Southern Bastards #5

"Gridiron," Part One
written by Jason Aaron
art by Jason Latour

Euless Boss has been a monomaniacal madman since he was a high-school try-out.

"It's football, sir.  It's worth the blood."  (Southern Bastards #5: 2)

He's also the victim of teammate bullying that goes well beyond cruelty and humiliation to assault and rape.  Boss is the dark mirror of Craw County, the violent football-obsessed id who revels in making apathetic cowards confront head-on exactly what they've been working to avoid.  He attends Tubb's funeral.  He hangs his own murder weapon—Earl Tubb's lightning club—in his own BBQ restaurant, still stained with Tubb's blood.

"I DON'T WANT 'EM TO FORGET.  I want the whole fuckin' county to remember what I done, and how they all just stood there and watched and didn't lift a fuckin' finger, didn't say a goddamn word." (19)

He's absolutely convinced that no one will do anything about it, that he will never be called to talk over his murder of Earl Tubb.  He may be wrong about that.

Tubb has enemies:  the ailing mayor and his Nancy-Reagan-clone wife; the Compson twins, bank owners and business women; a backwoods survivalist; a masked rival gang with automatic weapons from Mobile; a bevy of rival high-school football communities, who'd love to see Boss undone; now the Sheriff, once a loyal player now faced with Boss's increasingly disrespectful and lording behavior; and, of course, the town mutt who took to Tubb.  Craw County may be populated by weak and distracted fools, unwilling to intervene with their crime-lord coach, but it's also teeming with folks just waiting for someone to ignite the place, to lead them against the local kingpin.

Suicide Risk #14

"Handmaiden"
written by Mike Carey
art by Filipe Andrade

Tracey:  "Who are you, really?  And how do you know that -- that other name for me?"

Diva:  "Your true name."

Tracey:  "My other name.  I know it's real because I -- sort of remember it.  But Tracey's real too.  One of them isn't any more true than the other."  (Suicide Risk #14: 13)

In the wake of Leo Winters' elimination through the pit trap and Dr. Maybe's systematic erasure of him in the minds of his family, Tracey Winters keeps dreaming about him.  And, more surprisingly, she also dreams of Diva.  And when the super-villain calls for her help, Tracey Winters (or Terza Nimari) answers.

Diva is changed.  Or perhaps just in a different, more honest guise.  She is family.  She is sister to Terza's mother Aisa, twins born and devoted to the Goddess, Kinuktai, avatars of good and harm.  And so we discover her preoccupation with Leo/Requiem, who (as she once thought) stole her sister from her, perverted her faith, and seduced her into sacrilege.  In that moment, in the battle with the new parents over the fate of their newborn girl, Diva and Aisa shifted avatars, and so she became the agent of vengeance and destruction that she released on Leo Winters' life.

Despite her extraordinary power, despite the fact that more than anyone else she seems to have a sensible and subtle understanding of both worlds, Tracey has always seemed vulnerable, not to force but to trickery.  And I fear, as Diva's Goddess has laid claim on her as a handmaiden, that by accepting the deity's boon, she may very well have accepted responsibilities and obligations that she will later regret.  Until then, it seems, she may be the only one who can rescue her father Leo from obliteration in the mind of Requiem.

The Fade Out #1

"The Wild Party"
Number One
written by Ed Brubaker
art by Sean Phillips

Brubaker and Phillips return to what they do best:  classic noir.  This time it's late-40s Hollywood.  Or Hollywoodland.  There's nothing horribly innovative about that.  Money, glamor, celebrity, corruption, and an indefinable mystique makes Los Angeles ready-made for its own dark underbelly and the stories it tells about itself.  After all, there was just "something in the air [that] made it easier to believe lies" (The Fade Out #1: 4).  It makes it just a little easier to dismiss the desperation.

A morning-after haze is timeless.  So is the embarrassingly inebriated friend.  Mirror lipstick is a little more mysterious.  A dead woman considerably less common.  Unless you're writing a Hollywood noir, in which case, she's all but required.

There's very little to recommend Charlie Parish, especially when it comes to women.  He wakes up in a dead woman's home, finds her strangled body, and removes evidence that he was ever there instead of calling the cops.  He barely remembers an anonymous blowjob from a (maybe?) dancer in a coat room.  He can't reconcile his patronizing estimation of publicity guru Dotty with the women who enjoyed Earl Rath's parties, a narrow reduction of women into crude categories men use to demean them when they find it convenient.  Girls you fuck and girls you protect.  Admittedly, he knows this last, though it does little to adjust his mindset.

Charlie's misogyny is nothing next to Chief of Security Phil Brodsky's racism.  A dust-up at Rath's party included a black actor named Flapjack, who apparently had sex with some MGM executive's wife (or two).  Brodsky's response:  "Yeah, lotta white women wanna fuck their hero from the goddamn 'Krazy Kids.'  Even Jew broads go for that little spook" (21).  His tolerance of so deemed "communist sympathizers" is, if possible, even less benign.

This is the cold-hearted world of The Fade Out, a world that can prioritize entertainment, conspire to eliminate scandal from the movies, and cover up a young woman's murder to do so.  That Charlie is made sick by it is actually quite winning.  Bravo!

Sex Criminals #7

"Break, Enter"
written by Matt Fraction
art by Chip Zdarsky

Rachel was easily the most displeasing casualty of Suzie and Jon's whirlwind sex and nearly crime spree.  Good common sense was maybe a close second.  So when Suzie runs into her old roommate in particularly humiliating circumstances—chasing a runaway muffin down a city street...and still eating it—their reconciliation over shared sex secrets—Suzie's time-stopping orgasms and Rachel's super-queef—is incredibly satisfying.  It's also a relief to have Rachel in the know.  And she takes it with such remarkable equilibrium, even if it takes Suzie drawing dicks all over her face in the Quiet.

But, despite the revelation, this is Jon's issue.  It's amazing that teenage Jon can be simultaneously as creepy and sincerely touching as he is.  He spent nearly his entire sophomore year of high school leering at beautiful transfer Jennibeth Monroe, jacking off in the darkroom, and taking pictures of folks caught in Cumworld.  He was, and still is, a little disquieted by his lusty thoughts run amok.

