Blogger's Blogging: What Makes a Good First Issue?

Odd thing happened on my way out of the LCS last week: I left without buying a #1 issue. A few weeks ago in an attempt to best comic book super fan Aaron Myers (whom you should most definitely follow on twitter: @AaronMeyers) I emailed the men of Panel Culture this question: 'What makes a good first issue?' (ep. 55). As soon as I hit 'SEND' I realized that I have a blog and access to one of the greatest comic book blogger minds this side of Kuala Lumpur, Justin Giampaoli. So I asked Justin to weigh in on this #1 topic. Here's what we said:

Keith: In the last ten months I have purchased thirty-six #1 issues. That number is slightly skewed by DC's New 52. Simple math says that that turns out to be about three #1 issues per month. That's a lot of starts and a lot of do-overs. Now, some of those thirty-six were limited series that have ended (The Strange Talent of Luther Strode) or will end soon (Planetoid, Spaceman). For every series that ends, there are ten more to take its place. First issues, it turns out, are like those creaky black-and-white zombies, tireless, relentless. But are they disposable? All this going #1 (sorry can't resist) makes me a poorer man. Am I, however, wiser as well? First, let me set some guidelines and a parameter or six before diving into some examples.  

  A first issue is so suffuse with anticipation that it is (almost?) genetically predisposed to disappoint. At its best, it's an exercise in frustration, even if that frustration comes from having to wait a month for the next issue, a first-world problem to be sure. In theory, a good #1 should be no different than a good #33 or #367, but that's not the way it works. A good story may be a good story and therefore transcend its order in a series. A first issue … that's different (special?) isn't it, if only because it is 'the first?'
  One of my least liked comic book criticism crutches is the phrase 'decompressed storytelling,' which sounds to me like shorthand for 'I'm bored, but can't (won't?) quit and move on, a reverse 'it's not you it's me' kind of argument. For me, every story is a Gandalf, it is never late, nor is it early, it arrives precisely when its author means it to and that goes for beginnings, middles and ends (barring, of course, unforeseen circumstances like cancellation). The reader is a silent partner. If the author chooses to take the long cut or write a series of one-offs or decides to create a narrative that only makes sense when understood as a whole that's that. It's like that old joke: How many comic book readers does it take to change a light bulb? One to change it and ten thousand to say how much better the old light bulb was (one the internet, of course). Readers can't change how a writer writes, but they sure as hell can carp about it.
  Again, a good story is a good story and in the case of a first issue it really needs to hook the reader. Duh. For me, a first issue (above all) must possess promise in either plot or character. As for setting, sorry, it's a handmaiden by its own design. I'm genre-diverse, but I need more than atmosphere, more than spaceships and lush English country-sides. If the spaceship (or glen) is sentient, we can talk.  Promise also comes in the form of a theme or an idea as well. A story about 'loss' or 'identity' intrigues because those notions are recognizable and often reflect a character's arc i.e. the plot. Modern (and post-modern) literature limits plot and chooses to focus on abstract ideas, in other words a lot of navel-gazing -- Who am I? Why am I here? What does it all mean? -- you know, bullshit like that.
  Before turning it over to the esteemed gentleman from San Diego, I want to recognize the importance of uniqueness. The more singular the story, the more it seems to possess a mélange of secret and intangible ingredients: cool-looking spaceship, O.K., living spaceship, better, conscious spaceship that flirts with the crew and is haunted by the soul of a belly dancer, even better. So, that's what I look for in the first issue: promise and abstraction.

Justin: Thanks, Keith. The gentleman from Vermont stands relieved. Well, you know I'm a statistics nerd, so I thought I'd initially respond with my own #1 count. I tracked the metrics for the last year and found that I sampled 91 new #1 issues in the last 12 months. Now, as you indicated some of these were finite mini-series that have since wrapped, and I also consume both mainstream titles and small press offerings. With those caveats aside, I only continued to support 17 of those 91 titles for any significant length of time. That's about 19%, which sounds abysmal to me. That means (approximately) that for every 5 books I try, I only like 1 of them enough to commit any form of ongoing financial support.  

Before I dive into what I think makes a "good" and compelling #1, I want to play devil's advocate and take issue with the statement you made about "decompressed storytelling," because who doesn't enjoy two bloggers getting up into each other's faces? Come at me, Silva! I don't think citing decompression is necessarily a lazy critical tool. If you take 6 pages to show two characters walking across the street, something that could be done in 1 page, or even just 1 panel, and there's no story-driven reason why that length is relevant or important to the crux of the narrative, then criticizing it for wanton decompression just for the sake of itself can be a valid argument in my opinion[1].
  Off the top of my head, I was able to lump the factors that make a "good" new #1 for me into 5 categories. One, it has a lot to do with the strength of the writer and the artist. This might sound like a 'Master of the Obvious' comment to make, but let me explain. After reading comics for so many years and enduring the majority of lackluster creative output available -- 81% was that it? -- I've had to impose some fairly stringent guidelines to keep myself sane. I have to love the art, whether it's someone I'm familiar with or someone new to me. I have to love the writing, whether it's someone I'm familiar with or someone new to me. And, I have to love them both at the same time. I can't just love one or the other. Both have to be clicking or I just won't come back.

