On Battlestar Galactica #1, & Age Of Ultron Book 8 Too (Part 2 of 2)

continued from Monday's post on the storytelling of "Age Of Ultron Book Eight", which can be found here;     

But it's not just a significant proportion of the superhero industry that's bought into this strange delusion. Exactly the same principles are at work in Dynamite Comic's new continuation of the late Seventies SFTV series Battlestar Galactica. 40% of the debut issue has been given over to what are effectively splash pages, while less than a quarter of its sides feature more than four panels. As such, the book's chances of delivering a dense and satisfying read have been seriously compromised from the off. Only a remarkable artist could have rescued Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning's absurdly slapdash and trite script, alternating as it does between workaday pseudo-spectacle and leaden exposition. Regrettably, Cezar Razek is very much not an outstanding artist, and it seems unfair that Dynamite has allocated him a script which poses such daunting challenges. (When the price of entry is $3.99, it's surely not unfair to expect both art and writing that's more than at best functional.) All of Razek's evident enthusiasm and endeavour hasn't helped obscure his problems with the basics of composition and anatomy. Given an entire page to represent the fearsome menace of the Cylons as they're "mowing a path through the Caprican residences", for example, Razek provides a scene with no physical or human context at all beyond the presence of a few awkwardly-presented robot Nazis. The inexplicable absence of the Cyclon's human prey, and even that of the "Caprician residences", leaves what was an already dubiously decompressed scene without any emotional appeal at all. As a result, what was clearly intended to be a side saturated with menace carries all the conviction of a doddle semi-consciously completed during a particularly tedious school lesson.

       
Yet what couldn't have been achieved if the writers had actually used the page to construct a narrative, and how more successful might it have been if the artist had been in the habit of thinking in terms of story rather than supposedly stupendous snapshots? For though the likes of a pageful of Cylons smashing through a housing estate is unlikely to ever beguile - let alone terrify - an audience, a carefully crafted sequence of frames which brought the same to life might have done so. Better yet, wouldn't the industry be in with a chance of selling a few more books if it were to dawn that such flimflamming choices almost inevitably cheat and alienate the reader? Was there no-one in the chain of command at Dynamite, for example, who might have twigged that the above page wasn't just poorly done, but entirely irrelevant as well? For to remove it changes nothing in BSG#1 at all; the beastly Cylons do terrible things on planet Caprica in the pages which immediately follow too. With the subversion of storytelling by the spuriously spectacular has come, it seems, the disappearance of the belief that the reader deserves the richest experience possible. After all, why would anyone beyond the habitue want work that's as unscrupulously empty as this? Can it possibly be that the very presence of a hitherto-unseen Cylon "heavy weapons unit" was thought to justify the use of an entire page on nothing but fifth-rate fannishness? In short, how can it be that such pages reach the printer without someone noticing how the auidence will inescapably be shortchanged?

Somewhere down the line, a critical mass of the industry convinced both itself and its audience that feeble storytelling wasn't just acceptable, but laudable. It's a belief in the unquestionable virtues of the slackly spectacular that underlies both Battlestar Galactica #1 and Age Of Ultron Book 8. A great many comics creators are still, it seems, buying into the beauty of the emperor's now not-so-new clothes, and his unpleasantly naked behind still appears to be the ideal to emulate.

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"Feeling, principle and impetuosity" - This Week's Instalment Of "Shameless? The Superhero Comics Of Mark Millar"

“Half the country, and by that I mean living north of the M25, were victims of Thatcher’s modernisation program. My Dad lost his job when I was 15 and never worked again. Same with half the guys in the area I grew up in.” - Mark Millar, 8/4/13, Millarworld

The twelfth weekly instalment of the work-in-progress that's Shameless? is now up at Sequart's site. (Here.) Please do feel free to click on the link and pop over there, where you'll find mention of;

• tabloid outrage,and when it does, and doesn't, sell comic books
• the influence of Alan Moore, Pat Mills and Kevin O'Neill
• a few of the problems with having super-people solve social problems
• undeniably harrowing personal tragedy and its relation to national politics 
• 11 500 copies of Grant Morrison and Paul Grist's St Swithins Day
• A Rent-A-Quote Conservative MP and the British gutter press
• John Romita's opinion of Millar's Barnumesque qualities
• Jonathan Ross's appearance in another 1980's British superhero strip
• and a few other things too ...