"I swear, the velocity and intensity of deviant thoughts that race through my head in the lead-up to coming absolutely startles me when I think back on it."  (Sex Criminals #7: 9)

But then he finds himself actually looking at people, including sexy Jennibeth, and it facilitates a connection with them that his hormones and social awkwardness wouldn't normally allow.  By removing the pressures of being seen looking, he's able to start seeing people and "they were all beautiful in some way" (10), and Jon started falling a little in love because they were just people.  Voyeuristic, yes.  Invasive, probably.  But in this stasis he was able to start seeing them.

Frustrated and infuriating by the Sex Police and their vengeful retaliation against Suzie and the library, Jon decides to commit felony breaking and entering.  Kegelface.  Minivan-driving Myrtle Spurge.  She and her family seem unremarkable, until Jon finds their sex-dungeon basement and its truly impressive array of sex toys.  There's a metaphor there.  But it's the file cabinet, four drawers of files on folks just like them.  When he's interrupted by the bus driver who hit him over the head with a dildo at the bank, Jon goes on the attack, and this time the upper hand is his.  In the end, he ties him up with sex paraphernalia, leaves him in a park, and steals as much from the file cabinet as he can carry.  Yeah, he fucked up.  Mostly.  And Rachel heard it all.

East of West: The World (one-shot)

The World
Sourcebook | Atlas | Encyclopedia | Timelines | Apocrypha
written by Jonathan Hickman
art by Nick Dragotta
colors by Frank Martin

There's the sly pretense of transparency in Hickman's East of West one-shot "companion," the generic facade of simple legibility—maps, charts, timelines, all in the easy service of unremarkable explication.  And it is true that "The World" is a concise summary of the political intrigue and restructured geography of East of West, most of which previously available to shrewd, attentive readers in the scattered details and intimations of logic since its opening issue, but helpfully repackaged and condensed in a far more accessible format.

But "The World" presents a much more nuanced portrait of a divided continent on the brink of war than a simple, unmediated summary.  Its maps are familiar, echoes of the world we know, and yet disorienting in that familiarity as new boundaries are etched across the landscape.  They suggest a world entirely transformed—New York and Boston, for example, obscured by the inset of Washington, D.C., are unimportant, perhaps even absent, in this new world.  Confederate shipping lanes out into the Atlantic from the Bahamas, an historically sensitive account of Southern economy without the devastation of Reconstruction, are the only suggestion of interests outside the seven nations, the sole outlet and known exception to their collective isolationism.

More telling, however, is the evidence it provides for internal disputes and political upheaval.  The unrest in the Union was already well known, but the history of dynastic factioning in the People's Republic and the vestiges of that rivalry was unspecified, though now the Dragon and Widowmaker contentions make considerably more sense.  The white-hot, righteous bloodbath from which the Rangers emerged was the stuff of legend, but their checkered and close history with the Endless Nation—now their conquerors—less absolute.  It would seem a significant contingent of Texans were also Sioux, speakers of Lakota, those not members of the communal tribe or perhaps simply reluctant to join the Machine State.  Cheveyo, the mystical outlaw of the Chosen and fellow bringer of the apocalypse, spoke Arapaho.  Nihnootheiht, "he who was abandoned".  The language of the Endless Nation is Lakota, unsurprising given the political and religious prominence of Red Cloud and his success in allying the Lakota Sioux, Cheyenne and Arapaho nations, but like the "disputed territories" that shade the landscape, it's a furtive reminder of the pervasive instability and long-simmering animosities at play in the coming war.

Dragotta's design work is impeccable and dramatically suggestive.  The timeline, in particular, could have been little more than a string of informative but dry details. Instead it's a marvel, a bright, burning white nucleus that begins with the "fire in the sky" and the deaths of Red Cloud and Longstreet; radiates the yellow and bright oranges of the Union, the Confederacy, and the Republic of Texas; builds in cool complexity as the other nations coalesce; and ultimately, under the gravitational pressure of the Apocalypse, gathers into a planetary form with a fiery core.  This is the World.

[December 2014]

Black Science #10

written by Rick Remender
art by Matteo Scalera
painted art by Dean White

And then there was Blokk.  Whoever that is.  Nathan and Pia, captured after their separation from the others and the pillar, are taken before their captors' cruel and prophetic leader, one announced previously as Blokk.  He demands a key, a key to the "pil'ar".  There is also Mr. Blokk, the obese, pock-faced plutocrat of an alternate Egypt, also in search of a key to other dimensions so that he may raise himself a pharaoh of all worlds.  And another Mr. Blokk, from whom Rebecca wrangled the pillar project and negotiated Grant's involvement.  He is the kingpin in this iterated tale, the boss to McKay and Kadir's rival scientists.

As the futility of fighting fate's momentum weighs on so many interdimensional McKays, each scrapping to save his own (and others') children, the tenuous thread of destiny, the razor's edge between blessing and misfortune, is eloquently rhapsodized by the apocalyptic Millipede Blokk:

"Why is it that here in this world all my people have ever known is suffering—food for the beasts, slaves for the pulley?  Yet, in another plane, a fraction of an atom away, I am a king of opulence and bounty, in a green pasture living in eternal peace?  Why do I toil while my doppleganger thrives?  What misstep did I make to earn this?"  (Black Science #10: 2)

Whatever fate and life are, they're not all that interested in fairness.  Her father was undoubtedly a selfish, myopic bastard who in the daily pulse of their lives thought always of himself first, but Pia McKay is insufferable in her self-righteousness and her insistence on seeing her mother as a martyr to her father's ego.  Even as she professes her mother's victimhood, she paints a picture of an absent, dangerously disinterested and equally myopic mother, doubtless hurt by McKay's philandering and perhaps even depressive, but also mildly irresponsible in her own right and willing enough to pass on parenting responsibilities to her daughter.  When Nathan takes Pia to task for her own selfish behavior, she's quick to make excuses for herself and deflect all the blame on McKay and his lover.  Now, despite their mutually perilous circumstances, Pia's acting like an entitled, unappreciative brat.  And it's so very genuine.

Black Science may ultimately end up being the war of Grant McKays.  Pharaoh-Blokk seems to command a veritable cadre of McKay look-alikes and employ his world's McKay—named Gahiji Makalani, who just shot their Kadir in the head—but they are interrupted by another McKay (our McKay?) looking for a pillar to chase after his children.  He is also, it seems, the first of the McKay not to be sporting an "onion" logo.  If our Kadir is now a hero, fighting the narrative that he once perpetuated, this just might be his heroic McKay counterpart.