  Two, there has to be a hook for me. Some twist, some fresh take, coming at a genre or set of tropes with a new angle, etc.; something unexpected or something that plays cat and mouse with the audience and subverts reader expectations. Scalped #1 is an example of a strong hook I often use for people. This book has been out for about five years and is just about to wrap up its last two issues so I don't think this is a spoiler. Jason Aaron and R.M. Guera offer a very compelling story of a violent drifter type named Dashiell Bad Horse who is returning home to his childhood Native American home, the Prairie Rose Indian Reservation. He's supposedly served in the military, done some jail time, and bounced around the country. It's gritty and raw and in addition to the art and writing working in unison to create this microcosm about a hidden part of American society in utter decay, it did something else. In the space of the first issue, he quickly gets embroiled with an old flame and the local crime boss. He's knee deep in drugs, prostitution, gambling, gunrunning, murder, and all sorts of racketeering. Well, on the very last page the twist is... Dash is actually an undercover FBI Agent. I didn't see it coming and it hooked me for a 5-year, 60-issue run.

  Three, and there might be some overlap here depending on how you were to define 'hook,' but I look for that uniqueness you mentioned. I'm such a jaded old comic book reader, that you'll get points alone for showing me something I haven't seen before in 35 years of reading comics. It can be the amazing sentient spaceship you threw out (you're pitching that to Image Comics, yes?) or it can be a book about corporate security and espionage (Secret) or a wild alt-reality sci-fi about Vatican scientists inventing a time machine and sending a Special Forces unit back to the Roman Empire to rewrite history in their favor (Pax Romana). Both of those books are written by Jonathan Hickman and he's a master with his creator-owned Image Comics work as far as I'm concerned about showing me something in a #1 issue that I've never seen before. A subtle spin on this is perhaps showing me something that has been done, but doing it extremely well. I'd put Danger Club in this category. We've all seen the post-modern superhero deconstruction jaunt that shows us what flawed a paradigm superheroes are. Essentially, people are fallible, so sovereign super-powered beings would be incredibly scary and dangerous in real life, not everyone is a paragon of altruism like Clark Kent, i.e. Watchmen, Battle Hymn, No Hero, Black Summer, DV8: Gods & Monsters. It's been done before, but Danger Club does it extremely well and plays with familiar archetypes in a startling and entertaining way.
  Four, I think accessibility is very important for a new #1 issue. For me, I look for a precarious balancing act between telling me enough to engage me and make me care about the world or the characters or the ideas and being emotionally invested in the work, without treating me like I'm a 5 year old. I don't want to be told everything. I want to discover some of the mysteries for myself. I mean, I'll take the hot chick in my hotel room wearing just a pair of my boxers and sultry eyes over the fully naked woman screaming for sex any day, right? I don't want to be assaulted with expositional dialogue dumps and narrative captions that are telling me how I should be feeling at any given moment. I also don't want something to be so obtuse and laden with inter-textual Easter Egg references (Grant Morrison, Alan Moore, I'm looking at you guys) or some non-linear stream of consciousness style of scripting that I can't get a foothold on what's going on or why I should care. You read comics because you want to be entertained, right? Ideally that entertainment transcends to become art. But, bottom line, in a new #1 you have to do one thing: start a good story.
  Lastly, I guess I'll throw a wildcard into the mix and talk about blind faith. There are one or two creators who have banked enough credibility with me on past projects that nothing I said above applies. Let me be clear that this is extremely rare and true of only two people I can think of at the moment: Paul Pope and Brian Wood. It doesn't matter what the book is about, the genre, the publisher, if it's a singular venture or they're working with collaborators, a one-shot, a mini-series, or an ongoing title. If their name is on it, I buy it without question, as a creative leap of faith. Usually their projects will meet some or all of the above criteria, but even if they don't, even if I'm not instantly hooked with that first issue, I keep buying it and see it through to the end because these guys have earned my loyalty and I trust them enough to ride with them to the very end. What new #1 issues have worked for you recently and why?

Keith: Leave it to you to find the one (or twenty) flaws in my argument. You're right, it's not about how many first issues one buys, but how many twos, threes and sixties(!). Because let's face it (in the most cynical sense) what makes a good first issue is that you want to buy the next issue and the next, etc. etc. So, logically, that's really all a #1 needs to accomplish: get 'em to buy issue #2, which are usually a huge let down, but that's a question for another day.

