Criminology

June 11th, 2010

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It’s probably an unbelievably bad idea to take DC marketing dept. at their word, but anyway. They have a difficult job, I guess.

Und so! Vorwaerts! The initial idea for this was a liveblog, but that would have involved promotion and shit, I am quite the most fundamentally lazy – physically, critically, intellectually – person I know, and also been a pretty fucking tortuous read, dying to turn the page, but having to bash out a satisfactory update before I could do so. So that didn’t happen; what we will have is the 7 pages in a polka-dotted reporter’s pad (I thought that shit was red, I was gonna give you a photo and shit, call this the Red Casebook but nah; I obviously did not buy this pad), my CASENOTES interspersed with some proper blogination. You can of course choose to believe these casenotes are an after-the-fact “ret-con”, as much a fait accompli as most Grant Morrison superhero scripts, even although Mindless Ones is the very definition of elegant verité and bold realism, and that’ll be a mystery too. Do what you like, I won’t stop you.

But one day, tomorrow, peoples will be reading Batman #700 on their infoSlates, their powerTablets, and it’ll be my polka-on-grey casebook anno’s there first; that’s my dream, and it is definitely good to have dreams. FUTURECOMICSSS.

We begin; welcome to MindlessOnes.com for all your Grant Morrison Batman needs. Choose MindlessOnes.com

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I was brought up on the comic books of the eighties, when colours were flat and negative space was in high demand, when digital meant computer games suffering from colour clash, and when today’s smooth colour gradations were the holy grail of the demo scene. On the whole I don’t want naturalism from my colouring and I definitely don’t demand some early 90s bedroom coder’s version of it. Which leads me, kinda, to my point.

Ever since mindless pal David Uzumeri compared the colouring of Batman & Robin #1 to a badly rendered GIF, I’ve been promising a response. I was troubled by David’s reaction because I thought the blotchy, banded, fuzzy colour gradations added immensely to the atmosphere of the issue, and because I believe David’s objections to only have a tenuous grip on the critical centre. It’s an understandable way of reading the colouring, but I’m of the opinion that with some prodding its dominance can at least be partially undermined and other readings more readily admitted.

Read the rest of this entry »

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Here and in the comments, we got the shit ain’t no-one else got. Read on!

Annocomment is free after the jump

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I used to have a friend who would perform his own peculiar brand of dance: DANCE FIGHTING

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Batman & Robin #2 would appear to be the book where the uncommitted became converts, or at least became considerably more interested. People have made the usual gestures towards Quitely’s wonderful art, and highlighted the elegant conceptual economy evident in Morrison’s character work and its meta-textual dimensions. And here we get to the first object of this droplet of criticism – a slice of meta-commentary of surprising value, in that it makes a strong case for shedding our fears and anxieties about this ersatz Batman. By framing Dick’s tenure as a performance, Morrison shows us how both the characters and we, the audience, can engage with the new status quo without feeling that anyone’s toes are being trod on. The real beauty of this idea is that it brings with it the flexibility and permissiveness of adaptation and interpretation (key elements of any performance), and consequently lends the book a lightness and unboundedness (made much of by Amy in his review) that is all too rare in A-list superhero books. Put simply: a lot more can happen because this Batman isn’t Batman. Implicit to this way of approaching the comic is the understanding that theatrical performances are there, largely, to be enjoyed. Morrison is tacitly telling us to allow ourselves to sit back and have fun, to take pleasure in the unfolding of the role, to view it for what it is: entertainment.

Tired? Man up and jump

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The leading, upper-outer edge of the page’s porous membrane extends outwards into the reader’s domestic reality-space, super-imposed on an imaginary plane nearly a foot distant from the paper-thin physical boundary, roughly  on a level with the occipital lobe, back there at the back of the brain. Looking forwards, the page’s fluctuating inner boundary is theoretically infinite, a vanishing point occurring wherever the texture gradient of the eye-line happens to converge in that now-frozen, now-fluid moment, caught there in the net of the panel borders.

It downpours

You could listen to the similarly titled Motley Crüe song to accompany this post, but I’d advise against it. Bit rusty, hold on:

It’s all been done before, of course.

First!

SUPERMAN SAYS “NO!” TO DRUGS

It was 2005 when I decided to paint my walls ASS pink and give up dope.

I was a smug bastard about it too.

I think the catalyst for it had something to do with a very nasty bout of cannabis fuelled morbid self-analysis, which saw me pacing my then matchbox of a bedroom, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, for at least half an hour, in an attempt to disperse the soul-shredding anxiety and paranoia, through, if anyone should have really been spying on me via evil satellite link, embarrassing levels of exercise. Thankfully the munchies eventually kicked in, the clouds lifted and I decided enough was enough. It would be the last time I raided the fridge for Ryvita and sweetcorn relish (anything tastes good when your in the throws of, as my Mum’s friend put it, ‘the delicious eating’) at four in the morning, and it would be the last time I performed like a crazy monkey-man for the entertainment of the evil bastard demons plaguing my befuddled noggin.

After that everything shifted.

More after the jump…