Comics In The Closet, Part 3

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Last week I posted a lecture I gave on the importance of, and suppression of, male-male bonding and obsessions in comics. (Part One, Part Two.)

Some interesting comments and criticisms were brought up in the comments to those posts, particularly questions about Freud and why on earth I thought writing about this sort of thing was a good idea. I’m going to try to address some of those questions here. The result is going to be a bit rambling, but hopefully not completely uninteresting. So with that endorsement — off we go.

To do a quick recap of the argument: my basic point was that Western comics are obsessed with male-male relationships and heterosexual identity. That obsession is structured by homosexuality and the closet; maleness is always furtively in danger of splitting into a hypermasculinized overman (and hypermasculinity equates with gay) and into a feminized underman (which again, can be equated with gayness.) The fraught, agonized tension of of male-male desire becomes both the emotive force and the excuse for self-pity, and ultimately for violence, directed at women (who are despicably feminine and constantly interfering in all the male-male bonding) and towards other men (as objects of desire who can only be furtively embraced through physical chastisement.) Homophobia, misogyny, and violence, in other words, are motivated by a crisis in heterosexual male identity — a fear of an inescapable homosexuality, which becomes more inescapable the more (or less) male one becomes. I argued that this dynamic was present in classic super-hero comics like Superman, Batman, and Spider-man, and that it also existed in more well-respected indie comics like Cerebus and Jimmy Corrigan. Finally, I suggested that shojo manga dealt with gayness and emotional bonds in rather different ways. (Many of these ideas are adapted from Eve Sedgwick, who I’ll discuss some in this post as well.)

So that basically bring us up to date. The essay provoked a certain amount of skepticism, most notably from Pallas, a frequent commenter. He eventually asked a series of perceptive questions, among which were these:

What “erotic” means?

Is there such a thing as platonic friendship, or only “erotic” friendship?

Is the appreciation of a parent towards a child inherently “erotic”? (Hey, you brought up the Batman surrogate father examples, not me!)

Is it possible to appreciate aesthetic qualities without that appreciation being “erotic”?

I think, as Pallas suggests, these questions are central to my argument. They’re also, though, rather more broadly important; they’re essentially questions about how human beings interact with each other, whether as lovers or family or political actors.

I do have a couple answers for Pallas, I think. To start at the beginning:

“[Explain] What erotic means.}

I think “erotic” in this context means touched by, or having to do with, desire. So, for example, Clark Kent’s relationship with Superman can be seen as erotic, in that Superman can be seen fairly easily as a power fantasy; Clark desires to be Superman. That’s erotic — and since they’re both men, it can be read as homoerotic (and when I say “can be read” I mean it can be read that way not just by me but by Clark and to some extent by his creators.) Similarly, Lois desires to humiliate Clark — that’s erotic. Superman desires to humiliate Lois — again, that’s erotic — and, obviously, sado-masochistic. Or, as another for instance, Joker desires to destroy Batman; Jimmy Corrigan desires to become powerful like Superman; Cerebus desires to remain continent. Desires are erotic — and desire, in one form or another, exists in all human relationships. Thus, to answer Pallas’ second question, there is no clean “platonic” friendship, because all friendship is involved with desire.

This isn’t an original insight; most obviously, it’s associated with Freud, who argued that all human relationships, even the most sacrosanct (as, for example, those between mother and son) were charged with erotism and desire. He was roundly hooted for being a dirty old quack — and the scientific certainty he brings to his more outlandish theories is, I have to admit, kind of hard to take. When Freud insists “all human beings are bisexual…Psychoanalysis has established this fact as firmly as chemistry has established the presence of oxygen, hydrogen, carbon and other elements in all organic bodies,” it’s hard not to respond with a heartfelt, “You wish psychology was chemistry, Ziggy.”

I think the scientific foderol can obscure the fact, though, that when he argued that desire was central to human existence, Freud wasn’t just making shit up; he was restating a very old truth. Desire is, I think, a fairly good shorthand, secular definition of sin — a fairly important concept before the Enlightenment declared we were all clean, rational, democratic automatons. Freud was a benighted heir of the Enlightenment too, in his own way — thus his insistence that he was doing science instead of theology. But I think there’s a fairly strong argument to be made that he was a theologian in spite of himself; that, in focusing on desire and eroticism, he was simply (or not so simply) reintroducing sin as a motivating force in the affairs (variously defined) of human beings. Freud says this himself, when, for example, he points out that “prohibited impulses are present alike in the criminal and in the avenging community. In this, psycho-analysis is no more than confirming the habitual pronouncements of the pious; we are all miserable sinners.”

In short, the statement “all people are bisexual” is not a scientific truth. But that doesn’t make it false — and, in fact, since desire is part of all human relationships, I, at least, think that the statement “all people are bisexual” is, in fact, true.

So on to Pallas’ next question:

“Is the appreciation of a parent towards a child inherently “erotic”?”

…which lands us neatly in the Oedipal complex. Both Freud and Christianity, I believe, would answer Pallas’ question with an affirmative; the love of parent and child is erotic; it is charged with (selfish) desire, just like every other human relationship since the Fall.

