Suzan Colon's Wrasslin' Centaurs

Suzan Colón was a student of mine at SAW (Sequential Artists Workshop) last year, and she hit on an ingenious concept that she's working to bring to a longer form in her series Wrasslin' Centaurs. (Full disclosure, she listed me as an editor of this comic.) The concept is, on the surface, a silly one: a world where mythological creatures like centaurs and cyclopes are real and living in the modern day. This is a possible setting for a high-fantasy narrative; instead, the titular centaurs are struggling pro wrestlers in an independent league. The in-ring narrative does provide a lot of action, but this comic is really a romance narrative above all else. Colón has a strong ear for dialogue, but it's her visual eye for detail that makes this a fun comic. 

Her figures are cartoony and appealing, drawing from a Dan DeCarlo Archie tradition. However, Colón is something of a maximalist, often layering lots of extra gags and details beneath the clear action of the character narrative. That extends to the details on the cover, easter eggs about the extended world they live in, and decorative/humorous details on the inside and back covers. What's most important is that Colón  quickly establishes the set-up and the character motivations, though one of the three centaurs is not named until the very last page. Various romantic configurations are also established, and they are all filtered through a fantastical lens (they are creatures) in a manner that reflects everyday concerns (concern over dating a centaur because he doesn't have a stable job). Within that fantastical lens, Colón draws in a mostly naturalistic style, leaning into exaggeration to enhance humor or action. Upon reading this short comic, one immediately wants to know more about the characters. 

Tanya Dorph-Mankey's Count The Lights #2

The second chapter of Tanya Dorph-Mankey's queer wrestling epic, Count The Lights, ratchets up the tension between the intense heel wrestler Alan Jacobs and his infuriatingly casual rival Ryan Roberts. The story is told from a kayfabe perspective; that is, that the matches and stories behind them are real. Dorph-Mankey works big: big pages, big panels, big fights, big emotions. Wrestling here serves a function not unlike the songs in a musical: when the emotion of a situation is so overwhelming that mere speech no longer suffices to express it. As such, the actual wrestling moves all feel authentically drawn, and Dorph-Mankey is careful to pay a lot of attention to detail in how the men move in the ring. Jacobs is ambitious and clearly has a lot to prove in returning to the East Coast, and he can't stand how Roberts treats things like he's indulging in a punchline only he understands. 

The attraction that one would normally be subsumed in this kind of narrative is made plain and then demystified by the other members of his wrestling faction. The ridiculously bearded brothers Max & Jeremy are simultaneously his friends, his supporters, and also his enablers. The cruel leader of the faction, Caelum, tells Alan to fuck Roberts and get it over with. Roberts starts getting in his head and in his dreams. In one sequence, it's difficult to tell what's an actual match and what is the dream that he wakes up from. It's obvious that the lack of clarity is part of the point, but it felt a bit like cheating to advance their flirtation that far with so little warning, only to negate it. That thread is picked up again more effectively later, even as Jacobs continues to deny not just attraction, but his deeper feelings for Roberts as well. There are also signs of jealousy, as the easy friendship of Roberts' faction is very different than the survival-of-the-fittest quality he has with Caelum. The chapter ends with Jacobs once again trying to sublimate these feelings in the ring and challenge the champion, the mysterious masked wrestler Orion. There's a classic wrestling face-off, as Dorph-Mankey blends wrestling conventions with comics storytelling conventions in a way that feels both bombastic and organic. 

Comics from SAW Week: Meg Lentz

Meg Lentz is a SAW graduate whose work focuses on queerness, mental health, and social justice. Working through their alter ego, Lenny Ditz, Lentz's comics are usually very funny. Working through their assignments in SAW's year-long program, Lentz stretched into poetic comics as well. The second issue of their Lenny Ditz comic continues on the memoir track, with Lenny graduating from comics and getting a retail job at a certain popular grocery store chain here nicknamed as "Raider Rob's." 

