Author: Andrew Wheeler

This time, it definitely is the end. The previous volume finished up reprinting the fifty-year [1] run of Charles M. Schulz’s comic strip Peanuts in twenty-five volumes, two years in each book. (See my posts on nearly all of those books: 1957-1958 , 1959-1960 , 1961-1962 , 1963-1964 , 1965-1966 , 1967-1968, 1969-1970 , 1971-1972 , 1973-1974 , 1975-1976 , 1977-1978 , 1979-1980 , 1981-1982 , 1983-1984 , 1985-1986 , 1987-1988 , 1989-1990 , 1991-1992 , 1993-1994 , the flashback to 1950-1952 , 1995-1996 , 1997-1998 , and finally 1999-2000 .)

Vol. 26 does something slightly different: it collects related works. It has comic book pages and advertising art and gift-sized books (some of which could be called “graphic novels,” with only a tiny bit of squinting) and similar things — all featuring the Peanuts characters, all written and drawn by Schulz. Obviously, this was culled from a far larger mass of related Peanuts stuff — dozens of hours of TV specials, to begin with, plus major ad campaigns for many products over most of those fifty years, among other things — but Schulz managed and supervised and oversaw (or just licensed and approved) the vast majority of those.

This book has just the art and words that can be attributed cleanly to Schulz personally. Not all of it — there’s plenty of other spot illustrations, and a number of other small cash-grab gift books, that Fantagraphics could have included if they wanted to be comprehensive, but they didn’t. Instead, this is a book about the size of the others, that will sit next to them on a shelf and complement them.

Annoyingly, this very miscellaneous book avoids a table of contents — possibly because the previous books didn’t need one? — so you discover things one by one as you read it. It starts off with seventeen gag cartoons that Schulz sold to the Saturday Evening Post in the late ’40s, featuring kid characters much like the ones in L’il Folks and so somewhere in the parentage of Peanuts. Next up is seven comic-book format stories from the late ’50s that Jim Sasseville (from Schulz’s studio at the time) has identified as all-Schulz (among a much, much larger body of comic-book stories that I think were mostly by Sasseville). These are interesting, because they show Schulz with a larger palette (both physically and story-wise) than a four-panel comic strip — he still mostly keeps to a rigid grid, but there’s more energy in his layouts and he has room for better back-and-forth dialogue in multi-page stories.

Then there’s a section of advertising art, which begins with five pages of camera-themed strips that appeared in 1955’s The Brownie Book of Picture-Taking from Kodak but quickly turns into obvious ads for the Ford Falcon and Interstate Bakeries. The latter two groups are intermittently amusing, but mostly show that Peanuts characters were actively shilling for stuff a few decade before most of us realized it.

The book moves back into story-telling with three Christmas stories, which all originally appeared in women’s magazines from 1958 through 1968 (at precisely five-year intervals — what stopped the inevitable 1973 story?). The first one is two Sunday-comics-size pages; the others are a straight series of individual captioned pictures in order. After that comes four of the little gift books — two about Snoopy and the Red Baron, two about Snoopy and his literary career — which adapt and expand on gags and sequences from the main strip. (I recently tracked down and read the one about Snoopy’s magnum opus, which I still have a lot of fondness for.)

Two more little gift books follow, these more obviously cash-grabs: Things I Learned After It Was Too Late and it’s follow-up, from the early ’80s. These were cute-sayings books, with pseudo-profound thoughts each placed carefully on a small page with an appropriate drawing. Schulz’s pseudo-profound thoughts are as good as anyone’s, I suppose.

Last from Sparky are a series of drawings and gags about golf and tennis, the two sports most obviously important to him — we already knew that from the strip itself. The golf stuff is very much for players of the game, and possibly even more so for players of the game in the ’60s and ’70s, but at least some of the gags will hit for non-golfers several decades later. The tennis material is slightly newer, and slightly less insider-y, and so it has dated a little less.

The book is rounded out by a long afterword by Schulz’s widow, Jean Schulz. It provides a personal perspective, but takes up a lot of space and mostly serves to show that Jean loved and respected her husband. That’s entirely a positive thing, but I’m not 100% convinced it required twenty-four pages of type in a book of comics and drawings.