Meanwhile, out in the real world,  I do hope the day's going kindly for you.

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On "Age Of Ultron Book 8"

Not an unlettered page from Age Of Ultron Book 8, but a side as printed in the finished product.

  
As a story, Age of Ultron Book 8 is anything but enthralling. Yet what it tells us about the 21st century superhero comic is never less than fascinating. The age's taken-for-granted assumptions about what makes for a superior superbook have rarely been as obviously played out. In short, writer Brian Michael Bendis and artist Brandon Peterson have produced a textbook exemplar of the genre's dominant model of storytelling. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the largely wordless mass brawl which makes up the comic's final 40%. To take but the single example of the book's penultimate page - above -  Bendis and Peterson have reduced their narrative to a sequence of  exceptionally familiar cliches. No attempt has been made to use this material in a way that's either innovative or informing. Quite the contrary is true. After all, Helicarriers crashing onto cities, and in particular onto New York, have been an exceptionally familiar sight since the Eighties. That Peterson has lent this alt-timeline's version of a flying aircraft carrier dramatically larger engines hardly passes for ingenuity. This is storytelling reduced to nothing but the regurgitation of the genre's most familiar, and most-mined out, traditions. As such, it seems to represent the belief that the superhero book works best as a literal-minded, dead-hearted trawl through the most obvious and hackneyed aspects of its own past. As if these were religious icons representing eternally vital truths, their very presence is presumed to be implicitly inspiring. Why then spoil the purity of the experience with anything more than trace elements of a story, let alone the contaminants of character and feeling? 

Peterson's art certainly isn't concerned with telling a story. Spectacle is his priority, and nothing but. With the money-shot of the broken-backed Helicarrier coming way before any other consideration, the artist crams in the page's remaining three panels without any concern for sense or emotion. If the second and fourth panels convey little but stock images of posing superpeople, then the third is effectively indecipherable. Given that it's a struggle to be sure that it's actually depicting the Helicarrier's fall, there's certainly no hope that it might convey a sense of jeopardy, or scale, or even fannish awe. To even decipher the figure of what finally appears to be Wolverine leaping into the air above Manhattan takes a ridiculously disproportionate effort. Similarly, the second panel hasn't been designed to show us anything of the detail of what's happening to Logan and the almost-imperceptible figure of Sue Richards. You'd imagine that an enkindled superhero would be worthy of attention, and yet all that counts here is that Wolverine looks blokeishly thrilling. Beyond that, the panel is essentially meaningless. Are these two escaping or trapped? Are they somehow working together or have they been separated? Is there a plan or is it every super-person for themselves? When even the basic facts of where and what are ignored, the possibility of grasping the characters' emotional state, and thereby being moved by what's on show, disappears. Reducing plot and character to the residual levels found in hardcore pornography, Peterson focuses on what really matters; a Big Dumb Explosion in an entirely-familiar scenario.