What they thought would be a fun and queer-friendly experience turned out to be a nightmare as they endured typical corporate bullshit, mandatory "fun" like synchronized dance routines for customers, and a concussion when some stock fell on their head. Lentz exaggerates this in a pirate motif, as each employee gets a parrot and a "box-cutlass" and their boss talks like a pirate. Lentz makes a lot of clever & funny cartooning decisions, with a potentially tricky open-page layout paying off as it allowed them to pack a lot of gags and information on each page. The final gag, where a "flash jig" results in Lenny getting hit in the head with a plank and being trod on by their co-workers, works well because it pushes the concept to its limit. 

Lenny Ditz #3: Lenny Ditz Meets Sappho is even funnier, as it tells a tale of high-school Lenny, who had yet to come out but considered themselves to be a "good ally." Tongue is firmly in cheek here as young Lenny struggled to write a research paper about the famous poet whose work is mostly fragmentary. Falling asleep in front of an altar to Sappho, Lenny "gay magically" appears in ancient Greece and happens upon Sappho and her admirers. The genius of this comic is that because so little of Sappho's work has been translated, nearly every bit of dialogue in this part of the comic consists of lyrics from Abba. (Mamma Mia, indeed!) Lentz has a knack for wringing out every bit of humor from the premise of "Oh, I'm not gay, I'm just an ally" and pairing it with the absurdity of the Abba references. The front and back covers feature familiar uses of the famous vases that had images of Sappho--a clever decorative feature. Lentz's cartooning is just plain solid throughout, especially the way they depict bodies interacting in space using an open page layout. Lentz's figure drawing is a bit on the plain side, though the humor in their pieces comes from their concepts and storytelling, and less from the drawings themselves. 

A Girl Without Skin is a total departure as a two-track narrative showing a worm but featuring narration by a girl born without skin who is tortured by her constant pain and inability to feel the touch of another. The visual track looks like it was done as a print, with stark black & white illustrating a worm being picked up, crushed, and flicked away. It's a double-barrelled misery explosion presented in a concentrated and beautiful format. It's entirely hand made, with the lettering being taped on. The darkness inherent in Lentz's more humorous work is on full display here. 

Finally, there's I Like To Draw...With My Eyes Shut!, a fun like sketch zine that's exactly what it sounds like. It's a great exercise, because it forces the artist to trust their hand instead of their eyes. Unsurprisingly, when Lentz was drawing action sequences (like figure skaters), the shapes were fluid, dynamic, and immediately recognizable. Their self-portraits, on the other hand, were far less coherent and recognizable. I'd recommend this to any cartoonist who wants to draw more expressively. 

Trondheim & Sfar's Dungeon: The Early Years

Lewis Trondheim & Joann Sfar's Dungeon (or Donjon, in the original French) is my favorite comics series of all time. It's a giant, sprawling epic that's both a love letter to and a send-up of fantasy spectacles. It spoofs overly convoluted world-building and plots while establishing its own deep lore. The essence of the story is this: there is a dungeon, run by its Keeper, that actively encourages adventurers to attempt to take its treasures. Of course, it's full of horrible monsters and traps designed to murder any party, which means the keeper takes all of their treasure as well. All of its characters are anthropomorphic animals, which makes sense since Trondheim drew most of the early series, and that is his style. 

The main title, nicknamed "Zenith," shows the dungeon at its height and introduces an idiot duck named Herbert trying to get a job in the dungeon. He befriends the Keeper's top man, a dragon named Marvin, and accidentally acquires a sword that demands he go on a quest. It's funny but also satisfying as a solid piece of genre fiction. The conceit is that Dungeon would run for a hundred volumes, but Zenith only had 10 volumes.