The Sandman: Overture #3

"Chapter Three"
written by Neil Gaiman
art by J. H. Williams III

We are, for the most part, no longer people who long for apocalypse.  We are fearful for the end of the world, which comes in awful tragedy and unimaginable suffering, leaves us to die slowly in a devastated landscape.  It is difficult for us to imagine those who would long for it, but those Gaiman gives us.  They are the races come to participate in or observe the death of the universe.  They come with reverence and awe and even love perhaps, but not fear.  The world is ending and they are confident in its beauty and rightness.

The rules are unknown, if they are knowable at all.  In his quest through a desert of skull-rocks and ghost towns, Dream meets the Fates, the weavers of destiny, and yet even they—the spinner, weavers, and cutters of fate's thread—did not see him coming with Cat-Dream.

Spinner:  "Perhaps he will give us his cat."

Cutter:  "What cat?"

Weaver:  "There's a cat with him?  I wasn't expecting that, my truffle-dumpling."

Spinner:  "How can you not expect something?  You spin the thread of their lives."

Weaver:  "I only spin from the thread you give me, my dove-bucket, and I didn't see any cat in the thread.  That's new, that is.  Cats."  (Sandman: Overture #3: 5)

They may each rather travel alone, but it is perhaps their partnership that can thwart their own deaths.  But it is the Cutter's, the eldest of the three, who makes the most tantalizing observation:  "Kindness would be telling him not to look under the bed.  And I'm not going to tell him that" (6).  As soon as the next town, Dream finds her, a young orphaned girl hiding from her father's butchers under the bed, suggestively named Hope.  And she becomes the third of their party.

At the end of the world, we look back on our beginnings, our youth.  After all, "They say every story must be told at least once, before the final nightfall.  And we are nearing the end of the Bridge…" (16).  Dream was captured before, held prisoner in his own palace in Dreaming.  And though he called on all his siblings,  still proud in their youth, Desire was the last and only one to offer aid, a young woman as his lover, a creature of light.  Despite his promise—"My heart.  My constancy. My love for all of time" (19)—Dream, as ever he does, fails as a lover, grows alien and uncaring even as the world made from himself surrounds and oppresses his lover.  He is cruel and cold and unrelenting, but he gives her the rose-quartz dreamstone to make her own world.  And as he remembers Alianora, exiled to a lonesome skerry, he seems to regret.  And he does not tell Hope all his story, perhaps even for shame or sorrow.  Not yet the strangely human Dream he would come to be, but not the entirely cold-blooded abstraction he once was.

[September 2014]

Wytches #3

written by Scott Snyder
art by Jock

So the bald, legless intruder in flannel, the one who spied Sailor on the school bus and attacked Charlie Rooks, is a woman.  She's not there to take Rooks' daughter away; she's there, perhaps, to help him keep her.  After all, she herself was a pledge.

Charlie Rooks:  "Who are you?"

The woman:  "Heh.  Someone who's been there.  To the cauldron."  (Wytches #3: 9)

This issue does little to advance the immediate plot.  The action is spent entirely in the search for, or more accurately, talk about the search for runaway Sailor.  But it snaps several of the first two issues' vague and atmospheric menace into sharp relief.  Sailor has always been pledged.  Her anxious disposition is, no doubt, a consequence of feeling constantly under threat, the wytches always in the shadows.  And now we have a survivor, mutilated and disturbingly proficient in distressing pharmacology, but a surviving pledge.  She knows how this works.  And based on her questions, she suspects a dark history for the Rooks family, one that predates Sailor's pledge.  Someone pledged her.  "But, like I said, it's a deep pledge.  Someone's suuure got it in for you all, Mr. Rooks" (9).  Some secret, some history, some past in the New Hampshire town.

Like Sailor, whose phone is filled with ramblings "like a crazy person's thoughts" (17), Charlie seems to be losing his mind.  He's been drugged by a surreal and vanishing intruder, he's got a history of stress anxiety and drinking, and he's seeing and experiencing things he can't explain and which other people aren't able to corroborate.  His wife Lucy certainly thinks he might be slipping away again.  The local police are reluctant to take his word despite their protestations to the contrary.  But it's a supernatural conspiracy, and it's impossible to believe just about anyone.  Like Charlie, we find ourselves in a hostile and unknowable world, filled with strangers we can't trust and a menace we can't quite see in the dark.  Wytches still makes little sense, but quite honestly, that's the point.

Not to say Jock's pencils and inks aren't stellar.  They are.  And in many cases his composition decisions are exceptional, but colorist Matt Hollingsworth is most responsible for Wytches' unique stylistic look.  There's a disorienting chaos in his colors, one that obscures and washes the inks and challenges the images underneath, both aging the illustration and giving it a modern, vibrant, slightly neon glow.  While many comics, particularly out of Image, feature short, informative descriptions of author or artist processes, this is one of the best:  a step-by-step explanation of Hollingsworth's mixed-media approach.

FBP: Federal Bureau of Physics #14

"Standing on Shoulders," Part 1 (of 2)
written by Simon Oliver
art by Alberto Ponticelli

"Six weeks before I'd have said you wee crazy… …but here I was… …inciting my very own nerd insurgency."  (FBP #14: 12)

What do you get when you isolate the nation's top young physics minds, a band of mostly socially ostracized high-school science nerds, and the nation's most elite young pre-cadets, those destined to be what amounts to the physics special forces?  A really awkward academy.

Knowing what we do about Sen—that she would eventually undergo sex reassignment surgery to fix her "indefinable square peg, round hole thing" (6), as Cicero calls it—it's no wonder that as a student she would feel an unusually strong compulsion to fit in, and she tried to accomplish this by innovating an extensive catalog of "field agent" jokes, which she would deploy in deliberate ear-shot of the most intimidating among them.  It's perhaps understandable, but it amounts to so much bullying of its own.  And that's a refreshing twist on the age-old nerd-jock animosity:  the nerds are the instigators.  When the "jocks" respond in a different kind—a wedgie of unprecedented proportions—Cicero goes on the offensive, and organizes his insurgency.

But Cicero's real insurgency is to defy the categories and stereotypes themselves.  As he himself puts it:  "We're all a product of our environments.  Our sense of self shaped by the world and people around us…  If you're told you're dumb, or smart, or ugly, or pretty enough times, it becomes what you are, or at least how you see yourself… which more often than not is one and the same… …What you're told is what you become." (13-14).  The retribution prank against Hunter is the first chip away from the person Cicero had been told he was and the first step toward the person he would become.  Dangerous and reckless, perhaps, but also brilliant and innovative and practical.

