Translation: Ryan Holmberg
Like audiences of other popular media, comic book readers have been conditioned to expect certain storytelling conventions. This makes reading the manga of Yuichi Yokoyama a unique experience. Yokoyama is an oil painter who exhibited no interest in comics during his youth, whether native or foreign. Yet he’s gone on to create several comics that are gorgeous to look at. At first glance, they contain all the basic vocabulary of the medium: picture panels, word captions, speech balloons, speed lines, etc. But the accompanying genre elements are missing, or at least being suppressed: plot, setting, character development, dramatic conflict, have been drained of their comforting familiarity. Instead, they’re usurped by an uncompromising sensual assault that will leave the reader reeling. Other comic creators have brought their own idiosyncratic design sensibilities to their stories. But Yokoyama’s work feels like an alien lifeform imitating human behaviour.
Take the plot of Iceland. Three strange looking men (at least I think they’re men) show up in the frozen North searching for a fourth individual. They enter a seedy bar to enquire about his whereabouts. Once they find him out back, the four leave town. None of the characters exhibit an inner life. No one offers an explanation for their individual actions. Their speech patterns betray no emotion or personality. They all speak in flat tones. In the end, the reader has no more idea as what just happened in the story. The only thing that indicates any emotional content is an undercurrent of aggression with their interactions, as if every person is sizing up everyone they encounter. The taut atmosphere is a concession to the plot’s pulp influences. Only, there’s no cathartic release in the form of physical violence.
But Yokoyama’s visual aesthetic immediately distinguishes him from more traditional mangaka. Leaning on his fine art background, Yokoyama resorts to modernist figurative abstraction combined with Pop Art typography. His characters look and move as if they were part machine, and wear elaborate patterns on their oddly shaped heads and bodies which obscure recognizable facial features, like a Cubist-inspired squad of extraterrestrial superheroes. This artificiality extends to the unnatural geometry of the icy setting. There’s nothing subtle about Yokoyama’s gaudy structures and bold compositions. And the bombastic nature of the action might vaguely remind Japanese fans of classic manga aimed at young adult males, though filtered through a very different set of artistic sensibilities.
The action, as such, is most evident when the trio enters the bar. They detect a loud repeating noise (DODODODO) as they approach the building,. Once inside, they’re immediately overwhelmed with an audiovisual spectacle. A large television monitor dominates one side of the room, playing nonstop military footage: guns blazing, tanks rolling, planes dropping bombs, soldiers shooting with their firearms, explosions booming. None of the patrons are bothered by the commotion. On the contrary, they seem to thrive in it.
Yokoyama’s ability to convey the sensation of sound is most impressive. The onomatopoeia are displayed as bold, mechanically reproduced Japanese text, spread across each panel. They practically block the reader from viewing the rest of the panel. And this goes on for several pages as double page spreads. Even in a purely visual medium, the noise is deafening. And in a story where very little happens, this is weirdly the climactic scene of the story. It’s a relief (if only a temporary one) when the trio finally leaves the bar.
That is what makes Iceland puzzling even as it is energizes. The book is so loud it denies introspection for even the reader. How can one think with all the noise going on? All one can do is immerse themselves in Yokoyama’s audiovisual pleasures.