Trondheim & Sfar didn't want to do a conventional narrative. They wanted to play with the story in fun ways, asking the question, "Hey, how does it all wind up?" So they zoomed ahead to volume 101, starting a series of stories called "Twilight." Years later, we see what became of Herbert, Marvin, and many others, and it's a surprisingly grim story, still leavened by lots of slapstick. If that wasn't enough, they zoomed back in time to volume -99, called "The Early Years," which introduces us to the keeper in his youth. (There are also Antipodes + and -, which go way further into the future and past, but those haven't been translated into English yet.) 

NBM had originally published these in small digest format, which hurt the reproduction of the art, which was originally published in France in the oversized album format. NBM finally reprinted them again at the right size and published all of the Early Years stories. The six original French albums have been published in two editions: The Early Years Vol 1-2: The Night Shirt, and The Early Years Vol 3: Without A Sound. Overall, these volumes are a great improvement over the previous editions. There are still some quirks; there are lettering errors in the translation, for example. It's still exciting to see so many volumes of Dungeon translated into English, though NBM's recent shift to mostly doing biographies would seem to indicate there won't be any more forthcoming. 

There is a consistent character arc in the series that is reflected by the protagonist of each of the main series. The hero initially is highly naive and idealistic, but they are eventually worn down by their experiences and become corrupted and cynical. This happens to the Keeper, aka Hyacinth de Cavallere, and it happens to Herbert (and it's shocking when it does). Marvin the Red, the hero of "Twilight," is certainly naive at the beginning, but as the world literally falls apart, his narrative goes in the opposite direction: from a wannabe hard-boiled killer to a family man. 

"The Early Years" focuses on Hyacinth's journey from pampered son of a warlord to cold-blooded assassin. Both Early Years and Twilight depict an old order crumbling before the eyes of the protagonists, and the stories are that of adaptation and finding a new steady-state. In "The Early Years," the old world of knights, warlords, and chivalry came to an end, symbolized by the fall of the capital city Antipolis. It's the seat of all knowledge and law, but it's being undone by its own corruption, greed, and squalor. The first three volumes (-99, -98, and -97) detail Hyacinth becoming a sort of bumbling vigilante named "The Night Shirt," who fights for justice in the corrupt city. His undoing is falling in love with a snake-woman assassin named Alexandra. 

The narrative then jumps ahead to volumes -84, -83, and -82. Hyacinth is rich and powerful, and secretly the head of the assassin's guild, but he is in mourning because his lover Alexandra has murdered his sweet wife. His own greed helps settle the city's destruction, and he's forced to flee to his family castle. By the end of the last volume, he's assembled the crew that would make up the foundation of his dungeon, including a five-year-old Marvin the Dragon. Christophe Blain drew the first four volumes, and he was an outstanding choice as someone who has done so many action epics. Working within the Dungeon style, Christophe Gaultier brings a darker, grittier quality to the story than the others, but it's fitting for how nasty his chapter was. Stephane Oiry's chapter is brighter and clearer, which was also befitting a more optimistic story. Selecting the right artists for the job showed that Trondheim & Sfar were smart editors in addition to being great artists. "The Early Years" might be my favorite entries in the whole Dungeon saga, as they are satisfying in how they create the character narrative as well as having tons of fun lore-related easter eggs for fans of the rest of the series. 

Whit Taylor's Fizzle #4 & #5

There's only one more issue of Whit Taylor's series Fizzle to go after the fourth and fifth issues, and the fourth issue turns inward while the fifth issue has competing flashbacks and forward movement. The story revolves around Claire, an adrift twentysomething living in Los Angeles who's in an orbit of mutual aimlessness with her rich stoner boyfriend Andy. She works in a yuppie, high-end tea shop whose owner, Poppy, is obsessed with image and hyper-focused on her extremely niche interest. Claire develops an interest in creating gourmet popsicles with unusual fruit flavors, and the only person who really takes it seriously is Andy's grandfather Dick. Dick gives her a citrus taxonomy book to encourage her. 

