Author: Andrew Wheeler

The great thing about history is that it never stops being history. It might technically get older, but, realistically, a hundred years is the same as a hundred and twenty. Old is old, dead is dead.

So I can read the tenth anniversary edition of a book four years later without feeling any guilt, because the guy it’s about has been dead since 1885 anyway. He’s not doing anything new in the meantime.

I am, of course talking about Chester Brown’s historical graphical comic-book thing Louis Riel , one of the works that most deforms the common usage of the term “graphic novel.” (So I’m avoiding using it directly.) Brown himself is one of those quirky Canadian oddballs that comics seems to throw off regularly — not quite as monomaniacal and misogynistic as Dave Sim, definitely further down the spectrum than seems-to-mostly-just-be-eccentric Seth, and probably about equal with world-class work-avoider Joe Matt — with his own very defined passions and crankish ideas that mostly stay out of this primarily fact-based book. (Riel did claim to have direct knowledge of the divine, which could easily have been one of the things that attracted Brown to his story — but that’s material that was already there waiting for him. And women are almost entirely absent from this story of 19th century politics and war, whether because of Brown’s views or because any contributions they made were quiet at the time and ignored thereafter.)

I can’t speak from any personal knowledge of Riel’s story, or any previous scholarship. My sense is that Brown followed the generally accepted scholarly consensus at the time, and that his telling is as “true” as any book of history: it’s what most experts think happened, in broad outlines, even if some of them probably argue violently with each other about individual details. And that is the old sad story of distant elites of one ethnicity scheming to disenfranchise (or worse) a minority they don’t like within a burgeoning territory they control.

In this case, it’s the English-descended government of Canada, mostly in the person of Prime Minister Sir John A. Macdonald, planning how best to cut up and use a vast section of the mid-continent prairies and deliberately alienating, damaging, and snubbing the locals, particularly the population of mixed French-native background called Metis. (That area eventually became the province of Manitoba, if that helps place it in space and time.)

The Metis people were not happy with this, of course. “No taxation without representation” is only one specific expression of an age-old problem: those people over there, with all the power and most of the guns, are telling us to do things we don’t think they should have any say in. The Metis fought back, and Louis Riel is the man who became their leader — it seems, from Brown’s telling, that was because he was right there when the first clash happened on Metis land, and because he spoke English well enough to be a go-between. And he was strong-willed and charismatic to stay in that role. Brown presents him as the leader of his people, and doesn’t get into any power struggles that might have happened within the Metis community, even as we suspect they must have happened.

Riel eventually led two different rebellions against the government of Canada. As Brown tells it, he was goaded and guided into doing so by Macdonald and others, who knew they would win militarily and preferred the simplicity of bullets to the messiness of actually doing their political jobs of compromising and allowing all voices to be heard. It’s a sad, sordid story, basically a tragedy: Riel was unstable and mentally ill (that supposed direct connection with the divine), which possibly kept him from finding a better solution for his people. Or maybe they were doomed from the beginning, since the other side had the government, the railroad, most of the guns, more money, and their own racism to convince themselves they were firmly in the right.

Brown tells the story well, focusing on Riel’s life and actions and using a clean six-panel grid — he gets out of the way of his story almost entirely. This looks like a Chester Brown story, since his art is distinctive, but it reads like compelling reality, without the surrealistic breaks and self-obsessions of his earlier works. There’s a reason this has become a Canadian classic; it tells an important story well. This edition includes an extensive collection of sources and notes, plus a section at the back with sketches, original comics covers and other related stuff. To maximize the scholarly heft, there’s an essay by an academic to close the whole thing out. But most readers won’t bother with that anyway. The book itself is enough: it tells a story we’ve seen many times before, but need to be reminded of regularly.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Boulet is one of those European Cartoonists who are so cool they only need one name, like Herge. (And several others — I feel like there’s a lot of them, but can’t be bothered to research the question right now.) Or maybe it’s not a coolness thing — perhaps it helps them avoid the social shame of being known publicly as a cartoonist? Or maybe it just fits better on a comics page as a signature?
So many possibilities.

Anyway, his real name is Gilles Roussel, but he works in comics as Boulet. And he started a blog in 2004, which seems to be what really pushed his career forward and gave him some momentum. (2004 was a good year for blogs — most of the years since, not so much.)

