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The Manga Critic’s Guide to Jiro Taniguchi

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Word of Jiro Taniguchi’s death spread quickly this afternoon via Twitter and Facebook. It was a sobering moment for American fans; most of us imagined that he was only one great series away from mainstream recognition in the U.S., and eagerly hoped that his next release — whatever it might be — would wow new readers and make bank. Alas, the only appreciation we may see is in the value of his older, rarer titles like Icaro (a collaboration with French artist Moebius) and Samurai Legend (a collaboration with Kan Furuyama).

Manga lovers who haven’t yet discovered Taniguchi’s skill may be surprised to learn just how versatile and prolific he was. He leaves behind a rich assortment of historical dramas, hard-boiled crime thrillers, samurai swashbucklers, alpine adventures, food manga, and coming-of-age stories. As an introduction to Taniguchi’s sizeable oeuvre, I’ve compiled a list of my favorite titles, as well as a complete list of Taniguchi’s work in English.

Benkei in New York
With Jinpachi Mori • VIZ Media • 1 volume
Originally serialized in Big Comic Original, Benkei in New York focuses on a Japanese ex-pat living in New York. Like many New Yorkers, Benkei’s career is best characterized by slashes and hyphens: he’s a bartender-art forger-hitman who can paint a Millet from memory or make a killer martini. Benkei’s primary job, however, is seeking justice for murder victims’ families. Part of the series’ fun is watching him set elaborate traps for his prey, whether he’s borrowing a page from the Titus Andronicus playbook or using a grappling hook to take down a crooked longshoreman. Though we never doubt Benkei will prevail, the crackling script, imaginatively staged fight scenes, and tight plotting make Benkei in New York Taniguchi’s most satisfying crime thriller. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 3/20/12

A Distant Neighborhood
Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 2 volumes
A Distant Neighborhood is a wry, wistful take on a tried-and-true premise: a salaryman is transported back in time to his high school days, and must decide whether to act on his knowledge of the past or let events unfold as they did before. We’ve seen this story many times at the multiplex — Back to the Future, Peggy Sue Got Married — but Taniguchi doesn’t play the set-up for laughs; rather, he uses Hiroshi’s predicament to underscore the challenges of family life and the awkwardness of adolescence. (Hiroshi is the same chronological age as his parents, giving him special insight into the vicissitudes of marriage, as well as the confidence to cope with teenage tribulations.) Easily one of the most emotional, most intimate stories Taniguchi’s ever told. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 2/23/11

Furari
Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 1 volume
One part Walking Man, one part Times of Botchan, this elegant collection of stories focuses on Ino Tadataka (1745-1818), the cartographer responsible for the first complete map of Japan’s coastline. We meet Tadataka shortly before he embarks on the arduous task of surveying the main island. As we follow him through the parks and streets of Edo, we realize that Tadataka is consumed with measuring; he makes mental note of every step he takes, calculating and re-calculating his routes. That’s a slender premise on which to hang a manga, but Taniguchi’s fine eye for detail transforms Tadataka’s daily walks into an immersive experience, capturing the energy, light, and sounds of the eighteenth century cityscape in all its vitality. These walks are so vividly drawn, in fact, that you could read Furari in blissful ignorance of Tadataka’s identity and still find it utterly engrossing.

Guardians of the Louvre
NBM/Comics Lit • 1 VOLUME
Guardians of the Louvre has a simple premise: a Japanese artist dreams about the world’s most famous museum. In each chapter, our unnamed protagonist is temporarily transported to a particular place and time in the Louvre’s history, rubbing shoulders with famous artists, witnessing famous events, and chatting with the Nike of Samothrace, who chaperones him from exhibit to exhibit. The set-up provides Taniguchi with a nifty excuse to draw rural landscapes, gracious country manors, war-ravaged cities, and busy galleries, as well as convincing recreations of Van Gogh and Corot canvasses. If the story lacks the full emotional impact of A Zoo in Winter or A Distant Neighborhood, the gorgeous, full-color illustrations and deluxe presentation make Guardians a natural gateway for exploring Taniguchi’s work. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 1/6/17

Hotel Harbour View
With Natsui Sekikawa • VIZ Media • 1 volume
The two stories that comprise Hotel Harbour View are among the pulpiest in the Taniguchi canon. In the first, a man waits in a seedy Hong Kong bar for the person who’s supposed to kill him, while in the second, an assassin returns to Paris for a showdown with his former associates. Both stories can be enjoyed as simple exercises in hard-boiled crime, but attentive readers will appreciate Taniguchi and Sekikawa’s sly nods to film noir, yakuza flicks, and the French New Wave. The characters in both stories self-consciously behave like gangsters and molls, trading quips and telling well-rehearsed stories about their pasts; they even wear fedoras, a sure sign that they’re reliving their favorite moments from the silver screen. A mirrored shoot-out is the highlight of the volume, demonstrating Taniguchi’s crisp draftsmanship and mastery of perspective. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 1/14/11

Kodoku Gourmet
With Masayuki Qusumi • JManga • 1 volume*
If you’re a fan of Kingyo Used Books, you may remember the chapter in which Japanese backpackers shared a dog-eared copy of Kodoku no Gourmet (a.k.a. The Lonely Gourmet) in order to feel more connected to home. Small wonder they adored Gourmet: its hero, Goro Inoshigara, is a traveler who devotes considerable time and energy to seeking out his favorite foods wherever he goes. While the manga is episodic  — Goro visits a new restaurant in every chapter — Jiro Taniguchi does a wonderful job of conveying the social aspect of eating, creating brief but vivid portraits of each establishment: its clientele, its proprietors, and, of course, its signature dishes. Best of all, Taniguchi and writer Masayuki Qusumi have the good sense to limit the story to a single volume, allowing the reader to savor Goro’s culinary adventures, rather than ponder its very slight premise. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/24/12

The Summit of the Gods
With Yumemakura Baku • Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 5 volumes
On June 8, 1924, British explorer George Mallory started up the summit of Mt. Everest, never to be seen again. His disappearance drives the plot of The Summit of the Gods, a pulse-pounding adventure in which two modern-day climbers retrace Mallory’s steps up the Northeast Ridge, searching for clues to his fate. Although the drama ostensibly focuses on Fukumachi, a hard-charging photographer, and Habu, a tough-as-nails mountaineer, the real star of Summit is Everest. Taniguchi captures the mountain’s danger with his meticulous renderings of rock formations, glaciers, and quick-changing weather patterns, reminding us that Everest is one of the remotest places on Earth; at the top of the world, no one can hear you scream. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 10/12/2009

The Times of Botchan
With Natsuo Sekikawa • Fanfare/Ponent Mon •  5 volumes**
In The Times of Botchan, Natsuo Sekikawa and Jiro Taniguchi immerse readers in the tumult of the Meiji Restoration. Novelist Soseki Natsume (Botchan, I Am a Cat) functions as our de facto guide, introducing us to the suffragettes, anarchists, novelists, poets, and politicians whose struggle helped create modern Japan. Taniguchi invests small details with great meaning, using them to reveal the characters’ ambivalent relationship with the West; some embrace European dress, others flatly reject it, and most, like Natsume, strike a compromise, combining a yukata with a button-down shirt and bowler hat. Though Sekikawa’s script is not as nimble as Taniguchi’s artwork, the series leaves a vivid impression nonetheless, offering modern readers a window into Natsume’s world. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/19/2010

Venice
Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 1 volume
Venice — one of the last projects Jiro Taniguchi completed before his death in 2017 — is perhaps the most beautiful work he ever produced, a paean not only to the great Italian city, but to his own superb command of light, color, and line. Rendered in watercolor and ink, Venice‘s subtle palette and expansive treatment of the page are reminiscent of Taniguchi’s Guardians of the Louvre, while its premise recalls The Walking Man, Furari, and The Solitary Gourmet, three manga in which an unnamed male character strolls through the thoroughfares and byways of a major city, stopping to admire a blossoming tree or duck into an unassuming noodle shop. Taniguchi does more than recreate the Venetian landscape, however; he conveys the rhythms and emotions of a journey as the hero retraces his grandparents’ steps through 1930s Venice. – Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 3/2/18.

The Walking Man
Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 1 volume
This nearly wordless manga follows an ordinary man through his daily routines. He walks his dog; he swims laps at the pool; he retrieves a model airplane from a tree. In less capable hands, the sheer lack of conflict would result in a dull comic, but Taniguchi invests these activities with meaning by interrupting them with moments of simple beauty: a rare bird alighting on a branch, a rooftop view of a neighborhood in spring bloom. Though we learn very little about the protagonist — he remains nameless throughout the story — his capacity for noticing and savoring these details becomes a small act of heroism, a conscious effort to resist the indifference, complacency, and impatience that blinds us to our surroundings and dulls our imaginations.

A Zoo in Winter
Fanfare/Ponent Mon • 1 volume
Drawing on his own experiences, Jiro Taniguchi spins an engaging tale about a young man who abandons a promising career in textile design for the opportunity to become a manga artist. Though the basic plot invites comparison with Bakuman, Taniguchi does more than just document important milestones in Hamaguchi’s career: he shows us how Hamaguchi’s emotional maturation informs every aspect of his artistry — something that’s missing from many other portrait-of-an-artist-as-a-young-man sagas, which place much greater emphasis on the pleasure of professional recognition than on the satisfaction of mastering one’s craft. Lovely, moody artwork and an appealing cast of supporting characters complete this very satisfying package.  —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/28/11

* * * * * *

Below is a complete list of Jiro Taniguchi’s manga in English. Please note that I’ve provided the publication information for the English translations, not the original Japanese editions. This list was last updated on August 28, 2023 to include several books that have been released since 2017.

As Artist and Author

  • Taniguchi, Jiro. A Distant Neighborhood. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2009. 2 vols.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. Furari. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2017. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. Guardians of the Louvre. NBM/Comics Lit, 2016. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. The Ice Wanderer and Other Stories. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2010. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. A Journal of My Father, Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2021. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. The Quest for the Missing Girl. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2010. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. Sky Hawk. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2019. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. Venice. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2017. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. The Walking Man. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2007. 1 vol.
  • Taniguchi, Jiro. A Zoo in Winter. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2011. 1 vol.