  You had me laughing out loud trying to parse my Gandalf metaphor. I wish I had done a better job explaining myself, but then again I would not have gotten you to reveal your 'true colors' about LOTR, so, ha! As an aside, I always thought a good subtitle for LOTR would be: a long walk or stroll or meander through Middle-Earth. ANYWAY. What I meant to say about decompressed storytelling is that it is the writer's and artist's prerogative when it comes to how they want their story told. The first example that comes to my head is Scott Snyder's current run on Swamp Thing. He had an idea in mind about how he wanted to tell this story and damned if he wasn't going to tell it his way no matter how long it took to bring (re)create Swamp Thing. I had my struggles with that book, but the first issue was 'good enough' that I spent the next seven or eight issues following that story. So, I guess that made Swamp Thing #1 a 'good issue' even though the storytelling was slow.

  As to the other factors (the Giampaoli matrix if you will) Swamp Thing #1 had a great writer and artist, it had a good hook, it was unique and it was accessible. Also, it had the wildcard factor. Snyder, like it or not, is in ascendency right now. For now, he has the fanboys in rapture. So anything he does at this point in his career was going to be something not only worth checking out, but following. Now, to address your specific point about characters spending a lot of pointless walking and talking, I point to no better example than Hell Yeah. Talk about a first issue that could have been subtitled 'a stroll of the pseudo-heroes.' Wow was that dull. This gets at the decompression that I think you were getting at with your argument. I could not agree with you more. I have a favorite line from 'Planes, Trains, and Automobiles' that I think works here. When Steve Martin is ripping into John Candy in the hotel room he says: 'not everything is an anecdote, you choose things that are funny or interesting ... and here's an idea: have a point!' That's what you're talking about: what's the point of all this talking or walking? How does it help or add to the story? That kind of decompressed storytelling we can all do without because it is pointless. Hell Yeah #1 is a great example of a first issue that promised, but did not deliver. A first issue should not be 10+ pages of story and the rest filler so you can end on a splash page and a cliffhanger. So, taking your time, O.K. (I guess) wandering in the wilderness for the sake of wandering in the wilderness, not so much.

  Let's take another #1 that was a story essential about a character walking from point A to point B. Prophet #21 (for all intents and purposes a first issue). Again, using the GM (Giampaoli Matrix) it has everything. Why Prophet #21 was such a success is that it did not depend on dialogue or intrusive narration. There is very little dialogue at all in that first issue, but the narration never feels overdone or the dreaded exposition dump. Prophet does little more than walk and eat funny looking animals and yet I was totally invested. I wanted to see more of John Prophet walking, using crazy tools, weapons and gadgets and eating weird looking aliens. I wanted to know more about this character and more about his world. Prophet #21 shows and tells in the best possible way by allowing the medium (art and words) to work in concert to construct a narrative that could only be a comic book.

  Wood's Conan the Barbarian (which we've both written a lot about) is another good example of a first issue even though it does have its flaws. There is no better 'jumping on point' that I've read in the last ten months than Conan leaping onto the deck of that ship. That image is the epitome of everything I want in a first issue AND it's an image no dialogue, no narration. Where is this character going and what's going to happen to him? I'm sensing a theme here. Maybe what makes a good first issue is how well a character uses their legs? If you're going to go for a stroll count me out, but if you take off at a sprint, I'm apt to run alongside. Where Conan falls down (trips, stumbles?) is where the issue ends. Sure, it sets up the 'character' that everyone has spent the entire issue talking about, but why save it until the end? Again, I use the word 'promise.' Conan gave me enough 'promise' that I wanted to read issue #2.  Hell Yeah didn't hold any promise (characters, story, etc.) for me and it didn't demonstrate a sense of proportion that it was going to go anywhere (except to the next cliffhanger/splash page).
  I like your 'wildcard' and it's something I considered – the credibility of 'blind faith.' Back in the mid-80's there was nothing by Frank Miller or Bill Sienkiewicz that I would not have bought, same goes for Howard Chaykin. Those were 'my guys' and I am nothing if not brand loyal. That's not the case now. Those creators have changed and so have I. Based on The Strange Talent of Luther Strode, I will buy whatever Justin Jordan and Tradd Moore do next (together and individually) be it Strode or anything else because they've built up credibility with me. I'm in for at least 3 issues (again a topic for another day ... how long do you give a series before you bail?) on the next iteration of the Strode story. I did not include this is my prior missive because I considered it too obvious.  While one is in the throes of one's particular mania Paul Pope, Brian Wood, Frank Miller, Becky Cloonan, etc., one is in for the long haul and not just the first issue. In that sense #33 is no more important than #1, because one is buying them for a different reason, merit is a given. I would make another metaphor here (I'm almost out of time) about having bought EVERY Led Zeppelin tape (even Presence and Coda) when I first discovered Zeppelin because my mania knew no bounds and I could not discern. It was Zeppelin. COME AT ME Giampaoli!

