Mindless Ones

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.

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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

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

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

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 about of drug 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…

Kick-Ass #2
Written by Mark Millar
Drawn by John Romita Jr
Published by Icon

I was uncertain after reading the first instalment, but this confirms it. There’s a very bad smell around this comic. The smell of unwashed boy. The smell of socks encrusted with… well, let’s just say “encrusted” and leave it at that, shall we? Sure, Mark Millar’s wannabe superhero (a kid from the really real world who loves to talk about the things you the reader love to talk about) had the shit kicked out of him last issue, but this time – tres excite! – he’s back and KICKING the bad guys ASSES.

With his truncheon.

Turns out that Mark is, in all seriousness, spaffing off the worst kind of nerd power fantasy*. That he keeps highlighting his obsession with really real superheroes, and thereby tacitly suggesting that KICK ASS is written with the really real world in mind, causes me to worry about his mental health, if not his mental age. Hackneyed talk of the supersuit as fetish gear, and having the hero enjoy being bashed up as he administers street justice do not confer a sense of the really real, signpost a skein of maturity, or hide the trite storytelling dynamics at work here (dynamics that couldn’t be more at odds with Millar’s talk of realism), they just serve to make the icky even ickier.

So, now that I’ve forced my way through issue 2, my feelings are crystallized: I wouldn’t want to describe Kick-Ass as bad, in the same way that I wouldn’t want to describe the aforementioned sock as ‘bad’. ‘Bad’ doesn’t really capture what I think is wrong with the book; it’s not so much that it’s poorly written, and, hey, the art is predictably skilful. Nope, there’s just better, more accurate ways of describing it, just as there are better more accurate ways to describe the sock. Words like ‘rank’, ‘disgusting’ and ‘covered with spunk’.

*I say ‘the worst’ because we’re kinda in the business of nerd power fantasies around here. Never let it be said that I don’t enjoy a good nerdish power fantasy. I live and breath nerdish power fantasies

Secret Invasion #1
Written by Brian Bendis
Drawn by John Romita Jr
Published by Marvel Comics

Say what you like about this issue, Secret Invasion’s premise is about fifty quadrillion times more sturdy than Civil War’s. Marvel’s attempts to map their last mega-crossover over real world events didn’t so much come across as implausible, more downright fraudulent. Some might say distastefully opportunistic.

Secret Invasion, on the other hand, is traipsing across well worn ground, so even if it doesn’t manage to keep the continuity hounds at bay, there’s no excuse if it fails to work for those of us who don’t care whether Luke Cage couldn’t have been kidnapped by Skrulls because blah, blah, blah, boring, boring, boring. So I’m happy to say that on the strength of this issue it seems to be doing fine. Out is Bendis’s trademark decompression, and in comes the destruction of S.W.O.R.D, the implosion of the Baxter Building, the hijacking of global weapon systems, the neutralization of Iron Man, three big Skrull reveals, and one rather hefty curve ball. Okay, it ain’t All Star Superman 10 (more on that later), it isn’t particularly inspired stuff – quite the opposite, in fact. What it is is a competently written book that sets up the story at a rapid pace, and manages to entertain in the process. Granted, those of us who’ve been following the Avengers don’t need to bother with the first few pages, but the expository stuff is thankfully short-lived and probably entirely necessary.

If I had to point towards anything faulty, I’d suggest that the twist ending is somewhat undermined by the fact that a number of the character’s in question have their own books. To fuck with them, in the way that’s being suggested, would be pretty unforgivable, and as a consequence I can’t help but feel that it’s all a big Skrull fake out. On the strength of this I’ll be happy to check back next month to see if I’m wrong.

All Star Superman #10
Written by Grant Morrison
Drawn by Frank Quitely
Colours by Jamie Grant
Published by DC Comics

Perhaps the best superhero comic ever written.

That is all