FBP #14 also marks the unfortunate departure of series artist Robbi Rodriguez, whose clean, stylized lines were instrumental in establishing its tonal character and sleek sci-fi sensibility.  Alberto Ponticelli takes over, and though we've yet to know how he will manage the series' central characters, his work here with younger Cicero is some of his most consistent.  His lines are heavier, his faces more brawny and less chiseled, but generally strong and expressive.  Where Ponticelli proves himself Rodriguez' inferior, however, is in his design for FBP's unusual physics phenomena, which Rodriguez imagined with impressive mind-blowing non-realism.  Ponticelli's one real opportunity here—Hunter being sucked into a localized gravity field (20)—is disappointingly just about how I would imagine it.  His cooperation with colorist Rico Renzi, however, doesn't miss a beat.  (The full-page illustration on p. 13 is a colorful treat.)

[December 2014]

The Dream Merchant #6

written by Nathan Edmondson
art by Anthony Hope-Smith

The Dream Merchant may not have much of a sense of humor about the near absurd narrative gyrations of this dream mythology, but Winslow certainly does:

"Stop the Gatekeeper.  Stop a being responsible for weaving worlds together with his waking dreams.  …Easy.  Stop the Gatekeeper.  Stop his nightmares from reaching my world.  I hardly know what that means."  (The Dream Merchant #6: 2)

An even more honest response might come from the mouth of now mutinous (and probably felonious) FBI Agent Coads:  "What just happened?" (13).  While only scattered sense can be reconstructed for the closing chapter of Edmondson's dream thriller, The Dream Merchant still manages some very fine and sincerely horrific moments.  Winslow is being burned away from the inside by his dream with the Gatekeeper, scorching his hair and steaming with pink dream energy.  It's a nightmare of its own that Anne must witness.  The destruction of the amulets, to send Winslow fully and waking into the Gatekeeper's imagination, isn't exactly a surprise, but Anne pulls it off with quiet resoluteness and just a few tears.  Winslow may be the hero, but Anne is the pulse of the story.

It's a pink saturated dream world, a contrast to the cool blues and greys of the waking world, but apparently it's not at all that simple.  The amulets shattered, Winslow's waking body sent hurtling into the Gatekeeper's world, one rock to the head of the villain, and all Winslow had to do was "wake up".  And so he does, bald and in a hospital bed.  At least I think that's Winslow, though the change of artist makes this less than definitive.  It may also be the Gatekeeper himself or perhaps even the Dream Merchant.  That the "voice" of the narrator is also less than clear makes his plea for "Ziggy" to wake up all the more confusing.  But Winslow and the Merchant also remain in that dream world, stranded after the loss of their anchors.  And so the cycle continues with only the most immediate crisis averted.  But The Dream Merchant was always a story of discovery, not conclusions, Winslow's story of how he became the apprentice of the Merchant, Anne's story of how she became the leader of a task force designed to fight nightmares.  And she never regretted not kissing him.  Bravo.

Colder: Bad Seed #2

written by Paul Tobin
art by Juan Ferreyra

If Nimble Jack was a villain of sly (and rambunctious), psychological anguish, a creature who took pleasure in cultivating nightmarish insanity in his victims, Swivel is a villain of body horrors, of fine and precise and skin-crawling tortures.  His collection of fingers harvested from passing pedestrians, his flaying of a man's back for "paper," Swivel considers the human body little more than a store of resources to be gleaned at his pleasure or need.  But it is his startling moment of spine-tingling generosity that's really creepy:  helping pull a small splinter from a young girl's hand with his face full of fingers.  She hardly blinks.  He compliments her "pretty fingers" (Colder: Bad Seed #2: 8).

Declan's past has always been a fine mystery, a dark, probably dangerous history both criminal and mentally ill, one that Nimble Jack used to taunt him.  But it was always assumed that his abilities, his particular command of insanity and the nightmare world were a gift, so to speak, from Jack himself, a consequence of Jack's command to "grow colder," but Declan may not be any more mortal than Nimble Jack or Swivel.  After all, "He's a killer.  Yes.  The Killer.  The Harvester.  Thirty-two men.  Seven women.  A dog" (10).  And it has something to do with an apartment building that exists in both worlds.

Tobin's agents of insanity bring with them an unusual, but surprisingly insightful perspective.  What a man is is very often what he has done, though we sometimes like to think differently.  How much time before we leave our past actions behind us, before they no longer define who and what we are?

Reece:  "I've known Declan for almost six years.  For five of them he was catatonic.  For the others he's been helping people.  He's not a murderer."

Swivel:  "Neither am I.  Well, not for almost twenty minutes, now." (11)

Only a few minutes later, after wishing them a happy goodbye with the promise of their new marriage, Declan callously sucks a freshly healed couple's insanity to take him to the Hunger World, dragging them along with him.  Death, perhaps not, but certainly life-destroying.  The Bad Seed offers the promise of finding out who Declan really is.

Revival #24

written by Tim Seeley
art by Mike Norton

While not the most graphic or the most horrific, Revival #24 may be the most quietly devastating issue of the series.  As the quarantine drags on, more and more cracks in the barricade show themselves, attracting not only the loud apocalyptic nutjobs that protested early after the dead first began to rise, but also those desperate for a miracle.  A young boy and his faithful but easily fear-struck mother, for example, who traveled to Wisconsin to bathe in one of the unexplained heavy water of a newly thawed river in the Revival quarantine.  But they're interrupted by the panicked and decaying (but revived) corpse of a stag caught in the frozen river.  The desperate mother interprets it as the twisted answer to her hubristic prayer, an emissary of Satan instead of Jesus.  Faith cannot make things different.

Animals are reviving, or they always were.  The Sheriff's Office is besieged by a steady stream of such refugees smuggled in by Holt and his anti-government disciples, their investigations thwarted by the mayor's insistence that they keep it all quiet and ship them out quickly, and the continued stress of having fewer and fewer answers to the science of the phenomenon.  Other than being unexplained, there was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about the water's deuterium oxide content, nothing toxic or unprecedented, but the rivers seem increasingly to be at the locus of the Revival event.