Justin: I think you summed up this decompression beef nicely. Have a point! Writers using a slower, more thorough pace, what's become modern comic book parlance for 'decompression,' is absolutely their prerogative - provided it has a discernible point. It's interesting that you mention Hell Yeah because it was certainly a new #1 that seemed to fail for both of us. However, for me, it wasn't really the decompression that killed it. It just failed almost all of my other GM (heh) criteria. I thought the art was fuzzy, sloppy, inconsistent and uninspiring, the story seemed like it was a derivative blend of Kick-Ass and Sky High, and it was trying to do the superheroes-as-flawed-paradigm analysis (while being extremely expositional in the process), but didn't seem to bring anything unique to that particular table. Your mileage may vary.

  I'm glad you brought up Prophet #21 too, though I can't resist being "that guy" and saying it's disqualified because technically it's not a new #1 ("HAW-HAW!" - Nelson) even though it functionally is one, because it's a great example of a strong debut. You mention wanting to know more about John Prophet's world, and that leads me to introduce another concept, which is world-building. I think strong #1 issues should make an effort to world-build. Now, maybe there's some overlap here with a couple of the categories already established, a) being unique or fresh and/or b) having a strong hook. I guess it depends, again, on how you really define hook. I get a little bugged when people interpret hook as meaning a twist, like a twist ending. I guess hooks can be twists, but twists aren't the only type of hook? Anyway, Prophet is a grand example of world-building that doesn't stop to get expositional, yet remains accessible and intriguing enough to pull you right in and leave you wanting more. All of his hobbiting around served this precious point, to organically tour us through the world that Brandon Graham set out to build, with the aid of Simon Roy on that first issue.
  Maybe I'm diverging a little here, but I see a lot of other tangential questions popping up here which are maybe outside the scope of this discussion. You mentioned The Strange Talent of Luther Strode, but that was a mini-series. So, do you thing the factors change or skew slightly when writing a new #1 for a finite mini-series vs. an ongoing? You also mention the first 3-issue arc of Conan The Barbarian. Do you think the factors for writing a 'good' first issue change based on how long the arc will be? I'm generalizing, but most modern on-goings will have 5 or 6 issue arcs. Brian Wood specifically said that his writing changed by having to condense everything into 3-issue arcs. Maybe this means more densely told stories, more compressed vs. decompressed (ugh! that word again!) storytelling, more to offer, more value to hook someone in the first issue. Speaking of value, does price point factor in to your decision-making process about a "good" first issue? Vertigo has been pretty good about offering some of their new #1 issues at an introductory $1. Your precious Spaceman #1 was $1, no? Does a book being $2.99 vs. $3.50 or $3.99 influence you specific to your decision to continue?

Keith: Precious Spaceman? You wound, sir. You wound. I'd like to say that price matters and maybe it does for the most risk averse when it comes to trying a new series. But a buck is a buck, and who among us would not shout out ''I'd buy[2] that for a dollar!'' if issue #2 or #172 bore a similar cover price. My discretionary income for a particular week often dictates if I'm willing to take a chance on a number one and even then I try to pre-order through my LCS and have the issue on my pull-list. I can't say for sure if the length of a story-arc would sway me to pick up a first issue -- oddly enough, it is a factor for me when buying minis, so go figure -- it really depends the mood I'm in at the moment. This brings up another discussion for another time: when do you drop a series? I feel like there is an unexploited market out there for self-help for comic book fans when it's time to let go of that long-time favorite when it's not working for you anymore. Other worlds, gunslinger, other worlds. O.K. Last question: In the last twelve months, what are your favorite two number one issues that you've read?

Justin: Being totally honest, the first that popped into my head was Danger Club #1, which I've already discussed. I think it was just so efficient in hitting most of my criteria, slick art, a great hook about teen sidekicks having to step up after Earth's greatest heroes mysteriously disappear after facing a cosmic threat, bringing something fresh to a tired set of genre tropes in the writing department, and some terrific world-building in the form of these retro flashbacks that flesh out the main characters. It's only on issue #2 and I can already tell it's going to be one of my favorite series of 2012. Using your Prophet #21 loophole, I'll go with X-Men #30 from

  Brian Wood and David Lopez[3]. It's one of these jumping on point issues that takes the book in a radical new direction and functionally is a #1. The hook is Planetary meets Authority, but with a mutant strike team lead by Storm.  4 of the 5 team members are women, which I'm surprised isn't getting more fanfare. He sets it in a fun corner of the world, dropping in all sorts of obscure personal like Sabra (the mutant Mossad Agent), quirky fringe characters like Pixie and Domino, and fun Warren Ellis inspired sci-fi/green technology/experimental propulsion stuff. David Lopez is an artist I wasn't familiar with, but I was instantly blown away by his John Cassaday meets JH Williams III art. It's got this really glossy and consistent polish to it, but then a lean, kinetic, detailed, and thin line weight that I just adore.