The blog has been collected in several volumes in French, under the overall title Notes. (Wikipedia lists four volumes, but that’s only through 2010. Actually, that Wikipedia entry seems to stop listing anything as of about 2010, which leads me to believe it hasn’t been updated this decade.) Last year, Soaring Penguin Press — which I’ve never heard of before, though I immediately like them for their name — had the first volume translated and published it in the UK. And somehow one copy of that edition found its way to an independent bookstore in New Jersey and finally into my hands.

That book is Notes, Vol. 1: Born to Be a Larve . (Not sure why it uses the French spelling “larve” rather than the English “larva,” but that’s just my editor-brain kicking in when no one asked it to.) And it collects roughly the first year of that comics-blog, plus some framing pages of Boulet talking to a woman (his editor? a friend? another comic-blogger? she doesn’t seem to be a girlfriend,  and I can’t find anywhere she’s named) about assembling and organizing this very book you’re reading.

The new material (well, “new” as of 2008 when the book was assembled) comments on and contextualizes the older blog entries — this is a fancy way to say that Boulet and his unnamed female interlocutor talk about the story on the previous pages, and Boulet sometimes gives more details about those stories.

Because this is the kind of blog that’s based on real life. (They all supposedly were, and it can be hard to tell how much any individual blog is “real,” I suppose, but this is mostly day-to-day life-of-a-cartoonist stuff.) There’s some stories about conventions, and some stories about daily life as a cartoonist, and the inevitable here’s-the-dream-I-had-last-night-because-I-can’t-think-of-anything-else-this-week entry. All of the old blog entries are in color — some seem to be watercolored, and some are more traditional spot color (by Boulet, presumably) over pen-lines. The new stuff is mostly black-and-white, except for the orange of Boulet’s hair. (Which is a fun design element, and also shows how much his style loosened up between the initial blog entries and this book.)

Some of the stories are a single page, but they’re generally longer than that — enough to tell a little story, or run through a series of events. The stories themselves are not dates, though Boulet mentions several times how much trouble it was to find all of them and put them in the correct chronological order.

So this is a book of parts — Boulet explicitly worries about that in his framing material up front, and revisits the idea at the end — like a book of short stories. It’s all things that happened to this one French cartoonist (even if some of them, as with many creative folks, were things that happened entirely in his head) over the course of a year more than a decade ago.

(By the way, the blog is still going, and there’s an English version now — the latter is available here .)

If you’re the kind of American whose conception of “comics” is entirely filled by people in bright colors punching each other, this is very much not the book for you. I hope there aren’t actually that many of you, but — since I’m a pessimist — I tend to assume you’re the majority, you thick-knuckled vulgarians you. But, for the rest of us, this is a neat book by an interesting creator, and for other comics-makers, it’s an intriguing look into a life in comics in a somewhat different market and ecosystem.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

I can’t claim any connection to the cartoonist Shannon Wheeler, despite the name similarity. Oh, he lives in Portland, as does my brother — but I think that’s as close as it gets. The Wheelers are a vast clan, with our fingers in all of the world’s pies, and Shannon’s branch is very distant from my own.

But, still, he is a Wheeler, and thus one of the best in the world at whatever he chooses to do, by the power of that exceptional name. In his case, first there was the hit comic Too Much Coffee Man (in several formats, for a long time, and not quite done even now). But he’s also been working seriously on New Yorker-style single-panel cartoons for at least a decade now, with some success in that fine magazine.

And, since he’s a guy who publishes the cartoons he makes — a man wants to eat, and his audiences wants to laugh — I’ve seen two books of those cartoons so far: I Thought You Would Be Funnier and I Don’t Get It .

I don’t actually know how many of those books there are, now — I have a vague sense Wheeler has been putting out one a year, since since when or until when is less clear — but I found and read another one last month: I Told You So , published in 2012.

This one is loosely organized by place — San Francisco, New York, Portland, The Suburbs, The Internets, and Unexplored Places — which are, more or less, where the respective cartoons take place. It’s as good an organizing principle as any other, I suppose.

And it’s full of single-panel cartoons, in the arch, somewhat artificial New Yorker style. (All art is artificial, of course — that’s what makes it art. So that is in no way a dig.) Wheeler has a classic cartoony style here, full of tones and soft edges, that primes the reader to look for this kind of humor. (Well, it does for me, at least.)

Again, he is a Wheeler, and therefore excellent at what he does. It’s no surprise he was good at this kind of cartoon. If you like New Yorker-y cartoons, Wheeler has a number of these little books full of them, and so far I can recommend them all.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

I’m in danger of turning into a broken record on this subject: Geary has been doing the same thing brilliantly for so long that I’ve run out of different ways to say it.

