Cartoon: There's More To "Less Lethal" Weapons

Go to: The Nib, by Ben Hutchings by George Lavender

Mesmo Delivery

By Rafael Grampá, Marcus Penna, Rafa Coutinho

Mesmo Delivery is less a complete tale, and more like a convoluted fight scene extracted from a Quentin Tarantino movie. There's a lot about the plot, characters, and setting that gets left out, particularly the mysterious mcguffin that triggers it. There's only enough information supplied to create a sense of foreboding. But this is a shrewd choice for the comic book debut of Rafael Grampá. The story is just a means to exhibit his considerable talents as an illustrator and graphic designer. And it soon becomes clear that Grampá possesses a knack for choreographing violent physical encounters, because that's really what Mesmo Delivery boils down to - a virtuosic rendition of brutality and sadism.

The book was originally touted by its original publisher AdHouse with the high concept summation - it's Convoy meets The Twilight Zone. Mesmo doesn't have that fantastical or grandiose a premise behind it, although it contains a hint of the uncanny. Like Tarantino, Grampá pays homage to, and exploits, varied elements of popular genre entertainment. It's a useful shorthand that helps sidestep exposition and character development. Trucker tales, spaghetti westerns, horror, fantasy, kung-fu wirework, slasher flicks, early twentieth cartoons, and who knows what else, are all thrown into the mix. When two enigmatic delivery men walk into a seedy diner in the middle of nowhere, one frequented by the usual assortment of lowlifes, everyone knows a fight's going to break out sooner or later. The two are the proverbial odd couple: One's a massively built ex-boxer, gruff and reserved. The other's a lean-looking Elvis impersonator who can't stop declaiming about his own artistic superiority over the original performer. Grampá throws in a number of twists to keep the proceedings unbalanced. What starts out as a typical back-street brawl quickly takes a strange turn when the participants engage each other weilding unorthodox weapons. It turns unexpectedly bloody, follows another bizarre twist, and climaxes with a mesmerizing pageantry of over-the-top carnage, conclusively proving who is the true badass of this comic. This is all lovingly captured with Grampá's obsessive and finely honed mark-making.

Grampá, aided in the colors by Marcus Penna, no doubt has the chops to relay the grindhouse flavor of his influences. He draws the backgrounds and environment with a lot of attention to tiny, gritty details. The muted earth tones give everything a rusted, almost vintage appearance. It's as if the reader is actually looking at everything through rose-tinted glasses. When combined with the setting, it transforms the art into a decadent representation of Route 66 America. In contrast, Grampá's characters, though no less detailed, are slightly cartoony in appearance and body language. It imbues the in-story violence a certain manic stylistic exaggeration somewhat reminiscent of European "clear line" comic art. They're all grotesque figures to varying degrees, literally and figuratively. What really sets Grampá apart from most comic artists is his skill with typography. Type plays a more integral role in creating the environment, especially the faded signs found at the roadside establishments that dot the country's highways. The type by itself is very lovely, suggesting a different era. Later in the story, Grampá goes further and uses typography as a design element within the panels themselves, giving Mesmo Delivery a a visual identity which is unlike most mainstream comics. Those panels have an unusually composed stillness to them that doesn't exactly take away from the action being depicted.

All in all, Mesmo Delivery is an impressive debut for Grampá. It's technically assured, beautifully rendered, disturbing to read, and has the right combination of exhilarating action sequences and pop culture references to be a hit with the target audience. Needless to say, the nonexistent plot, shallow characterization, macho posturing, ultra-violence, and amoral ending are not going to appeal to everyone. But Mesmo Delivery is an undeniable outburst of fiery energy from an artist at the height of his powers. I wonder how his style will evolve in the future with longer, meatier, more nuanced, or more varied narratives.

Who is Jake Ellis? #1

By Nathan Edminson and Tonci Zonjic

The most attractive thing about Who is Jake Ellis? is the command of storytelling on display. The title poses a question, and is aided by a front cover design portraying two figures looking like poster boys from some Hollywood noir. They probably could be played by two A-list actors. The streamlined art by Tonci Zonjic ably conveys their contrasting personalities: the one colored in red is ruggedly handsome and clearly a man of action, while the brooding figure dressed in black is shaded in grays and draped in shadows. The reader is immediately thrown into the action in a very clever opening. The handsome figure, whose name is Jon Moore, is staging the kind of daring escape from unscrupulous characters worthy of any action movie hero. But curiously enough, he seems to be talking to himself rather than paying attention to what's going on around him. This scene is then repeated, almost verbatim. But this time the shadowy figure is hovering over Jon and relaying instructions, which he responds to and unquestioningly follows. Jon's nonsensical words suddenly make a lot more sense. No one can see or hear him except Jon, and he's the mysterious Jake Ellis the title is referring to.

