Tagged: comics

It’s a welcome surprise to see a story wrap up in two books. Oh, there are still single-volume stories, even in these fallen days. But anything that goes longer than that seems to stretch on forever, or at least to go much longer than anyone expected when it began.

Not here, though.

Knife’s Edge  is the second half of the historical adventure graphic novel that began in Compass South ; the story began in the first book and conclusively ends here. Everything is wrapped up, all of the details mean something, and it ends the way Oscar Wilde said fiction should.

It may seem like faint praise to single out writer Hope Larson and artists Rebecca Mock for actually ending their story well the way they said it would, but it really isn’t: endings are much harder than beginnings. And doing it in a thematically appropriate way — this story is about a set of tween twins in 1859, and I won’t spoil all of the doublings and dual roles in the series — is even better.

We begin with a flashback, which may be confusing: I didn’t realize it was a flashback at first. But then Cleo and Alex Dodge’s father is shanghaied, and we all realize where we are. They were reunited with their father at the end of Compass South [1], and now they’re learning the backstory: who their mysterious mother and father are, since Mr. Dodge is not actually their father by blood. (Though he’s raised them since infancy.)

The twins are in possession of a compass and knife that, together, are the key to finding a lost pirate treasure, somewhere in the far South Pacific. And they are on a ship whose captain is willing to help search for that treasure, for a cut of it. But the pirates are not all safely dead with their treasures, and the antagonists from the first book come back with a faster ship and an eye for vengeance.

Before Knife’s Edge is over, we’ll have thrilling stern chases at sea, foot chases through a bustling town, sword training and fights, shipwrecks and betrayals, surprising allies and enemies, and a climactic visit to that treasure trove that will solve all of the plot complications in a moment.

We also have a very preliminary, tentative love story, though only for Cleo — there are very few women on board ships in the mid-19th century, so Alex will have to wait until he’s on the right shore.

It’s all presented in mostly bright, colorful art by Mock, using chapter heads and pages with wide white margins for a classic adventure-story feel. The people are real and historically honest; Cleo pushes against what a woman’s supposed to do in her time without being a superwoman, and she gets treated in complicated ways by the men around her — because she’s twelve on top of everything else.

Knife’s Edge doesn’t just end the story of Compass South; it ends that story well, which is more important. This series will mostly been seen in school and local libraries in the YA section, but it’s worth seeking out for adults who like historical adventures — it’s not quite swashbuckling, because it’s more realistic than that, but it does have excellent adventure and intrigue on the high seas.

[1] Not to give anything away, but there’s a nicely matching similar scene, with somewhat different characters at the end of this book.

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

Any place with mysterious secrets has a backstory, by definition. And, the longer the creators take to roll out that backstory, the more convoluted and detailed it gets, with flashbacks and strange characters from the past and previously unknown giant mountains that are retroactively declared to have always been right over there.

Lumberjanes is full of secrets, at least at this point. (I’m running several years behind; maybe all the secrets have been answered and the comic is all-friendship-all-the-time now. But I doubt it.) Issues 14 through 17 of the comic, originally published in 2015 and collected the next year as Lumberjanes, Vol. 4: Out of Time , has most of the stuff I somewhat sarcastically described in that first paragraph and more.

It also has a lot of all-friendship-all-the-time, since that’s the core of the series. There’s even a boy who gets in on the friendship, at least some of the time, possibly because he doesn’t feel quite at home with full-on boyishness. Whether all-friendship-all-the-time is available to male-identified persons is still an open question at this point.

If you’re not familiar with Lumberjanes, I can direct you to my posts on the previous three books: one and two and three . They’re probably not the very worst explanations of Lumberjanes online, at least.

But I do have to repeat, as I have every time I’ve written about Lumberjanes, that this is a series about young women (some people might call them girls) and their friendships. I am not now, and have never been a young woman, and I’ve been known to be grumpy about friendships.

So Lumberjanes is cute and positive and full of lovely art and smart and inclusive (of female persons) and adventurous and has interesting Deep Secrets that are being gradually revealed, but it’s a book for young women and the adults those young women grew into. I like it, and I think Lumberjanes is happy enough that people like me like it, but that’s not why it’s here.

That is fine. That is better than fine; too much of the history of art has been made for people very much like me, and is still made for people like me today. What I’m saying is that you might want to get a female person’s take on Lumberjanes. For just one example, can I point you to Johanna Draper Carlson , who is also much more up-to-date on reading all things Lumberjanes than I am?

