Manga Bookshelf

Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews

Action/Adventure

Chainsaw Man

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There comes a moment in every manga reader’s journey when they’re no longer dazzled by the sheer variety of genres, styles, or outrageous storylines that an issue of Weekly Shonen Jump or Big Comic Spirits offers—the moment when a manga about killer goldfish or a warrior with lethal nose hair sounds more exhausting than awesome. I reached that milestone around the time I read The Qwaser of Stigmata, a manga so lewdly preposterous I felt uncomfortable even summarizing the plot in my review. So when I heard about Chainsaw Man, a series whose premise is pretty much summed up in the title, I was pretty sure I wasn’t interested in reading it. Then I saw this image:

My first thought was whoa. And then: cool. And so began my Chainsaw Man read-a-thon, an attempt to understand the appeal of this blood-and-testosterone-soaked battle manga.

The character atop the shark is Denji, who begins the story as an ordinary young man struggling to pay off his father’s gambling debts. His only friend is the sweet-faced Pochita, a dog demon with a chainsaw blade where his snout should be. After local mobsters brutally attack Denji, Pochita transfers his demonic powers to Denji, thus enabling Denji to transform from scrawny teen to chainsaw-wielding menace with the pull of a cord. His remarkable abilities attract the interest of Makima, a professional Devil Hunter who recognizes Denji’s potential value as a weapon. Through a mixture of flirtation, cajoling, and threats, Makima recruits Denji for the Public Safety Council, dispatching him to kill monsters.

Going into Chainsaw Man, I was fully prepared for carnage and mayhem and three-eyed sharks. What I didn’t expect were moments of genuine pathos. The interactions between Denji and Pochita, however, are sniffle-inducing, underscoring the poignancy of Pochita’s decision to sacrifice himself for Denji. Later chapters set up an interesting parallel between Denji’s relationship with Pochita and his relationship with Makima, who refers to him as her “dog.” When Denji chafes against the conditions Makima has imposed on their partnership, it spurs a moment of self-reflection about his own treatment of Pochita, making him realize just how much he took Pochita’s companionship for granted.

Of course, no one is reading Chainsaw Man for these kind of emotional beats; they’re hoping for outrageous displays of gore and violence, and on that front, Tatsuki Fujimoto does his utmost to push the boundaries of good taste. Every time Denji reverts to his demonic form, chainsaw blades burst through his chest and head with great clouds of arterial spray, a preview of the even bloodier manner in which he kills his enemies. Though some of the demons are uninspired—how’s a giant bat grab you?—Fujimoto’s most memorable creations are clearly designed to elicit an appreciative “ewww”; the first monster Denji kills, for example, is an enormous tomato devil who looks like something that’s been moldering in the crisper drawer for weeks.

Between the action scenes, Fujimoto peppers the script with crude jokes to remind us that Denji is a teenage boy whose primary motivation for fighting demons is to impress Makima and earn enough money to eat junk food. In that respect, Denji is a more honest shonen hero than the typical Jump lead; he thinks and acts like a real teenage boy, right down to his self-absorption and total objectification of women. (There’s even a chapter called “A Way to Touch Some Boobs.” Yes, really.) I can’t say I ever warmed to Denji as a lead character, but I finished my read-a-thon with a grudging respect for Fujimoto’s excessive, ridiculous creation, which entertained and repelled me in equal measure. Your mileage will vary.

Chapters 1-53 of Chainsaw Man are available at the VIZ website. 

CHAINSAW MAN • STORY AND ART BY TATSUKI FUJIMOTO • VIZ MEDIA

 

Short Takes: No Guns Life and Ryuko

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This month’s Short Takes column checks in with two previously-reviewed series: No Guns Life, a sci-fi thriller whose principled hero sounds like Sam Spade and looks like a Remington; and Ryuko, a thriller starring a yakuza assassin who’s hell-bent on avenging her mother’s kidnapping.

No Guns Life, Vol. 2
Story and Art by Tasuku Karasuma
Translation by Joe Yamazaki; Adaptation by Stan!
VIZ Media, 224 pp.
Rated T+ (Older Teens)

After a decent, if predictable, first volume, Tasuku Karasuma finds his groove in volume two of No Guns Life, maintaining a brisk pace while allowing his characters’ personalities to emerge more fully. Though the action occasionally pauses for the characters to expound on important plot developments, these dialogues are less of a drag on the story than they were in volume one; here, they add badly needed layers of  complexity to a familiar noir plot line. Better still, Karasuma introduces several new characters who push the narrative in a more interesting direction, hinting at the power and secrecy of the Berühen Corporation, as well as the general public’s mixed feelings about living alongside cyborgs. If Karasuma engages in a little too much fanservice, or relies too heavily on speedlines and sound effects to enliven his fight scenes, No Guns Life is still entertaining enough to make all but the most discriminating reader root for Juzo to succeed. Recommended.

VIZ Media provided a review copy. Click here to read my review of volume one.

Ryuko, Vol. 2
Story and Art by Eldo Yoshimizu
Translation by Motoko Tamamuro and Jonathan Clements
Titan Comics, 226 pp.
No rating (Best suited for older teen and adult readers)

Paging the exposition police! The second volume of Ryuko has all the swagger of the first, but leans more heavily into Talking Points Conversation to help expedite its resolution. In some respects, these exchanges are a welcome development, as they clearly—one might say baldly—delineate the various factions’ interest in the Golden Seal, an object whose significance was glossed over in volume one. These passages also help the reader untangle the complex web of relationships among the characters, making it easier to grasp why Ryuko forges an alliance with an avowed enemy and why US military forces are trying to manipulate the outcome of her feud with the Sheqing-Ban. These conversations would feel less forced if the pacing were more even, but the two-volume format is too compressed for such an ambitious, labyrinthine plot to unfold at a reader-friendly pace.

Volume two’s chief attraction is the same as volume one’s: the artwork. Eldo Yoshimizu has a flair for staging car chases, fist fights, gun battles, and dramatic escapes, immersing the reader in the action with his creative use of perspective and fastidious attention to detail; Ryuko’s leopard-print catsuit is practically a character in its own right. In less capable hands, this maximalist approach might be overwhelming, but Yoshimizu’s layouts have a strong narrative pull that leads the eye across the page at the speed of the action, creating an almost cinematic experience. The final confrontation between Ryuko and evil American operatives is a show-stopper involving a motorcycle stunt so outrageous that even Jackie Chan would be impressed with its audacity. None of the story makes much sense, but Yoshimizu’s energetic, bold, and—yes—sexy artwork is cool enough to carry the day. Recommended.

Click here to read my review of volume one. 

Golden Kamuy, Vol. 1

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If you have a strong constitution and a healthy appetite for adventure, you’ll cotton to Golden Kamuy, a solid, if sometimes workmanlike, manga that reads like a mash-up of The Revenant and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Set on the Hokkaido frontier in 1905, Golden Kamuy tells the story of Saichi “Immortal” Sugimoto, a battle-scarred veteran of the Russo-Japanese War who’s desperately trying to raise money for a fallen comrade’s widow. After a chance encounter with a chatty ex-con, Sugimoto learns about a hidden treasure worth millions. Sugimoto then sets off to find the gold — no mean feat, as the map pinpointing its location has been tattooed onto the backs of a dozen prisoners, each with his own design on the loot.