There are a relatively small number of artists who might have made something worthwhile, and even improbably impressive, out of the boilerplated images in Bendis's script. Perhaps a more recognisable New York might have been presented to us, and a point-of-view chosen which emphasised the vulnerability of the city and the terrible inevitability of its fate. Indeed, it's hard not to think about alternatives when Peterson has plumped for the single most obvious option. Yet it can't be said that there's anything in Bendis's contribution which might make us care about the Helicarrier's fate. For quite literally, there is no script. Despite having produced a story which offers little reason to care about this supposedly shattering event, Bendis has chosen to let the cliches carry the weight of the narrative. It's a deeply puzzling choice. Surely an author as experienced as Bendis must have recognised how troublesomely alienating his set-up would be? With a cast of uninspired and unsympathetic knock-offs inhabiting a just-introduced and soon-to-be-scrapped alt-timeline,  AOU#8 was inevitably going to be a tough sell. Inexplicably, Bendis avoids adding anything of clarity, depth, or even novelty to this page. As with Peterson's art, the writer's choice of the least inspired alternative does at least spark thoughts of how the page might have been improved. In fact, the final 8 pages of this issue could function brilliantly as a writing exercise. How might conversation, or third person narration, or overlapping shards of dialogue, or any one of a host of narrative options, be used to make something distinct and special out of this humdrum indulgence?

But of course, AOU8 isn't about story, or character, or ingenuity, or indeed anything but the most familiar and least challenging of beats and twists. Instead, it's a deeply uninspired and comfortingly enervating confection. Given the principles that inform its storytelling, it couldn't be anything else. Yet as Gore Vidal's wise old owl quite rightly declared, shit has its own integrity, and that's a quality that AOU8 undoubtedly possesses. Who could believe that there was even a trace of cynicism in creators whose work is so consistently flaccid and bromidic? No, AOU8 is too purposeful in its incompetence to be anything other than an entirely sincere expression of a catastrophically devitalising narrative paradigm. One day, the industry will look back in amazement and wonder how this approach ever became so ubiquitous. But until then, this is what perplexingly passes for excellence in a line-leading crossover book. Even though its flaws are so ridiculously obvious, it's the flagship title of the line.

To be concluded soon, with a look at another of this week's comics

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On "Marshal Law: The Deluxe Edition", by Pat Mills & Kevin O'Neill

"... the passion for destruction is also a creative passion." - Bakunin, of course

There's no better advert for the costumed crimefighter comic than Pat Mills and Kevin O'Neill's Marshal Law. Acclaimed for its superhero-loathing vitriol, it's also the proof of how malleable and vital the genre can be. In what's still a hilariously contemptuous and absolutely relevant parody, Mills and O'Neill gleefully savaged the superbook's long-ossified pretensions and prejudices. But as with so much of the very best satire, Marshal Law simultaneously rejuvenates the very thing it skewers. In that, it reflects something of the exhilaratingly contradictory relationship between Punk and product. Just like the Stooges, the Ramones and the Pistols, Marshal Law eviscerates the opposition with a glorious mix of ecstatic cartoon energy, brutally righteous sloganeering and a knowing disdain for compromise. Yet in doing so, Mills and O'Neill revealed over and over again how absurdly exciting and provocative the form can still be. Can the superhero comic really be as mined-out and moribund as some claim, when it's capable of both inspiring and informing such an intense, astute and, ultimately, joyful experience?

    
And Marshal Law is every inch the superhero. His is an existence defined and cursed by secret bases, ludicrous costumes, customised hyper-tech, doomed personal relationships, a super-power that's more blight than blessing, a gallery of supervillains, a gaggle of sidekicks, and a perpetually-threatened world to protect. Though essentially an extravagant and vicious pastiche of an uber-violent, macho-miserabilist psycho-hero, he's as much a fascinating protagonist as a bileful critique. With the depravity that's constantly hurled against him, and with the real-world corruptions that his enemies were made to represent, he functions as a expression of the very kneejerk wish-fulfilment that Mills has always so understandably despised. The Marshal is undoubtedly a bastard, but he is, in Roosevelt's words, our bastard. How can he not be identified with? How can he not embody the reader's shameful longing for the bully who'll brutalise for our side rather than theirs?

Just a detail of O'Neill's wonderfully detailed depiction of US troops shooting glory-boating Golden Age superheroes.