Lumberjanes, as always, is written by Noelle Stevenson and Shannon Watters, and all of the art here is by regular series artist Brooke Allen. There are also now a couple of novels written by Mariko Tamaki for those of you allergic to the comics format but still possessed with a burning desire to experience the glory that is Lumberjanes.

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

If you can read the stories of a whole bunch of women pioneers — such as the ones in the book I’m about to discuss — without being at least a little bit annoyed at men in general, frankly there’s something wrong with you.

And you can take “men in general” as expansively as you want, o dudes who insist “man” is always and ever a perfectly good word to mean “humanity.” There’s enough shittiness and negativity in the world for at least two genders.

But damn did every single advance for women come because a woman demanded it, fought for it, and faced down multiple men who insisted that not only shouldn’t she do that, it was physically impossible for her to do it, so she should just go back her knitting and housekeeping.

(And if I hear a single “not all men,” I’m going to smack you so hard. Nothing is all anything, you bozos.)

On the other hand, reading a bunch of stories like these is also energizing — sure, a lot of horrible people tried to stop nearly every woman in the book, but horrible people are ubiquitous (insert reference to the political figure of your choice here), but every one of these women did the thing they’re known for, despite that opposition.

So, yeah, people in general are the worst, but some individual people are the best — that’s the story of humanity from the beginning.

Penelope Bagieu has thirty individual stories to tell in Brazen — all individual people, all women, and generally of the best. (There are some debatable candidates here, like the awesome but also pretty bloody Wu Zetian, Empress of China.)

Each story gets a title page, a three-to-seven page comic (nine-panel grid) telling the story of her life in as much detail necessary for the story Bagieu has in mind, and then a lovely two-page spread, more evocative than purely illustrative, of the essence of what make that woman great.

The comics are good: text-heavy, but snappy and quick-moving, setting the scene for each of these women in their very different places and times. But those spreads are even better: if there was a gallery show of them, I’d want to go to see them large and in person.

Bagieu casts a wide net here, from modern US and Europe (Giorgina Reid, Betty Davis — yes, that’s the correct spelling, it’s not the woman you’re thinking of — Tove Jansson, Christine Jorgensen, Temple Grandin, Jesselyn Radack, Katia Krafft) to slightly more historical figures from the same places (the amazingly kick-ass Nellie Bly, Hedy Lamarr [1], Clementine Delait, Margaret Hamilton, Josephina van Gorkum, Delia Akeley) to women from further afield in time and space (Nzinga, Lozeb, Wu Zetian, Agnodice, Leymah Gbowee, Sonita Alizadeh). Unless you have really eclectic knowledge and tastes, some of them — maybe a lot of them — will be unfamiliar to you, which is a big plus.

Every story taught me something I didn’t know, which may say more about me than the book. Every one was zippy and fun: Bagieu is focusing on women who succeeded at something. (No Joan of Arc here, for example — the closest thing to a martyr is Las Mariposas, three rebel sisters from the Dominican Republic in the 1950s.)

It’s all true, it’s all good comics, Bagieu’s closing spreads for each woman are wonderfully iconic, and you might learn something, too. Brazen is a total win all around.

[1] True story: recently, in a work meeting, the ice-breaker question was “What Hollywood star, past or present, would you want to have dinner with?” I was having trouble thinking of anyone until I remembered Hedy: she was my easy choice.

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

The parade of odd would-be world-conquerors continues in this collection of Squirrel Girl’s exploits — I almost said “latest collection,” but I’m still running almost two years behind, so it’s not. She hasn’t turned grimdark in the meantime, has she? That would be sad.

Anyway, in the five issues from late 2016 collected in (deep breath) The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl, Vol. 5: Like I’m the Only Squirrel in the World  (exhale), our intrepid Squirrel Girl, Doreen Green, spends three issues battling a supervillain who breaks apart into smaller versions of himself when punched — something which makes it very difficult for the heroes of the Marvel Universe to apply their usual problem-solving heuristic [1] to.

Doreen occasionally uses other solutions to problems — oh, she can punch, too, she wouldn’t last long in a Marvel comic if she couldn’t — so this becomes her problem to fix. Also, it’s her comic, but that’s pretty meta.

(By the way, this is volume five — I’ve written about the first four here and here and here and here .)