Vol. 26 is a book for those of us who bought the first twenty-five; no one is going to start here. And, for us, it’s a great collection of miscellaneous stuff. Some of us will like some of it better than others, but every Peanuts fan will find some things in here to really enjoy.

[1] OK, a few months shy of actually fifty years — it started in October 1950 and ended in February 2000. But that’s close enough for most purposes.

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

If you keep going long enough in a creative field, eventually someone will collect your stuff. If you’re reasonably successful, they’ll even collect the oddball stuff — the one-offs and blind alleys and test-beds and experiments that you made as you were working towards (or in between) the works that you were better known for.

Yes, you too can be the proud creator of an odds and sods collection, if you live long enough and work hard enough and get lucky enough. If your name is Bill Griffith, congratulations! That book was published by Fantagraphics in 2011 as Lost and Found: 1969-2003 .

Griffith has spent most of his career aiming his Zippy the Pinhead character, and associated folks, at whatever Griffith’s current obsessions were. It’s a good model for a cartoonist, actually: if you have a malleable character that you own, and a flexible, large cast around him, you can keep producing work that gives your audience continuity while telling the stories and working with the ideas you really want to in that moment. It’s not coincidental that the major outlet for Zippy stories for the last three or four decades has been a syndicated comic strip: that’s been the model for a huge number of successful comics creators for over a century, a way to reach a large audience with work that can, for the right person, be personal and idiosyncratic.

But that’s what’s not in this book. It has one sequence from the Zippy strip, but it’s mostly comic-book-formatted pages, and it’s mostly from anthologies and magazines and other people’s comics — the stuff he was doing when he wasn’t making Zippy strips and purely Zippy comic-books.

Zippy’s in a lot, though. Griffith developed his cast early, and has used them across all of his cartooning formats. But he’s definitely not as central here as he is in most of Griffith’s work. Lost and Found is heavily weighted towards the early part of Griffith’s career — the 1970s is by far the largest section — and so this is a book in large part showing how that cast first appeared and developed.

Mr. Toad was the original central character in Griffith’s stories, starting off as an Everyman type but quickly becoming the raging id (loosely modeled on Griffith’s father, as he acknowledges later in this book) he was meant to be. So he’s the first main character the reader meets, soon accompanied by some one-off folks from Young Lust (the sex-filled parody of romance comics that Griffith co-edited).

Frankly, the early comics are very “underground” — rambling and navel-gazing in turn, clearly drawn by someone who is still learning his craft and doesn’t have any strong models or guidelines for what he’s doing. To be more pointed, they’re not very good. They’re interesting for people who like the mature Zippy stuff — you can trace the development of Claude Funston pretty clearly, and obviously The Toad — but the first hundred pages of Lost and Found is a bit of a slog for anyone not already seeped in ’60s counterculture.

(As they say, if you can remember the ’60s, you weren’t there. I don’t remember them, but I wasn’t there, either.)

The back half of Lost and Found is more impressive, with one-off stories set in the Zippy universe that appeared various places during the ’80s and ’90s, including an extensive color section. This is the part of Lost and Found that most readers will be looking for: I almost recommend that folks start here, and only dip back into the ’70s section randomly  as they have the inclination. (I don’t actually recommend that, because I’m a fiend for doing things in the right order.)

But, again: this is an odds and sods collection. There will always be sods. It’s the nature of the beast. You gotta take them with the odds. And some of this is quite odd.

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

Last month, I read a book called Hawkeye, Vol. 1 . This month, I hit one called Vol. 3. In the annoyingly typical way of Big Two comics, the latter follows directly from the former. (One is a hardcover, which in comics-reprinting circles comes typically a year or two after the paperback and combines two paperbacks together. Yes, that’s the opposite of how we old-time book-industry hands are used to seeing things happen, but it seems to work for the Wednesday Crowd.)