What still sets Marshal Law apart isn't the fact that it satirised the superbook. There have, after all, been a great many other superhero satires, and a few of them, such as Kurtzman and Wood's Superduperman, have been every bit as sharp and cutting. Nor is it the presence of a critical mass of purposefully outrageous enmity, vulgarity and violence that explains the comic's reputation. The form's no stranger to those qualities either, although few have ever come close to Mills and O'Neill's brilliance as scornful and inspired assassins. Instead, it's their determined and protracted campaign against political and artistic conservatism which marks Marshal Law out. Even taking into consideration Frank Miller's despicably Islamophobic Holy Terror, no other American-published superbook can match Marshal Law's passionate, focused advocacy of challenging principles and innovative storytelling. For all that its set-ups and pay-offs are still coruscatingly effective, Marshal Law's uniqueness lies in the combination of aesthetic and ethical ends that its black comedy so successfully serves.

    
Over and over and over again, Mills and O'Neill hammered away at the complacency and fatuousness of the typical super-book, while concurrently lashing out at the hypocrisy and callousness of American capitalism and imperialism. If it wasn't so uproariously done, then Marshal Law would've been nothing but agit-prop hectoring. Of course, it's anything but. By contrast, the superhero comics of today rarely show anything but trace elements of the same passion, invention and insight. It's rare enough to see the genre's conventions even mildly mocked with any sense of conviction. Far rarer still are the books which resolutely challenge it's tendency towards - knowingly or not - reactionary politicking. With the exception of the work of a few laudable creators in the so-called mainstream, apathy and timidity and rightism and forelock-tugging has followed in the wake of Iran, Afghanistan, Guantanamo and 2007's economic meltdown. If  the values expressed in Marshal Law were radical in the context of the late Eighties, then they're an incendiary and insurgent business today. Few have dared - or perhaps been allowed to dare - to show even a fraction of the comic's belligerent and explicit condemnation of elite power and creative complacency.

          
Nothing highlights the bankrupt banality of the archetypal superbook more than O'Neill's joyously  idiosyncratic art. His brilliantly singular work implicitly rebukes every artist who settles for the superhero comic's most narrow and inbred influences. Exuberant and yet perfectly focused; complex and challenging and yet entirely transparent; artistically brilliant and yet never devitalisingly slick or predictable; O'Neill's incandescent synthesis of so many eclectic enthusiasms surely ought to have been as inspiring as it's gloriously heretical. For though there's an undoubted regard for Kirby and Ditko on display in his pages, there's also the same for prime-era Mad and Popeye, Leo Baxendale and Ken Reid, Loony Tunes and Monty Python, religious iconography and sexual fetishism, psychedelia and graffiti, and so on and on. Yet the influence of his ebullient storytelling, and the open-mindedness and ambition it represents, is depressingly limited in the work of 2013's seventh-generation Jim Lee-clones. Plus ca change, etc etc.

   
That there's been some incontrovertibly wonderful superhero comics published over the past 25 years is beyond questioning. (*1) That they've made for a tiny percentage of the industry's overall output is regrettably also true. To re-read Marshal Law in 2013 is to realise once again how little has changed over the past quarter-of-a-century. Inspiring and engaged superbooks are still being published, but they remain woefully outnumbered by pap-saturated, know-nothing product. As such, Mills and O'Neill's furious lambasting of the genre's predominant lack of artistic ambition and political principle is every bit as relevant as it ever was. Yet Marshal Law was far less a stake through the superbook's heart and far more the wrenching out of the same. What couldn't the genre achieve with just a fraction more of the technical brilliance, creative vigour and ethical commitment that's to be found in Marshal Law?

*1:- And I hope the content of this blog has made it obvious that I'm convinced of that. To note that there's a considerable number of fine storytellers at work in today's superbook isn't to contradict the statement that the genre is all too often creatively stagnant and politically disquieting.

Marshal Law: The Deluxe Edition is currently available from DC Comics. If you've not got it, then get it.