Freud would illustrate this with the Oedipus drama. But comics fans don’t need to go so far afield. Consider, for example, Spider-Man. Peter Parker is, like all super-heroes, surely a power fantasy; he’s a nerdy, nebbishy, feminized nothing who, though the miraculous oral intervention of an insect, is transformed into a paragon of masculinity, able to beat up professional wrestlers and earn money with a single upgraded chromosome. He changes, in short, from pitiful son to masterful father. In doing so, he also, inevitably, kills his own father (“Uncle” Ben)— and all the guilty emoting can’t quite erase the fact that the death of the father is not the end of the fantasy, but a continuation of it. To be a man is not just to have great power, but great responibility (for protecting the womenfolk, among other things); Peter can’t take his father’s place as protector of the weak (i.e., the women) if his father is still there.

(I googled Spider-Man and Oedipal conflict, incidentally,and was kind of startled not to immediately discover, like, 50 people making the same points above. Despite my failed googling, though, I am sure as sure can be that I am Not The First Person to Think of This — it’s pretty blatant after all. I’d imagine it at least occurred to Lee and Ditko themselves, for that matter.)

Or, to put it in less psychoanalytic and more Christian terms — children and parents envy and compete with each other; their love for each other is stained with desire. Even Peter’s noblest impulses (his desire to take responsibility and do good) are in part a selfish desire to be perceived as being as powerful as and as good as his father; to set himself up as an idol and take the place of God. (Probably the basic sin of the super-hero genre in general.)

Another way to look at this dynamic is through the work of Eve Sedgwick. I talked about Sedgwick a good bit in my original posts; she was a feminist and queer theorist, who (like a lot of feminist theorists) took Freud’s scientific/psychological ideas and recast them in a social/cultural context. In comments, Eric B (also known as “my brother”) provided a good summary:

Sedgwick’s point (derived partially from Claude Levi-Strauss’ account of kinship systems) is that we live in a patriarchal culture, where men have the power and are interested in maintaining that power. One of the ways in which this done is in the “trading” of women. Marriage serves a central function in cementing bonds between two families, consolidating patriarchal power, by joining two or more men in “homosocial” bonds. Women traditionally had no power in marriage (obviously this changes post 19th century) and so become “objects of exchange.” So…marriage itself is a weird structure–less about sex than about power and perpetuating bonds between families “ruled” by men. So…women become mediators of “relationships” between men. This reverses some old second-wave feminist accounts of “feminism is the theory, lesbianism is the practice.” Instead, its “patriarchy is the theory, homo- bonds is the practice.” This is how she links homophobia with misogyny. Women are treated as object in this model…but necessary objects. Without marriage (and therefore love and heterosexuality), you have no consolidation of power. Because of this “necessity” (just a structure–no “natural” reason why its necessary other than reproduction, which doesn’t require marriage, just sex)–homophobia develops as a part of patriarchal culture. Once marriage becomes important to power/economic structures, it must be maintained by powers-that-be and one of the ways that happens is a discouragement of same-sex relationships. So…misogyny and homophobia are linked…but they are also linked to homoeroticism (which isn’t always erotic, but often is), since the system requires (yes) the repression of homosexual sex, but also requires close bonds “between men.” It’s convincing to me more because of the links to Levi-Strauss account of kinship…an anthropological theory that is fairly widely accepted as helping to explain various “taboos” against certain kinds of marriage in a variety of different cultures/societies. I think there is some reliance on Freud, but the “repression” is less internal/psychological and more “socially necessary” to perpetuate a certain kind of culture. We don’t repress homosexual desires because of an overactive superego–but because we know society frowns on it and we can be gay-bashed for it, etc.

From Sedgwick’s perspective, then, the Oedipus story, and the Spider-Man origin, can be read (without too much of a shift from Freud’s version) as a fantasy, not about the infant’s love/hatred of his father, but about a man’s love/hatred for patriarchal power. Aunt May ends up as a chit in the power exchange between Uncle Ben and Peter. Peter’s feelings for his father — the patriarchal bonds of affection — are dangerous and inexpressible. Thus, Ben gets put out of the way, so that Peter can express his power fantasies (taking his father’s place in the patriarchy) through the safer medium of loving Aunt May on his dead father’s behalf. (Obviously, Peter isn’t marrying May — though it’s interesting that MJ is introduced to Peter by May. And it’s also interesting how important evil fathers are in those early stories; Norman Osborne, obviously, but also Doc Ock, who engages in an odd courtship with May.)

In any case, the Spider-Man story also shows pretty clearly how the Oedipal conflict, especially as interpreted by Sedgwick, ends up being structured by closeted homosexuality. Peter’s desire, his libido in Freud’s terms, is directed towards male power — the story is a power fantasy. As such, Peter is split in two; on the one hand, he’s the uber-father, with hyper-masculine powers, taking on the patriarchal father. On the other hand, he’s still a weak, helpless kid. This is what Sedgwick means, I think, when she talks about bifurcated identities — masculinity is always split like this, between absolute patriarchal power (which can perhaps be embodied momentarily, but is never absolutely attainable) and the individual self, (which always falls short of patriarchal ideals/responsibility/power.) It’s Spider-Man who takes the place of Uncle Ben…Spider-Man’s who signals that Peter has taken on the power and responsibility of the patriarch, or the father. But though he’s a man, Peter’s still also a frightened child.

So Peter is split. Oedipally, one part of him identifies with the powerless child, one part with the all-powerful (all-responsible) father. That split is charged with homoerotic desire; Peter desires the power of Spider-Man, which is also the power of his father, or of the patriarchy. I think too, contradictorily, Spider-Man desires the powerlessness of (ahem) Peter — the lack of responsibility. The Peter Parker/Spider-Man relationship is homoerotic — it’s about men’s desire for certain kinds of maleness.