As Artist

  • Boilet, Frederic and Jiro Taniguchi. Tokyo Is My Garden. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2010. 1 vol.
  • Furuyama, Kan and Jiro Taniguchi. Samurai Legend. Central Park Media, 2003. 1 vol.
  • Moebius and Jiro Taniguchi. Icaro. IBooks, 2003-2004. 2 vols.
  • Mori, Jinpachi and Jiro Taniguchi. Benkei in New York. VIZ Media. 2001. 1 vol.
  • Qusumi, Masayuki and Jiro Taniguchi. Kodoku Gourmet.  JManga, 2012. 1 vol.*
  • Sekikawa, Natsuo and Jiro Taniguchi. Hotel Harbour View. VIZ Media, 2001. 1 vol.
  • Sekikawa, Natsuo and Jiro Taniguchi. The Times of Botchan. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2007-2010. 5 vols.**
  • Yumemakura, Baku and Jiro Yaniguchi. The Summit of the Gods. Fanfare/Ponent Mon, 2009-2015. 5 vols.

*This title was only released digitally through the JManga platform.

**This series is incomplete in English; the complete Japanese edition spans 10 volumes.

Guardians of the Louvre

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One part Times of Botchan, one part Night at the Museum, Jiro Taniguchi’s Guardians of the Louvre is a stately, handsomely illustrated manga that never quite rises to the level of greatness.

The premise is simple: a Japanese artist lies ill in his Parisian hotel room, feverishly dreaming about the museum’s galleries. In each chapter, the hero is temporarily transported to a particular place and time in the Louvre’s history, rubbing shoulders with famous artists, witnessing famous events, and chatting with one of the museum’s most famous works–the Nike of Samothrace, who takes the form of a stone-faced tour guide. If the set-up sounds like The Times of Botchan, it is, though Guardians of the Louvre is less ambitious; Taniguchi’s primary objective is to celebrate the museum’s collection by highlighting a few of its most beloved works, rather than immersing the reader in a specific milieu.

The artist-as-time-traveler schtick is a little hackneyed, but provides Taniguchi with a nifty excuse to showcase the breadth of his artistry, offering the reader a visual feast of rural landscapes, gracious country manors, war-ravaged cities, and busy galleries. Using watercolor and ink, Taniguchi convincingly recreates iconic paintings by Van Gogh and Corot, effortlessly slipping into each artist’s style without slavishly reproducing every detail of the originals. Taniguchi’s characters are rendered with a similar degree of meticulousness, though their waxen facial expressions sometimes mar scenes calling for a meaningful display of emotion.

What prevents Guardians of the Louvre from taking flight is its relentlessly middlebrow sensibility. In one scene, for example, the Nike of Samothrace leads our unnamed hero through an empty Salle des États, home of the Mona Lisa. The artist examines the painting closely, musing about the tourist hordes that normally throng the gallery. “It’s not about art appreciation anymore. It’s wholly a popular tourist destination” he says wistfully. If his character was anything more than an audience surrogate, his comment might have registered as a thoughtful meditation on the commercialization of fine art, or the outsized fame of Da Vinci’s canvas. Absent any knowledge of who he is or what kind of art he creates, however, his remarks sounds more like a moment of bourgeois snobbery: don’t these peasants realize the Louvre is filled with other remarkable paintings?

A similarly pedestrian spirit animates the chapters documenting the 1939 evacuation of the Louvre. To be sure, the mechanics of packing and transporting the art are fascinating; Taniguchi’s expert draftsmanship conveys the complexity and physical demands of the task in vivid detail, inviting us to ride along with Delacroix’s monumental Raft of the Medusa on its perilous journey from Paris to Versailles. The dialogue that frames these passages, however, is rife with cliches. “They were ready to risk everything to evacuate the paintings,” the Nike solemnly informs our hero before implying that this operation was a little-known episode in French history–a strange claim, given the story’s romantic treatment in popular culture.

The manga’s most effective passages, by contrast, are wordless. We see our hero wander through a forest where Corot silently paints the undulating boughs, and a medieval town where Van Gogh sets up his easel in a sun-drenched hay field. In these fleeting moments, Taniguchi’s sensual imagery allows us to step into the artist’s shoes and relive the creative process that yielded Recollection of Mortefontaine and Daubigny’s Garden for ourselves. If only the rest of the manga wasn’t so insistent on telling us how to appreciate these paintings.

Guardians of the Louvre
By Jiro Taniguchi
No rating
NBM Graphic Novels, $24.99

This review originally appeared at MangaBlog on May 20, 2016.

Rohan at the Louvre

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In 2007, NBM Comics-Lit published Nicolas de Crecy’s Glacial Period, the first in a series of graphic novels commissioned by the Louvre Museum. The goal of Glacial Period — and the four books that followed it — was to introduce readers to the richness and complexity of the Louvre’s vast collections through a familiar medium: comics.

The artists’ strategies for bridging the divide between fine and sequential art have varied. In Glacial Period, for example, a team of anthropologists unearth the Louvre’s collections, which have been buried under ice for a millennium. The scientists try to make sense of the objects they discover, not unlike a group of aliens speculating about the purpose of a Coke bottle or an Etch-A-Sketch. Other novels are more fanciful: Eric Liberge’s On the Odd Hours reads like a classy version of Night at the Museum, in which the museum’s iconic pieces come to life, roaming the empty galleries until the night watchman can subdue them. Still others are explicitly historical: Bernar Yslaire and Jean-Claude Carriere’s Sky Over the Louvre, for example, stars two of the French Revolution’s best-known bad boys: Maximilien Robiespierre and David.

Hirohiko Araki’s Rohan at the Louvre, by contrast, takes its cues from the world of J-horror, using the Louvre as the setting for a nifty ghost story. In the book’s opening pages, we’re introduced to Rohan, an aspiring manga artist who lives with his grandmother in a nearly deserted rooming house. (N.B. Fans of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure may recognize Rohan as a minor character from one of the later volumes of the series, though prior knowledge of JoJo is not necessary for appreciating Louvre.) The unexpected arrival of a beautiful divorcee turns the normally placid household upside down with tearful drama. Within a week of her arrival, however, Nanase disappears into the night, never to be seen again.

We then jump forward ten years: Rohan, now 27, is a successful manga artist who decides to visit the Louvre to view what Nanase once described to him as “the darkest painting in the world.” The painting, he learns, has never been publicly displayed; it sits in a long-forgotten basement vault. What transpires in the bowels of the Louvre is a mixture of old-fashioned Japanese ghost story and contemporary slasher flick; if one were to update Masaki Kobayashi’s Kwaidan for today’s audiences, the denouement of “The Black-Haired Woman” or “Hoichi the Earless” might look like the climatic scene of Rohan.

For all the gory zest with which that scene is staged, Rohan‘s artwork is uneven. Araki’s command of color is impeccable: the prelude is bathed in a golden light, while the scenes at the Louvre are rendered in a cooler palette of grey, blue, and pure black, a contrast that nicely underscores Rohan’s journey from youthful inexperience to maturity. Araki’s sexy character designs are another plus; even the most muscle-bound figures have a sensual quality to them, with full lips and eyes that that moistly beckon to the reader.

When those figures are in motion, however, Araki’s artwork is less persuasive. Rohan and Nanase’s bodies, for example, rotate along several heretofore undiscovered axes; only Power Girl and Wonder Woman twist their bodies into more anatomy-defying poses. Araki’s fondness for extreme camera angles similarly distorts his characters’ bodies, as he draws them from below, behind, or a forty-five degree angle, eschewing simple frontal views whenever possible. Such bodily distortions are meant to give depth to the picture plane, I think, but the result is curiously flat; the characters often look like paper dolls that have been bent into unnatural shapes, rather than convincing representations of walking, talking people.

What Araki’s artwork does best is convey a sense of place. The opening pages are lovely, offering us a peek into a world that is largely — though not completely — untouched by modernity. Araki takes great pains to render the boarding house’s environs — its rock garden and gnarled pine trees — as well as its interior of spartan rooms and sliding doors. We feel the stillness and seclusion of the inn, and bristle when Nanase’s cell phone pierces that tranquility.

Likewise, Araki captures the Louvre in vivid detail. He guides the reader through its galleries, marching us past the Nike of Samothrace and several rooms of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century paintings. We follow Rohan’s gaze upwards towards vaulted ceilings encrusted in sculptural detail and elaborate frescoes, pausing to meet the gaze of the Dutch burghers and Roman gods whose images are mounted on the gallery walls. We then descend into the museum’s extensive network of tunnels and storage vaults, a veritable catacombs of neglected and obscure objects spread out over hundreds of acres. Although these dark, claustrophobic spaces make an ideal setting for a horror story, they’re also a powerful reminder of the Louvre’s history; the tunnels are remnants of a twelfth-century fortress that once occupied the site of the present-day museum.

If the artwork is, at times, overly stylized, Rohan at the Louvre is still an imaginative celebration of the Louvre Museum, conveying its scale, age, and majesty. Araki’s book is not as sophisticated or ambitious as some of the other titles in this series, but is one of the most dramatically satisfying, achieving a near-perfect balance between telling a ghost story and telling the Louvre’s own story. Recommended.

ROHAN AT THE LOUVRE • BY HIROHIKO ARAKI • NBM/COMICS-LIT • 128 pp. • NO RATING

Rohan at the Louvre

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In 2007, NBM Comics-Lit published Nicolas de Crecy’s Glacial Period, the first in a series of graphic novels commissioned by the Louvre Museum. The goal of Glacial Period — and the four books that followed it — was to introduce readers to the richness and complexity of the Louvre’s vast collections through a familiar medium: comics.

The artists’ strategies for bridging the divide between fine and sequential art have varied. In Glacial Period, for example, a team of anthropologists unearth the Louvre’s collections, which have been buried under ice for a millennium. The scientists try to make sense of the objects they discover, not unlike a group of aliens speculating about the purpose of a Coke bottle or an Etch-A-Sketch. Other novels are more fanciful: Eric Liberge’s On the Odd Hours reads like a classy version of Night at the Museum, in which the museum’s iconic pieces come to life, roaming the empty galleries until the night watchman can subdue them. Still others are explicitly historical: Bernar Yslaire and Jean-Claude Carriere’s Sky Over the Louvre, for example, stars two of the French Revolution’s best-known bad boys: Maximilien Robiespierre and David.

