Manga Bookshelf

Discussion, Resources, Roundtables, & Reviews

Katherine Dacey

Off the Shelf: Anniversary Edition

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MICHELLE: Gee, they told me that we’d be holding Off the Shelf here this week, but it’s dark and doesn’t look like anyone’s here yet…

MJ: Surprise!!

Er. Sort of?

MICHELLE: OMG, no way! You guys~!

KATE: It’s OK, Michelle–we figured you might be on to us. But you do an excellent job of feigning surprise, if that’s any consolation.

DAVID: I made punch! It’s vivid pink and thick with booze!

MJ: I’ll take a glass of that punch!

MICHELLE: Well, I did kind of invite all of you here to celebrate not only my official induction into the Manga Bookshelf family, but also the one-year anniversary of Off the Shelf!

DAVID: And we’re thrilled to be here!

MJ: That’s right, we’ve actually been doing this column for a full year as of today. How wonderful that this coincides with Michelle’s official entry into our ranks!

KATE: Call me a skeptic, but that seems planned!

MICHELLE: I can vouch for it being a happy accident! Once we realized the coincidence, we knew we had to have a partay!

MJ: So, we’ve never tried to do this with more than two people before. I guess I should ask someone… So, David, read any good books this week?

DAVID: Ah! I have the perfect tonic for skepticism! And it comes in an omnibus-sized dose!

MICHELLE: Lay it on us!

DAVID: Indeed I did! When not hiking the canyons of southern Utah or trying to figure out how the lights worked in a Las Vegas hotel, I was paying a visit to CLAMP Land.

Now, based on what I’ve read of their work, I’m not a huge CLAMP fan. I think they can be pretty self-indulgent, and coherent narrative is not their highest priority. So I was totally delighted to see how focused Cardcaptor Sakura is. I read Book 1 of Dark Horse’s re-release while I was on vacation, and it was a complete treat. (I also suspect I was the only 40-something gay man in Utah who happened to be reading Book 1 of Cardcaptor Sakura at that point in time, which was gravy in a strange way that I can’t fully explain.)

Everyone probably already knows this, but it’s in the magical girl genre. Our heroine, Sakura, finds a dusty old book that used to contain the powerful Clow Cards, which grant the user various abilities. The guardian of the book, an adorable little whatsit called Kero, informs Sakura that she has magical abilities and can collect the missing cards, thus preventing unspecified disaster. It’s your basic gather-stuff-and-get-stronger structure, but it isn’t bogged down in the details of that ongoing quest. The CLAMP quartet doesn’t neglect Sakura’s card-capturing adventures, but they aren’t encyclopedically obsessed, either.

Their primary interest seems to be to give you reasons to like Sakura and her friends and family, and they knock that out of the park. Sakura is spunky and funny. She knows she’s a novice at the whole magic thing, but she’s not insecure about it. She has good instincts and trusts them, and she has reliable helpers. There’s the previously mentioned Kero, and there’s her rich classmate Tomoyo who, in addition to being unfailingly supportive, provides fabulous costumes for Sakura and chronicles her adventures on video. She’s like Edna Mode with a camcorder.

I like Sakura’s brother, Toya, and his twin impulses to tease and protect Sakura seem entirely credible. I like Sakura’s rival in card collection, Syaoran, mostly for the fact that Sakura seems generally unfazed by his criticisms and finds him a useful indicator that she’s on the right track. And while I don’t have much of an opinion on Yukito, Toya’s best friend, I find the fact that Sakura and Syaoran both have huge crushes on him to be totally adorable and ceaselessly amusing. In fact, the undercurrents of homo-romanticism (I can’t really call it homo-eroticism) in the book give it such an interesting flavor, because they’re such non-issues. They’re just believable side notes that make things livelier.

I’ve already used the word “adorable” twice in this review, and you should gird yourself for me using it again, because this book is adorable in all of the best ways a thing can be adorable. The character designs? Adorable. The jokes and romance? Adorable. The sparkly, easy-to-read art? Adorable. It’s cheerful, heartwarming stuff that still manages to be thoughtful and exciting, and I can’t wait to read more of it, because, beyond being very endearing magical-girl manga, it seems like it might be heading interesting, even daring places. I’m not ready to excuse CLAMP School Detectives or the song lyrics and angel drag in Clover or anything that drastic, but this definitely gives CLAMP one for the win column.