Meanwhile, the Revivers themselves are becoming stranger.  She may make her decision for what she perceives to be his benefit, but Rhodey's mother—frightened by his masochistic and self-abusive behavior on his website, especially as it increases when Em leaves him—turns him over to the federal detainment facility for Revivers, many of which share a proclivity toward self-mutilation:  Jordan Borchardt, whose fascination with her own eyelids led her to cut them off, and Arlene Dittman who continues to pull out her regrowing teeth.  It's a questionable practice, dictating to others what they may or may not do with their own bodies, especially those for whom mutilation presents no permanent or mortal threat, and especially because the psychological motivation is so poorly understood and their detainment does little to alleviate that stress.  After all, we know it is not the doctors or the medication that has improved Borchardt's perspective, but her murderous non-comatose neighbor John Doe, now known to be the incinerated remains of Jesse Blackdeer.

But this issue is stolen by the mirror relationships of Em's affair with her professor Aaron Weimar and Dana's casual but increasingly intimate fling with co-worker Ibrahaim Ramin, the quiet conversations between lovers.  Whatever Weimar and Em had—and it's really difficult to find common ground with them as a reader or to see both of them as anything but selfishly naive—it's disfunctional and mostly pathetic.  They're whiny, convinced of the great romantic value of their love affair even as they see it for the extra-marital mid-life crisis that it is.  Ramin is having a crisis of faith, both in science and in God, and unlike Weimar's sneaking around on his wife, Ramin seeks the consolation and reassurance of his ex Ami, who in one two-page conversation proves herself a fine friend and former love interest.  Unlike Em and Weimar, Dana and Ramin may not know exactly what their relationship is, but it's certainly much more interesting and fun.

[October 2014]

Suicide Risk #13

"Seven Walls and a Pit Trap," Part 3 (of 3)
written by Mike Carey
art by Elena Casagrande

Leo Winters is far from the man he once was.  He's been engulfed by a world of aliens, superpowers, alternate dimensions, alternate memories, and wild conspiracies and political insurrection.  As he—now Requiem, mostly—flies away from their destructive encounter with the Men of Gold's lictors, policemen, his former colleagues see him escape:  "I- I must be going crazy.  That looked like Leo Winters!" (Suicide Risk #13: 19).  Then again, so too is Requiem.  Once the leader of a revolutionary force against a brutal oligarchy, he was unwavering righteous in his principles but unhesitatingly merciless when needed.  Now he has instincts he never did before.

Dr. Maybe:  "I said around the two of us.  Why did you risk our lives by shielding these others?"

Requiem:  "I- I don't know."  (18)

The lictors may only recognize Requiem in their scans, an ascendant and illegal personality, but Leo, the very personality they presumably fabricated as a "productive" prison for Requiem, is still resisting.  It may very well be an unforeseen and ironic consequence of the Men of Gold's sentence on the revolutionary, that those very characteristics that they designed for Leo Winters may turn Requiem into the freedom-fighter his cause needs him to be.  Dr. Maybe be damned.

If the conclusion of the previous issue left little doubt that Dr. Maybe is a manipulative, self-serving (though honest about that) sociopath, it wasn't entirely clear just where (literally and figuratively) or when his manipulation of Leo was happening.  Presumably in Leo/Requiem's head, activating the latent "pit trap," but Leo's sudden twist re-emergence here, his confrontation with a stunned Requiem makes that far less certain.  And so much more compelling.

East of West #15

Issue 15:  Awake Babylon
written by Jonathan Hickman
art by Nick Dragotta
colors by Frank Martin

It is a world thrust into war.  The Nation have engaged the Republic of Texas, taken action against Armistice itself.  The new Premier of the People's Republic, wife of Death and mother of the Beast, Xiaolian prepares her own agents for warfare in the wake of their mutual destruction.  Chief of Staff—and perhaps soon-to-be President—of the Confederacy Chamberlain is itching for power and eager for conflict.  Puppet of the Horsemen and President of the Union LeVay is powerless next to the machinations of her own Chief of Staff and the intervention of the Beast, who usurps her own missiles for his purposes.  The world is about to burn, and many are standing in line to watch it happen.

How, then, does the Beast—newly named Babylon—elicit a strange optimism?  He is a child of Death and a fearsome warrior.  He was stolen away by a cabal of apocalyptic zealots, kept prisoner, trained and mentored by a computer interface with unknown but increasingly sinister motives, and embraced by the Horsemen Conquest, War, and Famine as their master.  And the influences around him are considerable, the lies and deceptions deep.  There is little cause for optimism in such a world, a world that promises to be built on destruction.  But he calls his orb Balloon.

As he stands in a field of wildflowers glowing in the rays of the sun, but sees nothing but the graveyard wasteland that Balloon shows him, a warped distortion of the truth, he lacks only his own unmediated vision to see what is before him.  The world has already burned, and it has already been built anew.  In the devastation of the Deadlands, the most beautiful landscape in the world as it exists has emerged fresh and unblemished by the deadly politics of its neighboring nations.

[September 2014]

Afterlife with Archie #7

Betty:  R.I.P.
Chapter Two—"Dear Diary…"
written by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa
art by Francesco Francavilla

The rivalry between Betty and Veronica, as iconic as it has come to be and as painfully familiar as it may be for many girls, is a hard sell if we're expected to like these characters all that much.  Their particular brand of girl-on-girl on-and-off-again hate that gravitates around the romantic affections of a boy can be excruciatingly demeaning, both parties devolving into cattiness and passive-aggressive backstabbing to sabotage the other.  That Aguirre-Sacasa doesn't let his characters off easily with such behavior is a remarkably redeeming quality of Afterlife with Archie, even if (perhaps because) it doesn't entirely recuperate its leading ladies.

The voice of "Dear Diary…" is Betty's, her feeble—if noble—attempt at documenting the zombie apocalypse in the genre of teen-girl journaling.  Betty's relentlessly well-meaning and generally self-effacing, though it is refreshing to see her stand up for herself to Veronica later in the issue, but she's as pampered and privileged as the ultra-rich Veronica Lodge, in her own way.  Her troublesome older sister Polly, whose less coddled perspective gives her a more acute social insight, bears the brunt of inequitable sibling expectation.  Polly, like Veronica, may be trouble, but she's a great deal more fiery and gripping than her younger good-girl sister.  When she confronts her twelve-year-old sister about her new birthday present diary, Polly's mostly not all that wrong that she "never [does] anything remotely interesting -- -- so why would anyone want to read about [her] boring life?" (Afterlife with Archie #7: 2).  For her part, Veronica plays the rich bitch with expertise.  She's the mean-girl queen bee in high school; she's the jealous, spiteful rival in the apocalypse.  When Archie and Betty seem to spark up a semi-clandestine romance on the run, Veronica allows herself to lose all perspective.