Anyway, at the end of Vol. 1, the two Hawkeyes split up, because comics are all about break-ups and changes and new things that can last for six issues or so. (Spider-Man No More! once again.) L.A. Woman follows the younger female Hawkeye, Kate Bishop, who drives a cool car cross country to the city of the title, where she immediately gets caught up in nefarious doings and skulduggery of her own. Presumably there’s a Vol. 4 that features what Hawkguy was doing at the same time back in NYC, and that seems to be about as long as this particular set-up ran.

Kate’s travails form yet another “gritty” and “realistic” superhero comic — no powers, no flying, more-or-less the real world — that descends from the Miller/Mazzuchelli “Born Again” run in Daredevil, the major cliche in this area. Look, comics folks, we all know it’s not hard to put a bullet in someone’s head. And people without superpowers who repeatedly annoy large-scale criminals without actually jailing those criminals find themselves possessors of those bullets-in-the-head sooner rather than later. So talking-killer scenes, and repeated hairsbreadth escapes in noirish colors, just lampshade how artificial your story is. Avoid them. If your villain isn’t going to actually try to kill the hero like an actual criminal would in a real world, don’t go down that road and pretend that the plan is to kill her. We all know that’s not the case.

Speaking of which…Kate runs afoul of a supervillain carefully tailored to her abilities, one who can stymie her and cause her great pain but not blow her away instantly or hire goons to kidnap and murder her family by the snap of her fingers. So she’s in L.A., and she Loses Everything.

That’s OK, comics characters Lose Everything roughly once a year — it’s one of their major shticks. But she’s young and a fairly new character, so this is one of her first Lose Everythings, and it has that element of novelty to it.

By the end of this book, she’s Voluntarily Relinquished Everything — the next step towards Getting Everything Back, And Even Better, Because She’s The Good Guy — and is heading off for the vengeance and catharsis that probably got sidetracked and muted by some stupid crossover or other.

These are good superhero comics, for all that they’re drenched in cliches. It’s not quite as good as the Clint Barton stuff in the earlier issues, maybe because he’s easier to make a sad-sack in the first place. But “good superhero comics” is perilously close to damning with faint praise, along the lines of “a perfectly serviceable category Regency.” I wish readers and creators could aim higher, but that’s life.

If you like stories about superheroes who can’t jump over buildings with a single bound, and like to pretend that such people are “realistic,” you will probably enjoy the stories that Matt Fraction wrote about the various Hawkeyes. This time out, the opening story is drawn by Javier Pulido and the rest by Annie Wu, who are both good at the moderately gritty, real-people thing in their own ways. Go for it: I can’t stop you.

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

This is not a new book by Sara Varon, cartoonist of Robot Dreams and Bake Sale . That may be slightly disappointing.

It is an old book by Varon — originally published as her first collection back in 2003 — expanded with as much new material as old, so it’s kinda new, and probably unfamiliar to most of Varon’s audience (who I suspect were, in most cases, not alive yet in 2003).

So this new edition of Sweaterweather and Other Short Stories has the eight stories from the 2003 first edition (plus the cover, presented as an interior spread), which originally appeared various places in 2002 and 2003. And it also has nine newer stories, created since the first edition of Sweaterweather and running up through 2014.

Some are fictional, and some are about Varon’s own life, though the distinction gets muddy — she draws all of her characters as animals and robots and creatures, and some of the “fictional” stories are directly from her life, just not presented as a “true” story about “Sara Varon.” And it’s all appropriate for fairly new readers — say the middle reaches of elementary school, and maybe even a bit lower — with an intrinsic sweetness and inquisitiveness that kids that age love and embody.

So the stories that aren’t Varon showing us around parts of the world — that aren’t specifically nonfiction with a “Sara Varon” narrator — are set in her usual Busytown-style kids-world, where all of the characters have adult lives and responsibilities (jobs, shopping, errands, and so on) but are essentially kids, almost playacting in that world. And, of course, everything is nice, and conflicts are almost entirely avoided. It’s a sweet, lovely, nurturing world of happy creatures who like each other and maintain great friendships.

A steady diet of that would be too much for most of us, but it’s a great thing to dip into now and then, to wash off all of the cynicism and unpleasantness of the adult world. Varon’s world is a kinder, happier place than the one we really live in, and should be celebrated for that. I hope this book is in a million schoolrooms and libraries, and as many homes as it can find a place in.