Keith:  Justin, as I wrote that question, my 'blink' response was Animal Man #1. The faux magazine interview in The Believer that Jeff Lemire uses to kick off the series is, for me, the most creative and perfect introduction to a series/character that I've read in the last twelve months. Buddy Baker and the whole Animal Man 'famn damily' were entirely new to me as was Lemire and artist Travel Foreman. This was a case where my only disappointment about the first issue was only that I was going to have to wait thirty days to read the next issue. Animal Man is also a good example of how quickly a series can lose its momentum when an artist leaves or the narrative gets bogged down in cross-overs and drawn-out story arcs. If I were to go (a lot) less mainstream, I would suggest Matt Kindt's Mind MGMT from Dark Horse. I'll grant that this comic isn't for everyone given its genre (conspiracy theories and clandestine WTF?! organizations) and that its simple, spare art (Kindt writes and draws each issue) isn't in the same league with most cape comics. Mind MGMT is a story that can only be compared to SEAL training when someone is left broken and busted out in the middle-of-nowhere with only a half-chewed dull eraserless pencil and their wits; unpredictable and a hell of a lot of fun as long as you're willing to ride the ride.

Mr. Giampaoli (dude writes like a fiend) can be found at  http://thirteenminutes.blogspot.com/ and follow him on Twitter @thirteenminutes for some of the best (and boldest) comic book criticism anywhere.

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[1] Justin took me to task on my ‘Gandalf analogy’ at this point in the discussion. I edited it out of our discussion, but you can read the whole damn thing here: I'm [Justin]  struggling to come up with a Gandalf retort, but uhhh... well, I guess a lot of people complain that when we first meet Gandalf, the scenes in the Shire take forever and a day to conclude, but that should NOT be attacked for decompression using my criteria because it's germane to the story. I think Tolkien lingered there, at least in part, to show what an idyllic and innocent place ye olde Hobbits were from to juxtapose that with their involvement in the impending war. Contrast that to, I don't know, if they'd shown Aragorn and the fellas camping out at Weathertop in real-time for hours on end and I don't think you're adding much to the narrative, just boring the audience with irrelevant decompression.

[2] Lest a Robocop reference go unused at the appropriate time.

[3] Álvaro López is also listed as an artist on X-Men #30. The colors are done by Rachelle Rosenberg.

Review: Local

Feel Like Going Home

  The last 'official' class I took in graduate school (per my 'unofficial' transcript) at the University of Vermont was Studies in Rhetoric and Composition. Besides the fact that the teacher cancelled the last class of the semester because it was too hot[1] (!!!) outside, I recall that I wrote about the first book that ever affected me, A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. I read the book before I saw the movie and that 'has made all the difference' as a well-known Vermont poet once wrote.

  The book is arranged into twenty-one chapters. American publishers excised the last chapter from early US editions because they thought it wouldn't wash with violence-loving Americans. Kubrick consciously leaves this symbolic twenty-first chapter (he called it an 'extra' chapter) out of his film adaptation. Depending on one's opinion, Kubrick's decision is either reckless or ingenious or both. The last chapter details what happens to Alex after he is 'cured' that second time. He runs into one of his old droogs (Pete, I think?) at a cafe. Pete has a girlfriend now. Pete has moved on. Alex has not. I remember I finished that last chapter, closed the book and then threw it across my parent's living room. I was angry at the fact that a book as cool as A Clockwork Orange was trying to tell me something about life and what it means to 'grow up,' and it wasn't trying to be all 'preachy-talky' as Alex would say. It said what it said, no apologies, no exception, not a bit of finger-wagging and no lesson; perfect for an obnoxious know-it-all teenager.   

  When I finished Local a couple of months ago, I had a similar reaction -- I didn't throw it across the room, it's too heavy (I would have killed one of the kids fer crissakes!) and that Oni Press edition is too beautiful to mistreat. Except now, I had this blog and so I had to write about it. I knew I wasn't going to be able to scale this Everest all at once, I would need to set up base camps, work my way up; and I knew I would need a Tenzing Norgay. So when Daniel Elkin of Comics Bulletin asked me to co-author a piece for Danny Djeljosevic's Fair Trade Comics Column, I was humbled (a little intimidated), and 100% game. Local overwhelms. It's that simple. I don't know how long I'll be reading comics this time 'round, but I'm a better man, a better human for having the opportunity to have read Local and whatever I can do to get this book into the hands of more people I will. That's a promise, my droogies. Elkin, I'm indebted. Djeljosvic thanks for doing your thing my man. FYI set some time aside when you hit the link, after all, it takes time to be a local.  