Sugimoto faces another major obstacle to success: the harsh Hokkaido winter. A second fortuitous meeting — this time with an Ainu teenager — furnishes Sugimoto with a expert guide to wilderness survival. Like Sugimoto, Asirpa is searching for the treasure, albeit for a different reason: the men in her village died to prevent it from falling into Japanese hands. Though Asirpa slots into the common and often stereotyped role of “native sidekick,” she’s not just a repository of useful skills and earthy wisdom; she’s an individual with the courage to challenge Sugimoto when his determination shades into ruthlessness, and the tenacity to fight her way out of difficult situations by improvising traps, creating smokescreens, and throwing punches. Oh, and she brings down a hungry bear with a single well-placed arrow. She’s a baller, and one of the best reasons to read Golden Kamuy.

As skillful as Noda may be in establishing his setting and characters, the script suffers from frequent — if brief — patches of clumsy dialogue and narration. One of the most egregious examples occurs in chapter four, when Sugimoto goes mano-a-mano with another soldier. The artwork makes it plain that Sugimoto’s opponent gets the best of him by grabbing and disabling his rifle, but Noda interrupts the scene to inform us, “The moment they moved away from each other, the man depressed the bolt stop and pulled out the bolt, rendering Sugimoto’s rifle useless.” Such intrusions are all the more puzzling because Noda’s draftsmanship is crisp, stylish, and easy to parse; even when Noda indulges in an extreme close-up or odd camera angle, we’re never in doubt about what’s happening.

Speaking of Noda’s artwork, he draws guts, wounds, and scars with a surgeon’s precision, offering a nightmarish vision of bodies torn apart by bullets — and bears. Though a few sequences skirt the line between dramatic necessity and cinematic flourish, these horrific images play an essential role in conveying the brutality of frontier experience and the horrors of trench warfare. Anything tamer would rob the story of its urgency, and reduce Sugimoto to a simple opportunist, rather than a fierce survivor who’s cheated death dozens of times.

So if you can soldier past the tin-eared dialogue and frequent arterial spray, you’ll be rewarded with a briskly paced thriller that transports you to another time and place, capturing the Hokkaido wilderness in all its squalor, beauty, and promise. Recommended.

A copy of volume one was provided by the publisher. Golden Kamuy will be available on June 20, 2017.

GOLDEN KAMUY, VOL. 1 • ART AND STORY BY SATORU NODA • TRANSLATION BY EIJI YASUDA • VIZ MEDIA • RATING: M FOR MATURE (FOR READERS 18+) • 192 pp.

Deathtopia, Vol. 1

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It’s never a good sign when you enjoyed the Baka-Updates thread about a manga more than the actual manga, but that’s the case for Deathtopia, a title that scores a hat trick for being gory, exploitative, and boring. Part of the problem is the story: it’s the umpteenth example of an ordinary teen discovering that he’s been chosen to save the world. Koh Fujimura, the hero of Deathtopia, is the only person who can detect the presence of “Them,” a group of super-human predators that commit sadistic, stagey murders. Aiding him in the quest to ferret out these menaces are Maya Hoshimiya, Yui Kisagari, and Saki Yagami, a trio of buxom special agents who favor bustiers and short skirts over traditional uniforms. (Call me crazy, but where do you holster a gun if you’re not wearing any pants?)

All of this would be easier to swallow if manga-ka Yoshinobu Yamada had bestowed any personality on his characters, or supplied them with motives for the work they do. None of the cast, however, show any traces of wit or curiosity; all of them behave like well-programmed robots, dutifully marching from one grotesque crime scene to the next. Yamada allows Koh a few moments of fear and confusion, but these beats land with the emotional force of a Linux manual since we know almost nothing about him. Even the character designs are generic: there’s a pretty girl with short hair and hot pants, a pretty girl with a pony tail and a school uniform, and a pretty girl with long hair and a suit. (Actually, she’s the only one who looks like a law-enforcement agent, since she’s wearing comfortable shoes.) The bad guys, by contrast, are so uniformly and cartoonishly ugly it’s a wonder that Koh, Maya, Yui, and Saki can’t identify them at 50 paces.

Perhaps the most telling sign that Yamada is more interested in cheesecake than plot is that he draws the female characters’ breasts with more individuality than their faces. Yamada further diminishes his female characters by reducing them to types — the psychopathic bitch, the aloof older woman — and making his teenage male hero miraculously “better” at monster-hunting, despite his young age and lack of training. The only evidence of Maya, Yui, and Saki’s superior skill is supplied by Koh himself in the form of a voice-over; he muses that “These women are amazing! Even I can tell that their every move is calculated,” although that statement is undermined by the way Yamada stages a subsequent shoot-out.

The manga’s best gambit is shamelessly pilfered from John Carpenter’s They Live! (1988). In this Reagan-era cult classic, sunglasses enabled the hero to see that aliens were living amongst us, using subliminal messaging to subdue and control humanity:

In Deathtopia, Koh gains a similar ability after eye surgery: he sees the monsters as humans with scribbly, mouthless faces, drifting unnoticed through Tokyo streets. Only when Koh dons glasses does he lose sight of “Them”; in an original touch, glass blocks his monster vision. For all the promise this idea holds, however, Yamada makes no attempt to explore its allegorical potential, instead lavishing most of his attention on dismembered corpses and topless girls. Carpenter, by contrast, used They Live! to explore the evils of consumerism and conformity and deliver one of the longest, goofiest, and most admired fight sequences in B-movie history.

In sum, Deathtopia is the sort of manga you might think was cool if you hadn’t read any manga, or were just hoping to steal a glimpse of naked girls. Anyone who’s read Alive: The Final Evolution, Bloody Monday, Death Note, Platinum End, or even Yamada’s Cage of Eden, however, won’t find much to distinguish Deathtopia from these other teenage male fantasies, as it lacks the verve, polish, and imagination of the best examples in this genre.

DEATHTOPIA, VOL. 1 • BY YOSHINOBU YAMADA • KODANSHA COMICS • RATED M, for MATURE

Bloody Monday, Vol. 1

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To judge from all the shonen manga I’ve read, the fate of the world rests in teenage boys’ hands: not only do they have the power to kill demons and thwart alien invasions, they’re also blessed with the kind of superior intelligence that makes them natural partners with law enforcement. Bloody Monday is a textbook example of the teen-genius genre: high school student Fujimaru Takagi dabbles in crime-solving, hacking into secure networks and decoding encrypted files on behalf of the Public Security Intelligence Agency. (Naturally, he works for the PSIA’s super-secret “Third-I” division, which is “comprised solely of elites.”) Fujimaru’s deductive skills are put to the ultimate test when his father is falsely implicated in a murder. To find the real killer, Fujimaru must uncover the connection between his father and the “Christmas Massacre,” a terrorist attack that left thousands of Russian civilians dead, their bodies covered in boils.

In the right hands, Bloody Monday might have been good, silly fun, 24 for the under-twenty-four crowd. The script, however, is pointed and obvious, explaining hacker culture and internet technology to an audience that has grown up on the world-wide web: are there any fifteen-year-olds who don’t grasp the basics of computer viruses? The characters, too, seem impossibly dim, thinking out loud, missing obvious connections, and reminding each other how they’re related, whether they’re fellow reporters for the school newspaper or siblings. Small wonder they don’t realize that their school has been infiltrated by an enemy agent.