At the same time, this relationship (and not coincidentally) is structured around the closet. The closet is about repressing male-male desires; presenting a united patriarchal front of power and responsibility to the world while concealing potentially dangerous emotions. The Spider-Man/Peter relationship is gay, and that gayness — or that feminization — has to be concealed. Spider-Man wears a mask because masculinity has no face; it’s an anonymous power. Beneath that mask is the face of someone who is not a man — a child — but the mask erases the child’s face. To become the patriarch is the desire and also the fear — the strength of the patriarch is also the strength of a monster: Thing, Hulk, Spider. The mingled desire and fear is why these relationships are agonized — to take on great power and great responsibility, you must be split. I discussed this in the context of the Friday the 13th films here.

All of which is to say, you can’t undermine masculinity by cutting it apart, or by pointing out that this or that person doesn’t measure up. Jason isn’t less of a man because he’s actually a child — or rather, he is less of a man, which is what masculinity is all about. Masculinity is always already bifurcated. On the one hand you have the Law — pitiless, perfect, unattainable. On the other hand, you have the implementer of the Law, the person the Law inhabits. That person is inevitably stunted, powerless, pitiful — feminized. The Law uses imperfect bodies, but that doesn’t make it less perfect. On the contrary, it merely emphasizes its disembodied perfection.

Again, you can see this in a Christian context as well — where too, obviously, father-son dynamics are fairly important. In some ways, Christianity is an effort to get out from under the Law; to replace the law with platonic love. Humans aren’t capable of platonic love, though. Instead, such love as humans are capable of (like Peter’s love for his father-figure) leads, via desire, back to a wish for power and thus to the law. That’s why Jesus has some harsh things to say about treating family bonds as more important than salvation, and why, ultimately, you need grace. (It’s interesting in this context that Spider-Man, Superman, et. al. were created by Jewish creators — “with great power comes great responsibility” is not exactly a Christian sentiment.)

Anyway, on to Pallas’ next:

“Is it possible to appreciate aesthetic qualities without that appreciation being “erotic”?”

If “erotic” is seen as meaning “desire”, I think the answer is no. Art is tied up in desire — the desire of the creators and the desire of the audience. This isn’t surpsing, since art is a human product meant to communicate with human beings,

The irony, of course, is that a lot of aesthetic criticism is tied to determining whether a given piece of art is free of desire, or pure, in particular ways. Art that seems clearly intended to make money, for example, is often denigrated as being inauthentic or impure. Similarly, art that caters to observers’ prurient interests (which is clearly erotic, in other words) is often downgraded.

Nonetheless, I don’t see how you separate aesthetics and desire. You identify with a character because you like something about him or her, and affections are (for humans) tied to desire. Even if you’re talking about abstractions, you’re talking about beauty, which is certainly linked to desire. There’s almost always, too, something compulsive about art — collecting, viewing, knowing, discussing — which seems inextricable from the mechanics of desire.

I think to me this is a big part of why art is worthwhile, or interesting. Desire — according to Christianity, according to Buddhism, according to Freud, according to innumerable pop songs — is at the heart of the human experience. If art isn’t erotic — if Spider-Man doesn’t satisfy and address desires — what would be the point, exactly?

Gene Philips correctly points out that there are types of desire other than homosexual or homosocial which can be dealt with through art, and, sure, I don’t have any problem with that (I talk at great length about bondage on this site for instance.) But relationships between men — tinged as all relationships are with desire — seem to me to be especially important, inasmuch as men, even now, play a disproportionate role in running the world.

___________

Update: More on this topic here.

Utilitarian Review 10/24/09

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On HU

This week started off with my two part discussion of comics, gender, masculinity, and the closet: Part One,and Part Two.

Richard reviewed the DVD Superman/Batman: Public Enemies which was very bad.

I reviewed Concrete: Strange Armor and Concrete: Human Dilemma which weren’t that bad, but weren’t good, either.

Kinukitty reviewed Foreign Love Affair. which she appreciated despite the fundoshi.

And Suat finished up the week wondering why on earth the critics like The Imposter’s Daughter.

And this week’s download with lots of shoegaze. You can also get last week’s if you missed it.

Off HU

I didn’t publish anything this week, alas, but I did get involved in a couple of comments threads which might be entertaining if you like that sort of thing.

Brief flame war here (keep scrolling)

This is a fun conversation about Quentin Tarantino, contemporary literature, Hemingway, C.S. Lewis, and other stuff.

Other Links

Tucker reviews comics as if he were French writer Michel Houllebec. I wish I’d thought of that.

Sean Collins is wrong, wrong, wrong about the abstract comics anthology. I really liked his review, though.

I haven’t read The Big Khan, but I suspect reading Chris Mautner’s snarky review is more fun anyway.

Robert Alter provides what is probably the definitive commentary on Crumb’s Genesis. Thanks to Suat for the link.

Matt Yglesias compares racism in Europe and the U.S

Music For Middle-Brow Snobs: Autocrank

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Mostly shoegaze:

1. Lee Ann Womack — A Little Past Little Rock (Some Things I Know)
2. Teenage Filmstars — Vibrations (Star)
3. Nadja — Only Shallow (When I See The Sun Always Shines on TV)
4. Chapterhouse — Autosleeper (Whirlpool)
5. Catherine Wheel — Crank (Chrome)
6. Lush — Covert (Spooky)
7. Cocteau Twins —In the Gold Dust Rush (Head Over Heels)
8. Jesus and Mary Chain — Walk and Crawl (The Power of Negative Thinking)
9. Cranes — Rainbow (Forever)
10. Black Tambourine — Black Car (Complete Recordings)
11. Lovers — Tonight (I Am The West)
12. Chris Smither — Someone Like Me (Time Stands Still)
13. Bill Monroe and His Blue Grass Boys — Scotland (Bill Monroe JSP 1950s boxset)
14. Lau Nau — Kivi Murenee Jolla Kavelee (Kuutarha)

Download Autocrank.