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[1] Oh my God (!) does that make me sound nerdy. I will now go into box and feel shame.

Review: Conan the Barbarian #5

Bird Is the Word 

What's with the pigeon?[*] Perhaps this is a case of a cigar standing for a cigar; perhaps not. Since the latter invites conversation that the former eschews, one sees fit to indulge. Under writer Brian Wood, artists James Harren and Becky Cloonan and colorist Dave Stewart, Conan the Barbarian seeks to play with the idea of identity. This series sets Conan as novitiate -- the education of the barbarian -- a student at the alabaster feet of Bêlit, his teacher and lover. It's Conan as he learns to be Conan. In the opening story arc, Conan discovers that appearances deceive and that truth and fiction are seldom the same. In this second arc, 'The Argos Deception,' identity is a con as Bêlit, Conan and the crew of the Tigress use a ruse as a weapon and if their plan is to work, they'll need that pigeon.
  Conan the Barbarian #5 opens on a moneyed Messantian as he tends to his birds. The omniscient narrator's voice speaks of the ''glittering city of Messantia,'' ''favorable tax laws,'' and the ''assumption of freedom.'' On its face, it looks as if Wood is reaching into Conan's world to ascribe a percentage to the haves and have-nots of this port city and maybe he is, but to what end? An artist or writer's partialities or personal politics are bound to find agency in their work, and yet, those biases should serve the work.  Wood has worn his politics on his sleeve before (Channel Zero and DMZ) and if he is doing so again with Conan the Barbarian -- as is so often said on this blog -- so what? A writer of Wood's stripe doesn't force his opinions for their own sake, so what is he trying to say? If longtime Robert E. Howard fans blanch at Wood taking Conan off script how will the base feel as the politics of today occupy the Hyborian age?

  Veterans of Conan campaigns past and raw recruits can agree on one thing: this has to be the most gentle, the most peaceful start to a Conan comic … ever. Stewart bathes Messantia in early morning shades of heliotrope and tangerine as the city slowly stirs. The man tenderly takes a bird (a pigeon) from its cage and with palms upturned offers it into the air, a holy act. Harren's talent for depth and dimension shows in this scene as the smallness of the man and the bird are set off against the high-walled canyons of the city. Stewart paints the bird white to add a layer of peacefulness and tranquility. Few acts are as symbolic as the release of a bird; even if that bird has been domesticated and trained to return to its home, its cage. For now, however, it alights into the sky sans shackles. This scene of quiescent dawn ends in ragged shadow as the sun stands stunted against the wall of Conan's cage in the prison fortress. 

  So what? So some 'Richie Rich' releases a bird! Big deal. But it's a pigeon. Words and symbolism cut both ways. A pigeon is another word for a dupe, a fool, a mark. Wood uses this very subtle sign to set up the deception that will take place later in the issue with the sudden entrance of the woman [†]in white. In a twenty-two page comic with a ten page fight scene and another single page where Bêlit is masked in arterial spray, Wood takes two-and-a-half pages to show a man setting a pigeon aloft.

Why? Sure this 'free bird' juxtaposes Conan backed up against the wall of his prison cell, but even that is too pat, too on-the-nose. The pigeon counts because it symbolizes a city that can be had, it's world-building by swindle. From the jump, Conan the Barbarian has been about subverting expectations through pledge, turn and prestige -- a magic trick in tripartite arcs. Wood has taken an ordinary commodity, Conan the Barbarian, and turned him (and it) into something extraordinary.

In Messantia, money talks and a pretty face (and an arcane tradition) can overturn blind justice. Conan is kept from the hangman's noose only to be tossed into the arena against an opponent Harren draws as an upside down triangle, a bare-chested, bullet-headed bruiser with a face that looks like it was cut by a jigsaw[‡]. The champion cast to clash with Conan is from a class ''little more than court pets, warriors in retirement.'' Messantians like their fighters like their birds, kept. N'Yaga, the seer, free from the hold makes an appearance in the tumult to offer Conan a blade and sharp words about the fates. The fight finishes in a bloody ''are-you-not-entertained'' splash-page. It's the one image (besides the Massimo Carnevale cover) that misses its target. Harren ends strong with a street-level view of a Messantian boulevard buttressed by two buildings as tendrils of rosy smoke stream heavenward. The image smolders with anticipation of the story arc's conclusion in the next issue as its perspective eerily invokes the attacks of September eleventh.

  At the start of the contest, the narrator says: ''Since he was six years old, Conan has fought bigger opponents.'' It's a sentence that resonates beyond the plot or the page. Conan is totemic and at the same time open to interpretation. Brian Wood brings a novel quality to Conan the Barbarian that shows this character is more than muscle and more than a sword and sandal cliché. The narrative is drum tight. The smallest details (the littlest birds) in the art embellish overt themes and ideas of the story. To dismiss Conan the Barbarian as solely another Conan yarn is like saying the Odyssey is 'only' about a guy trying to go home or that Ulysses is 'only' about a guy who can't get laid. Conan endures.           