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

This is the end; this is not the end.

This volume finishes up Fantagraphics’ decade-plus reprint project covering the entirety of Charles M. Schulz’s fifty-year run on Peanuts, with the last full year of strips and the few in early 2000 that Schulz completed before his health-forced retirement and nearly simultaneous death. (Sunday strips are done six to eight weeks early; his last strip appeared on the Sunday morning of February 13, and he died the evening before, in one of the most perfectly sad moments of timing ever.)

So that’s the end.

It’s also the beginning: also included in this book are all of the Li’l Folks strips that Schulz created for the St. Paul Pioneer Press from 1947 through early 1950, and which he eventually quit when his attempts to move it forward were turned down, freeing him to rework much of these ideas (and even specific gags) into what would become Peanuts.

But it’s also not the end: there is one more book in the Fantagraphics series, the inevitable odds & sods volume with advertising art and comic-book strips and several of those small impulse-buy books from the ’70s and ’80s that Schulz wrote and drew featuring his Peanuts characters.

So The Complete Peanuts, 1999 to 2000 is the end of Peanuts. And it’s the pre-beginning of Peanuts. But it’s not the end of The Complete Peanuts.

Since we’re talking about a fifty-year run by one man on one strip, and a publishing project that spanned more than ten years itself, perhaps some context would be useful. Luckily, I’ve been writing about these books for some time, so have a vast number of links back to my prior posts on the books covering years 1957-1958 , 1959-1960 , 1961-1962 , 1963-1964 , 1965-1966 , 1967-1968, 1969-1970 , 1971-1972 , 1973-1974 , 1975-1976 , 1977-1978 , 1979-1980 , 1981-1982 , 1983-1984 , 1985-1986 , 1987-1988 , 1989-1990 , 1991-1992 , 1993-1994 , the flashback to 1950-1952 , and then back to the future with 1995-1996 and 1997-1998 .

By this point in his career, Schulz was an old pro, adept at turning out funny gags and new twists on stock situations on a daily basis.  But maybe his age had been catching up to him: there’s a wistfulness to some of the gags from the last few years of the strip, and something of a return to the deep underlying sadness of the late ’60s and early ’70s. But Peanuts was always a strip about failure and small moments of disappointment, and that kept flourishing until the end.

And, if his line had gotten a bit shaky in the last decade of Peanuts, it was still expressive and precise. And there’s no sign of his illness until in the the very last minute: the third-to-last daily strip, 12/31/99, suddenly has a different lettering style in its final panel — maybe typeset based on Schulz’s hand-lettering, maybe done by someone else in his studio to match his work. Then the 1/1/00 strip is one large, slightly shakier panel with that different lettering. And 1/2/00 is the typeset farewell: Schulz, as far as we can see in public, realized he couldn’t keep going at the level he expected of himself, and immediately quit. There was no decline. (The last few Sunday strips, which came out in January and February of 2000 but were drawn earlier, don’t show any change at all until that final typeset valedictory — the same one as the daily strip to this slightly different audience.)

In the book, that loops right back around to the earliest Li’l Folks, which had typeset captions. And then we can watch Schulz take over his own lettering and get better at it over the three years of that weekly strip, hitting the level he maintained for fifty years of Peanuts after not very long at all.

We can also see Schulz’s art getting crisper and less fussy as Li’l Folks goes on, as he turned into the cartoonist who would burst forth with Peanuts in the fall of 1950. Li’l Folks is minor, mostly — cute gags about kids and their dog, mimicking adults or pantomiming jokes based on their shortness — but there are flashes of what would be Peanuts later. And I mean “flashes” specifically: Schulz re-used many of the better ideas from Li’l Folks for Peanuts, so a lot of the older strip will be vaguely familiar to readers who know the early Peanuts well.

Perhaps most importantly, putting Li’l Folks at the end keeps this 1999-2000 volume from being depressing. It’s already shorter than the others, inevitably, but putting the old strip back turns the series into an Ouroboros, as if Schulz was immediately reincarnated as his younger self, with all of his triumphs ahead of him (and heartaches, too — we can never forget those, with Schulz and Peanuts).