This introduction is an effective way to hook the reader, and it summarizes Jake and Jon's relationship. For unknown reasons, Jake is protective of Jon, while Jon is dependent on Jake as a defensive measure. Jake is not a simple hallucination because he can see things that aren't in Jon's direct line of sight. He also seems to posses limited precognitive abilities since he can sense impending danger. They don't interact like friends, but their dialogue suggests that they've had enough time to grow accustomed to one another, as Jon doesn't seem to mind Jake's constant presence, regardless of the circumstances. Jake is probably immaterial, since he seems unaffected by the external environment, and is able to keep up with Jon without exhibiting any significant physical exertion.

That last part is pertinent because Jon is constantly on the run. After the opening, which takes place in Spain, Jon has made his way to France. It isn't long before he's involved in another cat and mouse chase. One moment he's seducing a waitress, and the next he's jumping off roofs, dashing into Strasbourg Cathedral, and smashing through boutique store windows. At first he thinks it's the same people from Spain. But it soon becomes apparent from the dialogue between the two that Jon has more than one dangerous foe to contend with.

While Jake is the most interesting enigma, writer Nathan Edminson provides little background about Jon himself. The propulsive action, quick shifts between exotic European locations, combined with the careful parcelling of information, produce an inviting enough riddle to hold the reader's attention. Edminson and Zonjic certainly make for a very compelling creative team who seem to be in synch with one another. It'll be interesting to see whether the payoff at the end will live up to the promise of its setup.

Luna Park

by Kevin Baker, Danijel Zezelj, Dave Stewart, Jared Fletcher.

Kevin Baker is the latest in a line of established writers from other fields who have used their reputations to break into comics. The resulting work, Luna Park, reflects his novelistic backgrounds in several ways: The subject matter is similar to the Coney Island setting of his book Dreamland (Thank you Wikipedia). The story is told with words in the third person by an omniscient narrator. The book's self contained narrative is complex and ambitious. The timeline shifts constantly back and forth between the present, several historical periods, and the dreamtime of myth and legend. Roughly two thirds in, the story suddenly mutates to expand on its central themes. It's an arresting section that upends the entire book. But the "gotcha" ending falls flat and doesn't quite succeed in holding everything together.

Alik Strelnikov is a Russian ex-soldier and veteran of the Chechen war who now works as an enforcer for a petty criminal organization based in Coney Island. But he knows it's only a matter of time before his boss is overrun by a more powerful rival. In the meantime he's haunted not just by the memory of the tragic events that led to him leaving the army and emigrating to America; but also by old Russian tales. The story in Aleksandr Pushkin's poem The Bronze Horseman in particular is almost as significant to him as the events in his life. The only thing Alik has to look forward to is the company of Marina - a fortuneteller/prostitute who works for another mobster. Whether in his dingy apartment or wondering the desolate Coney Island landscape; together they try to recapture the innocence of childhood through heroin and alcohol induced reveries.

If the reader is expecting a tragic crime noir where the participants best laid plans come to naught;  the cycle of violence remains unbroken; and men are ultimately betrayed by women despite the best intentions; that's what happens for the first two thirds of the story. Alik is a broken idealist still yearning for the quiet life denied to him even as experience has taught him to be skeptical of human nature. Baker is a seasoned storyteller ably partnered with artist Danijel Zezelj. His expressionistic style holds its own next to Baker's robust text. Under his capable hands Coney Island is portrayed with a certain gloomy state of decay and disrepair. It looks photo referenced, but never stiff. I'm less impressed with colorist Dave Stewart's typically muddy Vertigo palette.

Just as Alik and Marina's story is about to reach its inevitable conclusion, the book takes an unexpected turn towards metafiction. Reality fades away and story becomes the new reality. The tale of two lowlifes morphs into the sordid history of Russia with Alik and Marina revealed as recurring archetypes of hope, love, and betrayal. Alik's story becomes his father's; then his grandfather's; and then the story of the bronze horseman trampling on his hapless peasant victims. The history of violence extends back to Mongol invaders and Russia's mythical rulers and forward to the heart of Washington DC. Baker is reaching  for something epochal. But in doing so he renders his main characters insignificant in the last third of the book. That is arguably the point of Luna Park. Less convincing though is the theme that many of the events in Russian history are all part of some grand recurring pattern. It's easy enough when Baker is writing about Alik's family. But he's on shakier ground when he tries to find a connecting thread between historical events. Yes history is full of violence and bloodshed; but is that all there is? Are all Russians doomed to be crushed by the weight of their own history? It's such a generic insight. And the final example which ends the book feels too forced to be a convincing example.