Hirohiko Araki’s Rohan at the Louvre, by contrast, takes its cues from the world of J-horror, using the Louvre as the setting for a nifty ghost story. In the book’s opening pages, we’re introduced to Rohan, an aspiring manga artist who lives with his grandmother in a nearly deserted rooming house. (N.B. Fans of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure may recognize Rohan as a minor character from one of the later volumes of the series, though prior knowledge of JoJo is not necessary for appreciating Louvre.) The unexpected arrival of a beautiful divorcee turns the normally placid household upside down with tearful drama. Within a week of her arrival, however, Nanase disappears into the night, never to be seen again.

We then jump forward ten years: Rohan, now 27, is a successful manga artist who decides to visit the Louvre to view what Nanase once described to him as “the darkest painting in the world.” The painting, he learns, has never been publicly displayed; it sits in a long-forgotten basement vault. What transpires in the bowels of the Louvre is a mixture of old-fashioned Japanese ghost story and contemporary slasher flick; if one were to update Masaki Kobayashi’s Kwaidan for today’s audiences, the denouement of “The Black-Haired Woman” or “Hoichi the Earless” might look like the climatic scene of Rohan.

For all the gory zest with which that scene is staged, Rohan‘s artwork is uneven. Araki’s command of color is impeccable: the prelude is bathed in a golden light, while the scenes at the Louvre are rendered in a cooler palette of grey, blue, and pure black, a contrast that nicely underscores Rohan’s journey from youthful inexperience to maturity. Araki’s sexy character designs are another plus; even the most muscle-bound figures have a sensual quality to them, with full lips and eyes that that moistly beckon to the reader.

When those figures are in motion, however, Araki’s artwork is less persuasive. Rohan and Nanase’s bodies, for example, rotate along several heretofore undiscovered axes; only Power Girl and Wonder Woman twist their bodies into more anatomy-defying poses. Araki’s fondness for extreme camera angles similarly distorts his characters’ bodies, as he draws them from below, behind, or a forty-five degree angle, eschewing simple frontal views whenever possible. Such bodily distortions are meant to give depth to the picture plane, I think, but the result is curiously flat; the characters often look like paper dolls that have been bent into unnatural shapes, rather than convincing representations of walking, talking people.

What Araki’s artwork does best is convey a sense of place. The opening pages are lovely, offering us a peek into a world that is largely — though not completely — untouched by modernity. Araki takes great pains to render the boarding house’s environs — its rock garden and gnarled pine trees — as well as its interior of spartan rooms and sliding doors. We feel the stillness and seclusion of the inn, and bristle when Nanase’s cell phone pierces that tranquility.

Likewise, Araki captures the Louvre in vivid detail. He guides the reader through its galleries, marching us past the Nike of Samothrace and several rooms of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century paintings. We follow Rohan’s gaze upwards towards vaulted ceilings encrusted in sculptural detail and elaborate frescoes, pausing to meet the gaze of the Dutch burghers and Roman gods whose images are mounted on the gallery walls. We then descend into the museum’s extensive network of tunnels and storage vaults, a veritable catacombs of neglected and obscure objects spread out over hundreds of acres. Although these dark, claustrophobic spaces make an ideal setting for a horror story, they’re also a powerful reminder of the Louvre’s history; the tunnels are remnants of a twelfth-century fortress that once occupied the site of the present-day museum.

If the artwork is, at times, overly stylized, Rohan at the Louvre is still an imaginative celebration of the Louvre Museum, conveying its scale, age, and majesty. Araki’s book is not as sophisticated or ambitious as some of the other titles in this series, but is one of the most dramatically satisfying, achieving a near-perfect balance between telling a ghost story and telling the Louvre’s own story. Recommended.

ROHAN AT THE LOUVRE • BY HIROHIKO ARAKI • NBM/COMICS-LIT • 128 pp. • NO RATING

The Best Manga of 2011: The Manga Critic’s Picks

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The usual gambit for introducing a year-end list is to remark on the abundance of good titles, acknowledge the difficulty in choosing just ten (or five, or three), and comment on the overall state of the industry. And while I certainly debated what to include on my list, I’ll be honest: 2011 yielded fewer contenders for Best Manga than any other year I’ve covered. The dearth of new titles was attributable to publishers’ financial prudence; companies released fewer books, licensed fewer series, and focused on repackaging older content for budget-conscious consumers. And though I selfishly wish that more new material had been released this year, I think manga publishers have done an excellent job of responding to their biggest challenges: a sluggish economy, digital piracy, and Borders’ bankruptcy.

So what titles made my 2011 list? My top ten are below, along with my list of favorite continuing series, favorite finales, and favorite guilty pleasures.

10. Breathe Deeply
By Yamaaki Doton • One Peace Books
Part sci-fi thriller, part coming-of-age story, this engrossing drama examines the relationship between two young men: Sei, who grew up in a world of privilege, and Oishi, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Both Sei and Oishi fall in love with Yuko, a sickly girl whose incurable illness inspires her suitors to become medical researchers. In less capable hands, Breathe Deeply might have been a mawkish paean to the purity of young love, but the husband-and-wife team of Yamaaki Doton have a keen ear for dialogue; the interactions between Yuko and her two suitors are tinged with an authentic mixture of adolescent anxiety, sexual longing, and braggadocio. Clean, expressive artwork and well-rounded characters help sell the story, especially in its final pages. One of 2011’s best surprises.

9. The Secret Notes of Lady Kanako
By Ririko Tsujita • Tokyopop
Kanoko, the sardonic heroine of The Secret Notes of Lady Kanoko, is a student of human behavior, gleefully filling her notebooks with detailed observations about her classmates. Though Kanoko would like nothing more than to remain on the sidelines, she frequently becomes embroiled in her peers’ problems; they value her independent perspective, as Kanoko isn’t the least bit interested in dating, running for student council, or currying favor with the alpha clique. Kanoko’s sharp tongue and cool demeanor might make her the mean-girl villain in another shojo manga, but Ririko Tsujita embraces her heroine’s prickly, opinionated nature and makes it fundamental to Kanoko’s appeal. It’s a pity TOKYOPOP didn’t survive long enough to finish this three-volume series, as it’s one of the best shojo titles in recent memory.

8. Wandering Son
By Takako Shimura • Fantagraphics
In her thoughtful review of volume one, Michelle Smith praised Takako Shimura’s deft use of perspective: “The main thing I kept thinking about while reading Wandering Son… is how things that seem insignificant to one person can be secretly, intensely significant to someone else.” Shimura’s ability to dramatize each character’s unique point of view is one of the reasons Wandering Son never feels preachy, even though the topic suggests an Afterschool Special; we are always exquisitely aware of the subtle but important changes in the way each character views herself, as well as her fears and hopes.

7. Princess Knight
By Osamu Tezuka • Vertical, Inc.
What Osamu Tezuka’s New Treasure Island (1946) was to shonen, his Princess Knight (1953-56) was to shojo: both were long-form adventure stories with cinematic flair. Neither could be said to be the “first” shonen or shojo manga, but both had a profound influence on the artists who came of age in the 1940s and 1950s, offering a new storytelling model for them to emulate. Viewed through a contemporary lens, Princess Knight hasn’t aged quite as well as New Treasure Island, as it’s saddled with some woefully antiquated notions of gender. At the same time, however, it’s easy to see why this story appealed to several generations of Japanese girls: Sapphire gets to eat her cake and have it too, having swashbuckling adventures *and* winning the hand of Prince Charming. —Reviewed at Manga Bookshelf on 11/21/11 and The Manga Critic on 12/19/10

6. Tank Tankuro: Gajo Sakamoto, Manga’s Pre-War Master, 1934-35
By Gajo Sakamoto • Press Pop
Almost twenty years before Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy took flight in the pages of Shonen Kobunsha magazine, Gajo Sakamoto’s Tank Tankuro enchanted Japanese youngsters with his monster-fighting exploits and cool gadgets. Though the series’ propaganda intent is impossible for contemporary readers to ignore — Tank fights the Chinese, who are portrayed in less-than-flattering terms — Presspop’s new anthology demonstrates that Sakamoto’s artistry has aged more gracefully than his storylines. Sakamoto’s work is packaged in a handsome, hardcover edition that includes thoughtful extras: a contextual essay by translator Sunsuke Nakazawa, an interview with Sakamoto’s son, and an article by Sakamoto himself, discussing the character’s origin.

5. Stargazing Dog
By Takashi Murakami • NBM/Comics Lit
Consider yourself warned: Stargazing Dog is a five-hanky affair. The two interconnecting vignettes that comprise this slim volume explore the bond between Happie, a shiba inu, and Daddy, his owner. When Daddy loses his job, his home, and his family, he and Happie hit the road in search of a new life. Though the outcome of Happie and Daddy’s journey is never in doubt — we learn their fate in the opening pages of the book — Murakami draws the reader into their story with an honest and unsparing look at the human-dog compact that may remind cinephiles of Vittorio de Sica’s Umberto D. —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 12/23/11

4. Onwards Towards Our Noble Deaths
By Shigeru Mizuki • Drawn & Quarterly
In this blistering indictment of Japanese militarism, Shigeru Mizuki draws on his own experiences during World War II to tell the story of a platoon stationed in Papua New Guinea. The soldiers face a terrible choice: fight a hopeless battle, or face execution for treason. Like many war stories, Onwards Toward Our Noble Deaths documents the tremendous human sacrifice of modern armed conflict: gruesome injuries, senseless deaths, devastated landscapes. What lends Mizuki’s narrative its special potency is his depiction of the senior officers; their perverse dedication to their mission turns them into tyrants, more concerned with saving face than saving their own soldiers’ skins. Essential reading for anyone interested in World War II.