And if you missed it, here’s last week’s playlist and download.

Review: Laurie Sandell’s The Impostor’s Daughter

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“It’s even more mesmerizing simply because Sandell is a natural storyteller…Every page seems to scream, “See how easy it is to tell the truth? You just do it!” If only it were that simple…I fell in love with this book and its raw honesty. It’s gut-wrenching and compelling.” John Hogan, Graphic Novel Reporter

“We’ve had a really good summer for graphic novels, haven’t we? There’s universally well received work like THE HUNTER by Darwyn Cooke, and stuff that doesn’t seem to be on anyone’s radar, like THE IMPOSTOR’S DAUGHTER from Laurie Sandell (I thought it was a terrific little book!)…” Brian Hibbs, The Savage Critic(s)

“The Impostor’s Daughter is funny, frank, and absolutely engaging…” Susan Orlean, author of The Orchid Thief

“Sophisticated and spellbinding…The Impostor’s Daughter, is rife with dramatic family dynamics, secrets, and subterfuges….By uncovering the buried truths of [her father’s] past life, she claims her own coming-of-age story.” Elle

“In this delightfully composed graphic novel, journalist Sandell (Glamour) illustrates a touchingly youthful story about a daughter’s gushing love for her father. Using a winning mixture of straightforward comic-book illustrations with a first-person diarylike commentary,” Publisher’s Weekly Review

“I was very disappointed by The Impostor’s Daughter, because there’s a tremendous story in here, one that occasionally peeks through before being overwhelmed by a story about a spoiled girl who just needs to grow up. That she does eventually grow up doesn’t excuse the many events in her life that drive us nuts because of her immaturity. I’m not sorry that I bought it, because a lot of it is fairly interesting, but Sandell never gets below the surface of any of her characters, including, to a degree, herself, and that means the book is ultimately unfulfilling. When your journey to maturation is spurred on by Ashley Judd, as it is in the comic, I find it a bit shallow. That could just be me, though.”
Greg Burgas, Comic Book Resources

“Frankly I think it is just you. Loved it. Think it is an amazing, honest, well written memoir. Looking forward to her next book.” – “Mandy” in reply to Burgas’ review

_______________________________________

The synopsis provided on the inside flaps of Laurie Sandell’s comic provide as good a summary as any with regards the contents of The Impostor’s Daughter:

The Impostor’s Daughter begins with a relatively sedate depiction of Sandell’s childhood: a mixture of parental awe and familial tensions.

The publisher’s synopsis, however, prevents any easy acceptance of this largely idyllic childhood. A fifth of the way into the book, we see the cracks appearing in the form of some credit card fraud and broken confidences on the part of Sandell’s father. He remains largely unrepentant to the end despite his acquiescence to the truth with regards his path of destruction through his gullible friends and relatives.

The rest of Sandell’s book is a kind of psychotherapeutic journey of soul baring and self-analysis. We see her searching for her identity through a host of jobs and self-destructive relationships in various countries. The gradual realization of her father’s deceptions and lies fuels her own depression and Ambien (Zolpidem) addiction. Sandell finally finds a path to inner peace via some psychiatric advice from Ashley Judd and her self-admission to Shades of Hope Treatment Center in the closing pages of the book.

Greg Burgas’ negative review of Sandell’s book is instructive because it highlights a particular emotional critical approach. He is annoyed by Sandell’s seeming immaturity well past the age of 30, her clichéd depiction of one of her long term relationships and the needlessly ruinous course of her early life (pills, alcohol and idol worship). In short, he finds the narrative uninspiring and the character depicted therein unsympathetic. The latter aspect, of course, has little bearing on the quality of the final work for there have been many fine works of art depicting the most fatuous and despicable characters ever imagined.

Burgas is not incorrect in pointing out Sandell’s fondness for celebrities and what comes across as self-satisfied preening in front of her readers earlier in the book (as she chalks up interviews with various stars). The nature of Sandell’s day job, of course, virtually necessitates such a relationship.

One of Sandell’s supporters (“Angie”) attempts to put this into context in the comments section of Burgas’ review:

“Sure, I agree that celebrity worship is shallow, but it’s here that you so obviously missed the point. Sandell herself draws the parallel between her larger than life father and her predilection toward celebrities. It makes perfect sense that someone whose entire childhood is based on appearance rather than substance would struggle mightily with the concept of self-worth. Sandell’s childhood was filled with one message: you’re nothing without something. Now, with that type of upbringing, how in the world would you expect for her to know the right thing to do as an adult?…Why am I so vehemently defending this book against your review? Because I was raised by a narcissist and I know the agony of trying to separate out people who are good for you and people who are not. I have spent nearly my entire adult life having to learn the very basic rules you clearly learned as a child. Not all of us are so lucky. It takes one mistake after another to gain insight. Sandell seems to make these mistakes, but you seem a bit lost to the insight.”