And, yes, she does save the world: that’s the point of a superhero comic. She does get some help from Ant-Man — the ex-criminal one, not the movie one, or any of the three or four dozen others — but more fun is Brain Drain, her friend/protege/sidekick/coincidentally also an ex-villain, who is a brain in a jar in a robot body and who is more nihilistic than anyone in a Marvel comic is generally allowed to be.

Well, that takes up three of the five issues collected here. What else? Doreen fights the Taskmaster — whose power of “understanding how to do something perfectly by seeing it once” is always vastly overrated, since he doesn’t actually get the superpowers to fly or shoot eyebeams or punch someone through the side of a building [2] — in an issue entirely from the point of view of her cat.

And then issue #16 is the amazing 25th anniversary celebration of Squirrel Girl. And, since it’s a big anniversary, it’s entirely taken up with a retelling of her origins…well, actually, her entire career, more or less.

It’s all fun and amusing in the Stunning Squirrel-Girl Manner, but it’s all the same kind of thing as previous Squirrel Girl stories by writer Ryan North and artist Erica Henderson. [3] It’s still somewhere in that nebulous middle ground between “like a normal Marvel comic, only funny and not entirely serious” and “science and girl power for parents and their pre-teens,” and it does manage to avoid any crossover events that might have been cluttering up its universe at the time.

It’s just more of the same: that’s what I’m saying. If you liked it before, you’ll probably like the reprise. But, at some point, you might want to hear a different song. [4]

[1] Is opponent attacking? Then punch.
Is opponent resting? Then declaim.
Is opponent defeated? Then monologue about justice.

[2] Squirrel Girl defeats him because she has a tail, which he can’t replicate, and that would be cool if we didn’t see him on previous pages fighting Hulk (superstrong), Iron Man (flies, shoots force beams), Spider-Man (shoots webs), and Ms. Marvel (stretches), every single one of whom can do at least one thing Taskmaster cannot replicate. But none of them is the star of this comic, which is Doreen’s real superpower.

[3] Thought I was going to forget to mention then, didn’t you?

[4] HA! I may be overly optimistic here: eighty years of superhero comics, and the neckbeards are still obsessed with their one song.

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

I debated whether to categorize this post as “Horror.” At the moment, I haven’t, but maybe I’ll change my mind as type. Let’s see how that goes.

Fran Krause has been making a comic called Deep Dark Fears  online called 2012, working from the submitted worries and fears of mostly anonymous contributors. (He’s also an animation teacher at Calarts.)

There have been two collections of the strip — the first one was Deep Dark Fears (unsurprisingly) in 2015, and a second book, The Creeps , came out in 2017. I’ve been reading the strip for a few years — I’m not sure exactly how long — but I missed the first book, and just read the second.

Each comic is generally four panels in a grid, with text underneath each panel — he’s illustrating the fear, in something like the words it was submitted to him.

And everything here was the worst fear of at least one person in at least one moment — something that person needed to share right then, when prompted. Not all of it was scary to me, not all of it will be scary to you — and none of it is designed to outright frighten you. There are no jump scares here, no fake-outs. Krause is illustrating things that other people are scared of…and seeing that, or thinking about that, may turn your mind down those paths.

So the title is is a good choice: these are comics more likely to “creep you out,” to make you feel uneasy, to make you think, than to actually on-purpose frighten you.

The Creeps also includes a couple of longer stories, also based on fears and stories about fears from contributors. They’re laid out with more flair, taking advantage of the full book page here. (I suspect the format of Deep Dark Fears is partly driven by how the individual panels will appear on various social platforms, especially on mobile. [1])

Krause has a simplified but sophisticated art style for these stories: people have dot eyes, limbs are close to rubber-hose quality, ears and noses are mostly geometric shapes with blocks of color, and backgrounds tend to be minimally sketched. He pulls it all together with blocks of subdued colors — I think primarily watercolor, and occasionally has a larger page-like structure underlying the four panels — but, usually, they’re designed so each one can stand alone in a string. (And, in fact the book plays with that: sometimes having two strips on facing pages, sometimes having one strip on the right and the title on the left, and sometimes running one strip across a spread, two panels on each side.)

Deep Dark Fears is an interesting and diverse crowdsourced comic, focused by Krause’s art, his selective eye, and the relatively narrow subject matter. It has the pared-down simplicity of the best comics or Zen koans, a sense that these are the fewest, most precise words to express this particular feeling. And it is quite likely to give you The Creeps.