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Margaret Thatcher, Mark Millar, Miracleman & Marshal Law: "Shameless? The Superhero Fiction Of Mark Millar" Part 11

 In this week's instalment of Shameless?, you'll find reference to;

• The Saviour as the world's most frustrating super-bloke
• Pat Mills and Kevin O'Neill's Marshal Law
• The Seventies as the heyday of creepy comicbook covers
• Alan Moore and John Totleben's Miracleman, a page of which can of course be found above
  
• Margaret Thatcher
• The limits of deconstruction
• Yuppies!
• The narrative advantages of secret identities
• Hyper-violence!
• And more, including lots of words and ideas and things which are just begging to be cut from this section's next draft.

If you've a moment to kill, you'd be very welcome over at Sequart for this week's section of Shameless? You can find it here.(Previous sections can be accessed via the blue numbered circles at the bottom of the page.)

And next at TooBusyThinking, there'll be a post about this year's thoroughly splendid Marshal Law: The Deluxe Edition.

On The First Pages Of Astonishing X-Men #62 & Wolverine #3

In which the blogger wonders once again what the point of an opening page might be. Who is it supposed to be speaking to, and what should it be designed to achieve?;

  
Astonishing X-Men #62, by Marjorie Liu, Gabriel Hernandez Walta et al

The first page of Astonishing X-Men #62 seems to have been crafted for the reader who's uncommonly patient, informed and undemanding. Patient, because the side suggests that the narrative captions relate to the events being shown without any hint of how or why. Informed, because Liu avoids identifying either the names or the motivations of Mystique and Sabertooth. Undemanding, because there's no hint of any plot-driving conflict to be seen beyond a minor and underplayed disagreement about kittens in the final panel. The presumption appears to be that super-people are so fascinating in themselves that their very existence compels our attention. Bad dreams, a room empty of much beyond screens showing what seems to be TV news, the awkwardly-phrased mystery of Iceman's hunger; the enigmas we're presented with appear mild and humdrum. Indeed, Liu and Walta even appear desperate to underplay the remarkableness of the mutants they're portraying. It's almost as if the story had been designed to modestly not call attention to itself, and that's what it succeeds in doing.

If Liu's script is, for all its undoubted craft, anaemic, then Walta's art is pleasantly unremarkable. His depiction of Tokyo and Mystique's progress through it lacks character or distinctiveness. Even the third panel's matter-of-fact suggestion of shape-changing seems to have been made as inconspicuous and uninteresting as possible. (The partially-obscuring presence of the caption there helps to diminish whatever interest the scene might offer.) As such, the only moment which isn't visually soporific is Sabertooth's baring of his fangs in the final frame. Yet even that lacks energy, and what might have been a dramatic shot is instead a mildly distracting one. Of course, it's hard to establish a super-villain as a seriously threatening proposition when he's having his kittens taken away from him. The very idea that Creed eats baby cats for lunch is a superficially attractive one, and yet all it does is emasculate him. After all, those three tiny felines make for a remarkably small and pathetically helpless meal for one of Marvel's most savage killers. To then have them scooped away, and with so little resistance being shown, is surely not the way to inform the reader of his character and the menace he poses. Even in establishing Mystique's authority over him, it leaves Creed seeming enervatingly subservient and unthreatening.
   

It appears that Liu believed that the juxtaposition of Drake's confessional "voice-over" and Mystique's everyday walkabout would prove compelling in itself. The reader, it seems, is expected to become involved in the mystery of how the two narratives relate to eachother. Yet anyone who doesn't know who these various characters are will most probably be alienated from the off. For it's only regular readers of the X-Books who'll have the background knowledge to make the sequence meaningful. Mysteriously, the issue's introductory text page makes no mention of Mystique or Sabertooth at all. Equally baffling, its explanation of why Iceman might be seeking counselling fails to mention his civilian identity. Confusion can only emerge for the neophyte when the captions of the story itself refer to "Bobby" rather than his mutant code-name. Why even have a text page when it offers so little assistance with the story it's designed to inform?