The art is more skillful than the script, with polished character designs and detailed backgrounds. The adults actually look like adults, not teenagers with unfortunate laugh lines, while the scenes aboard the Transsiberian Railroad convey the harshness of the Russian landscape. Though artist Kouji Megumi nevers misses an opportunity to show us an attractive woman in her underwear — and really, what well-trained assassin doesn’t snuff a target or two while wearing only a matching bra-and-panty set? — the fanservice never overwhelms the plot. The action sequences, too, are well-staged, using swift cross-cuts and imaginative camera angles to heighten the suspense.

In the end, however, the slick visuals aren’t enough to compensate for the flat-footed storytelling. A plot as potentially interesting and complex as Bloody Monday‘s should challenge the reader to arrive the solution independently, not spoon-feed it; too often, the story seems to have been written in boldface, depriving the reader of an opportunity to guess the outcome of the story for herself.

BLOODY MONDAY, VOL. 1 • STORY BY RYOU RYUMON, ART BY KOUJI MEGUMI • KODANSHA COMICS USA • 200 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

Toto! The Wonderful Adventure, Vols. 1-5

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If you’ve ever been to Canal Street in New York City — the Counterfeit Capital of North America — you know that there are two types of goods for sale there. The first are inept knock-offs: the “Cooch” purse with plastic handles, the “Rollex” with cubic zirconia insets and a flimsy metal band. The second are just as fake as the first, but are executed with enough panache that style-conscious women get a secret thrill in owning them: the plastic “Birkin” bag that looks like the real thing but costs $30, the canvas “Louis Vuitton” wallet that comes in prettier colors than the original.

The same principles apply to manga as well: there are series which shamelessly imitate a best-selling title like Dragonball or InuYasha, rehearsing the same plot without capturing the original’s charm, and there are copycats which bear a strong resemblance to the original but nonetheless work well on their own terms. Toto! The Wonderful Adventure falls into the latter category, a good-natured rip-off of One Piece and Rave Master that accomplishes in five volumes what many shonen series need twenty or thirty to pull off.

As one might guess from the title, Yuko Osada dresses up his swashbuckling treasure hunt with frequent allusions to Frank L. Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The hero, Kakashi (literally, “scarecrow”), is an orphan who dreams of leaving his small island home for grand adventures, but lacks the brains to realize his ambition. When a zeppelin makes an unscheduled stop on the island, he stows away, thus beginning an odyssey that loosely mirrors the plot of Baum’s novel. Kakashi finds a puppy in the ship’s cargo hold, then meets a feisty teen named Dorothy who attends St. Kansas Academy, practices “tornado” senjutsu (a martial art involving spinning kicks), and plans to visit Emerald City. As Kakashi and Dorothy follow the Yellow Brick Road — here played by an old railway line — they acquire traveling companions, each modeled on one of Baum’s iconic characters: Noil, a kind but cowardly soldier who aspires to be a comedian; Dam, a big, blustering army officer with a metal arm; and Paisley, the Northern Investigator for the W.I.T.C.H. organization.

Central to the story is the relationship between Kakashi and Toto, the puppy he rescues in volume one. Though Toto initially appears benign, he has a big secret: his collar grants him the kind of amazing, destructive powers that make him of special interest to the military. It doesn’t take long before Kakashi and Dorothy find the Western army bearing down on them, anxious to reclaim their lost weapon.

Though the story’s Oz jokes add novelty value, Toto! barks like a typical wacky shonen adventure, with lengthy set-pieces that follow the same basic formula: Kakashi et al. arrive in a town, befriend one of the locals, and narrowly evade capture by the army. Some of these story arcs are genuinely delightful; in volumes two and three, for example, Kakashi and Dorothy stumble into the once-glorious Dego City, a former railroad hub that’s been stripped bare by the Imperial Army in its never-ending quest for scrap metal. The heroes’ getaway is executed with a perfect mixture of suspense and humor, culminating in a scene that Miyazaki would be proud to include in one of his films. Other storylines feel more labored. In volumes four and five, for example, Kakashi and friends get swept up in a feud between rival gangs: Alice and the Wonder Family in one camp, the Uchiyaka (literally, “rabbit gun”) in the other. Osada piles on the Lewis Carroll references, double- and triple-crosses, and crazy shoot-outs, but the frenzied pace and frequent jump cuts render these chapters almost incoherent.

At times, Osada’s dogged capitulation to shonen formula invites not-so-flattering comparisons between Toto! and more popular series. He populates his story with a dim but determined hero (with a dead explorer father, no less), a feisty female sidekick, a comic-relief character with an outsized Afro, and a posse of villains-turned-allies — in this case, a group of sky pirates called the Man Chicken Family. Osada even provides a complex mythology to explain Toto’s power — something involving twelve directions and twelve “accessories” — that feels like a complete afterthought, an editor’s attempt to make Toto! behave more like One Piece or Rave Master.

Yet for all Kakashi’s earnest declarations about “family” and “adventure,” and all the wacky villains, epic battles, and amazing artifacts pilfered from One Piece and Rave Master, Toto! has undeniable charm. The characters have great rapport, for one thing; though their interactions follow the standard shonen model of friendly antagonism, their obvious loyalty to and affection for one another is contagious. The girls are on equal footing with the boys, for another; Dorothy and Paisley prove stalwart and resourceful, getting significant butt-kicking turns in the spotlight. The art is terrific, too; Osada’s crisp linework and vivid caricatures evoke Eiichiro Oda and Hiro Mashima’s styles without feeling slavishly derivative of either.

Best of all, Toto! is brief. By the time the series concludes, Kakashi has realized his life’s greatest goal: to see the world with friends. It’s not clear whether volume five was intended to be the final installment, or if the editors at Weekly Shonen Magazine canceled it prematurely; either way, Toto! The Wonderful Adventure is proof that a hero’s journey from ignorance to enlightenment needn’t take fifty volumes to convincingly achieve.

TOTO! THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURE, VOLS. 1-5 • BY YUKO OSADA • DEL REY • RATING: TEEN (13+)

The Manga Hall of Shame: Color of Rage

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When reading historical manga, I grant the artist creative license to tell a story that evokes the spirit of an age rather than its details. What rankles my inner historian, however, are the kind of anachronisms that result from sheer laziness or paucity of imagination: modern slang, gross disregard for well-established fact. Alas, Color of Rage is filled with the kind of historical howlers that would make C. Vann Woodward or Leon Litwack gnash their teeth in despair.

The story begins in 1783. Off the coast of Japan, a whaling ship sinks in turbulent seas, claiming the lives of all but two crew members: George, a Japanese man, and King, an African-American slave. The two wash ashore, cut away their shackles, and set out in search of a community where they can live peacefully — no small challenge, given how conspicuous King is among such a homogenous population. Of course, this being a manga by Kazuo Koike, George and King’s journey is anything but picaresque, as they bump up against the vigorous defenders of Edo-era status quo: ruthless daimyo, yakuza thugs, samurai-for-hire.