In the shadow of their bitter threesome, the horror around them continues to threaten.  The fugitive survivors, at Archie's insistence, to take a moment to acknowledge the dead, to say goodbye to the friends and family they've already lost before continuing their pilgrimage to the CDC center in Pittsburgh.  Even that is interrupted by a zombie "horde" led by "Jugdead".  Dilton's the resident expert on "crypto-science," because why wouldn't he be?  Kevin becomes preocuppied with giving the supernatural phenomenon its own lexicon worthy of its pulpy gravity.  Hiram becomes increasingly resentful at Archie's leadership of the group, and he's never much liked him anyway.  They avoid other survivors, because in this new savage world, they don't know that they can trust anyone else.

They may not even be able to trust each other.  The Blossoms have always been a dark, unsettling part of the Archie world, but in Aguirre-Sacasa's hands they've become sinister.  It seems that in recalling a strange Blossom Thanksgiving and the death of her puppy, she finally puts two and two together, recognizing Jason's manipulative need for co-dependence and jealousy.  Then they're interrupted by a wandering zombie.  What ensues happens unseen, but Cheryl re-emerges covered in blood, brandishing her machete, and insisting she be called "Blaze".  Betty suspects she's killed her brother.

[February 2015]

Dream Thief: Escape #4

written by Jai Nitz
art by Tadd Galusha

Dream Thief has always teased that there's something uniquely special about John Lincoln's mask.  It appears and disappears seemingly at its own volition, refuses to remain buried or destroyed, and shows some selection in its possessor.  And no other Dream Thief seems to have one like it.  Brown-Eagle paints his face in a poor replica, a pale shadow of the real thing.  The final issue in Dream Thief's second series confirms it.  As Patricio Brown-Eagle murmurs over the freshly dead corpse of Fischer Ayers, "The old man said your mask was special.  Maravilloso.  Let's find out" (Dream Thief: Escape #4: 4).  But when he turns over the body to remove the mask, it's already gone.  That Patricio thinks he'd have any more success taking it off an Ayers-possessed Ray Ray Benson is laughable.

The conclusion, however abrupt and satisfying to the immediate conflict, makes a few bold choices, none so bold as choosing to leave behind Lincoln's best friend Reggie—who gets another corker of a one-liner when Jenny accuses the trio of going after Brown-Eagle, "We're going to Six Flags" (7)—and Jenny herself, outed to Reggie as a conspirator to cover up Claire's murder of Cordero.  John Lincoln's at his best when he's with these two.  And Nitz is at his best when he's writing for Lincoln's personal life.  The confluence of John, his now-dead but spirit-possessing father, and an uninitiated Jenny is a masterwork of character beats.  Jenny's understandably unforgiving for her father's perceived abuse and neglect, mildly infuriated by Ray Ray's (i.e., her father's) attempts at charm when talking about him, surprisingly taken aback when informed of his death, but quick to recover her detective senses when she connects the John Doe murder to Brown-Eagle.  Jenny's sometimes infuriating herself, but criminally underused.

What their murderous inheritance isn't is honorable, which is something that had dazzled both Nathan Brown-Eagle and Fischer Ayers, the misconception that it was somehow about carrying out some sacred, honor-bound tradition rather than about evening the cosmic score.  John Lincoln is under no such illusions.  Unlike Ayers and both Brown-Eagles, who made this phenomenon about them, Lincoln remembers the victims instead.  The act of revenge itself is petty and largely inconsequential, that it is done is its only relevance.  As Ayers tells Brown-Eagle, "It's better that way.  He's pure.  Your dad and I thought we knew better than the universe.  We handed out our own justice.  Look where it got us" (18).  Ayers may be more right than he knows.  By leaving his family cold, he may very well have allowed John to become just what a Dream Thief should be.

Ody-C #2

written by Matt Fraction
art by Christian Ward

τῶν δ᾽ ὅς τις λωτοῖο φάγοι μελιηδέα καρπόν,
οὐκέτ᾽ ἀπαγγεῖλαι πάλιν ἤθελεν οὐδὲ νέεσθαι,
ἀλλ᾽ αὐτοῦ βούλοντο μετ᾽ ἀνδράσι Λωτοφάγοισι
λωτὸν ἐρεπτόμενοι μενέμεν νόστου τε λαθέσθαι.  (ΙΧ.94-97)

If Ody-C #1 was a prodigious and marvelous, if impersonal, introduction to an epic world and its cunning and cruel protagonist, this is devastating in its intimacy and Odyssia almost villainous in that devastation.

Zeus is a tyrant.  She is her father's murderer and usurper, and her very own tyrannical usurpation has made her paranoid of her own offspring and viciously unrelenting in that paranoia.  She is a child-killer, the eradicator of man, and the cause for the weeping of many mothers for their sons and of many daughters for their fathers.  With considerable irony which is not lost on the god, it is only following this great annihilation that unforeseen consequences plague Zeus:  "Of course…here was where my troubles began" (Ody-C #2: 5).  She is also law-giver, and though her judgment is harsh, it follows the letter.  And so Promethene's creation of the sebex is allowed to stand, though she herself wastes away in the lotus-haze of forgetting, far past the flower's gifts of inspiration.  She is obliterated, all traces of her Titan memory, her rebellious identity, her compassionate generosity to humankind.  She is chained to Lotophage, the world of the memory-ravaging flower, a beautiful but tragic prone body with empty eyes lashed to the planet in Ward's breathtaking opening (10-11).

Fraction's land of the Lotus-Eaters is a testament to the horrors of war, the trauma of combat, and the seductive appeal of oblivion in the face of returning home changed by it.  "Shiftcaptain Prima Eurylock summons her girls from the Ody-C, ready to blot from their memory the horrible war and the journey ahead" (12).  But it owes as much to Dante's Divine Comedy as Homer's Odyssey, a maze of descending circles of sins and decadence as the opiate flower invites its consumers into dulled somnolence, a nightmare from which it is increasingly difficult to return.