3. The Drops of God
By Tadashi Agi and Shu Okimoto • Vertical, Inc
As Oishinbo handily demonstrated, a skilled writer can fold a considerable amount of educational detail into a story without reducing it to a textbook. The Drops of God follows a similar template, imparting highly specialized information about wine with the same natural ease that Law & Order illustrates the inner workings of a crime investigation. At the same time, however, Drops is a delicious soap opera, filled with domineering fathers, mustache-twirling villains, evil beauties, eccentric oenophiles, and down-on-their-luck restauranteurs. Even if the reader isn’t the least bit interested in wine, he’ll find the drama as irresistible as an episode of Dynasty. —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 12/16/11

2. A Zoo in Winter
By Jiro Taniguchi • Fanfare/Ponent Mon
Drawing on his own experiences, Jiro Taniguchi spins an engaging tale about a young man who abandons a promising career in textile design for the opportunity to become a manga artist. Though the basic plot invites comparison with Bakuman, Taniguchi does more than just document important milestones in Hamaguchi’s career: he shows us how Hamaguchi’s emotional maturation informs every aspect of his artistry — something that’s missing from many other portrait-of-an-artist-as-a-young-man sagas, which place much greater emphasis on the pleasure of professional recognition than on the satisfaction of mastering one’s craft. Lovely, moody artwork and an appealing cast of supporting characters complete this very satisfying package.  —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/28/11

1. A Bride’s Story
By Kaoru Mori • Yen Press
A Bride’s Story, which takes place on the banks of the Caspian Sea, explores the relationship between Amir Halgal, a nineteen-year-old nomad, and Karluk Eihon, the eldest son of sheep herders. Though their marriage is one of political expedience, Amir is determined to be a good wife, doing her utmost to learn her new family’s customs, befriend the members of their extended clan, and earn her new husband’s respect. Kaoru Mori is as interested in observing Amir’s everyday life as she is in documenting the growing conflict between the Halgal and Eihon clans, yet A Bride’s Story is never dull, thanks to Mori’s smart, engaging dialogue; as she demonstrated in Emma and Shirley, Mori can make even the simplest moments revealing, whether her characters are preparing a manor house for the master’s return or skinning a freshly killed deer. By allowing her story to unfold in such a naturalistic fashion, A Bride’s Story manages to be both intimate and expansive, offering readers a window into life along the Silk Road. —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/24/11

HONORABLE MENTIONS
As in previous years, I had difficulty limiting myself to just ten titles, so I compiled a list of manga that didn’t quite make my best-of list, but were thoroughly enjoyable:

So now I turn the floor over to you, readers: what were your favorite new manga of 2011?

The Best Manga of 2011: The Manga Critic’s Picks

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The usual gambit for introducing a year-end list is to remark on the abundance of good titles, acknowledge the difficulty in choosing just ten (or five, or three), and comment on the overall state of the industry. And while I certainly debated what to include on my list, I’ll be honest: 2011 yielded fewer contenders for Best Manga than any other year I’ve covered. The dearth of new titles was attributable to publishers’ financial prudence; companies released fewer books, licensed fewer series, and focused on repackaging older content for budget-conscious consumers. And though I selfishly wish that more new material had been released this year, I think manga publishers have done an excellent job of responding to their biggest challenges: a sluggish economy, digital piracy, and Borders’ bankruptcy.

So what titles made my 2011 list? My top ten are below, along with my list of favorite continuing series, favorite finales, and favorite guilty pleasures.

10. BREATHE DEEPLY (Yamaaki Doton; One Peace Books)

Part sci-fi thriller, part coming-of-age story, this engrossing drama examines the relationship between two young men: Sei, who grew up in a world of privilege, and Oishi, a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Both Sei and Oishi fall in love with Yuko, a sickly girl whose incurable illness inspires her suitors to become medical researchers. In less capable hands, Breathe Deeply might have been a mawkish paean to the purity of young love, but the husband-and-wife team of Yamaaki Doton have a keen ear for dialogue; the interactions between Yuko and her two suitors are tinged with an authentic mixture of adolescent anxiety, sexual longing, and braggadocio. Clean, expressive artwork and well-rounded characters help sell the story, especially in its final pages. One of 2011’s best surprises.

9. THE SECRET NOTES OF LADY KANOKO (Ririko Tsujita; Tokyopop)

Kanoko, the sardonic heroine of The Secret Notes of Lady Kanoko, is a student of human behavior, gleefully filling her notebooks with detailed observations about her classmates. Though Kanoko would like nothing more than to remain on the sidelines, she frequently becomes embroiled in her peers’ problems; they value her independent perspective, as Kanoko isn’t the least bit interested in dating, running for student council, or currying favor with the alpha clique. Kanoko’s sharp tongue and cool demeanor might make her the mean-girl villain in another shojo manga, but Ririko Tsujita embraces her heroine’s prickly, opinionated nature and makes it fundamental to Kanoko’s appeal. It’s a pity TOKYOPOP didn’t survive long enough to finish this three-volume series, as it’s one of the best shojo titles in recent memory.

8. WANDERING SON (Takako Shimura; Fantagraphics)

In her thoughtful review of volume one, Michelle Smith praised Takako Shimura’s deft use of perspective: “The main thing I kept thinking about while reading Wandering Son… is how things that seem insignificant to one person can be secretly, intensely significant to someone else.” Shimura’s ability to dramatize each character’s unique point of view is one of the reasons Wandering Son never feels preachy, even though the topic suggests an Afterschool Special; we are always exquisitely aware of the subtle but important changes in the way each character views herself, as well as her fears and hopes.

7. PRINCESS KNIGHT (Osamu Tezuka; Vertical, Inc.)

What Osamu Tezuka’s New Treasure Island (1946) was to shonen, his Princess Knight (1953-56) was to shojo: both were long-form adventure stories with cinematic flair. Neither could be said to be the “first” shonen or shojo manga, but both had a profound influence on the artists who came of age in the 1940s and 1950s, offering a new storytelling model for them to emulate. Viewed through a contemporary lens, Princess Knight hasn’t aged quite as well as New Treasure Island, as it’s saddled with some woefully antiquated notions of gender. At the same time, however, it’s easy to see why this story appealed to several generations of Japanese girls: Sapphire gets to eat her cake and have it too, having swashbuckling adventures *and* winning the hand of Prince Charming. –Reviewed at Manga Bookshelf on 11/21/11 and The Manga Critic on 12/19/10

6. TANK TANKURO: GAJO SAKAMOTO, MANGA’S PRE-WAR MASTER, 1934-35 (Gajo Sakamoto; Press Pop)

Almost twenty years before Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy took flight in the pages of Shonen Kobunsha magazine, Gajo Sakamoto’s Tank Tankuro enchanted Japanese youngsters with his monster-fighting exploits and cool gadgets. Though the series’ propaganda intent is impossible for contemporary readers to ignore — Tank fights the Chinese, who are portrayed in less-than-flattering terms — Presspop’s new anthology demonstrates that Sakamoto’s artistry has aged more gracefully than his storylines. Sakamoto’s work is packaged in a handsome, hardcover edition that includes thoughtful extras: a contextual essay by translator Sunsuke Nakazawa, an interview with Sakamoto’s son, and an article by Sakamoto himself, discussing the character’s origin.

5. STARGAZING DOG (Takashi Murakami; NBM/Comics Lit)

Consider yourself warned: Stargazing Dog is a five-hanky affair. The two interconnecting vignettes that comprise this slim volume explore the bond between Happie, a shiba inu, and Daddy, his owner. When Daddy loses his job, his home, and his family, he and Happie hit the road in search of a new life. Though the outcome of Happie and Daddy’s journey is never in doubt — we learn their fate in the opening pages of the book — Murakami draws the reader into their story with an honest and unsparing look at the human-dog compact that may remind cinephiles of Vittorio de Sica’s Umberto D. —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 12/23/11

4. ONWARDS TOWARD OUR NOBLE DEATHS (Shigeru Mizuki; Drawn & Quarterly)

In this blistering indictment of Japanese militarism, Shigeru Mizuki draws on his own experiences during World War II to tell the story of a platoon stationed in Papua New Guinea. The soldiers face a terrible choice: fight a hopeless battle, or face execution for treason. Like many war stories, Onwards Toward Our Noble Deaths documents the tremendous human sacrifice of modern armed conflict: gruesome injuries, senseless deaths, devastated landscapes. What lends Mizuki’s narrative its special potency is his depiction of the senior officers; their perverse dedication to their mission turns them into tyrants, more concerned with saving face than saving their own soldiers’ skins. Essential reading for anyone interested in World War II.

3. THE DROPS OF GOD (Tadashi Agi and Shu Okimoto; Vertical, Inc.)

As Oishinbo handily demonstrated, a skilled writer can fold a considerable amount of educational detail into a story without reducing it to a textbook. The Drops of God follows a similar template, imparting highly specialized information about wine with the same natural ease that Law & Order illustrates the inner workings of a crime investigation. At the same time, however, Drops is a delicious soap opera, filled with domineering fathers, mustache-twirling villains, evil beauties, eccentric oenophiles, and down-on-their-luck restauranteurs. Even if the reader isn’t the least bit interested in wine, he’ll find the drama as irresistible as an episode of Dynasty. –Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 12/16/11

2. A ZOO IN WINTER (Jiro Taniguchi; Fanfare/Ponent Mon)

Drawing on his own experiences, Jiro Taniguchi spins an engaging tale about a young man who abandons a promising career in textile design for the opportunity to become a manga artist. Though the basic plot invites comparison with Bakuman, Taniguchi does more than just document important milestones in Hamaguchi’s career: he shows us how Hamaguchi’s emotional maturation informs every aspect of his artistry — something that’s missing from many other portrait-of-an-artist-as-a-young-man sagas, which place much greater emphasis on the pleasure of professional recognition than on the satisfaction of mastering one’s craft. Lovely, moody artwork and an appealing cast of supporting characters complete this very satisfying package.  —Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/28/11

1. A BRIDE’S STORY (Kaoru Mori; Yen Press)

A Bride’s Story, which takes place on the banks of the Caspian Sea, explores the relationship between Amir Halgal, a nineteen-year-old nomad, and Karluk Eihon, the eldest son of sheep herders. Though their marriage is one of political expedience, Amir is determined to be a good wife, doing her utmost to learn her new family’s customs, befriend the members of their extended clan, and earn her new husband’s respect. Kaoru Mori is as interested in observing Amir’s everyday life as she is in documenting the growing conflict between the Halgal and Eihon clans, yet A Bride’s Story is never dull, thanks to Mori’s smart, engaging dialogue; as she demonstrated in Emma and Shirley, Mori can make even the simplest moments revealing, whether her characters are preparing a manor house for the master’s return or skinning a freshly killed deer. By allowing her story to unfold in such a naturalistic fashion, A Bride’s Story manages to be both intimate and expansive, offering readers a window into life along the Silk Road. –Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 5/24/11

HONORABLE MENTIONS

As in previous years, I had difficulty limiting myself to just ten titles, so I compiled a list of manga that didn’t quite make my best-of list, but were thoroughly enjoyable:

So now I turn the floor over to you, readers: what were your favorite new manga of 2011?

Stargazing Dog

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Few things can reduce me to a puddle of tears as quickly as a dog story, especially if the canine subject is lost, abused, or sacrificed for the well-being of his owner. Yet for all my sentimentality, I am particular about my dog stories. Too often, authors allow extreme displays of loyalty or mischievousness to stand in for a thoughtful portrayal of the dog’s own personality; the author is so intent on showing the redemptive power of canine ownership that the ostensible subject of the book feels more like a walking metaphor than an actual presence in the narrative.