[1] Can I be a Luddite for a second and mention that mobile has blown up a lot of good, sophisticated design on the web? There’s no going back, since you have to go where the users are, but a desktop window is a better platform for many media — any video with a decent quality, long-form text, comics with any kind of page design, etc. — than a mobile screen is. Oh, well — grump, grump.

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

First up: I’ll repeat what I said when I looked at a Nancy volume by John Stanley, also part of “The John Stanley Library”: these are handsome, well-designed packages that badly fail at telling the reader where they fit in the overall picture. This is the third Tubby volume in the series, but that number 3 only appears in small-print “indicia” on page ten; this book doesn’t even have a copyright page.

(Also, they have comics pages reproduced with a yellowed, age-faded look: I don’t know if that’s a deliberate design decision or forced on them by the age and condition of the materials they have to work from. So I’m not going to complain about it, but I will note it: I always find it distracting, and it is often used as a design decision to show that “this stuff is old.”)

Anyway, if you dig down to that tiny type on page 10, you’ll discover that this book is actually Tubby, Vol. 3: The John Stanley Library  and that the stories in it were all written and laid out by Stanley, and that some of them were drawn by Stanley and some were drawn by Lloyd White. You will also learn that these stories originally appeared in issues 9-12 of the Tubby comic — and you’d have to do other research elsewhere (on the Internet, perhaps) to find out that the comic’s title was actually Marge’s Tubby, that “Tubby” started off as “Joe” in the syndicated Little Lulu strip by Marge (the professional name for Marjorie Henderson Buell), and that it was Stanley who turned him into a major character in his Little Lulu comics in the early ’50s, which is why Tubby got a spin-off.

This all annoys me, because reprints of archival material are supposed to explain stuff like that — at least quickly in an editor’s note somewhere. This book is going to sit on the shelves in a thousand libraries for possibly dozens of years, and who knows how many people will stumble across Tubby through this book? A publisher has a duty to explain the basics. (Drawn & Quarterly is usually really good about the publishing stuff, but their Stanley books have basic information entirely missing.)

Anyway, Tubby is a fat, scheming kid, living in that vaguely utopian post-war suburbia that so many comics/movies/TV shows presented for twenty years or so. Kids have lemonade stands, there are zoos and live theater and woods within walking distance, and the kids mostly live in their own world — there are parents and other adults, who get involved now and then, but there’s no serious demands on these kids’ time. So the stories are about clubs that keep girls out, and birthday parties, and liking that one girl who likes the rich boy better, and low-key fighting, and similarly low-key playing tricks or schemes on each other. Oh, and then there’s Tubby’s miniature alien friend who can do just about anything plot-driving with his tiny ray guns, because it was the 1950s.

Stanley is good at keeping these stories moving and making them funny, but they are all very frivolous and low-stakes, even within their own world. Tubby’s not in danger of getting spanked, or grounded, or seriously beat up — just of being embarrassed by being seen in public without his pants or kicked out of his boys-only club by taking his beloved Gloria on a canoe ride.

I suspect it all would seem like very weak tea to the Younger Generation — and I count myself and most of Gen X in that category. Oh, it’s definitely funny, but it’s the kind of funny based on an artificiality that we’ve seen an awful lot of for a long time.

Your mileage may vary, though — and these are definitely squeaky-clean stories, so appropriate for readers of any generation or current age. (Assuming they don’t consider the title fat-shaming, which I guess could happen.)

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

How far back am I looking today?

Well, Formerly Known as the Justice League  collects a miniseries that came out in 2003, so that’s fifteen years.

But that miniseries was itself explicitly a throwback to the Giffen/DeMatteis/Maguire Justice League series, which launched in 1987 — so that’s another fifteen-ish years further back, for a total of thirty-one years.

So we’re looking back at something that was itself looking back; revisiting a throwback.

The ’87 Justice League was a reset: the previous series had gotten serious in ways that weren’t resonating as well with the audience, and the core membership of the League had dwindled to a bunch of characters who couldn’t be called third-string only because they were invented for that series and didn’t have much of a life before or after it. Writers Keith Giffen and J.M. DeMatteis got permission to use at least some of DC’s bigger characters — Batman, most notably, plus Captain Marvel in the Big Boy Scout role usually reserved for Superman, and the Green Lantern no one liked, Guy Gardner. Otherwise, this League consisted of more also-rans and never-wases, like the Martian Manhunter (whose claim to fame was that he was always in the JLA), the lightly rebooted Doctor Fate, the brand-new Doctor Light, the freshly arrived from lands of Charlton Blue Beetle, and always-seemed-like-he-should-be-bigger-than-he-ever-actually-was Mister Miracle.