Sandell’s apologist would appear to be suggesting that the author’s celebrity worship is simply the product of an imbalanced mind but she goes a bit too far in claiming some form of epiphany on the part of the author. If anything there is at most a negotiated balance by the end of the book. There is every reason to believe that there are a number of people who find such a devotion to and respect for celebrity perfectly healthy and fruitful. If anything, Sandell’s book is one written in sympathy with this point of view as well as other similarly traumatized individuals.

There is certainly a degree of vanity on display throughout the length of Sandell’s book – in particular, the chosen ending and the author’s self-serving justification for her comic’s existence:

These traits are, however, far from exclusive to Sandell’s memoir and hardly a prescription for bad art.

While Sandell’s book presents itself as therapy, there is no suggestion on the part of the author that she has achieved a complete “cure”. Whether by intent or accident, the author has laid herself bare for all the sticks and stones such public self-analysis and exhibitionism entails. Far worse deeds have been done in the pages of autobiographical comics – the comics of Joe Matt being a case in point:

Joe Matt’s Peepshow provides an interesting comparison if only because no reader would imagine the author to be anything but an unpleasant character to befriend. Both Matt and Sandell derive a considerable amount of mileage from a degree of sensationalism – if anything, Matt is much bolder in his drive for “untouchability”. While some of Matt’s earliest multi-paneled autobiographical works delve into some degree of comics formalism, his later works are presented as straight narratives just as Sandell’s is. The real difference between the early works of Matt and Sandell’s comic lies in Matt’s firm grasp of cartooning, panel composition, comic timing and narrative pacing.

Sandell’s story by contrast is flatly narrated in a monotonous voice. Her narrative is both drawn out and tedious in its reiterations of the same subject matter. There is a distinct lack of creative structure and The Impostor’s Daughter reads like a book which was thrown together with little planning and forethought. If Sandell’s work has drawn more notice from the mainstream press, it is simply because of the stories’ greater accessibility and more “worthy” subject matter (as well as her publisher’s marketing abilities).

As for Sandell’s cartooning abilities, the less said the better. Her lettering skills are non-existent…

…and the range of emotions at her disposal limited. Her inability to convincingly depict anger or forcefulness is a crippling blow to the effectiveness of her narrative [dialogue removed for comparison].

Is Sandell’s mother having a blow out in the middle of a restaurant or excitedly telling her daughter about the latest collection from Manolo Blahnik? These are drawings that would make a grade school teacher cry in shame.

The next few images are from one of the most effective sequences in the book – a confrontation between the author and her father following her extensive investigations into his past. Consider Sandell’s rather basic grasp of cartooning which I’ll highlight once again by removing the dialogue:

Little of the effect of this scene is derived from Sandell’s drawings. The draftsmanship here is shoddy and Sandell’s grasp of body language limited. Her mother’s hasty disappearance is hardly more than a footnote done in barely discernible (and clumsy) shorthand. The drawings are in short merely functional – providing some immediacy to the encounter with the facial expressions giving some inkling as to the tone of the dialogue. The panel compositions, page layouts, lettering and coloring (done by Paige Pooler) give off little sense of darkness or danger. This scene, while critical in the development of the protagonist, is delivered as blandly as any other in the book.

One of the reasons why Sandell decided to create a comic about her childhood trauma is given in a publicity blurb in The Wall Street Journal:

“The idea hit her when she discovered a box of her childhood drawings in her parents’ attic. There were some 300 cartoons, mostly about her father, that she’d drawn between the ages of 7 and 10. “I saw that the entire story was there,” said Ms. Sandell, 38 years old, a contributing editor at Glamour magazine. “I’ve always been able to tell the truth about my father in cartoons.”

The decision to draw her story instead of simply writing it would appear to have been based primarily on the therapeutic possibilities of this choice. Yet the negative influence of Sandell’s drawing goes well beyond that of an aesthetic irritant. It significantly detracts from whatever message she hopes to communicate, removing the reader from any sense of reality or empathy with her situation. It is a sad comment on the effect of the book that I found more humanity in Sandell’s blog and level-headed response to Greg Burgas’ criticism than anything in her comic. Sandell becomes a “real” person in her blog (her spot illustrations adding charm to her writing), she’s a poorly drawn caricature in her comic.

While a master cartoonist like Lynda Barry may suggest (in books like What It Is) that anyone can create a story or comic, it is all too clear that a great comic is the product of years of honing one’s skill. Barry’s thinly disguised and deeply felt autobiographical comics demonstrate a beautiful sense of design and page composition. She has an exquisite ear for dialogue and a gift for clear emotive writing. Carol Tyler’s “The Hannah Story” is yet another example of such skills directed at a concentrated and elegantly structured tragedy.

Scott McCloud, a comics evangelist by nature, is far kinder about the effect of these drawings:

“Meanwhile, Sandell’s graphic novel is a mainstream book in nearly every sense. The (presumably) true story is told as literally as possible. Sandell is no virtuoso artist, but her layouts are sensible and the drawings get the job done. Cars look like cars, bottles look like bottles, and hands have five fingers. Every line and color choice serve the story, and the story is an engaging one, filled with mystery, sex, addiction, and the parade of celebrities Sandell encountered as a reporter and contributing editor at Glamour. It’s a beach read…I can imagine each of these books rubbing someone the wrong way. In some respects, Sandell’s glamour-sprinkled tell-all is a hard-core comics lover’s worst nightmare; a book deal fueled by celebrity, completely bypassing comics history and craft, ready to leapfrog more serious or well-crafted graphic novels onto The Today Show or even Oprah…I like Sandell’s book though, because it was a fun read. It can gently coax new readers into comics who would have never cracked open an Asterios Polyp much less a Blankets, and because a healthy mainstream has never precluded a healthy alternative.”