Peanuts was a great strip, one of the true American originals. And it ended as well as any work by one creator ever could, having grown and thrived in an era where Schulz could have control of his work. (If he’d covered the first half of his century, that probably wouldn’t have happened: Peanuts is the great strip that ended partly out of historical happenstance and partly because Schulz and his family wanted it so.) So there is sadness here, but there’s a lot of sadness in Peanuts anyway: it’s entirely appropriate.

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

I tend not to give up on things, so in my head Zander Cannon is still in the middle of a really long hiatus from his early and excellent fantasy series The Replacement God. (Yes, that hiatus is now twenty years long. But Mage: The Hero Denied was finally announced recently, so decades-old thought-dead things I really like do come back.)

For everyone else, he’s more likely best known as the artist of Top 10 and Smax in Alan Moore’s most recent stab at a superhero universe, back in the early Aughts. And his most recent solo book was the dark adventure Heck , which I liked a lot: Cannon is a real talent, both as a writer and a draftsman, so I wanted to see more from him.

So why did it take this long for me to get to his not-all-that-new-anymore ongoing series? This collection — Kaijumax, Season One: Terror and Respect — is nearly a year and a half old at this point, and a second series has had time to come out and get collected since then.

Well, I was looking for it. I wanted to poke through it in person before buying it, and I’d never seen a copy in front of me. Finally, I just broke down and ordered it through the library — have I mentioned that I have a NYC library card these days, and that system has a ridiculously large number of books that they’re happy to deliver to a location less than a block from my office? And so, now, I’ve finally read it, and am almost caught up with Cannon.

The title explains the premise: this is a world full of giant monsters (kaiju, in Japanese), of many different types, and they seem as hard to kill as in most monster movies. So there needs to be a place to put them after the army, or Ultraman, or whoever, has stopped them from destroying the other half of Tokyo and more-or-less captured them. That place is an unnamed Pacific island, now just called “Kaijumax” — a maximum-security prisoner for monsters, guarded by guys and gals in Ultraman-style super-suits that let them instantly grow to monster size for smackdowns when needed.

So, yes: it’s a prison story about giant monsters. In comic-book form. Cannon’s afterword notes that many people would find all three of those things silly, but he loves all of them, so sucks to their assmar. (He’s somewhat more polite and felicitous in his phrasing.) But a reader does need to be ready for that — Cannon isn’t joking or goofing around; there are silly things here but they’re taken basically seriously, in a world where they’re not as silly as they would be in ours.

As usual in a prison story, our focus is on the new guy — the innocent guy. This time, it’s Electrogor, a sea-dwelling giant monster who was trying to find food for his two kids when he ran into a human ship and things went bad. He never attacked a city, he never tried to destroy much of anything. But he was found, and caught, and now he’s in monster prison. And those two kids are outside, and the best case is that they’re still at home and getting really hungry. Electrogor wants to be helpful and nice and get out quickly…which never works in a prison story.

He learns better, more or less, and plenty of other things go on around him in the six issues it takes him to learn what he does. Terror and Respect has an ending that fits that “Season One” note — not a real end, but a good place to break for the summer, to come back for more stories with a somewhat different emphasis.

Kaijumax is another fine comic from Zander Cannon, and I hope it’s a huge success: the season structure means it can’t run forever, right? And that means, once it’s a massive crossover bestseller and millions are lining up for the next Zander Cannon joint, the time will be right for that Replacement God revival!

Well, a man can dream, can’t he?

This is a fun series: serious but not self-serious, with vivid characters, interesting dilemmas, and a quirky and unique world. I’m going to enjoy it for as many seasons as I can get.

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

I don’t keep up with superhero comics anymore — I have to admit that. Astro City was probably the last thing in that vein I read regularly, and even that was only as “regularly” as Astro City itself was…and that’s not very. Eventually, I even soured on that comic.

At some point in your life, you either realize that punching people is not the solution to problems, or you become a full-blown psychopath. For all my flaws, I’m on the first path.