For such a far-fetched premise to work, its principal characters’ thoughts, words, and actions need to make sense in historical context, yet George and King behave like modern action heroes deposited in feudal Japan, not products of the eighteenth century. During scenes of limb-severing carnage, for example, they banter with the consummate skill of Harrison Ford and Will Smith, pausing occasionally to deliver speeches about finding a place where “color doesn’t matter” — a noble sentiment, to be sure, but one cribbed from a Civil Rights speech circa 1964, not an eighteenth century abolitionist’s tract. A similar sense of historical amnesia informs another scene in which King declares that conditions are worse for Japanese peasants than for slaves in the American South, leaving me to wonder how a slave working on a colonial plantation would have any comparative basis for making such an assertion or, frankly, any notion of the “American South,” given that the Revolutionary War was still in full swing at the time King was gang-pressed into whaling. Other historical oversights abound: how did a Japanese man end up in the galley of an American whaling ship? Where did George learn to speak fluent English? Who taught King to handle a sword? And so forth.

colorofrageinteriorThe bigger problem, however, is that King entertains notions of race, class, and gender that would have been as alien to American colonists as they were to Japanese farmers and overlords. His blind commitment to addressing inequality wherever he encounters it — on the road, at a brothel — leads him to do and say incredibly reckless things that require George’s boffo swordsmanship and insider knowledge of the culture to rectify. If anything, King’s idealism makes him seem simple-minded in comparison with George, who comes across as far more worldly, pragmatic, and clever. I’m guessing that Koike thought he’d created an honorable character in King without realizing the degree to which stereotypes, good and bad, informed the portrayal. In fairness to Koike, it’s a trap that’s ensnared plenty of American authors and screenwriters who ought to know that the saintly black character is as clichéd and potentially offensive a stereotype as the most craven fool in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. By relying on American popular entertainment for his information on slavery, however, Koike falls into the very same trap, inadvertently resurrecting some hoary racial and sexual tropes in the process.

Koike’s treatment of female characters, like his handling of racial issues, can be downright ugly. In a valiant effort to head off feminists at the pass, the editors acknowledge Koike’s propensity for writing “samurai-era yarns with a certain sense of chauvinist violence and pulpy sexiness.” Now I’m all for “pulpy sexiness” — doesn’t that sound like fun? But the casual mingling of sex and violence in Color of Rage crosses the line from mere chauvinism to outright misogyny. The nadir is a scene in which King strips a woman naked and crams dirt into her mouth until she chokes. Her crime: being turned on by the sight of King’s big, strapping body (which, I might add, artist Seisaku Kano treats as a kind of fetish-object throughout the book). Richard Wright might have known how to make the moment horrific, tragic, and peculiarly just, but someone as ill-versed in American history as Koike does not. The result is an uncomfortable mixture of kink and racism that hints at the story’s 1970s roots; one wonders what, exactly, Koike had read or seen to inspire such a florid racial fantasy.

The artwork is a hodgepodge of styles and techniques. The best pages appear to be done in charcoal or pastels, and have the soft edges and expressionist lighting I associate with fin-de-siecle modernists such as Käthe Kollwitz. The opening scene, in particular, is beautifully rendered, a harrowing sequence of wordless, slightly abstract panels that reveals how George and King survived their maritime ordeal:

corv2

Most of the art, however, looks like homage to Goseki Kojima’s work on Lone Wolf and Cub, Samurai Executioner, and Path of the Assassin — not a bad thing, given Kojima’s superb draftsmanship and penchant for drawing memorable mugs. Seisaku Kano’s character designs are fine, but his fight scenes are poorly composed, a riot of swords, guts, and bodies in motion that fail to give the reader a clear picture of what’s happening. That might be an OK artistic choice once in a while, perhaps to suggest the chaos of hand-to-hand combat, but as the dominant mode of depicting action it soon grows tiresome, leaving the reader feeling more pummeled than entertained.

Though some of these criticisms could be leveled at Koike’s other work — Lady Snowblood, Crying Freeman and, yes, Lone Wolf and Cub — Color of Rage lacks something common to the aforementioned manga: a sense of play. Koike never takes himself too seriously in these other works, even when the plot takes a dark turn or two. In Color of Rage, however, his sincerity proves his undoing, as he tries to insert a noble black character into a world of vicious overlords and amoral samurai. King’s high-minded speeches and interventions clash violently with the story’s “pulpy sexiness” (for want of a better term), producing something that’s neither dramatically compelling nor fun to read. Die-hard Koike fans may feel the completist’s urge to buy Color of Rage — especially since Dark Horse has given it such a deluxe treatment — but casual readers will find much less here to love.

This is a revised version of a review that originally appeared at PopCultureShock on 5/14/2008.

COLOR OF RAGE • BY KAZUO KOIKE AND SEISAKU KANO • DARK HORSE • 414 pp. • RATING: MATURE (18+)

Hyde & Closer, Vol. 1

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Move over, Chucky — there’s a new doll in town. His name is Hyde, and he’s a stuffed bear who wears a fedora, chomps cigars, and wields a chainsaw. (More on that in a minute.) Hyde belongs to thirteen-year-old Shunpei Closer, a timid junior high school student whose biggest talent is avoiding conflict. Watching Shunpei dodge bullies at school, it’s difficult to believe that he is, in fact, the grandson of Alysd Closer, a powerful, globe-trotting sorcerer with enemies on every continent. Keenly aware that his rivals might seek revenge against his family, Alysd created Hyde, a plush fighting machine capable of fending off attacks with a magical chainsaw. Hyde remained dormant for almost six years before the delivery of a mysterious package containing a murderous, knife-throwing sock monkey activated his abilities. (I can’t believe I just typed the phrase, “knife-throwing sock money,” but there it is.) Thus begins a kind of magical tournament manga that pits Hyde and Shunpei against an array of powerful sorcerers and their toy henchmen.

You don’t have to be a ten-year-old boy to find the sight of karate-chopping, knife-throwing dolls amusing, though it certainly helps. There’s a gleeful, go-for-broke quality to the fight scenes that evokes the feeling of real childhood play, a sensation akin to chopping off your Barbie’s hair or staging an epic battle between your sister’s My Little Ponies and your Star Wars action figures. Making these scenes even more enjoyable is Hyde, who sounds like an affectionate parody of James Cagney, punctuating the combat with sharp, funny one-liners that wouldn’t be out of place in The Public Enemy.

Yet for all the energy and goodwill engendered by these scenes, Hyde & Closer tends to bog down in exposition masquerading as dialogue, thanks to its rather complicated mythology. The rules of engagement are different for each opponent, which means that Hyde spends part of every fight outlining his strategy for defeating the villain du jour. Hyde isn’t the only character who sounds, at time, more like an omniscient narrator than a participant in the action; the villainous sock monkey, for example, lectures Shunpei at great length about Alysd’s true identity, scoffing at Shunpei for thinking gramps was an archaeologist. “That’s his cover story,” the monkey explains. “I guess no one told you anything.” (Or, more accurately, “I guess that’s my opening to disabuse you of that silly notion!”)

The battle scenes are further encumbered by Shunpei’s self-flagellating outbursts, usually along the lines of “I’m pathetic!” or “It’s all my fault!” Each time Shunpei doubts himself, the action comes to a screeching halt until he can muster the courage to stop whimpering and start fighting. Shunpei is clearly meant to be the kind of average-joe character that readers can identify with, but it’s hard to imagine anyone over the age of ten or eleven finding him sympathetic; after all, his bodyguard is quite handy with a chainsaw. Call me crazy, but I’d find that rather empowering.