Takashi Murakami largely avoids this trap in Stargazing Dog by granting his canine protagonist a voice. In less capable hands, Happie’s narration might be precious or manipulative, prompting the reader to feel unearned sympathy for him. Murakami, however, finds just the right words for Happie, expressing his point of view with a simplicity and directness that seem appropriate for a dog.

Early in Stargazing Dog, Happie forms a strong attachment to a character identified only as “Daddy,” a father who gradually becomes estranged from his wife and teenage daughter. With the dissolution of his family, Daddy packs Happie and a few possessions in his car, and begins driving towards the sea. The outcome of their journey is never in doubt — we learn Happie and Daddy’s fate in the very opening pages of the book — yet Murakami draws the reader into the story with a nuanced depiction of the master-dog relationship.

Daddy and Happie take to the road.

Murakami has two fundamental insights into that dynamic. The first is routine: Happie’s devotion to Daddy stems from many hours of walking, sitting, and eating together. These rituals consume Happie’s thoughts until the very end of the story; Happie eagerly anticipates their daily walks, adapting to changes in Daddy’s schedule with heartbreaking alacrity. (“We used to go for a walk in the evening,” Happie observes. “These days, Daddy takes me out in the daytime.”)

The second is communication: though Happie and Daddy clearly share a special emotional connection, there’s a fundamental gap between them that can’t be bridged. Happie never fully grasps what’s happening to him and his master, perceiving the changes in their routine without understanding their cause. Daddy, for his part, never acknowledges the degree to which he views Happie as an extension of himself; as his circumstances deteriorate, he continues to rely on Happie for companionship, putting his own emotional needs before the dog’s.

Murakami never romanticizes Happie and Daddy’s relationship, though he honors the sincerity and warmth of their bond. The roughness of the art — the human characters’ clumsy hands and round heads, the crude use of perspective — further inoculates the story against mawkishness, while the exaggerated facial expressions and child-like rendering of space and objects echo the naivete of Happie’s narration. Only a few poorly chosen fonts and backwards signs mar the design, reminding the reader that the artwork has been flipped for English-speaking audiences.

Perhaps the best compliment I can pay Murakami is to acknowledge just how much Stargazing Dog moved me. Not in a cheap, dog-in-peril sort of way, but in the same way that Vittorio de Sica’s Umberto D. touched me: as a beautiful meditation on the human-canine bond, one that acknowledges the complexity and inequality of that relationship, as well its enduring power. One of 2011’s best new manga.

STARGAZING DOG • BY TAKASHI MURAKAMI • NBM/COMICSLIT • 128 pp. • NO RATING

Stargazing Dog

by 8 Comments

Few things can reduce me to a puddle of tears as quickly as a dog story, especially if the canine subject is lost, abused, or sacrificed for the well-being of his owner. Yet for all my sentimentality, I am particular about my dog stories. Too often, authors allow extreme displays of loyalty or mischievousness to stand in for a thoughtful portrayal of the dog’s own personality; the author is so intent on showing the redemptive power of canine ownership that the ostensible subject of the book feels more like a walking metaphor than an actual presence in the narrative.

Takashi Murakami largely avoids this trap in Stargazing Dog by granting his canine protagonist a voice. In less capable hands, Happie’s narration might be precious or manipulative, prompting the reader to feel unearned sympathy for him. Murakami, however, finds just the right words for Happie, expressing his point of view with a simplicity and directness that seem appropriate for a dog.

Early in Stargazing Dog, Happie forms a strong attachment to a character identified only as “Daddy,” a father who gradually becomes estranged from his wife and teenage daughter. With the dissolution of his family, Daddy packs Happie and a few possessions in his car, and begins driving towards the sea. The outcome of their journey is never in doubt — we learn Happie and Daddy’s fate in the very opening pages of the book — yet Murakami draws the reader into the story with a nuanced depiction of the master-dog relationship.

Daddy and Happie take to the road.

Murakami has two fundamental insights into that dynamic. The first is routine: Happie’s devotion to Daddy stems from many hours of walking, sitting, and eating together. These rituals consume Happie’s thoughts until the very end of the story; Happie eagerly anticipates their daily walks, adapting to changes in Daddy’s schedule with heartbreaking alacrity. (“We used to go for a walk in the evening,” Happie observes. “These days, Daddy takes me out in the daytime.”)

The second is communication: though Happie and Daddy clearly share a special emotional connection, there’s a fundamental gap between them that can’t be bridged. Happie never fully grasps what’s happening to him and his master, perceiving the changes in their routine without understanding their cause. Daddy, for his part, never acknowledges the degree to which he views Happie as an extension of himself; as his circumstances deteriorate, he continues to rely on Happie for companionship, putting his own emotional needs before the dog’s.

Murakami never romanticizes Happie and Daddy’s relationship, though he honors the sincerity and warmth of their bond. The roughness of the art — the human characters’ clumsy hands and round heads, the crude use of perspective — further inoculates the story against mawkishness, while the exaggerated facial expressions and child-like rendering of space and objects echo the naivete of Happie’s narration. Only a few poorly chosen fonts and backwards signs mar the design, reminding the reader that the artwork has been flipped for English-speaking audiences.

Perhaps the best compliment I can pay Murakami is to acknowledge just how much Stargazing Dog moved me. Not in a cheap, dog-in-peril sort of way, but in the same way that Vittorio de Sica’s Umberto D. touched me: as a beautiful meditation on the human-canine bond, one that acknowledges the complexity and inequality of that relationship, as well its enduring power. One of 2011’s best new manga.

STARGAZING DOG • BY TAKASHI MURAKAMI • NBM/COMICSLIT • 128 pp. • NO RATING

Salvatore

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It doesn’t take a village to write a review, but darned if it isn’t more fun when you tackle a challenging book with a neighbor. That’s exactly what David Welsh and I did this month: we both read Nicolas de Crécy’s latest work, Salvatore, then spent a couple of weeks comparing notes on the book. The results are less a formal critique than an animated and open-ended conversation. We hope you’ll keep the discussion going with your own thoughts about this odd, fascinating story.

David: To start, I thought I’d describe my admittedly limited background with Nicolas de Crécy’s work. The first time I encountered him was in Fanfare/Ponent Mon’s anthology, Japan as Viewed by 17 Creators. He contributed a piece called “The New Gods” which is about commercial design and the prevalence of cartoon mascots in Japanese culture, and it’s a neat, uneasy little piece. The only other work of his that I’ve read is Glacial Period, created in conjunction with the Louvre to celebrate that great museum and published in English by NBM, also the publishers of Salvatore. Glacial Period is about a group of archeologists who use these hybrid dog-pigs to sniff out history. It’s whimsical and smart and a little on the creepy side. Salvatore has a number of narrative threads working through it, including a dog who’s an auto mechanic and is trying to reunite with his childhood love, a myopic sow who’s lost one of her enormous litter of piglets, and a goth cat who can’t seem to offend her liberal parents.

I think my strongest impression of Salvatore is that it makes me a little anxious, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Most of Joann Sfar’s work – Klezmer, The Rabbi’s Cat, Vampire Loves – and Taiyo Matsumoto’s comics – TekkonKinkreet and Gogo Monster – also have that effect. I suspect the anxiety partly comes from how visually dense de Crécy’s comics tend to be, sort of dragging your eye in a bunch of different directions at once, and how morally vague his characters and their situations are. What’s your initial, ink-blot response to Salvatore and to de Crécy in general?

Kate: I’m glad you used the word “anxious” to describe your reaction to de Crécy’s work, as I also find his stories unsettling. Some of it I attribute to his animal protagonists; they’re not the least bit disarming, but endowed with the kind of flaws, eccentricities, and inconsistencies that we associate with literary realism. Usually authors endow their animal characters with human traits in an effort to close the species gap, to suggest parallels between human and animal behavior, but in de Crécy’s work, the effect is very different: his animals seem less like walking metaphors and more like individuals. The animals’ physical appearance, too, is unsettling; no one will ever accuse de Crécy of pandering to the Daily Squee crowd. I found the sow in Salvatore, for example, a vaguely grotesque figure, with her squinty eyes and parasitic brood of piglets, while Salvatore himself looks more like a pig or a hamster than a dog.

I also find de Crécy’s artwork a little unsettling. Like you, David, I admire the clarity of his vision, and his incredible attention to detail, yet I find de Crécy’s linework pulses with a strange energy; it’s as if a nervous little dog were drawing the images. Almost every adjective I could come up with to describe the lines sounds very unflattering (e.g. “spidery,” “shaky”), but I actually find de Crécy’s work quite beautiful in its idiosyncracies.

David: His style is very organic in exactly the way you describe which, for me, is an unusual use of the word. In this case, it’s more that the illustrations have a slightly arhythmic, unsettling pulse, which means that things can feel both very stylized and very “real” at the same time. I’m thinking in particular of the sow, as you mentioned, with her unnerving squint and rolls of flesh. Another example might be the cow who crops up later in the narrative, who is both menacing and unpleasant in the ways an entirely human character might be but also in ways that are sort of bovine-specific. It’s a kind of anthropomorphism that’s both restrained in terms of the rules the artist sets for himself, but it’s also demonstrative of a very creepy, unhampered imagination.

de Crécy seems very, very aware of the imposition of bits of human culture that he’s superimposed on what might be called animal culture. A sow can take her car to get repaired, but a pig can still wind up in the butcher’s window, you know? Those contradictions don’t seem entirely offhanded to me, but I’m darned if I can pinpoint exactly what de Crécy’s formula is. That might be another source of anxiety for me as a reader.

Kate: That’s a good point: I’m not sure if de Crécy is aiming for magical realism or something else. There’s plenty of whimsy and imagination in Salvatore, but it’s tempered with a very frank sensibility. Tonally, it sits somewhere between the kind of fantasy where talking animals signify the supernatural and the kind of satire in which animals are used to make human behavior look absurd or cruel.

In light of our conversation, I’m wondering what you thought of Salvatore himself: could he have been a cat or a raccoon? Or is his dog-ness somehow fundamental to the story?

