My Cultural Diet

When a young starlet is discovered dead and dismembered, it’s up to a crime photographer and a mob enforcer to uncover the truth — which might just go the way to the upper echelons. Janet Harvey draws directly from California history, be it the Black Dahlia murder or the Zoot Suit Riots, for her tale of Tinsel Town’s seamier side. Angel City explores similar themes as Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’ The Fade Out, and though I preferred the work to this one, Angel City gets points for it historical grounding. (This volume also includes several short essays on the aforementioned historical events, which further puts the lie to Hollywood’s glamorous reputation.)

I added this to my Hoopla queue awhile ago — I loved the character design on the cover — and since I was looking for a quick evening read, I thought I’d give this six-issue series a chance. Now, to be honest, my experience with the Valiant comics universe is extremely limited, so I don’t know how The Visitor — a mysteriously augmented figure who seems to be targeting the world’s leading scientists — fits into the larger Valiant pantheon, but this particular take was pretty ho hum. A lot happens in these six issues, so much so that it all feels pretty truncated and arbitrary and I found myself skimming the last few pages.

I’m a sucker for Michael Moorcock’s Elric stories. Grim nihilism, excessive violence, and purple-leaning prose notwithstanding, I just can’t quit the doomed albino warrior with all of his existential musings and endless woe. I haven’t had the best experience with Elric comics, but P. Craig Russell’s adaptation of Stormbringer, the apocalyptic conclusion of Elric’s saga (though Moorcock’s written more Elric novels since, like The Fortress of the Pearl), is a faithful adaptation of the original novel. Russell’s art is suitably trippy and psychedelic though sometimes, when I see a panel full of illustrated text, I get the sense that even Russell felt a bit outmatched by Moorcock’s heady prose. Also, special kudos to letterer Galen Showman, whose work gets properly ornate at times. Oddly enough, there are some minor deviations from the original text sprinkled throughout the graphic novel, typos that should’ve been caught by an editing pass. Nothing major, but given Russel’s otherwise devoted treatment of Moorcock’s text, they did give me pause and take me out of the story from time to time.

Friday Fitzhugh’s teenage years were spent solving crimes and uncovering the secrets of Kings Hill with her best friend, Lancelot Jones, aka, the world’s smartest boy. But when she returns home from college for Christmas break, their once-unbreakable friendship is now strained and difficult. That soon becomes the least of her worries, though, when supernatural forces begin moving against their strange little town. Will Friday be able to solve the mystery of the White Lady, save Kings Hill, and repair her friendship with Lancelot? Writer Ed Brubaker is arguably best known for his various hard-boiled titles with Sean Phillips (e.g., Reckless, Pulp, The Fade Out). But Friday finds him riffing on middle-grade titles like Encyclopedia Brown and Harriet the Spy with the help of Marcos Martin and Muntsa Vicente, and it’s delightful. The trio have created a fascinating and detailed world filled with mystery and nostalgia, not to mention coming-of-age melodrama, Lovecraftian monsters, arcane artifacts, secret societies, and a pair of immensely likable protagonists. Indeed, there might almost be too much going on in Friday, such that I’m not quite sure it all holds together in its final issues. Even so, Friday is filled with so much heart that it’s a joy to read (and re-read).

As its title suggests, Silver Surfer: Requiem is a somber story for one of Marvel’s noblest characters. After the Surfer discovers that he’s dying, he subsequently embarks on one last trip through the cosmos, first to his adopted home of Earth, and then to Zenn-la. But it’s also a beautiful, even moving story. J. Michael Straczynski knows that Silver Surfer comics work best when they’re pontificating, and his lofty prose leans into that in all the right ways as the Surfer ponders the joys and sorrows of existence. Requiem could’ve easily been angsty or heavy-handed were it not written so well, and with so much obvious affection for the character. Meanwhile, Esad Ribić’s lush artwork is gorgeous, imbuing Requiem’s four issues with an ethereal-ness that’s suitably elegiac and melancholy. Given that Requiem was published on the “Marvel Knights” imprint, I’m unsure of its canonicity, but it’d be a very fitting end for the Sentinel of the Spaceways.

An OK Silver Surfer story that finds the Sentinel of the Spaceways returning the Earth when a mysterious signal resurrects an old friend of his — and, as is always the case in these sorts of things, alerts one of his greatest enemies. There are some interesting ideas (like the seemingly quaint town whose residents have forgotten an entire day) and at one point, it seems like Ghost Light is going to delve a bit into some faith-related issues, which seems apropos for a cosmic character like the Silver Surfer, but I wish more would’ve been done those things. That, and I might’ve rolled my eyes just a wee bit when it turns out that jazz music is the solution to everything.