If the script is a little creaky, Haro Aso’s artwork is bold, stylish, and suitably sinister. Hyde, by far, is his best creation, with his enormous button eyes, rakishly tilted hat, and jagged seams; he’s the perfect mixture of beloved stuffed animal and thirties gangster, easily transforming from a benign, wide-eyed toy to a glowering menace. (In a nice touch, the stitches on Hyde’s mouth are stretched to their limit whenever he’s spitting dialogue or downing one of his signature drinks: honey on the rocks.) The villains, too, are imaginatively rendered, from the jack-in-the-box with shark-like teeth to the kokeshi with lethal, snaking hair. (Hommage to Junji Ito, perhaps?) The only downside to Aso’s art is his penchant for extreme camera angles. He draws his fight scenes from so many different perspectives — from the floor up, the ceiling down, or directly behind Hyde’s head — that it’s hard to track the characters’ movement through the picture plane; characters have a tendency to pop up in unexpected (and sometimes illogical) places.

Still, it’s hard to deny the appeal of stuffed animal cage matches or teddy bears who swagger like James Cagney, and for those two reasons, I’m going to stick with Hyde & Closer to see where Aso goes with his Fight Club-meets-Winnie the Pooh premise.

HYDE & CLOSER, VOL. 1 • BY HARO ASO • VIZ • 200 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Ode to Kirihito, Vols. 1-2

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“When he heard his cry for help, it wasn’t human” — so went the tagline for Ken Russell’s Altered States (1980), a bizarre fever-dream of Nietzchean philosophy, horror, and mystical hoo-ha in which a scientist’s experiments result in his spontaneous devolution. That same tagline would work equally well for Osamu Tezuka’s Ode to Kirihito (1970-71), a globe-trotting medical mystery about a doctor who takes a similar step down the evolutionary ladder from man to beast. In less capable hands, Kirihito would be pure, B-movie camp with delusions of grandeur — as Altered States is — but Tezuka synthesizes these disparate elements into a gripping story that explores meaty themes: the porous boundaries between man and animal, sanity and insanity, godliness and godlessness; the arrogance of scientists; and the corruption of the Japanese medical establishment.

At its most basic level, Ode to Kirihito is a beat-the-clock thriller in which a charismatic young doctor named Kirihito Osanai tries to discover the cause of Monmow, a mysterious condition that reduces its victims to hairy, misshapen creatures with dog-like snouts. Kirihito’s superior, the ambitious Dr. Tatsugaura, dispatches Kirihito to Doggodale, a remote mountain village where hundreds of residents have developed suggestive symptoms. Once in Doggodale, Kirihito contracts Monmow himself, thus beginning a hellish odyssey to escape the village, arrest the disease’s progress, and share his findings with the medical community.

kirihito2At a deeper level, however, Ode to Kirihito is an extended meditation on what distinguishes man from animal. Kirihito’s physical transformation forces him to the very margins of society; he terrifies and fascinates the people he encounters, as they alternately shun him and exploit him for his dog-like appearance. (In one of the manga’s most engrossing subplots, an eccentric millionaire kidnaps Kirihito for display in a private freak show.) The discrimination that Kirihito faces — coupled with Monmow’s dramatic symptoms, such as irrational aggression and raw meat cravings — lead him to question whether he is, in fact, still human. Throughout the story, he wrestles with a strong desire to abandon reason and morality for instinct; only his medical training — and the ethics thus inculcated — prevent him from embracing the beast within.

Tezuka explores the boundaries between the rational and the instinctual in other ways as well. Running in tandem with Kirihito’s metamorphosis is another devolution of sorts: Kirihito’s colleague Dr. Urabe, who descends into madness after uncovering a sinister plot within the administration of M University Hospital. When we first meet Urabe, he’s a self-interested cad who lusts after Kirihito’s fiancee Izumi, views Kirihito as more rival than friend, and lacks the will to challenge Tatsugaura, even when data suggests Tatsugaura’s hypothesis about Monmow is flat-out wrong. The slow dawning of Urabe’s conscience, however, precipitates a dramatic change; his psyche splits in two, with one half striving after truth and the other succumbing to base impulse. Even as Urabe begins to redeem himself, collaborating with Izumi to reveal Tatsugaura’s dishonesty, he frequently lapses into savage, sexual aggression.

Other characters’ reactions to these transformations — especially characters in positions of authority or power — provide Tezuka with ample opportunity to engage in one of his favorite activities: exposing institutional hypocrisy. The scandal surrounding Tatsugaura’s Monmow hypothesis, for example, lays bare the corruption within the barely fictional Japanese Medical Association. In his relentless quest to become head of the organization, Tatsugaura seeks to establish an international reputation as an infectious disease expert, even going so far as to suppress evidence that contradicts his thesis. Yet the revelation of Tatsugaura’s deceit does little to jeopardize his position among his peers; only the young doctors find his behavior objectionable, yet they cannot dislodge him from his powerful position.

One of the key figures in revealing Tatsugaura’s treachery, Sister Helen, also provides Tezuka a chance to tear away the veil of hypocrisy from another institution — in this case, the Catholic Church. Midway through the first volume, a priest attempts to murder Sister Helen after she contracts Monmow disease. When confronted with his act, he acknowledges his intent but denies his purpose was evil; he insists on protecting the Church’s reputation at all costs, fearing that news of Helen’s condition would bring a scandal, as the received wisdom about Monmow disease held that Caucasians were immune to it.

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At the same time, however, Tezuka uses his characters’ metamorphoses to reveal the human capacity for selflessness and spirituality. Sister Helen provides the most obvious example; after entertaining thoughts of suicide, she has an epiphany — literally, as the cross imagery above suggests — and begins emulating Christ’s example, eventually finding her place ministering to the residents of an impoverished industrial town. Other characters demonstrate a similar capacity for selfless behavior: Urabe, for example, devotes himself to finding Kirihito, while Reika, a circus performer, helps Kirihito escape from captivity and reassert his humanity by practicing medicine.

One could certainly view Ode to Kirihito as heavy-handed allegory; there’s nothing subtle about its Christian imagery or Elephant Man storyline. Yet Tezuka’s fondness for Baroque subplots, over-the-top action sequences, and larger-than-life villains demands an equally bold approach for exploring the story’s greater themes. After all, Kirihito features dog men, sideshow freaks, an evil millionaire who hosts his own private circus, a German geneticist sporting a monocle, and an acrobat who risks life and limb to become human tempura; had Tezuka played things straight, or tried to state his man-vs-inner-beast conflict in less obvious terms, the story would seem preposterous and arty, a surreal experiment devoid of genuine human feeling.

As he would do in MW (1976-78), Tezuka pushes the boundaries of the comics medium in Ode to Kirihito, aiming for a cinematic style capable of immersing us not only in the action but in the characters’ own thought processes. Though Kirihito has its share of artfully staged chases, fights, and dramatic confrontations, the most visually arresting sequences depict Urabe’s fragile mental state:

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The panel shapes alone are a brilliant stroke; not only do they suggest his fractured and chaotic thought process, they also have a hint of the insect about them, as if we’re viewing Urabe’s consciousness through a fly’s eye. The knife and blood imagery are cliche, to be sure, but the shattered glasses are a novel and unsettling gesture open to multiple interpretations. Even the more conventional sequence on the left, in which Urabe leaves a hospital in a murderous rage, employs its share of neat visual tricks: Tezuka dramatizes Urabe’s personality shift by rotating the character’s image until he appears to be walking through an upside-down hall of mirrors. Amplifying the effect is the ambiguous way in which Tezuka draws Urabe’s legs in the bottom panel; as Matthew Brady observed in his review of Ode to Kirihito, the image simultaneously evokes dripping blood and moving limbs.