What the reader doesn't know at this point is exactly how Claire wound up in this position. She had alluded to a shitty family and being estranged from her family, but that doesn't quite explain how she wound up in LA after being raised in New Jersey. It was also unclear what drew her to Andy in the first place. Taylor spends a lot of time answering both of these questions in these issues and fleshes out an unusual character narrative in Claire. What do you do with a character who has no motivations other than trying to figure out exactly what it is she wants? Taylor essentially presents Claire as a character whose motivations are defined by negative space. That is, Claire may not know what she wants, but she quickly realizes what situations she doesn't want.

The fourth issue goes into an extended flashback where her father forgets to pick her up from school, and young Claire has to walk to her mother's place. She takes comfort in television, and the sort of shows with romantic angles in particular. In the present day, she's increasingly frustrated with her slacker "musician" boyfriend, who sneers when Claire tells him that her mother is getting remarried. Claire is so angry that she takes up her work crush Jaime on his offer to hang out.

The fifth issue flashes between her first extended date with Andy and her platonic day out with Jaime. Here, Taylor reveals why she was drawn to Andy: he represented a total sense of freedom from responsibility that she had clearly craved. Living in a family marked by conflict and with a father who barely acknowledged her existence, pushed her to want to be with someone who wanted her exactly as she was. What the series suggests is that she had been drifting in a fantasy world, trapped in a warm cocoon where she wanted for nothing because of her rich boyfriend but was also not encouraged or acknowledged as having any meaningful sense of agency. Meeting Jaime, a witty and ambitious man who clearly valued her passions and found ways to encourage them, was clearly an unprecedented event that led her to start doubting everything about her life. Doubting, but not quite yet acting on these doubts. I'll be curious to see what happens in the final issue. 

Taylor sells everything with outstanding character work. Claire's facial expressions tell the story in ways her dialogue doesn't; the barely suppressed rage expressed as harsh facial angles, the brief moments of eyes-closed bliss, copious amounts of side-eye, and furrowed-brow anxiety. Andy's slovenly character design resembles someone whose own sense of inertia is highly cultivated; he's never known actual poverty or discomfort, and it shows. Poppy's hair and glasses instantly give the reader an instant sense of how self-serious she is, yet also totally contemptuous of anyone outside of her "influencer" sphere. The extra fun stuff is the fantasy segments where Claire imagines someone being on a dating show where the central woman is dating anthropomorphic versions of the planets. Taylor just cuts loose visually during those segments, as she plays to her strengths with regard to keeping things focused on characters but also displays a confident visual ambition that's a new element of her work. 

Jason's Death In Trieste

Jason's latest collection of short stories, Death In Trieste, once again finds the cartoonist doing deep-dive riffs into art history, pop culture, and pulp fiction. The result is something of a mixed bag. His work is always a pleasure to look at, as the smooth pen strokes and precise lettering, combined with his trademark, stripped-down, anthropomorphic character design, provide unwavering fun. As always, his sense of humor is deadpan mixed with slapstick, and he usually manages to mix in the essence of what he's riffing on into the jokes themselves.

For example, take the first story, "The Magritte Affair." The plot is an absurd detective farce as there's a surrealist crime wave of break-ins where men wearing bowler hats and masks install perfect duplicates of René Magritte paintings for some sinister purpose. They are opposed by the intrepid investigator duo of Mira Bell and Bob Delon, who look into a rash of mysteriously disappearing artists and more Miro-related crimes. Along the way, Jason does a deep dive into Miro's actual career as an artist, which includes a stint as a counterfeit painter. Like many Surrealists (of which Miro was a tangential member, at best), Miro's work was about the uncanny juxtaposition, designed to provoke a deeply emotional reaction. Surrealist work stems from and is aimed at the subconscious. Jason rolled with this concept as the mastermind behind the crimes used hypnosis and other techniques to brainwash his minions into obeying him by breaking them of their rational wills. It's a clever idea that sets up a conflict, like all action stories, that is settled with a fistfight (and a big fish). 