When a member of the royal family is brutally murdered, London’s only consulting detective and his right-hand man are tasked with finding the assassins, and in the process, stopping a vile conspiracy that seeks to free humanity from the centuries-old rule of the Great Old Ones. Originally published as a short story in 2003 that subsequently won a Hugo Award, A Study in Emerald is a pitch-perfect blend of Sherlock Holmes and H. P. Lovecraft. Indeed, the premise is forehead-smackingly obvious, but Gaiman — being the master storyteller that he is — introduces a few twists and wrinkles that make his story all the more delightful. I’ve read the original short story several times, but this was my first time reading Dark Horse’s comic adaptation, and it’s just as delightful. Back in 2018, Gaiman expressed his desire to write a sequel to A Study in Emerald, something that I really hope comes to pass; in his hands, the fictional worlds of Holmes and Cthulhu are just meant to be together.

By all appearances, India has a perfect life. She loves her job as an elementary school teacher and she’s in a passionate relationship with her boyfriend. She also suffers from debilitating panic attacks that raise suspicions among her co-workers, students’ parents, and even her boyfriend whether she’s able to function. Brian Freschi’s storyline and Ilaria Urbinati’s watercolor artwork pull no punches, putting you right in the middles of India’s plight. The Vertical Sea is frequently absorbing, as India opens up to a therapist even as she fights for her career and relationship. Unfortunately, The Vertical Sea is also undermined by an ending that feels surprisingly neat and perfunctory given the rawness of the preceding pages.

After a great war devastated the mainland, survivors sought refuge on the remote island of Celestia. But after many years, Celestia has become a fraught and decadent society where telepaths meet in secret amidst its canals. (Which draw inspiration from the history of Venice.) Two of these telepaths — volatile Pierrot and anxiety-prone Dora, who have a tempestuous relationship (to put it mildly) — are forced to travel back to the mainland, a dangerous journey that reveals hidden truths about themselves and their post-war world. With its painterly artwork, elliptical storytelling, and bizarre architectural designs, Manuele Fior’s Celestia feels like an experimental European arthouse film about the post-apocalypse mixed with some X-Men-esque superpowers. In other words, it gets pretty surreal and ambiguous, so your mileage may vary. What made Celestia particularly engrossing for me, though, is the way in which Fior depicts his characters’ mental powers, blurring the lines between what’s actually happening and what might just be happening in their heads. (Note: With its graphic content, Celestia is definitely not for kids.)

Here’s another comic that I picked up for the title alone. (See also Dracula, Motherf**ker.) Down on his luck and burned out, Vern decides to return to Florida and live with his mom and grandma, who gets him a custodian job at a local science facility. But what seems like a dead-end job soon has Vern cleaning up bizarre science experiments and extra-dimensional anomalies. Oh, and he might have inadvertently set in motion the death of the multiverse. The only solution is to figure out the whole point of existence, so no big deal. Vern: Custodian of the Universe isn’t bad — I love the premise, Vern is a likable enough protagonist, and Tyrell Waiters’ artwork gets delightfully trippy at times — but I also found Vern’s existential conclusions a bit underwhelming and lacking, borderline nihilistic even, though I appreciate the humane spirit in which they’re made. Weirdly enough, Waiters’ comic had me thinking of Jeff Lemire and Matt Kindt’s Cosmic Detective, which is considerably more grim, but also more honest about its philosophical conclusions.

I had only a passing familiarity with Mike Mignola’s iconic series, so when Humble Bundle offered the entire Hellboy collection for less than $20 — Seed of Destruction, Wake the Devil, The Right Hand of Doom, etc. — I jumped at the deal, and have spent the last few weeks delving into the series. Mignola has a lot of fun with the premise, weaving in all manner of mythologies and fairy tales (e.g., Irish, Arthurian, Russian, African) with wild abandon, but also in a way that feels surprisingly coherent. And the inclusion of Lovecraftian beasties and alternate WW2 history certainly doesn’t hurt, either. But what really struck me was Hellboy himself, and in particular, his dogged efforts to hold onto his humanity and avoid the fate spelled out for him. I like a good tragic hero, and Hellboy is a very good tragic hero. That said, the scene of Hell’s mightiest demons lamenting young Hellboy’s discovery of pancakes is one of the most delightful things I’ve read so far this year.

Seiji Yoshida’s Houses with a Story isn’t a graphic novel per se, but more like an architectural survey. Its pages are filled with floor plans and cutaway drawings of imaginary homes and buildings that are delightful, fantastical, and occasionally whimsical. The “World-Weary Astronomer’s Residence” (seen on the cover) is a monastic dwelling perched high atop a rock formation while the “Reserved Mechanic’s Cottage” makes for a pleasantly solitary life on a Montana lake. Located in the Tibetan mountains, the “Library of Lost Books” is a sprawling complex stuffed with tomes and possibly connected to another world while the humble “Clinic in the Woods” blends classic Japanese structures with Western influences. (And those are but four examples.) Yoshida draws inspiration from a variety of cultures and time periods for his designs, each of which is accompanied by lovely paintings, fun notes highlighting all manner of delightful and clever details, and a short intro to the dwellings’ inhabitants that sparks the imagination. Indeed, reading Houses with a Story left me in a constant state of “I want to go to there.”