Perhaps the best compliment I can pay Ode to Kirihito is to say that Tezuka achieves on paper what John Frankenheimer achieved on film with The Train, Seven Days in May, and The Manchurian Candidate, transforming the humble thriller into a vehicle for telling thought-provoking, challenging stories that enlighten as they entertain. Kirihito may not surpass the narrative sophistication or visual poetry of Phoenix, but it comes awfully close. A must-read for serious manga lovers.

Review copies provided by Vertical, Inc.

ODE TO KIRIHITO, VOLS. 1-2 • BY OSAMU TEZUKA • VERTICAL, INC. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Rin-Ne, Vol. 1

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I read a Rumiko Takahashi manga for the same reason I watch an Alfred Hitchcock thriller: I know exactly what I’m going to get. Certain plot elements and motifs recur throughout each artist’s work — Hitchcock loves pairing a brittle blond with a rakish cad on the run from authorities, for example, while Takahashi loves pairing a female “seer” with a demonically-tinged boy — yet the craft with which Hitchcock and Takahashi develop such tropes prevents either artist’s work from feeling stale or repetitive. Takahashi’s latest series gives ample proof that while she may have a limited repertory, she’s the undisputed master of the supernatural mystery.

Sakura Mamiya and Rinne Rokudo, Rin-ne‘s oil-and-water leads, are a classic Takahashi pair: Sakura is a seemingly ordinary teenager with the ability to see ghosts, while Rinne is a hot-headed boy who’s part human and part shinigami. The two meet cute in Sakura’s tenth-grade classroom when Rinne arrives to claim his long-empty seat. “Looks like he made it,” Sakura whispers to a friend before realizing that she’s the only person who can see the tall, flame-haired boy in a fancy ceremonial robe. Sakura then watches Rinne  attempt to banish an enormous Chihuahua demon to the afterlife — an exorcism that goes horribly (and comically) awry when the dog’s spirit merges with the spirit of a love-starved teen. Now forced to contend with an even more powerful, angry ghost, Rinne uses Sakura to lure it to the Wheel of Reincarnation, an enormous portal that separates the material and spirit worlds.

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After their dramatic introduction, Sakura and Rinne forge a reluctant partnership. Sakura provides material assistance and ethical guidance to Rinne, while Rinne banishes the spirits that plague Sakura’s high school. Sakura soon learns that Rinne’s grandmother, a shinigami, fell in love with a young man whose spirit she was sent to collect. In exchange for extending his life by fifty years, Rinne’s grandmother agreed to “fulfill her shinigami duties at ten times her usual quota.” When she failed to reach that target, Rinne was forced to enter the family trade, operating on the fringes of both the human and spectral worlds with limited ability to function in either realm — hence his weak exorcism skills.

Where, exactly, Takahashi plans to take the story is still something of a mystery. As she did with InuYasha, she’s using the first few volumes to establish the premise, explain how the Wheel of Incarnation works, and develop the chemistry between her lead characters by subjecting them to a host of unhappy spirits. The first eight chapters have a pleasant, spook-of-the-week feeling, as Sakura and Rinne tangle with a ghostly cell phone caller, a damashigami (a shinigami who meets his quota by luring innocent people to their deaths), and an ochimusa (a disgraced warrior). At the same time, however, Takahashi is clearly laying the groundwork for a more extended storyline, introducing several supporting characters, leaving key questions about Sakura’s past unanswered, and creating space for a Naraku-esque villain to fill.

The first volume’s leisurely pace also allows Takahashi plenty of room to showcase her comedic talents. Though InuYasha, Mermaid Saga, and Rumic World have canted more strongly towards horror, Rin-ne is decidedly humorous, incorporating supernatural elements into everyday settings in delightfully absurd ways. Takahashi’s demon Chihuahua is a great example: the demon continues to behave like a nervous, short-haired toy even after it grows to enormous size, and remains susceptible to the savory appeal of milk bones. Rinne’s grandfather is another example of the supernatural made ridiculous; as Rinne’s grandmother wistfully notes, her husband was reincarnated as a mackerel — the destiny for which he was slated when she fell in love with him.

Though utterly enjoyable, Rin-ne has its flaws. Takahashi relies a little too heavily on interior monologues to cue us into what’s happening; Sakura is frequently called upon to mutter, “So that’s why no one can see him!” even when the illustrations make it plain that Rinne is invisible to humans when he dons his flame-patterned haori. Takahashi isn’t above recycling bits from other works, either; Rokumon, a familiar introduced in chapter six, bears a strong resemblance to InuYasha‘s Shippo in both appearance and plot function, comic relief in the form of a child-like animal spirit. Sakura, too, seems more like a Kagome clone than a character in her own right, though she’s a little edgier and more skeptical than her jewel-seeking predecessor.

Still, it’s hard to dismiss a manga that’s crafted with as much skill and good humor as Rin-ne. The story and characters may remind readers of other works in the Takahashi canon, but that strikes me as a good thing — yet another opportunity to spend time with the kind of spunky heroines, rash-but-kind heroes, and oddball supporting characters that give Takahashi’s work its distinctive flavor.

Review copy provided by VIZ Media, LLC. Volume one of Rin-ne will be available on October 20, 2009.

RIN-NE, VOL. 1 • BY RUMIKO TAKAHASHI • VIZ • 182 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Summit of the Gods, Vol. 1

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On a brilliant summer day in 1924, British explorer George Mallory began what would be his third and final attempt to climb Mt. Everest. Armed with oxygen tanks and masks, he and fellow mountaineer Andrew Irvine began their approach to the summit on the morning of June 8th, reaching the Northeast Ridge around one o’clock in the afternoon — a potentially fatal mistake, as they had barely enough time to reach the peak and return safely to camp before nightfall. Noel Odell, another member of Mallory’s expedition, spotted the pair ascending the so-called “steps,” three rock formations located 2,000 vertical feet below the top. As he would recall in the 1924 book The Fight for Everest, Odell caught a brief glimpse of his mates through a break in the cloud cover:

I saw the whole summit ridge and final peak of Everest unveiled. I noticed far away on a snow slope leading up to what seemed to me to be the last step but one from the base of the final pyramid, a tiny object moving and approaching the rock step. A second object followed, and then the first climbed to the top of the step. As I stood intently watching this dramatic appearance, the scene became enveloped in cloud once more, and I could not actually be certain that I saw the second figure join the first. (p. 130)

Odell was the last to see either man alive; for the next 75 years, Mallory and Irvine’s fate remained a mystery, though a few tantalizing clues — Irvine’s ice axe, Mallory’s discarded oxygen canister — suggested that neither had reached the top. In 1999, a joint American-British expedition recovered Mallory’s body not far from where Irvine’s axe was discovered, spurring new questions about their climb: had Odell, in fact, watched the men descending the Steps after a successful trip to the summit? Had Irvine and Mallory become separated on the mountain face, or did they fall together to their deaths? And where was Irvine’s body?