MJ: David, the way you describe this, I feel like I need to rush out and buy the Dark Horse editions RIGHT NOW.

DAVID: You totally do. It is the best kind of cute manga. Of course, you’re the real CLAMP devotee of the group, Kate. What did you pull off the shelf?

KATE: Not CLAMP, I’m afraid! I think I’m beginning to outgrow them, honestly; when I want melodramatic, inter-dimensional craziness, I’m more inclined to reach for Keiko Takemiya or Saki Hiwatari these days. I still plan to buy Magic Knight Rayearth, X/1999, and Gate 7 as they’re released, but I don’t feel that same sense of giddy anticipation about a new CLAMP title that I might have back in the day. (Mind you, by “back in the day,” I mean, “about four years ago, when David interviewed me about my CLAMP habit.”)

No, I just finished the fourth volume of Neko Ramen. As the title suggests, Neko Ramen features a cat who likes noodles — or, to be more precise, a cat who runs a small ramen joint. The joke, of course, is that he’s a cat; the restaurant’s bathroom is a back-room letterbox, the dishes frequently come with cat-hair garnishes, and the food is all but inedible from a human perspective.

What makes Neko Ramen such an unexpected joy is that Kenji Sonishi goes a step further with the jokes; yes, there are scratching post gags in later volumes, but most of the series’ humor is rooted in Taisho’s crazy business schemes. Taisho is always cooking up new strategies for improving business, strategies that, on their face, make good sense: discount cards, buyer reward programs, giveaways. In practice, however, Taisho has a knack for undermining himself, developing ill-advised dishes — boomeramen, anyone? — and promotions that repel more diners than they attract.

At the beginning of volume four, for example, Taisho decides to “go green” and substitute hand-made clay bowls for plastic ones. The problem? His paw prints and fur are embedded in the new serving dishes. (“I feel kind of dirty eating this,” a customer mutters as Taisho serves him his meal.) An attempt to make 3-D noodles similarly goes awry: though the dish looks cool when viewed through 3-D glasses, Taisho used real paint to color the noodles red and blue, making them unsafe to eat.

The series’ best running joke is that Taisho hasn’t grasped his true market value. Taisho has figured out that animals are a potential draw for customers, however, and is endlessly experimenting with mascots and costumes. In volume one, for example, he himself dons a crab suit, while in volume four, he hires someone to greet customers dressed as a polar bear. (In a weird touch, the guy in the suit is actually an anteater.) The irony is that Taisho resists any attempt to make himself the star attraction; he vehemently refuses to act cute and cat-like for one of his animal-loving customers, viewing it as an affront to his dignity.

Better still, Neko Ramen reads like a good newspaper strip. The jokes and stories are self-contained, so readers can jump into Neko Ramen without knowing anything about the characters. But if you do choose to spend time with Taisho and his friends, you’ll find the humor has more layers than meet the eye.

MJ: Kate, I haven’t read any of this series, but you’re making it sound cuter to me than it has in the past.

KATE: I think Neko Ramen succeeds precisely because it isn’t cute. There’s a gleeful, absurd quality to many of Neko Ramen’s jokes. I mean — boomeramen, the dish that comes back to you? That’s both groan-worthy and totally inspired.

DAVID: It sounds great, but I’m confused. I thought all four-panel manga had to feature four to six high-school girls of different but complementary temperaments.

KATE: Me, too–that’s why I’m not usually a 4-koma kinda girl. Neko Ramen is the anti-Sunshine Sketch.

MICHELLE: I think I need another hit of punch after being reminded of Sunshine Sketch.

MJ: Pass some of that punch over here.

MICHELLE: Here you go. I also brought you one of those swirly bits of ham with a toothpick. So, what’d you read this week, MJ?