I feel that Luna Park fails because the ending overreaches. The marriage of crime fiction and sweeping historical drama never quite gels. And for all the talents of its creators, It is ultimately a dreary book to read that fritters away any investment the readers might have on its characters.

Richard Stark's Parker: The Hunter

I've never read any of Donald Westlake's novels, let alone his Parker series which he penned under the pseudonym Richard Stark. And even after reading this adaptation of The Hunter by Darwyn Cooke, I'm not about to start. So I'm in no position to judge the faithfulness of the adaptation. But this is still a comic book, and I have an opinion about whether Cooke's art is able to effectively tell its story.

First of, the story in itself sounds perfectly straightforward. After spending time in prison, master thief Parker tracks down the people who double-crossed him and left him for dead after the completion of a successful heist. Parker is neither a flawed anti-hero nor a sympathetic character (He was planning to carry-out his own double-cross). Actually he's not much of a character at all. But he's the perfect embodiment of the male revenge fantasy. While not sadistically cruel, he's ruthlessly efficient: Methodically applying bullying tactics and brute force to get his way. His only weakness is an emotional attachment to his wife, and that's eliminated early, which allows him to become a pure expression of male power. It's in line with much of the kind of adolescent indulgence comic books have been supplying for decades, and it works pretty well even though Parker's ability to get his way has the effect of deflating some of the dramatic tension towards the end of the story. Such are the pitfalls of writing a protagonist who reveals little of his inner life.

Parker's hard exterior is strongly conveyed by some incredibly terse dialogue, such as the one he has with his wife. I'm going to assume this is at least partially a carry-over from the source material:

Such brutal and minimal dialogue can certainly do with some equally effective art. Cooke's art has always struck me as the kind that works as the occasional narrative illustration or pin-up. At the beginning, he puts on a virtuosic display in a wordless dozen-page sequence to establish Parker's entrance into New York City. It's beautifully drawn and nothing in the rest of the comic matches these pages:

But there's always been something a bit too clean about Cooke's animation-influenced character design. His women are all small-waisted mid-century dolls, such as this waitress from the opening sequence:

It's not clear to me how much of that is due to Cooke's own predilections, the pre-feminist ethos of the novel, or a calculated move to appeal to the Direct Market. While his male characters, not surprisingly, posses more physical variety, even Parker, who's almost always cast with a menacing five-o-clock shadow is still drawn to look like a generic action hero:

One effect of Cooke's style is to mute much of the violence in the book. In part this is because he eschews more graphic portrayals and chooses to obscure these acts in silhouette or behind an object. But his drawings are just stylized enough to look almost bloodless. In the case of several explicit acts of physical abuse against women, not a mark is to be found to ruin their beauty despite being hit in the face. And Cooke avoids lingering too long on the victim after the act is committed.

An artist working with a limited palette is always a difficult challenge, and I certainly admire Cooke for making a valiant attempt. But the turquoise wash he applies is hit or miss. It can sometimes strengthen the composition. But other times, when the panels and figures become smaller, it can make it harder to decipher the action. This is because his washes are often applied with the same weight, and the results, especially when viewed from a distance as a two-page spread can look muddy. Interestingly enough the cover is given a more varied and vibrant color treatment, which leaves me wondering what the finished product would be like if this approach were used for the interior art as well.

Because of the monotony of the book's tonal scheme, a halftone pattern is used to differentiate the flashback sequences from the contemporary actions. I don't think this works as well as hoped, but only serves to make them slightly less legible. And this isn't helped by the decision to not give any of the panels a solid border. There's nothing wrong with the technique in itself. But when applied throughout the story and combined with Cooke's already broad strokes and flat color washes, it can exacerbate some of the muddying effect.

Below is an important sequence where Parker confronts his main betrayer. Cooke moves the camera point-of-view around like a film storyboard. It should be a powerful moment. But the differently sized panels bleed into another, making it much harder to follow the already confusing jumps between each character. Their actions look stiff. And the backgrounds so nonexistent as to make it difficult to ground them in a particular environment. It's a disappointing scene considering how much stronger the art was earlier in the book.

I'm emotionally stunted enough to be enjoy the premise of the book, and followed it with interest to the end. I do think Darwyn Cooke is a solid artist. The Hunter is a good, entertaining read, but falls short of being a truly great work. It's beautiful in parts, but not all of it works as well.