The mystery surrounding Mallory’s disappearance forms the core of Yumemakura Baku and Jiro Taniguchi’s award-winning series The Summit of the Gods. Based on a 1998 novel by Baku, Summit focuses on Makoto Fukamachi, a photographer who picks up Mallory’s trail in Kathmandu, where a 1924 Vestpocket Autographic Kodak Special — the camera Mallory supposedly carried up Everest — turns up in a second-hand store frequented by climbers and sherpas. As Fukamachi tracks the camera’s descent from Everest to Kathmandu, he crosses paths with Jouji Habu, a taciturn Japanese climber who knows more about the camera than he’s willing to reveal. Fukamachi begins trailing Habu, interrogating Habu’s acquaintances and climbing partners in hopes of learning what Habu is doing in Kathmandu. Though Fukamachi expects his questions will lead him to the camera’s source, he discovers instead that he and Habu have similarly haunting pasts: Fukamachi watched — and documented — two climbers fall to their deaths on an Everest glacier, while Habu tried — and failed — to rescue a climbing partner who lost his footing and plunged one hundred feet over a cliff in the Japanese Alps.

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Both characters’ backstories are as harrowing as any passage from Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air, thanks to Taniguchi’s impeccable illustrations. Taniguchi captures the mountains’ desolation and danger with his meticulous renderings of rock formations, glaciers, and quick-changing weather patterns; one could be forgiven for wanting to clip into a securely anchored harness before reading volume one. Taniguchi’s talent for evoking the mood and energy of a landscape is also evident in his depiction of Kathmandu, a maze-like city filled with dead ends, bazaars, billboards, temples, and con artists eager to hustle European tourists. Through intricately detailed backgrounds juxtaposing squalid, overcrowded  neighborhoods with sleek, modern buildings, Taniguchi suggests the city’s almost uncontainable energy.

The sheer beauty and power of these scenes distracts from the series’ biggest flaw: the omniscient narrator. In the afterward to volume one, Baku explains that he felt that Taniguchi was “the only artist” who could do justice to “the overwhelming massiveness of the mountains, the details of the climbing, the depictions of the characters.” In adapting his novel for a graphic medium, however, Baku never fully entrusts the artwork with the responsibility of telling the story; too often, Baku inserts unnecessary explanations into gracefully composed panels. In one scene, for example, Fukamachi dreams that he’s trailing a silent, mysterious figure up the summit of Everest, his calls going unheeded. To the reader, it’s obvious that Fukamachi is dreaming about Mallory, as Fukamachi has spent three days locked in his hotel room reading accounts of Mallory’s final climb. Yet the sequence is heavily scripted, with Baku decoding all of Taniguchi’s images rather baldly; it’s as if Baku is narrating the scene for someone who can’t see the pictures.

That Summit of the Gods remains compelling in spite of such editorial interventions is testament both to Taniguchi’s skill as a visual storyteller and to the story’s alluring location; as anyone who’s read Into Thin Air will tell you, the extreme conditions on Everest — the weather, the terrain, the frigid temperatures, the remoteness of the mountaintop — all but guarantee drama, even when the climbers are experienced and the weather cooperative. How Makafuchi and Habu will cope with these challenges remains to be seen, but it’s a sure bet that there will be plenty of nail-biting moments on the way to unraveling the mystery of what happened to George Mallory on that bright June day in 1924.

THE SUMMIT OF THE GODS, VOL. 1 • SCRIPT BY YUMEMAKURA BAKU, ART BY JIRO TANIGUCHI • FANFARE/PONENT MON • 328 pp. • NO RATING

Swallowing the Earth

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Nineteen sixty-eight was a critical year in Osamu Tezuka’s artistic development. Best known as the creator of Astro Boy, Jungle Emperor Leo, and Princess Knight, the public viewed Tezuka primarily as a children’s author. That assessment of Tezuka wasn’t entirely warranted; he had, in fact, made several forays into serious literature with adaptations of Manon Lescaut (1947), Faust (1950), and Crime and Punishment (1953). None of these works had made a lasting impression, however, so in 1968, as gekiga was gaining more traction with adult readers, Tezuka adopted a different tact, writing a dark, erotic story for Big Comic magazine: Swallowing the Earth.

Like MW (1976-78), which was also serialized in Big Comic, Swallowing the Earth is an overripe, overstuffed period piece that’s both entertaining and frustrating for modern readers. The basic plot is simple: seven beautiful young women seek to avenge the untimely death of their mother by wrecking havoc on the political, social, and economic systems that robbed Zephryus of her money and her home. The only thing standing in their way is Gohonmatsu, a perpetually drunken longshoreman who’s immune to their charms.

Tezuka’s presentation of the story, however, is anything but straightforward, as he employs flashbacks, subplots, and red herrings galore to sustain the reader’s interest. Some of these gambits are so ridiculous and nervy they work. Zephyrus’ daughters, for example, team up with a female scientist to produce Dermoid Z, a synthetic skin that can completely transform a person’s appearance. From a manga-ka’s standpoint, Dermoid Z is a brilliant device, as it allows him to plausibly conceal his characters’ identities from the reader and the other actors in the drama, giving him latitude to do just about anything.

Other gambits flat fall, as they rely on outdated notions of gender and race for their dramatic impact. When Dermoid Z arrives in the United States, for example, African-Americans begin buying white “skins” in vast quantities, donning them to commit crimes, enjoy privileges that had been denied them, and exact retribution on their oppressors. White retaliation is swift and brutal, plunging American cities into a race war that destroys the very fabric of society. Lacking a deep understanding of American history, or the underlying causes of the 1968 riots that erupted after Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, Tezuka’s subplot feels like a crude attempt to be topical. He’s grasped the basic injustice of segregation, yet he never humanizes his black characters; they remain a violent, faceless mob throughout this unfortunate episode.

Tezuka’s treatment of women is likewise muddled. He clearly recognizes that men have treated women as property throughout human history, a point he illustrates both through Zephryus’ story (which unfolds in Nazi-occupied France) and through an interlude in the South Seas, where a tribal chief barters with Gohonmatsu for a downed airplane, offering his two daughters in exchange for the machine. Yet Tezuka’s own notions of female sexuality frequently undermine his critique of male privilege. He depicts Gohonmatsu’s South Seas brides as sexual grotesques, with bodies as roundly deformed as the Venus of Willendorf’s and libidos that verge on nymphomania. Women from the developed world don’t fare much better, as Tezuka neatly divides them into two camps: man-hating hysterics (e.g. Zephyrus’ daughters) and tormented victims (e.g. a beautiful aphasiac who lost her ability to speak after she was raped).

However dated Swallowing the Earth‘s racial and sexual politics may be, it’s hard to deny the sheer exuberance of Tezuka’s artwork. His imagination yields some stunning — and stunningly weird — images. Zephyrus’ palace, in particular, is a marvelous creation, an Art Deco ziggeraut filled with enormous cat statues that look like they were swiped from Cleopatra’s tomb. Tezuka frequently experiments with the layout, varying the shape of the panels to suit the pace and intensity of the action, or to suggest the simultaneity of two events. One of the best examples occurs early in the story, when Gohonmatsu duels a handsome Spanish count on the deck of a tugboat:

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Tezuka uses diagonal panels to mimic the rocking motion of a ship anchored in choppy water. The shape of the panels also demonstrate just how difficult it is for both characters to find their footing on the slippery deck — a small but tricky detail that isn’t easy to capture in a static image.