Giffen and DeMatteis gave their adventures a somewhat lighter tone than was common at the time — or has been common since — which worked very well, and the series was very popular. And Maguire cemented his status as a hot artist by showing an equal facility for broad comedy and standard superhero action.

(Honestly, the tone was more an update of the standard Silver Age goofiness of a whole swath of DC Comics than anything entirely new — DC has always had a silly streak a mile wide — but it seemed new and different, and that was what mattered.)

It was successful enough that a lot of characters were part of that version of the League — everyone from Animal Man to Captain Atom to Tasmanian Devil.

But eventually it became the ’90s, and the Giffen/DeMatteis Leagues — there were separate teams for America and Europe by that point, plus a one-off really jokey Antarctica version — were getting passe. Grim and gritty was in, also pouches, also gritting your teeth really hard, and artists who couldn’t draw feet. And so the goofy era of Justice League ended, as all things end, with a whimper and the birth of something much sillier in its own way.

But everybody’s nostalgic for something, and enough people remembered fondly the bwa-ha-ha era of the League that the old band got back together for a reunion concert not quite ten years after they broke up. And this is the souvenir tour CD of that concert.

The story is set in something not quite congruent with then-current DC continuity; Maxwell Lord, the once and future businessman/leader of the JL, is seen here as his old pleasantly conniving self while he was simultaneously gleefully murdering superheroes and getting killed in turn in Identity Crisis.

But that’s just fine: this continuity is better than the “real” one, anyway. And the Giffen/DeMatteis/Maguire team hit the ground running from the best of their old work and don’t let up — this starts from as silly as the old series got, but basically stays on that level the whole time.  Again, it is a more-or-less serious superhero comic, with worlds being saved and all that jazz, but they’re all odd people, who bicker and complain and obsess about things like normal human beings do.

Giffen and DeMatteis make the dialogue sparkle and pop, like the world’s least likely screwball comedy. And Maguire’s crisp linework and knack for expressions sells the action — his people are deeply physical, and not just in the usual superhero punching-people way. They shrug and raise eyebrows and smirk and gloat and pace and sigh. (Inking him this time out — and, as one credit box implies, drawing all the backgrounds, is Joe Rubinstein.)

There is superhero stuff, as there should be, but the story here is one-half “putting the band back together” and one-half “and then unexpected stuff derails your plans.” Again, a lot like life.

This is not high art. It might not even count as “great comics.” But it’s fun, and funny, and if superhero comics were more like this more of the time, I’d still read ’em like I used to in 1987.

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

A couple of weeks ago, writing about the previous Gilbert Hernandez Love and Rockets book Human Diastrophism , I said that those stories came from a ten-year span, because Hernandez was busy with other things as well during that time.

Well, Beyond Palomar  collects two of those things between one set of covers: two full-length graphic novels originally serialized in Love and Rockets, both of them related to the “Palomar” cycle of stories but not directly part of that main stream. First up is Poison River, originally appearing from 1988 through 1994, which tells the story of Luba’s life up to the point she arrived in Palomar in Heartbreak Soup. Then there’s Love & Rockets X (from 1989-1993), which is more complicated: it was the first of Gilbert’s stories to show some of his Palomar characters in Southern California — traditionally his brother’s Jaime’s turf [1] — but also featured a mostly new cast, most of whom would not return in any of his later stories. (Though two of them, seen in minor and mostly-comic roles here, turn up both in the not-exactly-canonical pornographic miniseries Birdland (from the same era) and then, a little later, as Luba’s sisters in stories collected in Human Diastrophism.

That’s a lot to unpack. It’s probably best if I tackle the two stories separately.

Poison River is substantially longer: a seventeen-part, nearly two-hundred-page cross between a family saga and a gangster epic. And it is very much the story of Luba’s life up to her mid-twenties: it opens with her as a small baby, at the point where her official father — the rich man her mother Maria was married to — realizes that Luba is actually the daughter of the field hand Eduardo. (Presumably, this is more obvious because Eduardo is Indio — native or mostly native — and the unnamed rich guy is of purer colonial stock.) Maria is cast out, with the baby, Eduardo, and her maid Karlota. They take refuge with Eduardo’s family, and live in semi-happy poverty for a while until Maria gets fed up and runs off.

(Maria is a deeply self-centered sensation-seeker who is never satisfied; she would have run off eventually. That’s just who she is.)