The titular story takes Jason's mash-up formula and gives it a tremendous sense of depth. It centers around the Dada movement in Berlin in the 1920s, but it also involves Rasputin (and his decapitated head, in particular), Nosferatu, David Bowie, Marlene Dietrich, and a cameo from the seemingly immortal Athos, the Musketeer who has appeared in a number of Jason's books. Bowie gets mixed up with some Dada guys doing a routine with one of their members angrily "denouncing" the nonsense poetry of someone on stage, and getting into a fistfight. Bowie, in full Ziggy Stardust garb, is clearly a time-traveling secret agent of some kind, but he stays in Berlin for a bit and has a romance with Dietrich. Nosferatu's head is used in an arcane ceremony that predicts the Holocaust, and ghosts from the future haunt the man who invoked these images. There is a real sense of despair & joy, uncertainty & possibility, that is palpable on the page and emblematic of Berlin between the wars. There is enormous clarity in Jason's figure drawing here; they are still in his style, but also unmistakably capture the essence of the historical figures he evokes. It's a balance of assuming the reader knows something about these figures with just enough historical context to make it enormously satisfying. 

This is why the third story, "Sweet Dreams," doesn't work. The conceit is amusing--what if a bunch of 80s New Wave bands had super powers and were secretly government operatives?--but there's no resonance. Here, Jason had to actively identify that some of his characters were members of X-Ray Specs and the Eurhythmics, because it wasn't immediately clear. This felt more like a Grant Morrison comic than a typical Jason comic, in part because Jason doesn't go into any depth as to why any of these musicians were important or interesting. His anthropomorphic style worked against him as well; it took me awhile (and some context clues) to identify Boy George, for example. There's a fine line between a personal in-joke and a niche but inherently funny concept. Jason made this work the first two times in Death In Trieste, but returning to that well not only wasn't funny, it also made the apocalyptic ending fall flat. 

Casey Nowak's Duh! Ha-Ha!

So I recently found my copy of this perfect little minicomic, Duh! Ha-Ha!, that Casey Nowak did some years ago. This was back when Carta Monir was still running Diskette Press. It's a brief reminder that Nowak is one of the best working cartoonists in the world, even if their output has greatly slowed in recent years. (On my docket is their compilation of short work, Boy Chest; they're also working on a much longer project titled Bodyseed.) Duh! Ha-Ha! uses a clever idea: the narrative is from the point of view of an entirely reactive, clueless character. She busses tables at a restaurant, has the hots for the elderly owner of the place, and winds up as the girlfriend of his son. She looks like she's still a teenager, barely out of high school. 

As is often the case with one of Nowak's comments, the important parts are often what is implied, but not directly stated. This first-person narrative never even bothers to reveal the character's first name. The cover is exquisitely grotesque, as she's in a restaurant uniform, popping a pimple, and sports an impossibly round face. In a later scene, she's at a group dinner, presumably with other members of the restaurant (as the owner, Rick, is paying for it), and she starts talking to someone she doesn't know--a guy roughly her age. She starts chatting him up because Rick is perturbed seeing her talk to him, and she's playing out a fantasy in her mind where she likes the idea of making him jealos.

When it finally dawns on her that he looks like Rick, ("How come you have the same face?") he laughingly tells her that he's his dad ("Like--sorry, but duh! Ha-ha!"). Nowak is a master at contrasts--after this horny meet-cute, her own narrative clashes with the actual events. It's implied that she's in a fairly low state a lot of the time, but that his presence helps in ways she doesn't quite understand. She doesn't quite understand a lot about what's going on around her, but in her narrative, she tries to simplify things as much as possible in order to not dwell on the depths of her own depression. In the way she tells this story, it's a quick blur of events and people, and how exactly some of them are connected is unclear. Nowak crafts an emotional (not narrative) chronology for this character, and it's powerfully resonant, sad, and funny.