All that is to explain why I never bothered to read the Hawkeye run written by Matt Fraction and mostly drawn by David Aja, despite it being pretty much assumed to be the best superhero comic while it was coming out (2012-15). Even if something is the obvious best sushi in the world, it doesn’t matter if your taste for seafood has gone.

But time marches on, and curiosity keeps building. And there’s always time for one more book, especially one that’s a few years old and no longer the hot new thing. So I finally did get to the hardcover collecting the first half of that Fraction-Aja Hawkeye run — eleven issues of that series, plus a loosely related issue of Young Avengers Presents as a kind of flashback.

(That Young Avengers Presents issue comes off very badly by comparison, even with strong art from long-time expert ink-slinger Alan Davis. It’s very much Yet Another Superhero Story, in the middle of a big stupid story that people didn’t even care that much about at the time, with the bog-standard angst and drama and Whining About the Relationship. It’s everything “good superhero comics” usually are, and a major exemplar of why I stopped reading that crap. In a nutshell, it’s a story about costumes being moved around a chessboard, not about people or real relationships.)

The main Hawkeye story, though, is about people. Mostly Clint Barton, the least of the Avengers, whose origin is a bizarre amalgam of Robin I and Green Arrow and whose “power” is just being good at shooting arrows. And who isn’t actually all that good at the living-normal-life thing, for reasons Fraction wisely doesn’t explore — he just takes Barton as the overgrown boy he is, stumbling through his own life like a bull in a china shop, getting into trouble just because that’s what he does when left to his own devices. The trouble here is mostly about a Brooklyn tenement that he semi-accidentally bought (with stolen money from the Marvel Universe’s biggest gangsters), to drive away a low-rent Russian gang he calls the Tracksuit Draculas. Again, his plans mostly don’t work, or don’t work right, and he needs to be saved repeatedly by the women in his life. Which brings us to….

There’s also a newer, younger, female Hawkeye — always have to have a non-cishet-SWM person in the costume these days, and pretend that person will “always” be the “real” holder of the shiny superhero title, as if we haven’t seen a million “always” melt away in a million comics. (I think that’s mostly cynical audience-pandering, but it’s hard to tell in individual cases — and every superhero-universe character gets handled by so many people that they turn into river-stones, rubbed down to an essence that no one person intended.) She’s Kate Bishop, and I have no idea why she’s so good at shooting arrows, or why she went into the superhero game — she seems to have as few powers as Barton, and many more options. (She’s some variety of rich girl, as far as I can tell.)

But this is a superhero universe, so dressing up in tight spandex to jump around rooftops and beat up thugs is just what you do. Apparently no other entertainment media exist in this world, so this is the only thing to do to keep oneself occupied.

These are, as I said, mostly low-level superheroics. Neither Hawkeye saves the world, and the globe-trotting is more spycraft than Galactus-defeating. Aja’s art is perfectly suited for that level, and tells the story brilliantly, well aided by Matt Hollingsworth’s colors. (There’s also a two-issue story by Javier Pulido and a single issue by Francesco Francavilla here — both are good, but flashier than Aja and so they stand out too much for my taste.) Aja reminds me of nothing so much as David Mazzucchelli’s classic superhero period, particularly Daredevil and Batman: Year One. There’s a similar grounded-ness, with thin lines that frame often violent action without rationalizing it — keeping it shocking and unexpected even in the middle of a story designed to showcase violent action. It’s strongly compliments Fraction’s similarly grounded writing: both of them are committed to telling a story about people in a real world, moving through real space, whose actions have consequences and who bleed and feel and curse and laugh and wryly shake their heads.

Aja also delights in complex page layouts — or his ability energizes Fraction to create them, either way it’s a strong collaboration — which make the world part of the story, and not just flat backdrops for more punching. An issue told from the POV of a dog is particularly impressive, and probably hugely well-known by this point.

You don’t need to read Hawkeye. You never need to read any superhero comic, no matter what they tell you. But, if you do want to read about superheroes., this is miles closer to the real world than most.

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

Everybody’s got to eat. And if you want to make a career out of creative work, you’re probably going to find yourself, more and more, telling stories that people want to hear. That’s not a bad thing — people are your customers and audience, and most creative folks want both of them — but it does mean that early idiosyncratic work tends to smooth into more genre-identified work as a creator matures and lives and wants to stop eating ramen noodles every single day.