The beginning of a monthly book needn't involve a hysterical measure of world-threatening hype, and unfamiliar readers can certainly be intrigued by situations and characters they know nothing about. But this page's lack of visual distinctiveness, key information and, most deleteriously, liveliness does undermine the scene's appeal. For all that the art is careful and competent, and for all the undoubted craft that's evident in the script, this really isn't a particularly enticing introduction.

The marketplace is saturated with super-books. Some of them are excellent. Why would either the casual browser or the uncommitted consumer opt for Astonishing X-Men #62 on the evidence of this opening page?

Wolverine #3, by Paul Cornell, Alan Davis, Mark Farmer et al

There's no mention of the main character's names in Paul Cornell's script for the first side of Wolverine #3 either. But the book's text page has already done that. Both Logan and Fury are well-known even in the world beyond comics, and some might have been tempted to take that knowledge for granted. Yet the team behind Wolverine have made sure that the book is as clear, welcoming and involving as possible. That that clarity hasn't arrived at the cost of depth and detail is a mark of its creator's craft. As with the likes of Demon Knights and London Falling, it sees Cornell continuing to streamline his storytelling. Always working to create a maximum of effect with the least possible degree of show, he doesn't even reprise the Watcher's spectacular appearance from the previous issue's conclusion. It's been done, and done well, and now there's the rest of the story to be told. Instead, Cornell presents the necessary backstory in the form of a grand bout of bickering between super-spy and superhero. The opposite to redundant exposition, it ensures that the new reader's informed while the returnee learns something new about Logan and Fury's tempestuous relationship. As such, personalities are clearly defined while the scale of the emergency is established. More impressive yet, it's all wrapped up in a mere three panels, which frees up the final two frames for a new plot twist and a rather sinister page-turner

    
It's still a sequence which might have seemed static and uninvolving in the hands of a less accomplished artistic team. At worst, it might have ended up as nothing but a page of two shouting super-blokes, a mysterious knife-wielding woman and generic back alleys. But the dynamism of Alan Davis and Mark Farmer's collaboration capitalises on the potential of both Fury and Logan's testosterone-charged dispute and the enigmatic appearance of Victoria Frankenstein. Much of this is down to Davis's rarely-equalled ability to create physically distinctive and emotionally compelling characters. Some rely on the super-book's stock types, but Davis designs distinct individuals with their own particular frames and their own idiosyncratic body language. His super-people aren't objectivisied bubbles of muscle and fat, but fascinating human beings whose appearance transmits character rather than cliche. Even the more peripheral details of Davis and Farmer's art can be compelling. The suggestion of Wolverine's claws in the first panel's shadows, for example, is a smartly surreptitious way of foreshadowing future crises.

Accessible, distinctive and entertaining, the first page of Wolverine #3 shows one way to make an opening side matter.
 
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A Super-Hero For The Market's Sake? ;- Shameless? The Superhero Comics Of Mark Millar Part 10

Of all the things to be writing about. Mark Millar's The Saviour gives every impression of being a superhero - or at the least a supervillain - book. Yet there's very little of the costumed crimefighter genre in its pages. It feels odd to suggest that there's a Millar comic which isn't obsessed enough with superheroes. Yet a book which seems to promise one kind of tale while delivering another will almost inevitably confuse and disappoint.

I make no bones about my admiration for how Millar has worked and worked at his craft. To discuss his earliest weaknesses is to celebrate how disciplined and focused his Post-Millennium scripts have been. None of that is to say anything ill or positive about his later work's content, but credit ought to be given to Millar's development as a distinctive and purposeful stylist. Yet beyond his admittedly substantial circle of admirers, credit is rarely given.

Should you think it's worth a moment or two of your time, the latest instalment of Shameless? can be found over at Sequart's site here.