

DM: In a row?

SC: Well done.  Can you believe it, though?  That’s how many times an f-word flies off the pages of his effusively offensive, belatedly offbeat, and finally fun Happy #1.  From the first c-word, Morrison, a true super scribe–and pen-point sniper–in his own write, makes it clear that he’s happy to be writing a book for Image and that he’s, sadly, no Garth Ennis when it comes to four-wheelin’ it with four-letter words.  As a result, I really had no use for this book–this is until Happy the Horse reveals who he is and why he needs Sax, our prostrate protagonist.  That bit hooked me hard.  That’s right: I’m going to accept the fact that the explicit language is meant to exaggerate the dour song of experience of the X-rated adult world and to set up the bizarre yet greatly appreciated arrival of an–as far as we know–innocent child’s hyperbolically-cartoonish imaginary friend.  So, despite my initial doubt, I’m going to ride the crazy premise of a loyal My Little Pegasus and its looking to swoop in and save the day with a soiled sidekick; I’m going to trust in Morrison and am going to grab #2.

DM: Yeah, I had a similar reaction. Those first few pages read like a bad impression of Ennis (a true impresario of invective – see below). But I guess that’s the point: Morrison’s satirizing gritty, foulmouthed, hyper-violent crime stories. One of the goombahs even says “We can do this without all the (effin) language.” But the problem is that, in satirizing the dreary, grim and gritty milieu of many a mediocre comic (and movie for that matter), he has created a story that is, in fact, all of those things. Darick Robertson really sells the contrast well; he renders a world that is positively grimy to heighten his rendition of Happy, who looks like a Fantasia character designed by Tex Avery. Unfortunately, that stark visual contrast isn’t matched by the story. In order for the satire to really work, Happy needs to be utterly guileless, standing in counterpoint to the cynical drudgery that surrounds him (think Roger Rabbit). But Happy only looks ridiculous. He’s as wise to the sleaze as anyone; more so, in fact as he informs Nick of his own predicament, “You’re in a mob hospital, they took your weapons, sedated you and now they’ve sent a torture squad to screw some kinda password out of you.” So, no, I’m not buying into the whole hilarity of the situation. Even the conceit (protagonist-goes-on-quest-with-imaginary-friend-or-are-they..?) is something Morrison recently explored in the far superior (thus far) Joe the Barbarian. Sigh. Like you said, it’s Morrison. I’ll always give him the benefit of a doubt (and my 3 bucks for #2).

SC: While Morrison’s f-bombs seemed awkwardly wired, Ennis’s are timed to go off at just the right moment in Fury Max #6.  But that’s just Ennis playing to his–and the “one-eyed [a-hole’s]”–strength.  The expected explosion of expletives isn’t the only reason why this book wears its warning like a Medal of Honor, however; Goran Parlov goes for the gore with a crushing depiction of a head in a vise and with Fury’s straight-out-of-the-headlines mouthful of face.  (I can hear the creators cackling during the process of putting this scene together: “Yes, I’ll have el Cubano, please.”)  And how about poor Elgen?  This brave soul–this patriot–takes a knife to the nether regions, is tossed to the sharks, loses a couple of limbs, and welcomes a benevolent bullet from the coldly caring colonel.  It’s clear: War is hell; and Fury and Heatherly are left to sail the Styx together.  Overall, this issue carries a terrific and oft terrifying tune–though, and I think I’m being fair, this time, the Shirley Defabio scenes don’t necessarily reach the height of perfect harmony.  Hey, it’s gonna happen.  You know what shouldn’t happen?  I’ll tell you what shouldn’t happen: the biggest flaw I found stands defiantly on the last page–the very last page–of the book: #7 comes out on 12/5?  Really?  Really?  Bastards.

DM: Nobody writes war comics better the Ennis. Military history is obviously a passion of his and he captures it in all its awful glory. His Battlefields series from Dynamite is even better than this one. I’m eagerly awaiting the next installment, Battlefields: The Green Fields Beyond, due out in November. If you like Fury, you could do worse than picking up a trade. They’re standalone stories and are a great display of Ennis’ true range (Dear Billy being my personal fave).  Don’t be a bastard. Check it out.

SC: Hmm.  Guess I’ll have to check that out.  Speaking of bastards: I love Jeff Lemire’s take on John Constantine.  (I love Lee Garbett’s take on Zatanna, as well; “Raeppa,” indeed.)  In Justice League Dark #0, the hellblazing S.O.B. is shown to be an insatiable magic whore with a heart–a heart probably plagued with plaque from all the cigarettes he sucks down over the course of the issue.  (Hmm.  I wonder if Zatanna could help him with that with a simple, “Euqalp eb enog!”  That little witch is a keeper, son!)  Story-wise, the book is split in two: there’s the well-developed and snappy slow burn of the first part, which ends with Nick Necro’s fully transparent flytrap of a phone call; and then there’s the rest, which lacks any heat at all, thanks, in part, to the aptly named Cold Flame.  But it’s OK; it’s all good: the darn thing’s a one and done; and next month, we get back down to business with “The War for the Books of Magic.”  Can’t wait for that.  Wait.  Why wait?  Why not try—this: “Htnom ylf yb!”

DM: I gotta disagree with you here. Constantine is a very singular sort of scoundrel. Ambivalent to the point of maddening. Distinct Liverpool accent. Deadpan, world-weary sarcasm. It’s not every writer that can nail the trenchant rhythms of his speech, or his enigmatically contrarian attitude. And, sadly, Lemire is not up to the task (though I commend him for not resorting to using “bollocks” every two panels). His rendition of Constantine has been serviceable within the team format of this book. But in a solo tale like this one, his flawed grasp of the character becomes glaring. A trench coat and a cigarette do not a bastard make. Yes, I realize this is the New 52 version of the character.  A good thing too. The Vertigo version would eat this guy alive.