Maybe that’s why Hope Larson moved from the near-allegory Salamander Dream and dreamlike Gray Horses to the more conventionally genre Mercury and Chiggers, and followed those up with writing a script for the adventure-story Compass South, first of a series. (In comics in particular, there’s a tendency for cartoonists to turn into writers over time, since a person can generally get done more units of writing-work (than art-work) in the same amount of time.)

Compass South is an adventure story for younger readers, in which red-headed twins (and orphans, more or less) Alexander and Cleopatra start off as petty criminals in 1860 New York and go on to get involved with pirates, secret treasure, and another set of red-headed twins of a similar age on their way to San Francisco, where they hope to pose as the long-lost redheaded twin sons of a rich man.

It’s a genre exercise, but a good one — Cleo dresses as a boy, of course, and there are swordfights and chases through jungles, long-lost mysteries and potential new love. Alex and Cleo get separated, as they must, and mix with the other team of would-be fake San Francisco heirs, each becoming friendly with the ones they’re thrown in with, and somewhat making common cause as young poor redheads all alone in the world.

And I expect those young readers will like this better — most of them, anyway, that vast conventional audience — than Salamander Dream or Gray Horses. It’s a fine book, exciting and fast-moving and colorful and gung-ho. If I didn’t like it quite as much, well, you have to remember that I’m not a redheaded young person.

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

I had something like five hundred words typed about this book — pretty much the whole post — but I deleted it instead of cut-and-pasting, and then saved over the place I was typing it.

So I’m not going to try to recreate that thought process: it’s too frustrating to contemplate. Instead, I’ll run through the high points of Raina Telgemeier’s 2016 graphic novel Ghosts in a more telegraphic way: it won’t be as pretty, and probably not as coherent, but maybe I can hit the same points, more or less.

First: Telgemeier is huge. Probably the best-selling creator of comics stories in the US right now, the center of gravity for a whole area of the industry. I think most people know that by now, but the insularity of the Wednesday Crowd is legendary.

Second: whether on purpose or not, Telgemeier has been on a memoir-fiction alternation for her recent career. This is the second work of fiction, after memoirs Smile and Sisters and previous fiction Drama .

Third: it’s the story of Catrina, a tween who moves with her family up the California coast, to the cold and windy town of Bahia de la Luna from somewhere near LA. Yes, that means leaving all her friends and surroundings; that happens just before page one.

Fourth: the family did this for the health of Cat’s kid sister Maya, who has cystic fibrosis. Maya’s condition is progressive, degenerative, and incurable: she will get worse and worse over time. Running, exerting herself — normal kid stuff — will progress it more quickly. Bahia’s cold chilly climate is better for her than the southern heat, but that’s at best a delaying tactic.

Fifth: Bahia is a town full of ghosts, says local boy Carlos. The girls meet him on their first day in town. These are the nice, friendly, dead-relatives kind of ghosts, happy to share time with you, not the haunting or angry kind.

Sixth: Cat is a rationalist, like me. She insists that ghosts aren’t real. This is true in the real world, but, unfortunately for her, is not true in this story. I’m personally not entirely happy with stories — especially those for young people — that show smart rationalists being proven wrong by inexplicable supernatural stuff, but I guess this is OK, because….

Seventh: Ghosts is, in a quiet, unobtrusive way, about the inevitability of death and the need to make one’s peace with that. Maya understands this better than Cat, and so embraces the ghosts more willingly than Cat — even though doing so runs her a huge risk of advancing her condition seriously.

Eighth: the ghosts in Ghosts are intrinsic to that theme, obviously. How better to accept death than to make friends with people who have already experienced it? I still wish Cat wasn’t so obviously proved wrong, but this story had to go this direction.

Ninth and final: Telgemeier is a thoughtful and interesting comics-maker who shouldn’t be left  entirely to be enjoyed by pre-adults. I do think her memoirs are her strongest books, still, but Ghosts has its own energy, point of view, and story to tell — it’s well worth reading.

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