Luba bounces around the fringes of Eduardo’s family for her childhood, as part of the underclass of whatever Latin American country this is. (Hernandez deliberately keeps it unclear, but there are echoes of El Savador, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and so on — it could be any of them, or a fictional melange of all of them.) And then, as a teenager, she meets the middle-aged conga player Peter Rios, who falls for her hard and marries her impetuously — right at the moment he gives up playing music and goes into managing a club.

The club is owned by gangsters, and Peter’s ambitions push him upward into their ranks — along with his former bandmate Blas, who follows him into that world for reasons that seem murky to begin with. The bulk of Poison River is the intertwined stories of the various power struggles among those gangsters, mostly having to do with their unreasoning hatred of mostly-unseen “leftists” who they fear will take over and ruin the country and with conflicts over sexual partners [2], and Luba’s growing up and sexual acting-out.

Well, everyone is sexually acting out, so she’s not alone. There’s a lot of sex and violence before Poison River is over. Hernandez combines them occasionally, which may upset some readers, but the sex is mostly consensual, even if often in secret between people whose partners will react horribly when the secret comes out. It’s also all R-rated sex; Hernandez was making Birdland around the same time, and that story is full of insertions and fluids and  really bizarre combinations. Poison River is more cable-TV than porn: we see some flaccid penises, and we can tell people are having sex, but we don’t see body parts interlocking.

All of those plots eventually link back to the past — Maria was part of the same circle of gangsters a generation before, until she fled with that rich husband, and she slept with more than one of them during that time — so we get flashbacks and various realizations of whose daughter Luba is and an occasional view into Maria’s life in the “now” of Poison River. (“Now” covers, if I had to guess, from Luba’s birth around 1950 to her entry into Palomar in the late 1970s, with most of the gangster plot taking place in late ’60s and early ’70s.)

The body count piles up, as it usually does in a gangster story. And, in the end, Luba is alone with her infant daughter Maricela and cousin Ofelia, about to enter Palomar for the first time. Poison River is entirely an origin story: telling us the secrets behind the things we already knew. It’s sordid and occasionally nasty and full of bad people doing bad things, but Hernandez makes it compelling.

The back quarter of Beyond Palomar, though, is less serious. The sixty-page Love & Rockets X takes an Altman-esque collection of overlapping plots (not that different from the Palomar stories, though each individual story there tended to be a bit more linear) to tell a less serious story of teens, rock bands, spoiled rich people, racial tension, and various love triangles (and more complicated shapes).

It does loop back to Palomar eventually, so we see a much older Luba and her growing family, but the most important Palomar character is a grown-up Maricela, who fled to Southern California with her girlfriend Riri. The two of them get caught up in the various plots — which are mostly driven by white Californians, particularly those connected to a lousy garage band called “Love and Rockets” — that all collide at a “big Hollywood party” where Love and Rockets is supposed to play.

This is Hernandez mostly in a lighter mode, though he still takes all of his characters seriously — and some of them have real problems. (At least one eating disorder, some white-power terrorists, Maricela and Riri’s relationship problems and worries about La Migra.) But, even in lighter mode, there are undertones: this seems to take place in 1989, but the racial tensions hint at riots to come and one character ends up in Iraq, which is explicitly mentioned. Love & Rockets X is an example of that old saying: if you want a happy ending, you have to know when to stop telling the story; all endings are sad if you go on long enough.

So we have two major Gilbert Hernandez stories here, either or both of which would be decent introductions to his work. Poison River gets quite plotty and continuity-heavy, but it’s all continuity within the one story, and that’s what he does anyway — if you don’t like that in Poison River, you won’t enjoy a lot of Hernandez’s work. Love & Rockets X might be an even better first Hernandez story: short, often funny, full of quirky characters, enough sex to keep it interesting, and that basically happy ending.

[1] Though, if you recall that Jaime’s main character Maggie was mostly in Texas during this time, you could work up a silly theory about geographic coverage and brotherly competition.

[2] This gets really complicated, with basically hetero men, openly gay men, and men who seem to mostly have sex with the presenting-as-women-but-physically-male dancers at Peter’s club, and I couldn’t begin to map it out or guess how they would all identify themselves. I couldn’t even tell you if those dancers — some of whom are quite important to the story — think of themselves as women or men or trans or each something different. Oh, and Peter himself has a fetish for bellybuttons, and not a whole lot of interest in “normal” sex, which frustrates the hot-to-trot Luba.

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