Black Dahlia is the seventh in his “Treasury of XXth Century Murder,” which followed eight similar books in the “Treasury of Victorian Murder” (and one even earlier book, The Treasury of Victorian Murder, Vol. 1, a miscellaneous collection that was the prototype for the whole sub-career). Each one is a roughly comic-book-sized hardcover, of about eighty pages, telling the story of one famous historical murder. He’s done Abraham Lincoln and James Garfield, Jack the Ripper and H.H. Holmes, Sacco and Vanzetti and several more not as well-known in the 21st century. Each book is carefully researched and filled with maps and diagrams of the towns and murder locations — all drawn by Geary in his precise but puckish style.

The new book for 2016 — he’s had one of these for most years this century — covers the famous LA murder case from 1947, as previously retold by James Ellroy and countless others. As always, Geary isn’t here to fictionalize the case, or make up his own ending — he wants to present the true story, as best it can be determined, in all of its complexity and confusion, and lay out what might have happened, if that’s clear at all. It isn’t, in this case: whoever killed Elizabeth Short got away with it cleanly, and we’ll probably never know who he was.

Some of these books are more about the before, and some are more about the after — some murders have a huge media life, with shocking revelations and new suspects, and some just don’t. The Black Dahlia case basically went nowhere, so Geary doesn’t have a lot of after to work with. But Elizabeth Short did have a complicated life for her twenty-two years, which means Black Dahlia starts with the murder and then moves back to tell Short’s life story, or the pieces of it that seem to be relevant to her death.

Geary seems to be drawn to the unsolved, complicated cases the most — not the ones where we know what happened and who did it, but the ones where we can almost tell what happened, where there are some suspicions but not proof, the ones that are a bit frustrating, the ones where we’re pretty sure a murderer completely got away with it. Black Dahlia is deeply in that mode: whether Short was killed by a gangster or an angry boyfriend, he got away entirely. (And he’s probably dead now, which is as much getting away with anything that anyone can ever do.)

As always, Geary’s eye is focused and distinct. He gives us the people and places of the time — the right hairstyles, the right cars, the right streetscapes — to build the world that Elizabeth Short lived and died in. A series of books about old murders might seem frivolous or macabre, but death is just a lens to look at life. And Geary is excellent at telling us about both life and death.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

It’s a cliche that creators resent their fans who like best the “early funny ones,” but I have to be that guy for just a second. Rick Geary has had a wonderful career: he has a quirky but devastatingly precise line and has made several dozen excellent graphic novels about historical murders over the last couple of decades. (Plus a number of other things.)

But he started out even quirkier, and I might like that ultra-quirky Geary even better than the meticulous, methodical, organized chronicler of mayhem. For about the first decade of Geary’s career — say, the period covered by Rick Geary Early Stories: 1977-1988 — a Geary comics page was as likely to be a collection of lovingly-detailed kitchen appliances as anything else. Or a carefully-drawn collection of vignettes from oddly-named motels from around the country. Or a series of unexplained and possibly supernatural events, narrated dryly and matter-of-factly, as if it was just another day.

Geary nailed a deadpan affect from the beginning, and that, plus his almost-immediately strong drawing abilities made these slices of bizarre life unique in the cartoon world of the late ’70s. You might not have entirely understood an early Geary story, but it was compelling and memorable and unlike anyone else.

Those stories were collected other places over the years, most notably the Geary collections Housebound and At Home with Rick Geary. Both of those are long out of print, so it’s wonderful to see Early Stories gather eighty pages of prime high Geary weirdness into one place. You’re not going to find this book easily, though — it may turn up in a comic shop or independent bookstore or two, but the only dependable way to find it is to buy it directly from the author .

And I do recommend that you do that, if you have any inclination towards odd, off-the-wall stories told matter-of-factly in comics form. Early Geary practically invented that style, and remains its undisputed master.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

Of course Paul Riforati is not Michel Rabagliati — he has a different name, see?

But Rabagliati has now given us about 1200 pages of comics — not all of which have made it into the English language, true — about Riforati and his life. They may all be completely fictional: Paul may just be someone born at about the same time as Rabagliati, living in the same places, having the same jobs, with all of the emotional and story content entirely unconnected to Rabagliati’s life.

Sure. That’s plausible, isn’t it?

We don’t know Rabagliati personally. We almost never know a creator personally. So he could have made it all up.