David: That’s a question that goes to one of the sources of interesting tension in the book for me. I have a dog, and I love dogs, and Salvatore doesn’t have many of the core qualities that I would ascribe to that species, which would be loyalty and a desire for companionship, a pack. But the animal characters generally don’t line up entirely with traditional perceptions of their species, except maybe for the cat, who’s kind of capricious and contrary. (At the same time, she’s also the animal character who looks most human to me, a girl in a cat suit rather than an animal that just behaves in human ways.)

On one hand, I think that Salvatore could have been any creature with the same essential nature — secretive, determined, somewhat amoral. But I do wonder if the creator wasn’t trying to create a tension between what we expect of dogs and the kind of character he wanted to write. Salvatore is a dog because he doesn’t act like one. If anything, his poor little human companion is more like a dog to me than Salvatore. It’s like the Grinch and Max switched bodies.

Kate: Exactly! I thought the scene in which Salvatore debated whether to leave his human companion behind was surprisingly effective, touching on all the emotions that dog owners experience when they’re worried about subjecting a pet to physical or emotional discomfort. In switching the dog-human roles, though, de Crécy lays bare the essence of that dog-human compact; there are no pleading eyes or whimpers to prompt us into feeling sorry for Salvatore’s pet, just Salvatore’s deep concern for his welfare.

What did you think of the supporting characters (e.g. the raging bull couple, the cat girl)? Did you find them as persuasive as Salvatore? And what about the numerous subplots introduced in the second half of the book: do they feel essential to moving the story along, or do they register more as tangents?

David: I found them persuasive as characters, but I felt that their animal identities were much less of a factor in their persuasiveness or their interest than they were with Salvatore. It seemed as though de de Crécy may have spent all of his energy creating that anti-dog dissonance and had that be the fulcrum of what we think of as animals acting against what we think of as their natures.

Basically, that leaves me to evaluate the rest of the characters just as characters, so my reactions are mixed. I liked the cows because they’re so awful and shallow. They were refreshing, because I didn’t really experience any ambivalence when reading about them. The cat was less successful, because she feels so cliché to me. Brief as those scenes were, they dragged for me.

On the whole, I appreciate the attempt to expand the narrative. It’s a tricky thing to attempt, creating these antic, concurrent threads that still all have a sadness to them, and trying to make them all hold together into a single, dark farce. I don’t know if the attempt is entirely successful yet. What did you think of those sequences?

Kate: For me, the most successful subplot involved the sow bonding with her piglets. She’s an awful mom at first: distracted, foolish, and disconnected from her babies. But then she begins to see her husband’s face in her litter, and the tenor of their relationship changes. She’s more affectionate and more solicitous of her piglets’ needs, even though she misses her partner and feels overwhelmed by the sheer size of her new family. I thought that was a lovely and subtle development in a storyline that initially repelled me.

As for the other subplots, I have to agree that the business with the cat-girl was the least dramatically persuasive, in large part because it seemed so random. But not in a “hey, life can be arbitrary” sort of way, but in a contrived, French arthouse movie sort of way; those scenes felt like something from an early draft of the Amelie screenplay. The cows were a more successful addition to the story; they were believably cosmopolitan and crass, the kind of folks you might find in sitting in a cafe in Paris or New York, conducting their personal business in public.

David: Yes, the pig’s story is definitely the most resonant of the subplots, to the point that I’d almost call it a co-plot. I like the way you describe her evolution, and it just about makes me change my mind on my earlier position regarding the amount of conceptualization the author did with various animal archetypes. She starts out very barnyard, very domesticated in assuming that her needs will be met without much thought or effort, but as her arc progresses, she becomes more conscious of survival. She’s not quite feral, but she’s certainly more active in achieving her desired ends.

In fact, I’d say it’s for her story as much as Salvatore’s that I’ll stick with this fascinating but slightly vexing series. What about you? In for the haul?

Kate: I’m on the fence about Salvatore, in part because I find it a little over-scripted; de Crécy has a very strong urge to narrate, even though he’s a terrific visual storyteller. The scene in which the sow catapults down the snowy mountain, lands on top of a plane, then sails back down to Earth is just the sort of wordless (or largely wordless) sequence that I wish de Crécy did more of; it’s a gorgeous bit of visual choreography that nicely underscores what a space cadet Amandine really is.

I also feel ambivalent about Salvatore’s predicament; it’s so ridiculously French that I hear accordions every time he looks sorrowfully at Julie’s picture. But the pig’s story has grown on me, and the cows amuse me, so I’ll give Salvatore one more volume before I throw in the towel.

David: So we both come down to a ruling of “ambivalent but still engaged.” Shall we resume this conversation when the second volume arrives to alternately charm, confound and distress us?

Kate: It’s a date!

SALVATORE, VOL. 1: TRANSPORTS OF LOVE • BY NICOLAS DE CRÉCY • NBM/COMICSLIT • 104 pp.

Salvatore

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It doesn’t take a village to write a review, but darned if it isn’t more fun when you tackle a challenging book with a neighbor. That’s exactly what David Welsh and I did this month: we both read Nicolas de Crécy’s latest work, Salvatore, then spent a couple of weeks comparing notes on the book. The results are less a formal critique than an animated and open-ended conversation. We hope you’ll keep the discussion going with your own thoughts about this odd, fascinating story.

David: To start, I thought I’d describe my admittedly limited background with Nicolas de Crécy’s work. The first time I encountered him was in Fanfare/Ponent Mon’s anthology, Japan as Viewed by 17 Creators. He contributed a piece called “The New Gods” which is about commercial design and the prevalence of cartoon mascots in Japanese culture, and it’s a neat, uneasy little piece. The only other work of his that I’ve read is Glacial Period, created in conjunction with the Louvre to celebrate that great museum and published in English by NBM, also the publishers of Salvatore. Glacial Period is about a group of archeologists who use these hybrid dog-pigs to sniff out history. It’s whimsical and smart and a little on the creepy side. Salvatore has a number of narrative threads working through it, including a dog who’s an auto mechanic and is trying to reunite with his childhood love, a myopic sow who’s lost one of her enormous litter of piglets, and a goth cat who can’t seem to offend her liberal parents.

I think my strongest impression of Salvatore is that it makes me a little anxious, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Most of Joann Sfar’s work – Klezmer, The Rabbi’s Cat, Vampire Loves – and Taiyo Matsumoto’s comics – TekkonKinkreet and Gogo Monster – also have that effect. I suspect the anxiety partly comes from how visually dense de Crécy’s comics tend to be, sort of dragging your eye in a bunch of different directions at once, and how morally vague his characters and their situations are. What’s your initial, ink-blot response to Salvatore and to de Crécy in general?

Kate: I’m glad you used the word “anxious” to describe your reaction to de Crécy’s work, as I also find his stories unsettling. Some of it I attribute to his animal protagonists; they’re not the least bit disarming, but endowed with the kind of flaws, eccentricities, and inconsistencies that we associate with literary realism. Usually authors endow their animal characters with human traits in an effort to close the species gap, to suggest parallels between human and animal behavior, but in de Crécy’s work, the effect is very different: his animals seem less like walking metaphors and more like individuals. The animals’ physical appearance, too, is unsettling; no one will ever accuse de Crécy of pandering to the Daily Squee crowd. I found the sow in Salvatore, for example, a vaguely grotesque figure, with her squinty eyes and parasitic brood of piglets, while Salvatore himself looks more like a pig or a hamster than a dog.

I also find de Crécy’s artwork a little unsettling. Like you, David, I admire the clarity of his vision, and his incredible attention to detail, yet I find de Crécy’s linework pulses with a strange energy; it’s as if a nervous little dog were drawing the images. Almost every adjective I could come up with to describe the lines sounds very unflattering (e.g. “spidery,” “shaky”), but I actually find de Crécy’s work quite beautiful in its idiosyncracies.

David: His style is very organic in exactly the way you describe which, for me, is an unusual use of the word. In this case, it’s more that the illustrations have a slightly arhythmic, unsettling pulse, which means that things can feel both very stylized and very “real” at the same time. I’m thinking in particular of the sow, as you mentioned, with her unnerving squint and rolls of flesh. Another example might be the cow who crops up later in the narrative, who is both menacing and unpleasant in the ways an entirely human character might be but also in ways that are sort of bovine-specific. It’s a kind of anthropomorphism that’s both restrained in terms of the rules the artist sets for himself, but it’s also demonstrative of a very creepy, unhampered imagination.

de Crécy seems very, very aware of the imposition of bits of human culture that he’s superimposed on what might be called animal culture. A sow can take her car to get repaired, but a pig can still wind up in the butcher’s window, you know? Those contradictions don’t seem entirely offhanded to me, but I’m darned if I can pinpoint exactly what de Crécy’s formula is. That might be another source of anxiety for me as a reader.

Kate: That’s a good point: I’m not sure if de Crécy is aiming for magical realism or something else. There’s plenty of whimsy and imagination in Salvatore, but it’s tempered with a very frank sensibility. Tonally, it sits somewhere between the kind of fantasy where talking animals signify the supernatural and the kind of satire in which animals are used to make human behavior look absurd or cruel.

In light of our conversation, I’m wondering what you thought of Salvatore himself: could he have been a cat or a raccoon? Or is his dog-ness somehow fundamental to the story?

David: That’s a question that goes to one of the sources of interesting tension in the book for me. I have a dog, and I love dogs, and Salvatore doesn’t have many of the core qualities that I would ascribe to that species, which would be loyalty and a desire for companionship, a pack. But the animal characters generally don’t line up entirely with traditional perceptions of their species, except maybe for the cat, who’s kind of capricious and contrary. (At the same time, she’s also the animal character who looks most human to me, a girl in a cat suit rather than an animal that just behaves in human ways.)

On one hand, I think that Salvatore could have been any creature with the same essential nature — secretive, determined, somewhat amoral. But I do wonder if the creator wasn’t trying to create a tension between what we expect of dogs and the kind of character he wanted to write. Salvatore is a dog because he doesn’t act like one. If anything, his poor little human companion is more like a dog to me than Salvatore. It’s like the Grinch and Max switched bodies.

Kate: Exactly! I thought the scene in which Salvatore debated whether to leave his human companion behind was surprisingly effective, touching on all the emotions that dog owners experience when they’re worried about subjecting a pet to physical or emotional discomfort. In switching the dog-human roles, though, de Crécy lays bare the essence of that dog-human compact; there are no pleading eyes or whimpers to prompt us into feeling sorry for Salvatore’s pet, just Salvatore’s deep concern for his welfare.