MJ: This week, I finally caught up with volume seven of Kou Yaginuma’s charming series, Twin Spica. This is a double-sized volume with a lot going on, especially for this type of manga, which I tend to think of as sort of sweetly lazy in terms of pace. It’s a warm, gentle manga, with just enough darkness to make it incredibly compelling, and this volume is a perfect example of that. We find out more about Marika’s unusual origins in this volume, and we get a bit more backstory for Asumi’s father, too.

Something I’ve really enjoyed about this series in its most recent volumes is the hint of teen romance, I think particularly because it is presented much more subtly than what I’m accustomed to in school-based romances, most of which are shoujo. This actually reminds me more of the YA novels I loved most as a teen and pre-teen, which were character-driven, certainly, and always contained some small nugget of romance, but were much less romance-focused than most of the shoujo I (gleefully) read. Yeah, Anne Shirley was *totally* going to get together with Gilbert Blythe someday, but most of the story was about Anne herself, only leaning heavily to romance in later installments of the series.

Despite its seinen roots, Twin Spica, to me, feels like one of these stories. It’s like Lucy Maud Montgomery, Maud Hart Lovelace, and Margaret Sutton all wrapped up together… IN SPACE. Okay, not really in space, but you get my point. It’s got all the best qualities of my favorite old YA novels, along with all the best qualities of my favorite younger-aimed sci-fi novels, with a small helping of whimsy on the side. Mr. Lion is a particular favorite of mine, and I think even Anne would have had difficulty dreaming him up.

I also really love that fact that though all the boys in this story seem vaguely (or not so vaguely) fascinated with Asumi, it’s because she’s genuinely awesome. Their interest in her is not remotely inexplicable. Also, all three of the series’ main female characters are really fantastic and richly written. Late in this volume, when the three of them are teamed up for a seemingly impossible mission, one of the boys observes that their team “has the toughest members.” And it’s wonderfully, actually true.

I know we’ve all praised this series in our blogs at least once, so none of this is news. But I continue to be bowled over by the loveliness of this series.

DAVID: Twin Spica is one of those series that just get better as you consume more of it. Not unlike this punch.

MICHELLE: I don’t know how I ended up so far behind on Twin Spica, but the Anne Shirley comparison makes me regret this terribly. It’s nice to think this series may be as meaningful to some tween girl as Anne of Green Gables was to me.

MJ: You know, I think it could have been that for me, easily. I dreamed so often of flying into space in those days. This really would have been a meaningful series for me. It’s a meaningful series to me now.

So what about you, Michelle? What do you have to share on this super-celebratory occasion?

MICHELLE: I have lately been loving the heck out of SangEun Lee’s manhwa series, 13th Boy, and its seventh volume (due later this month from Yen Press) is no exception.

One of the most endearing quirks about 13th Boy has always been Beatrice, the talking cactus who serves as confidante and advisor to Hee-So Eun, the series’ slightly spazzy protagonist. Beatrice watched over his master as she attempted to land the guy of her dreams, Won-Jun Kang, and now that she’s finally succeeded, he’s feeling lonely and jealous. More to the point, he has realized that he has feelings for her.

It’s these feelings that allow Beatrice to change into his human form (usually only possible on a full moon) and stay that way, but unfortunately, all this does is result in inconvenience for Hee-So. She has to hide him from her family, so they spend several days of her precious summer vacation hiding away in her room, eating noodles on a hot plate. She makes excuses to her friends, and bails on a couple of dates with Won-Jun. Poor Beatrice has gotten what he wished for, but he just feels like a burden, and eventually decides to relieve Hee-So of his presence.

Hee-So, in turn, realizes that the one who was truly dependent was her, and immediately launches out into the rain to search for Beatrice with little regard for her personal safety. One of the best things about this series is the dialogue that you’d never find anywhere else. Like this line, for example:

Once I find you, I’ll punch you in the face first, and then I’ll—I’ll get you some chicken.

Of course, there’s a little bit of romantic strife thrown in for good measure, as Hee-So is jealous of Won-Jun’s relationship with his friend Sae-Bom and Won-Jun is jealous of Hee-So’s interactions with magically inclined hottie, Whie-Young, but for the most part, this volume’s about a girl and her cactus.

MJ: You know I love this series, and I have to admit I totally ‘ship Hee-So with the cactus.