In an excellent companion essay to the English-language edition, manga scholar Frederick Schodt acknowledges Swallowing the Earth‘s myriad flaws — its surfeit of plotlines, its racial caricatures — while celebrating the almost anarchic way in which the story unfolds. He encourages readers to enjoy Earth as a “wild ride” and a window into a critical period in Tezuka’s development, showing us “how he began to make the transition from a children’s artist to someone who could push the manga medium in every genre, even for adult readers.” It’s in this spirit that I recommend Swallowing the Earth, as testament to Tezuka’s fertile imagination, and his ability to grow as an artist and a storyteller.

SWALLOWING THE EARTH • BY OSAMU TEZUKA • DMP • 516 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Gorgeous Carat, Vols. 1-4

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Gorgeous Carat caught my eye because it looked like a frothy costume drama. I’m a total sucker for that kind of thing, especially if it involves beautiful people fighting and falling in love in fancy surroundings. Alas, what I’d hoped would be a pleasant bit of escapism turned out to be so problematic in its presentation of gender, sexuality, and race that I never got swept up in its embrace.

The premise is ridiculous, but the first volume has a certain flair that carries Carat past its credulity-straining aspects. Our hero, Florian Rochefort, belongs to a French family with a noble name and and not-so-noble debt load. Rather than fence the family jewels, Florian’s mother does what all self-respecting French aristocrats do in yaoi manga: she sells Florian into slavery, delivering him to Ray Balzac Courtland, a distant relative who also happens to be, natch, young and handsome. Florian may be too dense to recognize his growing attraction to Ray, but it doesn’t take long for Florian to realize that Ray is, in fact, “Noir,” a cat burglar who’s the talk of fin-de-siecle Paris. When Florian is kidnapped by a rival gang of thieves, Ray sails for Morocco to enlist an old friend in tracking down his prized possession relative.

Elegant men in elegant costumes hopscotching across Europe and North Africa in pursuit of treasure: sounds good, no? Alas, You Higuri’s beautiful artwork can’t disguise the fact that her vision of North Africa is steeped in the same colonialist attitudes as Salammbo — not exactly an unimpeachable source of information about the Middle East. Take, for example, Laila, one of the key supporting characters in the Carat cast. Laila is Ray’s gal Friday, helping him track down information, cooking him meals, and keeping his car’s engine running whenever he sets out on a mission that might require a quick getaway. She might be a harmless character if it weren’t for Higuri’s decision to make Laila a dark-skinned Moroccan wearing a midriff baring costume.

Though we’re meant to see Laila as plucky, she has an ugly, Pygmalion-esque backstory (Courland rescued her from the streets when she was a girl and taught her to read) and is depicted as all-too-eager to do her master’s bidding. More disturbing is the way in which she competes with the fair-skinned Florian for her master’s attention. She throws temper tantrums, rages at Florian, tries seducing Ray, and, when none of that works, concedes that Florian has the superior claim on Ray’s heart. In fairness to Higuri, I think Laila is intended to be a surrogate for Carat’s female readers—a kind of wink-wink to readers wishing that Ray or Florian harbored romantic feelings for women. Instead, Laila comes across a tempestuous child-servant—a Steppin’ Fetchit for the Britney Spears era.

Equally troubling is the kidnapped-by-a-sexy-sheik subplot in the second volume. Florian becomes a pawn in an ugly contest between Ray and Azura, a mysterious Moroccan who—naturally—is impossibly and exotically beautiful himself. I got the same queasy feeling reading these pages as I did watching the implied rape scene in Lawrence of Arabia. Much is made of Florian’s fair, virginal beauty, just as Jose Ferrer fawns over Peter O’Toole’s blue eyes, pale skin, and sexual innocence. But while David Lean shows us the terrible ramifications of this encounter, Higuri includes these scenes in Carat for pure titillation. Yes, she hints that Azura may have “ruined” Florian, but given the series’ Harlequin romance plotting, it’s a safe bet that the lasting impact of Florian’s imprisonment will be bringing him closer to Ray, not sending him into, say, an irreversible tail spin of drug addiction and prostitution. (Though, of course, Higuri does inflict amnesia and temporary insanity on Florian for most of volume three.)

In Higuri’s defense, I doubt she knew much, if anything, about the imperialist discourse that shaped European attitudes towards the “Orient.” Yet she rehearses many of the stereotypes prevalent in nineteenth-century European art, literature, and scholarship about the Middle East, portraying Laila and Azura as irrational, childlike, and dangerously sensual — just as Flaubert portrays his Carthaginian princess. About the best I can say for Higuri is that she’s so committed to her story and characters that Gorgeous Carat almost works as a parody of Delacroix, Flaubert, and Massenet. Good thing Edward Said never picked up a copy.

GORGEOUS CARAT, VOLS. 1-4 • BY YOU HIGURI • BLU MANGA • RATING: MATURE (18+)

Samurai 7, Vol. 1

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Remake or retread? That’s the question facing critics whenever someone updates a classic novel or favorite film, be it Pride and Prejudice or The Taking of Pelham One Two Three. A remake brings new urgency or wit to the original story, new clarity to its structure, or new life to a premise that, by virtue of social or technological change, seems dated—think of Philip Kaufman’s The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, which infused a 1950s it-came-from-outer-space story with a healthy dose of seventies paranoia, or Alfred Hitchcock’s 1955 version of The Man Who Knew Too Much, which featured a leaner, meaner script than his 1934 original. Retreads, on the other hand, evoke the letter but not the spirit of the originals, embellishing their plots with fussy details, slangy dialogue, or new characters without adding anything of value—think of Ethan and Joel Coens’ deep-fried version of The Ladykillers, which was louder, cruder, and longer than the 1955 film, yet decidedly less funny.

Samurai 7, a mangafication of Akira Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai, falls somewhere between these poles, treating the source material respectfully without adding anything particularly new or interesting to the mix. The basic plot remains the same: a poor rural village hires seven samurai to protect them from a band of thugs who steal their rice and enslave their womenfolk. Though the manga takes minor liberties with the main characters—one is a headless cyborg, one is a bishonen who always seems to be falling out of his yukata—the samurai bear a strong resemblance to Kurosawa’s original crew, both in terms of their personalities and functions within the group. The manga also preserves the war-ravaged atmosphere of the original, substituting a robot-fueled world war for the carnage caused by sixteenth-century daimyo.

Such fidelity to the source material proves Samurai 7’s undoing, however, as it underscores just how lackluster this adaptation really is. The story unfolds in fits and starts, bogging down in lame comedy and windy speeches that stall the samurai’s inevitable posse formation. Though the fight scenes are competently executed, the artwork has a sterile, perfunctory quality, as if the layouts and character designs were traced from four or five different sources. The mecha elements seem especially incongruous when juxtaposed with the story’s sixteenth-century costumes, buildings, and weaponry; there’s never any compelling rationale for their inclusion, save a desire to surpass the original film’s “wow” factor.

I offer these criticisms not because I view Kurosawa’s original as a sacred text, but because Samurai 7’s creators made such a calculated, unimaginative effort to sex up the material for a new generation of fans. Alas, no amount of bitchin’ gadgetry can compensate for poor pacing, generic artwork, or flat characterizations, even if later volumes promise more samurai-on-robot action. My suggestion: skip the manga and rent the original film. Toshiro Mifune is much fiercer than anything in this samurai-lite adaptation.

SAMURAI 7, VOL. 1• BY MIZUTAKA SUHOU • DEL REY • 224 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)