What did you think of the supporting characters (e.g. the raging bull couple, the cat girl)? Did you find them as persuasive as Salvatore? And what about the numerous subplots introduced in the second half of the book: do they feel essential to moving the story along, or do they register more as tangents?

David: I found them persuasive as characters, but I felt that their animal identities were much less of a factor in their persuasiveness or their interest than they were with Salvatore. It seemed as though de de Crécy may have spent all of his energy creating that anti-dog dissonance and had that be the fulcrum of what we think of as animals acting against what we think of as their natures.

Basically, that leaves me to evaluate the rest of the characters just as characters, so my reactions are mixed. I liked the cows because they’re so awful and shallow. They were refreshing, because I didn’t really experience any ambivalence when reading about them. The cat was less successful, because she feels so cliché to me. Brief as those scenes were, they dragged for me.

On the whole, I appreciate the attempt to expand the narrative. It’s a tricky thing to attempt, creating these antic, concurrent threads that still all have a sadness to them, and trying to make them all hold together into a single, dark farce. I don’t know if the attempt is entirely successful yet. What did you think of those sequences?

Kate: For me, the most successful subplot involved the sow bonding with her piglets. She’s an awful mom at first: distracted, foolish, and disconnected from her babies. But then she begins to see her husband’s face in her litter, and the tenor of their relationship changes. She’s more affectionate and more solicitous of her piglets’ needs, even though she misses her partner and feels overwhelmed by the sheer size of her new family. I thought that was a lovely and subtle development in a storyline that initially repelled me.

As for the other subplots, I have to agree that the business with the cat-girl was the least dramatically persuasive, in large part because it seemed so random. But not in a “hey, life can be arbitrary” sort of way, but in a contrived, French arthouse movie sort of way; those scenes felt like something from an early draft of the Amelie screenplay. The cows were a more successful addition to the story; they were believably cosmopolitan and crass, the kind of folks you might find in sitting in a cafe in Paris or New York, conducting their personal business in public.

David: Yes, the pig’s story is definitely the most resonant of the subplots, to the point that I’d almost call it a co-plot. I like the way you describe her evolution, and it just about makes me change my mind on my earlier position regarding the amount of conceptualization the author did with various animal archetypes. She starts out very barnyard, very domesticated in assuming that her needs will be met without much thought or effort, but as her arc progresses, she becomes more conscious of survival. She’s not quite feral, but she’s certainly more active in achieving her desired ends.

In fact, I’d say it’s for her story as much as Salvatore’s that I’ll stick with this fascinating but slightly vexing series. What about you? In for the haul?

Kate: I’m on the fence about Salvatore, in part because I find it a little over-scripted; de Crécy has a very strong urge to narrate, even though he’s a terrific visual storyteller. The scene in which the sow catapults down the snowy mountain, lands on top of a plane, then sails back down to Earth is just the sort of wordless (or largely wordless) sequence that I wish de Crécy did more of; it’s a gorgeous bit of visual choreography that nicely underscores what a space cadet Amandine really is.

I also feel ambivalent about Salvatore’s predicament; it’s so ridiculously French that I hear accordions every time he looks sorrowfully at Julie’s picture. But the pig’s story has grown on me, and the cows amuse me, so I’ll give Salvatore one more volume before I throw in the towel.

David: So we both come down to a ruling of “ambivalent but still engaged.” Shall we resume this conversation when the second volume arrives to alternately charm, confound and distress us?

Kate: It’s a date!

SALVATORE, VOL. 1: TRANSPORTS OF LOVE • BY NICOLAS DE CRÉCY • NBM/COMICSLIT • 104 pp.

Run, Bong-Gu, Run!, Dokebi Bride, Time and Again

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At Manga Bookshelf’s Off the Shelf, Michelle Smith and I discuss three manhwa series, Byun Byung-Jun’s Run, Bong-Gu, Run! from NBM/Comics Lit, Marley’s Dokebi Bride from NETCOMICS, and JiUn Yun’s Time and Again from Yen Press.

Here’s an excerpt from our discussion:

MICHELLE: How about with Run, Bong-Gu, Run! by Byun Byung-Jun? I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this one since I finished it. For those who aren’t familiar with it, this is a simple story of a boy and his mother who travel from a seaside town to Seoul in search of the father/husband who went to the city in search of work and who hasn’t been heard from in some time. While there, they meet a kindly old man and his granddaughter, rescue a bird from a building, and bemoan the difficulties of life in the city.

While low on plot, Run, Bong-Gu, Run is high on atmosphere, with a dreamy yet deliberate way of portraying the actions of our protagonists as opposed to the near faceless mob of Seoul-ites who go whizzing past them. Our smalltown heroes have not lost the ability to see others in pain, be they homeless humans or endangered pigeons. They manage to do a fair amount of good on their visit simply by noticing those around them and providing what help they can offer.

MJ: It’s true there isn’t much to the plot of this little manhwa, and for me that’s definitely part of its charm. I love the simplicity of the story and its characters, and Byun’s manner of presenting them. I like, too, that it’s not just the smalltown visitors doing good, either.

The old man they meet there is as kind and helpful as they are, and obviously has been helping out the woman’s husband while he’s been in the city. There’s this big, faceless city, but once you get down to the individuals, they are just people like anyone else, and I love that about this story. I think it’s significant that the old man is first seen in the story panhandling on the subway. That person–a begger on the subway–is the easiest for most of us to brush off in our lives as someone on the outskirts of our own experience. Yet he turns up later as a fully-realized character.

In a way, Byun portrays Seoul exactly as I think of big cities in general. They can seem intimidating–as though they might swallow your individuality whole–but when you really spend time in one, maybe even live in it, you realize that a neighborhood is a neighborhood, no matter where you live in the world. A city is just a dense collection of small towns with no official dividers between them.

I like your description of the atmosphere as “dreamy yet deliberate.” That’s the perfect way to describe Byun’s artwork and writing style. And it’s nice to see it used for a warm, simple story like this one. Run, Bong-Gu, Run! lacks the sheer bleakness of Byun’s melancholy anthology, Mijeong, and though some of those stories perhaps have more to them, this one is much more soothing for the soul.

Read more here!

Mijeong

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Mijeong | By Byun Byung-Jun | Published by NBM Publishing – An angel finds his way to earth, drawn to a world that seems to embody the eternal sadness he carries with him, and longing for someone who might understand his pain. He finds this in a young woman he spots along the street, and in a moment of impulsive rebellion takes it upon himself to save her from being struck by an oncoming car. It is a moment of sharp ecstasy for the angel, who is able to feel both the woman’s deep despair and her great capacity to love as he embraces her. By doing this, however, he has doomed them both to a life of suffering, “a rending love for which I can do nothing.” “Her name is Mijeong,” he says, “and I have no name yet, here.” It is here that the tale ends–the title story in Byun Byung-Jun’s second anthology of short manhwa, Mijeong–a beautiful introduction to this melancholic collection.

Though the quality of its individual tales is somewhat uneven, Mijeong as a whole promises a great future for the artist, whose insight into his deeply lost and broken characters is nearly as stunning as his often impressionistic art style. The collection wanders in and out between true melancholy and dark humor, sometimes with more success than others. The volume’s second story, “Yeon-du, Seventeen Years Old,” the intersecting tales of an emotionally damaged young woman seeking revenge for the death of a childhood love and a desperately lonely older man, is one of its strongest and most thoughtful. Just as effective is the darkly humorous story, “Courage, Grandfather!” in which a girl expresses her gratitude to a boy who rescued her from a brutal attack, viewed entirely through the filter of a cat’s unrequited love. Another of the volume’s best shorts, “Utility,” (story by Yun In-wan) about a group of students dispassionately pondering the most effective way to dispose of a dead sibling’s body, is starkly brilliant yet quite difficult to read, thanks to its subject matter. On the flip side, “202 Villa Siril,” a dark comedy about a manhwa artist with a disturbing power, feels predictable and flat.

A recurring theme throughout the anthology is its characters’ enslavement to their pasts. “For me, only my past has any meaning,” says young Yeon-du in the story named for her. What keeps this book from slipping into irreparable despair, however, is that this isn’t only a bad thing. Byun Byung-Jun’s characters are both burdened and enriched by their histories, an insight that rings inescapably true. Even when longing for the past leaves characters bleeding to death in the grass (as in the grimly abrupt “Song for You”) there is an unmistakable sense of hope lingering around the edges of most of these stories—a haunting paradox that helps maintain the volume’s momentum.

Though the stories’ characters are almost uniformly touching, what is notable above all is the persistent sense of place. The volume’s first story sets the tone clearly with the cold, unfeeling city, filthy with despair, indifferent to its people’s gaping, open wounds. Whether it is the people who have created their environment or the other way around is a question in the background of each story—one that is destined to remain unanswered.

Byun Byung-Jun’s art varies throughout the collection, from the moody watercolor of “Song for You” to the sketchy photorealism of “Yeon-du, Seventeen Years Old,” though in all cases the art feels unsettled and immature. This is not so much a criticism as an observation, as there is a pervading sense that one is previewing the work of an artist who will inevitably achieve importance in the medium. In a note at the end of the book, the artist confesses that the work reflects his own state of mind. “Eternally hesitant, I feel like I’m stuck at an impasse.” What the work truly reveals, however, both in its storytelling and style, is a restless mind on the brink of true brilliance—something for all of us to look forward to.

Simultaneously dark and hopeful, Mijeong‘s inconsistency and fretful tone may betray the early weaknesses of its creator, but its insight and uncommon beauty promise much greater things to come.

Review copy provided by the publisher. Review originally published at PopCultureShock.