---

[*] In an inspired (read insane) bit of chutzpah I tweeted to Mr. Wood to ask: ''pigeon or dove?''. Wood responded that the script said pigeon.

[†] Little Wilke Collins reference for you English Majors out there. You’re welcome.

[‡] Old-school Mike Zeck era Punisher shout-out for those of you old enough to remember.

Review: Anathema #1

Blessing of a Curse

Fiction lies. Popular fiction like Mystery, Fantasy and Horror fits out fiction's lies with better hats, longer coats and faster horses. Put another way, it's never about the detective, the King or the vampire. Horror holds truths to be self-evident: beware of strangers, don't overreach and stay away from cobwebby books in locked rooms. Horror desires to deceive before it fixes its teeth and allows reality (the true horror) to set in. Horror is always results-based and there are always stakes.

  Writer Rachel Deering, artist Chris Mooneyham and colorist Fares Maese dress up Anathema #1 in classic gothic tropes like remote castles, women in distress and the supernatural. Anathema opens with consecutive stories in which the past is present in two twice-told tales. Deering parallels the beginnings of her protagonist, Mercy, and Mercy's bête noire, Count Aldric Karnstein so that each origin unfurls to reveal a heroine (and a villain) both bound by bad decisions. At its heart Anathema is a hero's journey in the most parochial sense, however, Deering creates a wolf in sheep’s clothing that comments on intolerance, the consequences of (in)action and the restorative power of storytelling

  Mercy does not live up to her name (at first) as she chooses to run rather than to save her lover, Sarah, when the two are discovered by Sarah's father. Mercy escapes while Sarah is sent to burn for her sin. Mercy's escape -- in light of Sarah's capture -- is kept off-stage and it's not clear where she thought to go as she fled in blind fear. Guilt is a cruel gift that keeps giving; a tender mercy of the wicked that Mercy must channel if she is to overcome her desperation.
  Sarah's screams call Mercy back from her flight, but she arrives too late. In a shrewd twist Mercy bears witness to three unholy acts: Sarah's unjust death, the sudden slaughter of Sarah's persecutors by a murder of red-eyed crows and the in extremis reaping of Sarah's soul by those same red-eyed devils. Mercy breaks and when she does she breaks bad. All the gutters in Anathema take the black with one exception: the moment Mercy realizes the gravity of her decision not to act to save Sarah's life. In an unbroken border, Mooneyham and Maese surround a prostrate Mercy in white. It is at this nadir that she finds her voice, becomes a storyteller and seeks an audience. ¶  Deering's decision to begin Mercy's story in medias res requires a fair amount of narrative to explain the goings-on. At first, it's not clear that this is a retelling of events. Sure, all the verbs are in the past tense, but when the art is this effective it's easy to overlook grammar. Mooneyham's pencils and Maese's colors elevate the narrative exposition from only a telling into a showing. The art is so dynamic that it's easy to miss the two white narrative boxes of Mercy's interlocutor amongst the champagne colored multitude of Mercy's narration. Mooneyham and Maese's work possesses a crepuscular glee; silhouettes and macabre shadows are offset by a luminous moon and the flames of the pyre. Maese's cool color palette illuminates the story and gives it the look of stained glass. Mooneyham's figures foreground forests dense with vegetative verve and leaves awhirl symbolic of a fall. The faces of Mercy and Sarah are open, void of too much detail, but always split with tears. In the attack on the sanctimonious mob, Mooneyham backgrounds a grisly moment of a limb being torn off and hoisted into the air by one of the crows; an indelicate and emblematic image of Anathema's mark of horror.   

  Mercy laments her woeful account to Henrich, a hermit, who lives on the bayou; think of Merlin having Yoda's gibbous posture and male-pattern baldness, but with hair by Paulie "Walnuts." A lore master, of course, Henrich knows the evil that men do and knows from where soul-sucking fowl fly. He tells Mercy the story of Count Karnstein aka the soul harvester, a former plague doctor who goes mad when he cannot protect his own family from the Black Death. Torches blaze, sacred chants praised and Karnstein becomes more monster than man. Secreted away within his keep he sustains himself on his victims dying curses of God before taking their lives and their souls. In time, his own sloth and avarice causes him to be hunted down, killed and his heart quartered and spread to the four corners of the land. Mercy's eyewitness account leads Henrich to believe that the darkness gathers again and that Karnstein's toadies now labor to see their master restored to his former soul-eating glory. Henrich finishes the history lesson as the imp of the perverse seizes Mercy; she decides to reconcile her initial cowardice and save Sarah's soul be it by blessing or by curse.