SC: Something for Garth Ennis to explore in a new series: Constantine Max.

DM: I’m already looking forward to it!  But–and here’s another one you may not have picked up–a book that has no problem capturing the idiom of its lead characters is Steed and Mrs. Peel #1 (published by BOOM!). What is odd, initially confusing, and finally intriguing about the story (Caleb Monroe’s script working from Mark Waid’s plot with art by Will Sliney), is that it immediately takes those two beloved leads completely out of their comfort zone. A post-apocalyptic London, complete with irradiated mutant zombies? Hardly what we’d expect for our avatars of the swingin’ sixties. Indeed, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop (you know, hallucination, elaborate hoax, etc.), but apparently Waid and Monroe are sticking to their guns. Here (unlike in Happy) the study in contrasts works: no matter the mind-numbing horror they now face, our heroes imperturbably maintain their stiff upper lip and all that. End of the world? No excuse to lose one’s cool. Good show! (Sorry. I’ll stop.)

Another book making gleeful fun out out of the annihilation of mankind is Mars Attacks #4 (IDW). I do think writer John Layman makes a mistake in portraying the Martians as slightly  sympathetic. Still, each issue has been a scorched earth snapshot of the havoc those bloodthirsty, brain-exposed bastards are wreaking, rendered in equal parts comedy and gore by the always engaging John McCrea. The disparate snapshots seem to be coming together at the end of this issue. Not sure how I feel about that. But ancient Aztecs? Giant fleas? Buzzsaws to the noggin? High-octane hilarity.

But even that doesn’t come close to the near-sublime, spasmodic absurdity that is…Wolverine and the X-Men #17. Yes. That’s right. Wolverine and the X-Men. I’ve steered clear of the X-books for quite a while now. Their convoluted, insular story lines have rendered them seemingly impenetrable. But Mike Allred and Doop reunited for the first time since their glorious run on X-Force and X-Statix (written by Peter Milligan)? It was the kind of gift I didn’t realize I wanted until I saw it. Any reservations I may have had about deciphering labyrinthine layers of X-history were quickly dispelled on page 3 with the merciful announcement: “Previously – Lots of things happened, but don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Enjoy.” Reassured, I sat back, relaxed and did enjoy a true MIKE ALLRED COMIC. Certain writers, (Neil Gaiman, the previously mentioned Morrison and Ennis) seem to bring out the best in the artists they work with. Well Allred is one of the few artists who does that with writers. It’s as if they realize they need to up their game, channel their inner anarchist, and let it fly. And happily Jason Aaron (never a timid writer) is up for the challenge. The set-up: Wolverine hires Doop to protect the Jean Grey School For Higher Learning (which I guess is what it’s called now) from the myriad threats lurking, well, everywhere. His haphazard duties include, but are not limited to: ambushing a bowling league, seducing various members of a school board, and teaming up for an interdimensional adventure with the most unanticipatedly awesome guest star of the year, whose identity I won’t ruin. (Suffice it to say, my inner-geek had a heart attack.) Doop – truly an intrepid hero of the people. Really, the book this most resembles in its wondrous lunacy is Bob Burden’s legendary Flaming Carrot (check out his recently successful Kickstarter campaign for happy news on that front – http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/592668574/flaming-carrot-hardback-and-digital-comics). And that is rarefied air indeed. And so, at the end, I was left in a Doop-shaped pickle; was I wrong about my X-aversion? Did I need to start picking up this book? And then I turned to the Next Issue box featuring a Phoenix-enflamed Cyclops tie-in to the monstrosity that is AvX. Thus I find myself in the unique position of declaring: Book of the Week. I have no intention of picking up the next issue.

Wolverine and the X-Men #17 Cover

SC: I wouldn’t pick it up if I were you.  Thing is, I’m not; so, I’ll be picking it up as a loyal reader might be expected to–even with the seemingly never-ending AvX tie-in hanging over it like something you really don’t want hanging over something you like.  (I’ve already explained–in the previous Back and Forth–how I feel about that whole thing.)  Aaron’s sashayed around the silliness well enough; he’s even played it for a laugh or two–done particularly well in #16, with the focus on the snarky Kilgore kid.  And, you know, that’s what I’ve liked about this series: the “we’re superheroes, sure, but we’re not super serious” vibe.  This issue, however, seems waaaaay over the top–which is fine; I mean, it does focus on Doop, for God’s sake.  Thing is, it felt forced at times, like it had to be pushed and shoved–dragged, even–to the apex of wackiness.  Don’t get me wrong: I thought the Nazi bowling team was a strike; I laughed heartily at Doop’s daliances with members of both genders; and, oh, how I dug the cameo to which you referred.  I don’t know.  I don’t know why I didn’t fall into it as much as you did.  Maybe it’s because you’ve got the experience with the Allred/Doop tandem that I don’t have.  (Thanks for letting me borrow the X-Force trade, by the way.)  Maybe it’s because I’m a grumpy bastard who finds comfort in continuity.  Speaking of continuity: with all the stuff going down after AvX #12–with titles getting axed and added–I’m left wondering if Wolverine and the X-Men will be a thing of the past or if it’ll be a part of Now!  Now, speaking of Now!: I’m pretty sure you’ve got something to get off your chest about the Marvel revamp.  Care to share?

DM: Later.

SC: Bastard.

Scottlight on: Swamp Thing #0

22 Saturday Sep 2012

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(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