Mindless Ones

Yeah yeah, Wednesday morning, what a surprise.

Comics I only bloody went and got this week, didn’t I.

Detctive Comics 853, by Neil Gaiman, Andy Kubert, Scott Williams, Alex Sinclair

Well, I was rather wrong about this one*. Been looking forward to it and all, liked the first issue well enough, and was expecting a bit more of the same: one or two unchained, crisp, well-framed Bat-vignettes on a theme of Bat-death, topped-off with a weepy finish.  What came along instead was a boring, turgid, plotless (as in lost-the-plot), overcooked bag of balls, relying heavily on an unearned or (to be generous), inherited emotional weight in the readership, concrete shoes for fans. A pamphlet so uninterested in itself that the last half is nothing but double or single splashes, completely divorcing itself from the charming, intricately dense mashup of signifiers that the previous issue – and at its best, the strongman/funnybook form itself – does so well.

The issue also delivers a rehash of funereal clichés from some of the writer’s signature projects, and tries to pass off some other well worn turns as original. Look away now if you care, earth-shattering revelation on the way: Batman’s defining characteristic, the mark of his unique battiness, is the fact that he doesn’t give up. That’s the Master of Fantasy’s big statement, his shot at the title, when given the chance to come up with something moving and profound and insightful into the nature of the world’s most popular fictional character. He doesn’t give up is the bare minimum one expects from an American superhero, from any kind of hero really, and to claim it as Batman’s unique coda shows a lack of imagination that one really doesn’t expect from, well, the Master of Imagination.

The better line would have been he does it with such style. Even Jack Nicholson knew that one. It appears that Andy Kubert knows it too – his work on this story was the only thing that made me pick it up for a second read. He performs a Williams III-esque job of stylistic chameleonics, channelling notables from Dick Sprang through Brian Bolland to Dave McKean and all the expected points between, communicating without words the point that his co-author apparently failed to intuit. As with the previous, one of the most interesting parts of this issue comes after the story has completed its long, slow, repetitive conclusion: Kubert’s backmatter pages, detailing his pencilling process from draft layout to ready-for-the inks, are fascinating. His delicacy of line and gift for implying dramatic, beautiful lighting is really a pleasure to see develop. I‘m no fan of backmatter or of green-curtain pulling, but these half-dozen or so pages are much more than the usual bulking-it-out-for-the-printers or sorry-it’s-so-late-here’s-why. One reason DC editorial may have seen fit to add those pages could be pure shame – no one can be happy that those really rather wonderful original pages can have so much life sucked from them by the clumsy layers of ink, colour and dialogue that the house repro bible apparently demands. The act that the finished artwork is still so lucid and subtle after those successive spatters have been vommed all over it is a fine example of the man’s talent.

*Or perhaps, half-wrong: The mystery lady is indeed Martha W., and we do, more or less, get the pearl-necklace mommy-shot that I was after. By the time they arrived, I couldn’t give a shit about either.

Hellblazer 254, by Peter Milligan, Goran Sudzuka, Rodney Ramos, Jamie Grant

But I was right about this one*.  Milligan’s second Constantine storyline gets started, and… You know, my mindless brethren and I like to pontificate about Hellblazer (you ain’t seen nothing yet), but, with a notable excption or two,we don’t actually read it all that much. I had a good-ish time with Jason Aaron’s issues last year, and was OK with Andy Diggle’s first issue back in 07 or whenever (though not good enough to come back for seconds), but those aside I’ve not really read the book properly in years and years. All of which is to say, I’m sorry if the issues missed have been brilliant – let me know in the comments and I shall cop again to the boundlessness of my ignorance. But, if my suspicions are correct, Milligan’s run – four issues in now, enough to make a reasoned judgement – is going to to be a bastard belter, better than antything we’ve seen for a good long while.

There’s nothing earth-shattering in this issue mind. And it’s not as if there’s nothing to grumble about – the pencils are a little clean (though the backgrounds are great) and really, when it comes to busting pustules later in the storyline, the fact that the lines are so neat and restrained now will probably make the ickiness all the more retchy. And while we’re picking holes, the Plague Doctor is a bit familiar, feeling like as much of a stock Vertigo character as any shavey-headed hardnut.

So do not let it be said that I’m just cheerleading this issue, that there’s nothing the grumbley sort could find to be grumbley at. But, because, well – I fucking loved this issue, like I haven’t loved a Vertigo comic, and especially such a Vertigoey Vertigo comic, in years and years.

As you’d espect from Milligan, the dialogue is literate andwitty, giving us finally a Constantine who’s nearly as funny as he thinks he is. The setting is instantly authentic and recognisable, cherry-picking elements from real life on this very day to create an immersive and believable London. The themes similarly pick apart the zeitgeist to find the horrors lurking just underneath tomorrow’s headlines, touching on panopticism; pestilential tension; the witch-hunt against London’s leading real-life magician ; the Olympics as a bloated, aggressive egregore gorging on dispossessed city-dwellers and swollen, multi-billion budgets.

Amid all the incidental goodness and old standards – plague pits straight out of Defoe etc. – you notice threads from the last arc are still being gently plaited into something interesting, and there’s clearly some kind of grand plan slowly coming into focus.

It’s more-or-less exactly what a Constantine book ought to be. I wanted a cigarette after I’d finished it, that’s how good it was.

*Or perhaps, half-right. It’s hard to say in all honesty that what we get here is new or different to what may have gone before. In fact, rather than being original, it feels more classic than anything, a note-perfect rearrangement of the title’s core elements, an assured and well-balanced set-up issue that doesn’t try anything too different, but hits the beats with such timing and elan that you’re almost convinced for a second that you’ve never seen anything like it. Even after the momentary illusion of unburdened freshness has fallen away, one impression remains: that it’s very, very possible indeed that we could be really getting into stride with the best run of this title’s twenty-year life.

Viking 1 by Ivan Brandon and Nic Klein

Do you remember that time that Huey full of marines en route to Da Nang got timesnatched and ended up back in 10^th Century Norway? And they turned the ‘Sixty on that army of nasty berserkers? And those mutant bandits from the 23^rd century were there? Great times huh? Then Johnny turned up? Really good shit, right?

This? Not as good as that. Lots of effort gone into making the paper and format all nice, and a decent price, cool as ever to see Image continuing to mix things up of course… But no, it just didn’t quite click did it? Script trying too hard to be earthy and ribald and authentic (with a modern twist), without the sensual glee you’d get in an average episode of Slaine; and scratchy, over-painted artwork that looks like it’s trying to be Dermot Power, not a look I thought many people would be chasing today. Do you remember that time the viking chief ordered all those battle helmets, but when they arrived all the horns were on the inside?