MICHELLE: I don’t think I actually ship Hee-So with anyone in particular, because each contender has his own unique baggage. I do love that she loves Beatrice so much that when he’s in peril or in pain, it drives any thought of dreamy romance right out of her head. And there’s a great panel, too, when she returns to her bedroom after having been unable to find him and realizes that, for the first time in eight years, she is all alone there.

KATE: We may be the only three women in North America who are eagerly anticipating volume 8! I smell a roundtable discussion here…

MJ: Yes, yes, we must convince them all! If a roundtable is what it takes, I’m up for it.

DAVID: Now I have to track down early volumes. If it makes the three of you this giddy, I feel positively foolish for waiting this long.

MJ: I think any series in which a talking cactus is a viable romantic option is a winner no matter how you look at it.

MICHELLE: Forsooth.

DAVID: And on that note, I’m letting the punch run its course. Welcome to the battle robot, Michelle, and thanks for the invitation to this week’s Off the Shelf!

KATE: Thanks for having us — y’all know how to host a great party!

MICHELLE: Thanks for coming! Can I be the green lion?

MJ: Today, Michelle, you can be anything you want. :)

And that’s a wrap!

The Best Manga You’re Not Reading: Rica ‘tte Kanji!?

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The most basic yuri plotline — what publisher Erica Friedman calls “Story A” — traces its roots back to the pioneering Class S fiction of Nobuko Yoshiya (1896-1973). In works such as Hana monogatari (1916-24) and Yaneura no nishojo (1919), schoolgirls developed intense, often romantic, feelings for other schoolgirls. Given the period in which Yoshiya wrote, it’s not surprising that her characters’ relationships were never consummated; the girls might exchange passionate letters or meaningful glances, but marriage, graduation, or death prevented them from being together as a couple. Fifty years later, when manga artists such as Ryoko Yamagishi and Riyoko Ikeda began writing girls’ love stories, they, too, favored tragic endings; Yamagishi’s Shiroi Heya no Futari (1971), for example, culminates in a melodramatic death (suicide by ex-boyfriend, to be exact), as do Ikeda’s Oniisama e… (1975) and Claudine…! (1978).

Small wonder, then, that manga-ka Rica Takashima saw a vacuum that needed filling. “There were very few manga with lesbian stories,” Takashima explains in the afterword to Rica ‘tte Kanji!? “Only depressing, sad stories about ‘forbidden love’ and with a break-up in the end. For example, ‘If I were a man, I could marry you.’ That kind of thing, but I wanted to read a HAPPY story.”

And “happy” is the perfect adjective to describe Rica ‘tte Kanji!? Rica, the heroine, is a cheerful optimist who moves to Tokyo to attend junior college (she plans to major in early childhood development) and explore the Nichome district, home to the city’s gay community. At the beginning of the series, Rica is nervous about visiting Nichome for the first time, worrying about what to wear and how to handle pick-up lines:

Rica’s fears are quickly allayed when she’s introduced to Miho, a sardonic art student a few years Rica’s senior. The two meet cute on Rica’s first trip to Nichome’s Lily Bar, where Rica confesses that she’s never met “an actual lesbian.” “I grew up out in the country,” she explains to Miho. “It’s the same for everyone in the beginning,” Miho assures her, prompting Rica to declare Miho her first gay friend. Though Miho falls for Rica right away, Rica’s lack of experience and general ditziness makes her oblivious to Miho’s advances. Their relationship has another hurdle to clear as well: Rica is just as nervous about the idea of having sex as she was about making a good impression at the Lily Bar, and keeps Miho at arm’s length — figuratively and literally — as she tries to decide what she’s comfortable doing.

What Takashima does better than most is to find the comedy in these situations, not by creating artificial misunderstandings between the characters, or manufacturing romantic rivals, but by making us privy to Rica and Miho’s thoughts. The two women’s internal monologues are funny, peppered with cute and weird observations, but they’re also very truthful; who among us hasn’t worried about putting the moves on a friend or being naked with a new partner?