McCloud view is valuable because it explains why a distinctly amateurish work was given the full color hardcover treatment where more worthy work has often been allowed to fester neglected in the shadows. In all probability, what appears undemanding and insipid to me may in fact provide an entry point for a person new to comics. I am also disposed to believe that this was an attempt by Little Brown and Company to tap into the audience for graphic memoirs demonstrated by the success of works by Marjane Satrapi and Alison Bechdel.

Of course, one could easily posit the idea that a work like Sandell’s may confirm the prejudices of a reader not enamored of comics thus driving said person away from the medium forever. This problem is made more acute by the host of positive critical notices suggesting that this is a work of the highest order and not the comics equivalent of a “beach” novel as suggested by McCloud. There are certain standards which can be applied across all playing fields and Sandell’s comic clearly comes up short when these are applied.

Gluey Tart: Foreign Love Affair

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foreign love

Foreign Love Affair, Ayano Yamane, 2008, 801 Media

I read this book because it fell out of my closet yesterday. Which is not especially surprising in my home and is also apt re. the plot. Synchronicity and all that, right? You go searching for a sweater because geez, it’s damned cold all of a sudden, and an awesome bit of yaoi literally hits you in the head.

The first thing I noticed, after the fact that it was kind of heavy and pointy – it really did hit me in the head – was that it’s really, really pretty. I ignored any concerns about physical injury and took a few moments to coo over the cover. Pretty! The scan doesn’t do it justice, because the background is a beautiful metallic purple that really shows off the delicate (yet huge and looming) pink flowers. Also the pretty boy in the open kimono and fundoshi. I was really quite taken with the pretty boy in the open kimono and fundoshi. I do not actually have a thing for fundoshis, myself – a bit the opposite, actually, as they usually strike me as sort of alarmingly diaper-like – but I’m making an exception in this case.

The second thing I notice was that this book is by Ayamo Yamane. Holy shit! I love Ayamo Yamane. I love her Target in the Finder series. And Crimson Spell. Why the hell was this book stashed away in my closet? Probably because of the fundoshi. Occasionally people enter the lair of the Kinukitty, and occasionally I do put forth some effort to make the stacks of porn less obvious. A lot of yaoi covers are pretty innocuous – they don’t trumpet “Woo hoo! Get it on!” I don’t worry about those titles; if someone actually picks the thing up and starts reading it, that’s his or her decision. I’m not into telling other people what to do. But this book cover doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it? So, in meeting my code of trying not to offend or squick people out by accident, I must have tossed it into the closet and instantly forgotten about it (as I am wont to do).

Well, thank God the weather changed. This title is fucking awesome. (Heh. Fucking awesome. That’s a little joke.) (OK, very little. But I’m trying. I have a head injury, OK?) Having found a sweater, I sat right down and started reading. And here lies pretty much my only real complaint about this book (the impact mark on my forehead not being its fault). It is very small. Dense, heavy, and pointy, as I mentioned – nice, heavy paper – but small (7-1/4 x 5-1/8 inches – compare that with 8-1/4 x 6 inches for June and 7-3/4 x 5 for Deux). This should probably be embarrassing for me, but I will share it with you anyway: I couldn’t read the type. I had to take off my glasses, squint, and hold the pages kind of close to my face. I am middle-aged, yes, but I can read Deux titles just fine. It’s like that extra inch that Victoria Beckham tells us makes all the difference, but in this case, it’s the extra half inch. I don’t read a lot of 801 Media titles, and I’m not going to if they can’t size up a bit. Unless it’s Ayano Yamane.

Anyway. A Foreign Love Affair starts off with a bang. Ranmaru is a bratty – or perhaps actually obnoxious – newlywed on an Italian cruise. He’s a little bit fierce, a little bit dim – and so, so pretty. Ranmaru, we are informed in a little panel, is third underboss of the Ohmi clan. Three pages in, he’s fighting with his new wife, who hates him (and likewise, apparently) and kicks him out. On page four, he’s having a drink at the bar, hanging out of his kimono fetchingly.

foreign love

On page five, he’s being saved from an altercation by our other hero, Al Valentiano. Al, you will notice, is named Al, while Ranmaru is named Ranmaru. Which is a typical pretty-boy name. Al is also about a head taller and definitely not hanging out of his kimono, in case you needed any further clues as to who will be the uke and who will be the seme.

After really an impressive amount of distractingly hanging out of his kimono in just a few pages, Ranmaru is divested of his robe and exotic undies on page 13 in a fast and furious scene that involves a certain amount of homo-virginal hesitation and lots of sweating and flushed cheeks and abandoned splaying and stuff. It’s all over in 16 pages, and that’s just the introduction. Good grief, the story hasn’t even started yet!

Once the official main story gets underway, we find out more about Ranmaru. He’s really pretty appealing. In addition to being so, so pretty. Which he is. Good grief, it’s egregious, how pretty he his. He’s also old-school yakuza, we’re told (which would seem to involve an untenable contortion in meaning of both “old-school” and “yakuza,” much less both together), and he’s really a ball of contradictions. He’s stereotypically manly in a proud and unromantic way, completely unafraid and confrontational and not reomtely in touch with his emotions. At the same time, he’s, ZOMG (as they say), SO PRETTY. Also kind of delicate, and clueless in a way that keeps leading to Al swooping in and rescuing him. And then debauching him. It’s really well-done debauching, too. I give it four stars.