Then Ero, Odyssia's sebex lover, disinhibited by the smoke of the lotus, reignites an old contention: children.  Despite their closeness during the war and Ero's longing to make a family with her "wife-lord", she is only Odyssia's lover, the other lover in Odyssia's marriage to Penelope and their family with Telem.  She's little more than a pleasant placeholder until the general returns home.  And their imminent return has sparked old jealousies.  And those jealousies lead Ero too far, to coldly bark Odyssia's insecurities back at her.  And so, when Odyssia leaves her enraged, Ero imagines like any long-standing lover that she will return, after all, "Fighting's a thing they have both done before and will both surely do yet again.  …Right?" (18).  When Odyssia leaves her there, wallowing in the lotus pool with the hollow Lotophage supplicants, it is callously near-unforgivable.  Such is our hero.

Lotophage:  Odysseus' sojourn among the λωτοφάγοι (IX.82-104)

FBP: Federal Bureau of Physics #13

"Wish You Were Here," Conclusion
written by Simon Oliver
art by Robbi Rodriguez

For perhaps the first time in his romantic experience, Adam's lover is the first to pull away.  They have a very fine moment on the roof of the Nakeet observatory, even with her naïveté regarding her dimension-window technology and his mild ego embarrassment at her superior combat skills.  Adam is willing to let Rosa go home while he stays behind to protect her device from their pursuers because that's what she wants, and she's willing to stay to keep him from having to.  Adam is, in other words and despite Rosa's subsequent coldness, the only person who could convince her to stay, to bring her out of her own head and back into her body.  And whatever Rosa's protestations after their re-emergence that "none of it was really real" (FBP #13: 15), their bodies in the tank suggest otherwise.  Whether Cicero and Sen take notice, Adam and Rosa are nearly holding hands after their snowstorm tryst (2), and in shielding Rosa from the explosion through the door to the roof, Adam's tank-body reaches out to guard her (8).

Their return to—not "their world," maybe not even the "real world"—perhaps the world they left behind becomes something of a confluence of lovers for Adam Hardy.  Still desirous of and affectionate toward his partner who chose to use their return as a convenient way to forget their affair, still concerned for his sometimes lover Clara who thankfully survived in their home world despite her murder in the other, and perhaps a little bitter toward his other-world's doppelgänger Bailey Fawcett who manages to be an agent of Blackwood in both worlds, Adam's romantic life is constricting.  It's a prominent distraction from the more pressing mysteries (and threats) in his life, a distraction that Rosa is perceptive and sensitive to set aside.  She is sincere and resolute in her offer to help Adam find his father, and as Blackwood's new pet interest, she's uniquely poised to do so.  It's the latest in Oliver's slow-building sleight of hand that has more or less repositioned Rosa Reyes as the series' protagonist, and like us, Adam sometimes fails to see it.

Though his prevalence in the story has expanded increasingly, Blackwood's lead henchman, the Twain-mustachioed gentleman, alternate-Clara's murderer, has yet to be identified and his more than passing resemblance to Adam's father Caleb Hardy unexplained.  Adam's Newton's Gulch ball, with his wish "Find My Dad" (19), might still, in fact, be ironically delivered by his father himself.

[October 2014]

Black Science #9

written by Rick Remender
art by Matteo Scalera
painted art by Dean White

While Black Science has made a number of bold storytelling decisions and embraced the disorienting consequences of a dimension-hopping device, flinging its core cast of characters into wildly exotic worlds, it has thus far been a remarkably linear narrative, events following on one another in logical and mostly chronological sequence.  Black Science #9 does something very different, and I'm not quite sure I yet know what it is.

Part 1:  Rebecca Dell is a twin, a twin haunted by the death of her brother Jake on a dangerous but innocent camping adventure when they were young.  The recent trauma of her murder of the young German soldier has brought it all back, and brought it back vividly.  But the screeching corpse raises a far more immediate possibility, the other worlds in which our characters' lives are immeasurably different—"How many worlds where it was you 'Becca?!'  How many worlds where Jake is still alive?  Where the right twin died?" (Black Science #9: 6-7)—and the remarkable fact that so far these worlds invariably manifest their own pillar, their own Onion scientists.

Part 2:  Pia and Nate are discovered by a band of their new world's red-eyed hominoids, chased and threatened death by their swords…until they are interrupted by a team of onion-branded, racist centipede zealots, the same that interrupted their executions at the end of Black Science #7.  They are believers.  They make accusations of savagery and heresy and profess enlightenment.  They are apocalyptic fanatics, longing for the end and imagining death itself a kind of birth.  And, having seen the onion logo on young Nathan's spacesuit when he interceded for a red-eyed child, they take them prisoner along with the young red-eyed native to see Blokk.  After all, the "goblin [Nathan] walks the unbound path" (13).

But it is the issue's final segment, following beautiful two-page whiteout splattered with sparse ruddy-pink at the issue's center opening, that launches Black Science into near narrative chaos.

Part 3:  In a sleek, 1920s-styled space-Egypt, a man chases a Kadir-clone and his henchmen through the streets.  But the narration is distant, a far-off prophetic voice—perhaps the pale, winged mantis—addresses an unknown "you," an actor in a world adjacent?  He speaks of friends, a party, poisoned needles, a "eucalyptus".  But most of all, he speaks to Grant McKay.

Wytches #2

written by Scott Snyder
art by Jock

Sailor's (perhaps perceptive) paranoia from Wytches debut issue takes a more literal—and literary—turn in her father's new children's novel:  young protagonist Taylor slips through the funhouse mirrors into a world where wishes come true, where the sheer force of will and desire makes things happen and transforms the world itself.  If a world of candy, play, and no school holds an ingenuous charm, the dark mirror the Rooks family has fallen into is significantly more sinister, more sincerely nightmarish.  And Sailor seems to be at the gravitational center of this new nightmare.

The night attack by the creature outside her window left her neck lacerated, swelling, and—if the biopsy is reliable, as it likely is in this horrific and supernatural world—infected with the flesh of an older, far older woman.  And there seems to be something fateful about the Rooks choice of the new New Hampshire town, a rural secret whose reach extends beyond just the creatures in the woods.  Her duties at the hospital have brought Lucy to the bedside of a young hit-and-run victim with a miraculous recovery.  But his uncanny physical improvement is made considerably more pernicious by the strange IV drip and Dylan's sudden, crazed visions about Lucy's own car accident:  "I can smell it on you.  Someone by you was pledg-- «cough cough»" (Wytches #2: 12).  But it is his first accusing question—"What'd you really hit?" (12)—that brings half-remembered specters of wailing creatures to mind.