  Mercy goes to Henrich for help -- his name is the first word she says after the narrative white-out -- and in spite of his poor cuticle health and the many skulls he keeps at hand, Henrich seems benevolent enough, but Horror has a funny way of making fiends of friends. Deering mirrors Mercy's story of the events of Sarah's death with Henrich's recalling of Karnstein's legacy as a way to foreshadow how actions have consequences when the black arts get invoked. By setting each story back-to-back, Deering draws a connection (intended or not) between Mercy and Karnstein. Mercy is not evil like Karnstein (not yet anyhow), but the two do share a bond when it comes to the fortitude required to make a personal sacrifice which makes each one more equal than adversary. Is it unreasonable to think that Karnstein could be a fork in the road that Mercy may one day choose to take? Deering knows her horror and it will be curious to see how close she hews to heroic customs or if she decides play more fast and loose.

   Anathema is punitive to the point of being puritanical. Words like 'sin,' and 'innocence,' 'suffering' and 'persecution' all find their way into the script and a narrative that calls for an innocent to be burned at the stake and another woman to be tortured until she curses God is nothing if not medieval. It doesn't take a seer with Henrich's faculties to notice that Deering has something to say about intolerance and ignorance. The blessing of Horror, after all, is its ability to work within an outmoded milieu that reflects current social anxieties. In the story's prologue Deering writes: ''In the hearts of those few, the fires of hatred still burn, and not a soul is spared their unyielding wrath.'' How much farther Deering develops this angle seems at odds with the choice Mercy makes at the end of the story. Unless, of course, Mercy believes as Bassanio does in The Merchant of Venice: ''To do a great right, do a little wrong [4.1.213].'' That's not to say that Deering has to temper her attack on prejudice, but by the end, she has set Mercy's course, she is dealing with different animal and there is no going back. 

  There is nothing to keep the wolf from the door in Anathema. Deering, Mooneyham and Maese craft an ageless horror story that finds purchase in today's social climate. Mercy is power. As any comic book reader knows with great power comes great responsibility; it's the blessing and the curse that makes Anathema such a charm.  _________________________________    

Anathema #1 is available as a free .pdf download at http://theironrachel.deviantart.com/

Issues #2 - #6 were successfully funded through kickstarter.com. To read more about Anathema visit http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/theironrachel/anathema-keep-the-lesbian-werewolf-epic-alive

Review: Tiger Lawyer #1

A Real Shark

  My friend Mark is a consummate consumer. Rarely does he make a purchase without first having read several sundry reviews, cross-referenced different retailers to find the lowest price and either finagled a further discount or signed up for some scheme in order to 'save' a few dollars more . Although his generosity allows me to ride on his coupon clipping coattails, I find the whole endeavor the height of exhaustion. Now, that's not to say that I am the proverbial 'fool and his money,' although, yes, at times, in my less fiscally responsible youth I was known to pay retail for a CD or cover price for a book. What gives Mark the screaming fantods is the 'blind buy' which I consider less of a risk and more of an intuitive (and therefore trusted) purchase.

  So, when I saw that Eric Stephenson of Image Comics had posted Ben Rankel's drawing of a tiger dressed in a suit lapping whiskey out of a glass, I knew I had to know more and I knew in my gut that this was for me. Call it the 'thunderbolt,' call it 'love at first sight,' whatever, you know it when you know it and I knew it. Tiger Lawyer is the inspiration of Ryan Ferrier who writes and publishes the comic through his own Challenger Comics. If animals dressed as people blows your hair back (you twisted fuck) or you think that there aren't enough tigers practicing law than Tiger Lawyer is the cat's pajamas or for you more R-rated sinners, the cat's ass.

  I've earned my 30 day chip, you might say, since I stopped buying Marvel and DC proper. That's not enough of a sample size to say if my experiment has worked or not. What I can report is that I don't miss those few titles that were giving me cause to carp, but little when it came to joy. So there's that. There is no shortage of 'other' comics out there and I'll be sharing more of my finds here and on Comics Bulletin as I continue to troll Kickstarter and follow promising tweets. It may take a bit more investigation to track-down self-published or creator-owned work and I've learned that you often have to be patient, but it's not so different from any other obsessive and his object of desire be it a 20% off coupon or anthropomorphic lawyer.  Thanks again to the redoubtable Danny Djeljosevic and Mr. Jason Sacks.

  Here's the first 'graph, hit the Rawr! for the lion's share -- apologies I make that joke again in the review: 

  Leave it to a guy with nothing to lose -- an innocent victim sentenced to death -- to say what every reader of Tiger Lawyer may think at first: ''You're a joke, Tiger. You're a gag. A gimmick. An animal for Pete's sake.'' What is the precedent when it comes to an anthropomorphic professional? Fish Police?  Is this some kind of one note bon mot or does Tiger Lawyer have teeth?  Rawr!