Another day, another graphic novel from the incomparable duo that is Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips. Where the Body Was feels a bit like a minor work compared to something like The Fade Out. However, its ’80s-set tale of suburban ennui, bored housewives and illicit affairs, young romance and heartache, and — because this is Ed Brubaker we’re talking about — a shocking murder mystery that undoes everyone’s lives (for better or worse) is not without its affecting moments. Particularly when Brubaker has the characters’ older selves break the fourth wall to reflect on that tumultuous period in their lives.

My Ed Brubaker/Sean Phillips fandom continues with this journey through the seamy underbelly of post-WW2 Hollywood. The Fade Out’s story of murder, corrupt studio execs, fixers, blacklisted writers, FBI investigations, and desperate starlets is just about as noir as it gets, and thoroughly deconstructs the glitz and glamour that often surrounds our notions of “classic” Tinseltown. There are no heroes in Brubaker and Phillips’ story, just desperate and deeply flawed individuals railing against an implacable system that protects and benefits the rich and powerful. Suffice to say, The Fade Out is a bleak story, maybe even Brubaker and Phillips’ bleakest to date. But it’s executed so well that you feel compelled to keep turning the pages until you arrive at the final, despair-filled panel.

I’m not gonna lie; I checked out Dracula, Motherf**ker based on the title alone, because how could I not? This spin on the classic Dracula story moves from 19th century Vienna to Los Angeles circa 1974, where a desperate crime scene photographer finds himself trapped between the vampire lord, his ex-wives, and his new wives. Erica Henderson’s artwork is wonderfully lurid and psychedelic as befitting a ’70s vampire story, and Alex de Campi’s storyline piques the imagination and leave you wanting more — in a good way. (I also appreciated de Campi’s afterward, where she delves a bit more into the book’s feminist themes in light of Trump and Weinstein, her perspective on monsters, and the book’s anime influence.)

Unlike many of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’ other titles, Bad Weekend isn’t a noir-ish, hard-boiled tale of the criminal underworld. Rather, it’s a prickly but heartfelt ode to another kind of underworld: the comic book industry. Hal Crane is a comic book legend. He’s also a drunk, a cynic, and something of an asshole, but he kind of has good reason to be given how publishers have treated him over the years. Which means that babysitting him during a comic book convention is going to be a lot harder than it sounds. On the one hand, Bad Weekend confirms all of your fears of how bad the comic industry can be, filled with backstabbing publishers and artists who work their fingers to the bone for pennies. On the other hand, it’s also a tribute to the art itself, and how even a bitter, manipulative jerk like Hal Crane can create something transcendent.

Max Winters is a down-on-his-luck author in 1930s New York who specializes in writing pulp stories about cowboys and outlaws in the Wild West. Unbeknownst to anyone else, though, his fanciful adventures aren’t fiction, but rather, draw from his own sordid history. Max’s downtrodden life soon takes an interesting turn, however, when an unexpected figure from his past comes asking for a favor. Despite its short length, Pulp’s storyline caught me by surprise on at least three occasions — a very good thing. I really couldn’t predict how things would turn out for Max and I stayed hooked until the final — and in hindsight, inevitable — panel. I became a fan of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips thanks to their work on Reckless, and Pulp is more of the same: storytelling that’s hard-boiled, nostalgic, and sympathetic all at once.

Earlier this month, I read — and thoroughly enjoyed — Atelier Sentô’s Festival of Shadows, which inspired me to track down this earlier work of theirs. Onibi follows a couple of Europeans as they travel to remote corners of Japan in search of yōkai spirits, which they hope to capture with the help of a supposedly magical camera. I didn’t enjoy Onibi as much as Festival of Shadows, but it’s still a delightful work that very much reads like a love letter to Japan and some of its more colorful inhabitants. As such, it made me want to return to Japan and explore some of those same remote corners, as well.

Every year, residents in a remote Japanese village are tasked with helping the recently deceased come to terms with their death and move on to the afterlife. It’s a fraught and difficult job, and it becomes all the more so for Naoko — who’s already questioning her rural existence — when she develops feelings for her latest charge. At first blush, Festival of Shadows feels like a typical “girl meets ghost” paranormal romance, but it develops some intriguing twists as Naoko makes some startling discoveries about her charge — and herself. Atelier Sentô — the creative duo of Cecile Brun and Olivier Pichard — have conjured up a delightful ghost story characterized by painterly artwork and wonderfully detailed illustrations. I look forward to their next title.

I daresay that the vast majority of those who read The Mysteries, myself included, will do so because it was written by Bill Watterson, of Calvin and Hobbes fame. Indeed, if it were written by anyone else, this slight fantasy fable would probably fly under the radar. That’s not to say that it’s bad, just that it’s a very far cry from Calvin and Hobbes… sort of. If one were inclined, one could draw some parallels with those strips where Calvin and/or Hobbes critiqued modern society’s dismissal of wonder and imagination — themes that are very present in The Mysteries’ seventy pages or so. As for the artwork, which Watterson created in collaboration with caricaturist John Kascht, it’s an interesting and darkly beautiful blend of paintings, models, collage work, and whatnot that has a very tangible and physical quality to it.