The mysterious man who spotted Sailor on the bus, the man who murmured "pledge" as she passed, he ends up in her room.  Legless, beating Charlie over the head with his prosthetics, the old man suggests himself the same—perhaps exactly the same—as the first issue's Timmy Cray.  For him, being a pledge nullifies family bonds:  "Sorry, Mr. Rooks, but you never had a daughter" (25).  A promise, yes, but also someone laid in surety for something else.  These pledges are hostages, and for their sacrifices it seems the New Hampshire town may be reaping some benefit.  "We're strong people up here, Lucy.  We stick together, and we're fast healers" (11).  A little bit The Shining, a little bit The Wicker Man, Snyder and Jock's Wytches is a slow descent into madness and conspiracy, psychological and body horror of the best kind.

Revival #23

written by Tim Seeley
art by Mike Norton

Is Em remembering her murder?  Bleeding in the shower of her dorms, Em seems to be recalling an episode before she was covered in the scars of a reviver.  She finds a black deer carcass by the river with a white rose near wrapping its decaying antlers, before she is then bashed from behind by a showy figure with a crowbar.

And so Anders Hine makes his final exit.  After his terrible, self-mutilating assault on the rich diners of ΩΣΟ, those willing to consume a living body for the promise of immortality and youth.  But he's a poisoned meal, having laced his flesh and blood with mercury.  It's a grotesque spectacle, one of the darkest Revival Day has inspired.  Dana and Puig certainly play their part in tracking down Hine, but his death finally comes from his own "glowing man" shadow, the "air of loneliness [and] betrayal" (Revival #23: 16) or the abandonment of a jilted lover.  These ghosts, these "passengers" belong to people.

They are, despite their frightening appearance and occasional destruction, not quite the monsters Lester Majak once thought them to be.  He is moved and horrified when his spirit hunting ritual with Don catches a frightened and wailing baby, lost and abandoned.  [It's also, perhaps, noteworthy that in the waiting Majak wields a tire iron, a close silhouette of a crowbar.]  The next morning he returns to the smoldering dreamcatcher:  "So...soo sorry.  You just wanted to live.  We all just wanted to live" (24).  But, if Em's newly glowing belly is anything to judge by, the glowing baby may not be as dead as Majak imagines.

But the most satisfying vignette of the closing arc is runaway son Cooper's conversation with way-too-drunk-to-be-driving May Tao.  Chronically overlooked by their family and peers in the Revival crisis, Cooper and Tao are able to speak frankly and openly to one another, and their understanding of one another is refreshing.  When each takes that conversation with them—Cooper embracing his mother warmly upon returning from New York, May making some kind of amends with Abel in his hospital room—it brings much needed hope to Revival Wisconsin.

[August 2014]

East of West #14

Fourteen: A World Full of Angry Children
written by Jonathan Hickman
art by Nick Dragotta
colors by Frank Martin

History is the stories we tell.  And the stories we don't.  Chamberlain assassinated President Burkhardt, a ring with a poisoned stinger during the melee following the explosion of Peter Graves of the Union.  But at his funeral Chamberlain tells his grandchildren a different story, one of wartime bravery and loyalty and friendship, one which gives history the legend of a man.  And it is truly telling that in Hickman's apocalyptic landscape, it's equally likely that Chamberlain's story is true or entirely fabricated.  Truth is, more or less, what we believe, not what is.

"Let me put it to you like this:  Time is a series of overlapping rings that present each age with the same series of repeating generational opportunities.  So...I'm gonna kill him.  And if I'm wrong -- so be it...it'll all come back around."  (East of West #14: 15)

Faith too is what we make it to be.  To each generation its own apocalypse.  That anything, Death included, could lie outside the holy apocrypha, as Famine suggests, makes quite a mockery of the idea of fate and design.  War's certainty that opportunity will re-present itself if once squandered seems far less inevitable as pieces of the Message's great prophetic puzzle fall to the wayside.  Either it happens as it must, and only once, or it happens as we make it happen.

"All these people -- even ours -- believing all these long, dead lies... Legend says their three worlds sprang to life in the days following the fire in the sky.  Here is your response, mystics and believers...here is a little fire of our own." (17)

And so war happens.  A war of faith and destiny against self-made action and responsibility, instruments against autonomous creatures of free will and decision.

[July 2014]

Colder: Bad Seed #1

written by Paul Tobin
art by Juan Ferreyra

For all its talk of "insanity," Colder isn't really all that interested in mental illness.  It's interested in the horror imagination, the illogical dark whimsy of nightmares.

Colder: Bad Seed, even more than the first series, teases the erotic potential of its horrific fixations.  Nimble Jack cursed Declan to "grow colder," to fall closer and closer to freezing the more he negotiates the nightmare world.  While Reece teases Declan about his temperature, demanding "four minutes of notice" and "three on the weekends" (Colder: Bad Seed #1: 8) before her lover jumps her, it's also clear she finds the uniqueness of his body arousing.  Her co-worker's infatuation with Declan's shaggy, luscious hair somewhat uncomfortably echoes the series' new villain Swivel's obsession with fingers, Declan's own but also his harvest:  "Oh.  This one is very good.  Look at the soft skin.  The fine tapering" (6).  Sitting at his café, admiring the busy sidewalk, Swivel leers at the pedestrians' fingers, mirrored in Ferreyra's delicate close-ups of them sliding over backpack straps, making rude gestures, grasping a dog leash, typing on a smartphone or tapping a table, and holding an ice cream cone, the subtle sexualization of a somewhat unexpected body part.  It's no coincidence that the phone conversation he overhears is one of jealousy and sexual desire, a young man whose friend's girlfriend "drives [him] crazy" (5).  Sexual infatuation and violent obsessions don't fall far from one another in Colder's world.

And, of course, we meet Swivel.  While he lack's some of Nimble Jack's charisma, he surrenders nothing of his creepiness.  He's a ravenous, finger-faced farmer, a relic of a staid, ragged era.  He looks something like a depression-era Pennsylvania farmer, perhaps a conservative minister of an small, old church.  (He also seems to owe something to Scott Snyder and Scott Tuft's shark-toothed salesman in Severed.)  He makes little sense, though he doesn't really need to, but he seems to know something about Declan's past, and he's come to see it to fruition.