10 Must-Read Manhwa

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After visiting “Korean Comics: A Society Through Small Frames” last weekend, I was struck by the homogeneity of titles on the exhibit’s suggested reading list. The list isn’t bad by any means, but it places heavy emphasis on recent, teen-oriented titles such as The Antique Gift Shop, Chocolat, Click, Moon Boy, and Snow Drop while overlooking some less popular choices such as Buja’s Diary. As a supplement to my write-up of the “Korean Comics” show, therefore, I’ve compiled my own list of must-read manhwa. Though my goal is to direct readers to works in a variety of styles and genres, I freely admit that this list reflects my own tastes and biases. I’d love to hear from you about what you think belongs on a must-read manhwa list and why. And if you’d like a copy of the SFPL’s Korean Comics bibliography, let me know — I’d be happy to mail one to you.

dejavu10. DEJA-VU: SPRING, SUMMER, FALL, WINTER

YOUN IN-WAN • TOKYOPOP • 1 VOLUME

Déjà vu is a manhwa smorgasbord, pairing writer Youn In-Wan with six artists with distinctly different styles. The first four stories follow the same basic template: two lovers find themselves drawn together by mysterious forces, only to be separated by a moment of terrible violence. The settings and circumstances range from the vaguely folkloric — a warrior and a fox demon fall in love after he frees her from a hunter’s snare — to the contemporary — a blind Korean-American girl and an up-and-coming pop singer meet cute on the streets of San Francisco. The best stories, “Spring” and “Winter,” deftly interlace the fates of the warrior and the fox with the survivors of a twenty-third century apocalypse, bringing to mind Sun, the final installment of Osamu Tezuka’s Phoenix. Though the stories aren’t uniformly excellent, Deja-vu still makes a fine introduction to the contemporary Korean comics scene in general and the writing of Youn In-Wan in particular; look for his series March Story in October 2010. (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 1/30/08.)

narration9. NARRATION OF LOVE AT 17

KYONGOK KANG • NETCOMICS • 4 VOLUMES

Seyoung, the heroine of Narration of Love at 17, is bright, but not exceptional; pretty, but not a head-turner; and talented, but not outstanding. For several years, Seyoung has been a member of the drama club, relegated to backstage roles while the beautiful Hyemi lands the plum parts. When Hyemi becomes involved with Hyunwoo, Seyoung’s friend and first crush, Seyoung faces a tough choice: will she wait for Hyunwoo to reciprocate her feelings, or will she move on? Backstage rivalries and first loves are standard manhwa fare, but Narration of Love at 17 proves deeper and more heartfelt than most coming-of-age stories in this vein, thanks to Kyongok Kang’s believable, appealing characters; their quicksilver moods, intense passions, deep insecurities, and ever-changing social allegiances make them seem like real teenagers and not an adult’s idea of what teenagers are like. Though the art is, at times, a little clumsy, Kang’s fondness for 1970s shojo is evident in her linework and character designs, and in her emotionally resilient protagonist. (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 9/12/07. Click here to read a preview chapter at NETCOMICS.)

priest18. PRIEST

MIN-WOO HYUNG • TOKYOPOP • 16 VOLUMES

This sprawling, religio-horror epic comes saddled with enough convoluted backstory for a J.R.R. Tolkein trilogy or a George Lucas franchise, yet proves surprisingly fast-paced and fun. Skipping between the present, the Crusades, and the American West — or, more accurately, a manhwa artist’s cinematically influenced notion of the West — Priest tells the story of Ivan Isaacs, a man of the cloth who renounces his faith after evil researchers use his sister as a human sacrifice. Over the span of sixteen volumes, Ivan battles fallen angels and zombies in an effort to avenge Gena’s death, restore order, and redeem his sinner’s soul. The artwork is bold and stark, with spiky lines and attitude to spare; if you adored the over-the-top action sequences and pistol-packing clergymen of Hellsing, Min-woo Hyung’s elaborate shoot-em-up will be your cup of tea. (Click here to read the first volume at Tokyopop.)

bongsmallcov7. RUN, BONG-GU, RUN!

BYUN BYUNG-JUN • NBM/COMICS LIT • 1 VOLUME

Run, Bong-Gu, Run! tells a simple story: Bong-Gu and his mother leave their rural village to find Bong-Gu’s father, who has gone to Seoul in search of work. As they retrace his steps through the capital, a chance encounter with a beggar yields an important clue to the father’s whereabouts, offering hope that the family will be reunited. The author never explicitly states what prompted the father to leave, how long he’s been away, or why Bong-Gu’s mother waited so long to track him down. In leaving these characters’ personal histories mysterious, Byun Byung-Jun comes dangerously close to romanticizing them: Bongu-Gu’s parents and the old beggar often register as poor but dignified archetypes rather than flesh-and-blood people. But Byun’s spare, restrained artwork mitigates against the story’s sentimentality, offering readers a haunting cityscape that’s as much a character as Bong-Gu or his mother. Rendered in rough, energetic brushstrokes and muted watercolors, Byun’s street scenes are among the most beautiful images I’ve seen in any manhwa translated for English-speaking audiences. (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 7/11/07. Click here to read a preview at NBM/Comics Lit.)

1020306. 10, 20, AND 30

MORIM KANG • NETCOMICS • 7 VOLUMES

The ten, twenty, and thirty of the title refer to Rok, a sixteen-year-old girl; Belle, her twenty-six-year old cousin; and Krumb, Rok’s mother, who at age thirty-two finds herself a widow. Through a series of interlocking vignettes, 10, 20, and 30 documents the trio’s fumbling efforts to find themselves — and Mr. Right. If the naive, cartoonish art is a take-it-or-leave-it affair, Kang’s heroines are winning, at once complex and sympathetic. They make mistakes; they overreact; they misjudge the men in their lives; they sometimes hurt loved ones with selfish behavior. To be sure, similar characters abound in Bridget Jones’ Diary and Sex and the City, but there’s a qualitative difference between Bridget and the ladies of 10, 20, and 30: Rok, Belle, and Krumb aren’t neurotic. Beneath their quirks and anxieties, all three women display genuine strength and self-determination, even if they don’t always make smart choices about the men in their lives.  (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 5/10/07. Click here to read a preview chapter at NETCOMICS.)

goong75. GOONG: THE ROYAL PALACE

PARK SOO-HEE • ICE KUNION • 10+ VOLUMES (ongoing)

Goong: The Royal Palace focuses on commoner Chae-Kyung, a high school student who marries the next in line to the (fictional) Korean throne. Just as Diana Spence did in real life, Chae-Kyung discovers that being a princess isn’t glamorous, as her day-to-day life is filled with palace intrigue, onerous civic responsibilities, jealous classmates, and an indifferent husband who’s in love with someone else. Though the plot is an amalgam of familiar soap-opera conventions — romantic triangles! hot younger siblings! disapproving mother-in-laws! — the story has surprising depth, showing us the emotional toll that public life exacts on the young couple. Another plus is the artwork: it’s flat-out gorgeous, with considerable attention devoted to ancient ceremonial costumes and au-courant fashions. Pair those beautiful images with a compelling plot and boatloads of romantic tension, and you have a recipe for manhwa crack. (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 8/29/08.)

forestgray24. FOREST OF GRAY CITY

JUNG-HYUN UHM • ICE KUNION/YEN PRESS • 2 VOLUMES

Struggling artist Yun-Ook and bartender Bum-Moo decide to room together after a series of drunken misunderstandings that wouldn’t be out of place in a Meg Ryan movie. Though Yun-Ook is horrified to discover their age difference — she’s in her twenties, he’s seventeen — Bum-Moo begins courting her in a confused, low-key fashion. The story would be pure Harlequin fodder if Jung-Hyun Uhm’s heroine wasn’t such a strong, appealing character. Yun-Ook is impetuous, insecure, and quick to take offense, but she’s also focused on her career, protective of Bum-Moo, and determined not to sacrifice her sense of self just to land a husband. There’s a level of emotional authenticity about her character that will resonate with female readers in their twenties and thirties, even if her story seems more firmly rooted in romance novel convention than reality. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 4/27/09.)

shaman33. SHAMAN WARRIOR

PARK JOONG-KI • DARK HORSE • 9 VOLUMES

Shaman Warrior serves up generous portions of pow! splat! thmp! and gyaaaa! with heaping sides of political intrigue and supernatural hoo-ha. The story is, at heart, an inter-generational revenge fantasy about a young woman who spends her childhood preparing to confront her father’s assassin and lay bare the double-crosses and unsavory alliances that led to his demise — in short, it’s a grrrl power theme-and-variation on the Epigoni. What it lacks in complexity Shaman Warrior makes up in beauty and bravado: Park Joong-Ki is a superb draftsman, populating his story with an astonishing variety of faces and body-types. His fight scenes are artfully choreographed, if a little heavy on the speedlines, immersing readers in the action in the manner of a contemporary wuxia film. (Reviewed at PopCultureShock on 1/24/07. Click here to read a preview at Dark Horse.)

dokebi22. DOKEBI BRIDE

MARLEY • NETCOMICS • 6 VOLUMES (on hiatus in Korea)

After losing her mother to mental illness and her grandmother to old age, Sunbi’s long-absent father returns to claim her. Their reunion proves an awkward and unhappy one, however: his new wife and daughter resent Sunbi’s presence, while Sunbi’s classmates shun her for her “freakish” behavior, none of them realizing that her aloof, abrasive demeanor helps protect her from demons and spirits. Familiar as Dokebi Bride‘s “I see demons!” premise may be, Marley uses Sunbi’s affliction as a jumping-off point for exploring issues such as fitting in, blending families, and answering that most basic of questions, who am I? Sunbi is an all-too-rare character in comics, a smart, resourceful girl who’s palpably — and justifiably, I might add — angry. Long after you’ve forgotten the basic storyline, the memory of Marley’s fierce, real heroine will stay with you. N.B. Dokebi Bride has been on hiatus for over a year; NETCOMICS has released the six volumes that were published in Korea. No word on when — or if — Dokebi Bride will resume. (Click here to read a preview chapter at NETCOMICS.)

bujacovsmall1. BUJA’S DIARY

SEYOUNG O • NBM/COMICS LIT • 1 VOLUME

Among the manhwa featured in “Korean Comics: A Society Through Small Frames” was “The Picture Diary of Puja,” a short, poignant story about a rural family’s efforts to make a home in Seoul. “Puja’s Diary” (translated by NBM as “Buja’s Diary”) juxtaposes wordless scenes, illustrated in a naturalistic style, with a young girl’s description of the same events: a robbery, a shakedown, a child being injured at a construction site. The effect is simple yet devastating, a Dickensian critique of industrialization and poverty in modern-day Korea. As the other stories in Buja’s Diary attest, displacement, change, and encroaching urbanization are important themes in Seyoung O’s work, though he proves equally adept at humor (“Observe,” which tracks a vain gum-chewer through the streets of Seoul) and surrealism (“Escape,” which depicts one bored man’s nightmarish daydream about his office mates). The artwork varies according to the tone of the story; some of the more somber tales are rendered in charcoal wash and ink, while others employ more exaggerated linework reminiscent of Daumier. One of the most thought-provoking and beautiful manhwa available in English. (Click here to read a preview at NBM/Comics Lit.)