Embarking on a tour of Italy immediately after the cruise – with his lovely bride and their thuggish entourage – Ranmaru promptly gets left behind at a winery and follows the bus, planning to walk 200 kilometers to Rome. He gets a ride from some dubious-looking Euro-trash, completely oblivious to any danger, but Al, wearing a highly improbably suit, even in the context of a completely ridiculous plot such as this, swoops in the saves him, taking Ranmaru back to his palatial villa. And debauches him. The Euro-thugs later kidnap Ranmaru, in a plot twist even more improbable than Al’s suit, and Al swoops in to save him again (in a helicopter, for which he gets bonus points) – although Ranmaru does get sort of raped. Sort of. You know how it is. Anyway, eventually, Al takes Ranmaru in his arms, whispers reassurances and endearments, and debauches him. By the way, everyone involved – Al, the Euro-thugs, the Euro-bosses – has a Japanese fetish. Ah – that’s the reason for the kimono and fundoshi. If this weren’t by a Japanese artist, I’d be disturbed about the ethnic stereotyping, but she’s obviously in on the joke, so good on her.

Half to a third of the book is taken up by two side stories. I’m always disappointed when the main story is so short, but Yamane made me enjoy the sides despite being a little disgruntled. There’s a little side story about young Ranmaru (in which it is revealed that Al’s assumption back in the introduction that Ranmaru had never been with a man was in fact erroneous). And there’s a much longer story that I was all set not to like because it wasn’t about Al and Ranmaru, and they had been so much fun. But this last side story starts out with the lines, “What lovely weather. I wonder if the lactic acid bacilli are all right…?”

We are not treading in untested waters here. The main character is pondering the bacilli while interviewing a marriage candidate his mother has sent over. He picks up the phone and tells his mother the interview thing isn’t working, and as he talks to her, he feeds a rat with a syringe. Within one page, we understand that Takaoka is a scientist and a workaholic and maybe not really interested in women. OK, perhaps that last bit was a foregone conclusion, but still, nicely done, Yamane. It’s good storytelling. Takaoka’s mother sends him to a meeting with a matchmaker (Serizawa), who sends him to a mixer. One thing leads to another, and Takaoka accidently gets Tabasco sauce in Serizawa’s eyes. Who hasn’t had that happen? The episode makes Takaoka realize he cares about Serizawa, and a bit later, when he runs into a drunk Serizawa one night, he takes him home, and – well, you know. I know you do. It’s all very pretty and romantic, although not quite as pretty and romantic and sort of batshit crazy as the main story.

foreign love

So, there it is. I read huge amounts of yaoi, and most of it makes me smile a little bit, or makes me kind of wish I hadn’t shelled out $10-$15 for that. Or really wish I hadn’t. But A Foreign Love Affair delivers on the promise of yaoi – it’s crazy and sweet and romantic and pretty, pretty, pretty (albeit heavy and pointy and small of type). Embrace the fundoshi!

(If you want to buy this book, don’t go to Amazon. They list only used copies for $40+. The book is still for sale at the 801 Web site, here.)

Concrete: Strange Armor and The Human Dilemma

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Paul Chadwick’s Concrete stories — about a giant rock monster with a human brain — have always pulled in two different directions. On the one hand, Chadwick is interested in slice-of-life narratives, emphasizing character development and quiet, realistic plots. On the other hand, he wants to write pulp adventure stories with spies, alien invasions, and gunfights.

At his best —as in the first Concrete stories — Chadwick blends the two genres, producing tales that are more thoughtful than typical super-hero fare and more entertaining than typical literary fiction. The balance is a delicate one, though, and in Strange Armor (Concrete Volume 6) it is, unfortunately, blown to shit. Originally, Strange Armor was meant as a Hollywood movie pitch, and that’s how it reads. The characterizations are all dumbed down — Maureen, for example, comes across as just another spunky Hollywood heroine, rather than as the spacey braniac and ambivalent ice-queen long-time readers know. And, of course, there’s more violence, more conventional romance, and a Bad Guy with a capital BG. Each change in itself isn’t all that important, but the overall effect is to neatly excise the qualities that made the series worthwhile. A few nice details remain — all of which would no doubt have been deleted if this had ever gotten to the screen. I’m sure Chadwick could use the money, but I can’t help feeling that it’s a godsend no studio wanted to pick this up.

Volume 7: The Human Dilemma, is somewhat better — the main characters are all recognizable. at least, and the long-anticipated tryst between Concrete and Maureen is sweet and believable. But the story creaks under the burden of its heavy-handed environmental message and a series of poor story-telling choices. An omniscient narrator spoils the books central mystery half-way through; there’s a convenient miscarriage right out of prime-time television, and a convenient loony assassin right out of the comics mainstream. And then Concrete makes a fool of himself on television over and over again — a trope Chadwick thoroughly explored in the first stories he wrote about the character.

That was quite a while ago, now; Concrete’s been around for twenty years. He’ll probably be around for many more, too — The Human Dilemma unaccountably won an Eisner, and Chadwick says he has further ideas for the character. Still, looking at these latest books, I get the sad feeling that the big guy’s best days are behind him.

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This review first ran a while back in The Comics Journal. I’ve stumbled on a number of older reviews I somehow failed to post here, so they’ll be showing up in dribs and drabs over the next couple of weeks.