But I don’t think so. What a creator does is not so much “create,” which implies making something out of whole cloth, but transforming. And the Paul stories are one of the finest examples of life transformed into art that the modern world has to offer.

Paul Up North is the sixth book about Paul to be translated into English, according to Rabagliati’s bibliography . (If I’m tracking it correctly, there’s two full books and some shorter stuff — Paul dans le metro and Paul au parc — that haven’t made it to my language.) We’ve previously seen Paul Has a Summer Job , when he was 17, Paul Moves Out , covering a year or two on each side of 20, Paul Goes Fishing, which combines a frame story of Paul at 30 with an embedded story of him at 15, The Song of Roland , less focused on Paul himself but finding him in his thirties, and Paul Joins the Scouts , when he was 9 and 10.

Up North falls right in the middle of the previous books, covering roughly a year between the runaway in Goes Fishing and the highschool dropout in Summer Job. This book doesn’t bounce around in time like some of the others do: it’s told in order, seeing Paul start to grow up and separate from his family. He gets a new best friend, a first girlfriend, a mode of transportation all his own, and a place away from his parents where he can be his new self. He also spends a lot of time with his uninhibited uncle, who gives him other chances to be someone different than the sullen teen his parents are becoming all-too-familiar with.

It’s a stage of life that everyone has to go through. Some do it earlier, some later. Some fly on their own, some are shoved out with force and have to make it however they can. Paul was lucky: he had a loving family and a stable society, and lived in a time when he could hitchhike a few hundred miles north without too much trouble. So, though there’s sadness here — adolescence is always fraught, and remaking yourself doesn’t always take — it’s, in the end, a positive story of a boy making the steps that will help turn him into a man.

As always, Rabagliati tells the story with quiet confidence and control. His people still have that appealing UPA-ish look, simplified just enough to be universal, and his backgrounds are somewhat more realistic but still take that slight turn into cartoony abstraction. He’s a great chronicler of his own life — or, I should say, of this life that we assume is parallel to his own.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

I have no idea why someone said, in the year 2016, “Hey, what this world really needs is a Betty Boop comic book!” It seems like an odd and unlikely thing to say, even if one happened to work in licensing for an entity that happened to own the rights to Miss Boop.

But it must have happened, because that comic book did come out, in four issues, and they were duly collected under the simple and obvious title Betty Boop. (Because, even if this isn’t the first Boop comic ever in the history of the world — though it may well be, for all I know — there’s no possibility of confusion in the marketplace with all of the other Boop collections.)

Luckily, whoever the person who had the brain-spasm in re Betty had the good sense to hire Roger Langridge to write the Boop comic. Langridge has previously translated musical comedy into comics both in his own works (The Show Must Go On , for example) and licensed properties like The Muppets . Since I can’t think of anyone else who has even attempted musical comedy in comics form — most people think not being able to hear the music is an insuperable obstacle, which has never stopped Langridge — he was clearly the best and only choice for the job. The fact that he also has a love for old bits of popular culture, particularly cartoons and comics (see his work on Popeye for another example) is only lagniappe.

There may be people out there who can speak learnedly to the Boop milieu — who will know precisely how canonical her job as a waitress at the Oop-a-Doop club is; when her friends/co-workers Bimbo, Sal, and Koko the Clown first appeared; her tangled relationships with boss Mister Finkle and bandleader Scat Skellington and villain Lenny Lizardlips and her Grampy; what tunes the songs in this book are to be sung to and any relationship those songs have with the historical Betty Boop. I am not one of those people. So I’ll point and say that all that stuff is in this book.

(By the way, the cover is actually a variant from issue 1 by Howard Chaykin and doesn’t quite look like the Gisele Lagace art inside. It also implies a relationship between Betty and Koko that in no way appears in the book.)

I know Lagace’s work mostly from her sexy webcomic Menage a 3 , but others may have seen the work she’s done in comics (for Archie properties mostly, I think). Either way, she has a known expertise for drawing attractive girls, but she’s also just fine with the cartoonier aspects of Betty’s world — and, since this is a Depression-Era world, there’s a lot of cartoony elements. She also manages to keep Betty’s ridiculously oversized head look reasonable and consistent, possibly through secret black arts.

Again, I have no idea why anyone thought a Betty Boop comic would be a good idea, or if this one made more than ten cents total. But it’s a lot of fun, in a not-entirely retro style, and it has the feeling of those bouncing, singing old black-and-white cartoons on the page. It’s a massive success at something weird and unlikely and quirky, which is the kind of thing I like to celebrate.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.