World’s Finest Crap

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Superman/Batman: Public Enemies

When I learned that DC was releasing another animated movie, this one starring Superman and Batman, I was intrigued. When I learned it featured the triumphant return of Kevin Conroy (Batman), Tim Daly (Superman), and Clancy Brown (Lex Luthor) from the Batman and Superman animated series, I was excited. And when I learned it was based on a comic written by Jeph Loeb … well, I was disappointed, to put it mildly.

There are some people who will claim that Jeph Loeb wasn’t always a bad writer. Do not believe these people! Make no mistake, even Loeb’s “good comics” weren’t actually any good. But despite the fact that every comic he writes is worse than the last one, Loeb remains one of the most successful and sought after writers in the industry. Depressing as that may be, it comes as no surprise then that DC would turn one of his stories into an animated feature. Though it’s strange that DC picked the opening arc of the “Superman/Batman” comic rather than one of Loeb’s more famous works.

But saying Jeph Loeb is a terrible writer is like saying the sky is blue; no aesthetic judgment is actually being made. What about the animated movie itself? The animation style combines the simple line-work of previous DC cartoons with the character designs of Ed McGuinness, the artist of the “Superman/Batman” comic. The unpleasant result is that all the characters look puffy. Not in a puffy fat way, but as if they all have air pockets right on top of their muscles. They remind me of those inflatable muscle suits that people wear on Halloween.

If the animation is a little off-putting, the writing isn’t any better. Superman/Batman: Public Enemies has a very simple story. Lex Luthor is President of the United States, having run successfully as an independent candidate. He’s like a better looking, slightly less crazy version of Ross Perot. Things are actually going well for Luthor until a giant kryptonite meteor is spotted heading directly towards Earth (if I remember correctly, the meteor in the comic was a chunk of Krypton that brought Supergirl to Earth. No reference is made to Supergirl in the movie, which begs the question why the filmmakers decided to include this plot). Rather than swallow his pride and ask Superman for help, Luthor concocts a sure-to-fail scheme to destroy the meteor and frames Superman for murder. Batman gets involved because he’s got nothing better to do, and the dynamic duo are forced to fight off both supervillains looking to collect a bounty and superheroes who blindly follow the President’s orders. Quick synopsis: Awkward man-flirting between Superman and Batman, fight scene, more flirting, fight scene, Luthor goes crazy, fight scene, Luthor makes out with a morbidly obese woman, fight scene, more flirting until Lois Lane shows up and ruins the moment, the end.

While the plot is easy to follow, the movie is needlessly packed with cameos. Villains like Mongul, Grodd, Lady Shiva, and Banshee Babe (that’s probably not her name, but it should be) show up out of nowhere with no introduction and are quickly dispatched. Then comes the parade of heroes, including Power Girl, Captain Atom, Black Lightning, Starfire of the Teen Titans, and the descriptively named Katana. The character selection is so utterly random it feels like they were chosen by drawing names from a hat. And at no point does the movie explain who these characters are, how their powers work, or what their relationship is to Superman or Batman. I actually have a great deal of familiarity with the DC Universe (or at least I thought I did), but I had a hard time figuring out who everyone was and an even harder time caring. Of course, most superhero comics do this sort of thing all the time, but those books are marketed to a fanboy audience that presumably has an extensive knowledge of, and affection for, Z-list characters. One would think an animated feature would at least try to appeal to a slightly broader audience.

Out of all the superhero guest stars, Power Girl is the only one who gets any significant screen time. Now, if I’m going to talk about Power Girl, let’s get the obvious out of the way. Even by superheroine standards, Power Girl is famous for being well-endowed. I’m saying she has a big bust, mammoth mammaries, jumbo jugs. But there’s no reason she has to be solely defined by her humongous hooters. This is 2009. Power Girl could be written as a strong, intelligent, and courageous woman who just happens to have brobdingnagian breasts. Unfortunately, Power Girl doesn’t really do much here except look meek, follow other people’s orders, and validate the moral superiority of our heroes. In other words, she’s “The Girl” of the movie, including the obligatory moment where she’s rescued by the strapping male lead. By the end of the story, the only thing remotely memorable about the character is emphasized by the hole in her costume. Like everything else in the movie, the filmmakers simply didn’t put much thought into her. Power Girl only appears in the movie because she appeared in the comic.

The last point I want to make deals with age-appropriateness. Compared to the animated Wonder Woman movie, Superman/Batman is remarkably tame in its violence. There are quite a few fight scenes, but they consist of typical superhero punching and smashing. The onscreen deaths are bloodless and one of them involves a robot, and we all know that robots don’t count. There’s no sex either, unless you count Superman and Batman occasionally eye-fucking each other. But the filmmakers must have really wanted that edgy PG-13 rating, because they threw in some profanity. Nothing too hardcore, but Lex Luthor calls a woman a “bitch” at least once. Apparently, that’s how you separate the grown-up cartoons from the silly kid stuff.

It’s an odd movie. Far too much fan-service to be accessible to anyone who isn’t religiously devoted to DC Comics, but the decision to make it a stand-alone story removes the continuity elements that were important to fans (like the re-introduction of Supergirl). Who is this movie for? And why this particular story? Surely there are better Superman/Batman adventures to pick from. There are probably better Jeph Loeb stories too.

In case you want a comparison to other DC animated features:
Superman: Doomsday < Superman/Batman < Wonder Woman