Though Takashima’s script is charming, what really makes Rica ‘tte Kanji!? work is the art. That may seem like a funny thing to say about a story in which the characters are little more than well-dressed stick figures with cute, round faces, but Takashima’s illustrations have a warm, handmade quality. Better still, the artwork never panders to male yuri fans; by rendering the characters as cute, paper-doll figures, Takashima directs the eye away from Rica and Miho’s bodies towards their faces, compelling the reader to see the women as two people fumbling through a relationship, not fantasy objects.

And speaking of fantasy, a few reviewers have pointed out the absence of real conflict in Rica ‘tte Kanji!?. Though Miho and Rica’s relationship hits a few minor snags, their romance takes place in a bubble untouched by homophobia or workaday concerns. It’s a fair criticism, I suppose, but one that misses the point; Rica ‘tte Kanji!? is a cheeky, cheerful rebuke to the Tragic Gay Story, substituting a happily-ever-after ending for death and separation.

Impatient readers can find copies of Rica ‘tte Kanji on Amazon for about $24.00. If you’re willing to wait a few months, however, ALC Publishing will be releasing a new omnibus edition that will include the original Rica ‘tte Kanji stories, as well as material written for ALC’s Yuri Monogatari anthologies.

RICA ‘TTE KANJI!? • BY RICA TAKASHIMA • ALC PUBLISHING • 96 pp.

The Best Manga You’re Not Reading: Rica ‘tte Kanji!?

by

The most basic yuri plotline — what publisher Erica Friedman calls “Story A” — traces its roots back to the pioneering Class S fiction of Nobuko Yoshiya (1896-1973). In works such as Hana monogatari (1916-24) and Yaneura no nishojo (1919), schoolgirls developed intense, often romantic, feelings for other schoolgirls. Given the period in which Yoshiya wrote, it’s not surprising that her characters’ relationships were never consummated; the girls might exchange passionate letters or meaningful glances, but marriage, graduation, or death prevented them from being together as a couple. Fifty years later, when manga artists such as Ryoko Yamagishi and Riyoko Ikeda began writing girls’ love stories, they, too, favored tragic endings; Yamagishi’s Shiroi Heya no Futari (1971), for example, culminates in a melodramatic death (suicide by ex-boyfriend, to be exact), as do Ikeda’s Oniisama e… (1975) and Claudine…! (1978).

Small wonder, then, that manga-ka Rica Takashima saw a vacuum that needed filling. “There were very few manga with lesbian stories,” Takashima explains in the afterword to Rica ‘tte Kanji!? “Only depressing, sad stories about ‘forbidden love’ and with a break-up in the end. For example, ‘If I were a man, I could marry you.’ That kind of thing, but I wanted to read a HAPPY story.”

And “happy” is the perfect adjective to describe Rica ‘tte Kanji!? Rica, the heroine, is a cheerful optimist who moves to Tokyo to attend junior college (she plans to major in early childhood development) and explore the Nichome district, home to the city’s gay community. At the beginning of the series, Rica is nervous about visiting Nichome for the first time, worrying about what to wear and how to handle pick-up lines:

Rica’s fears are quickly allayed when she’s introduced to Miho, a sardonic art student a few years Rica’s senior. The two meet cute on Rica’s first trip to Nichome’s Lily Bar, where Rica confesses that she’s never met “an actual lesbian.” “I grew up out in the country,” she explains to Miho. “It’s the same for everyone in the beginning,” Miho assures her, prompting Rica to declare Miho her first gay friend. Though Miho falls for Rica right away, Rica’s lack of experience and general ditziness makes her oblivious to Miho’s advances. Their relationship has another hurdle to clear as well: Rica is just as nervous about the idea of having sex as she was about making a good impression at the Lily Bar, and keeps Miho at arm’s length — figuratively and literally — as she tries to decide what she’s comfortable doing.

What Takashima does better than most is to find the comedy in these situations, not by creating artificial misunderstandings between the characters, or manufacturing romantic rivals, but by making us privy to Rica and Miho’s thoughts. The two women’s internal monologues are funny, peppered with cute and weird observations, but they’re also very truthful; who among us hasn’t worried about putting the moves on a friend or being naked with a new partner?

Though Takashima’s script is charming, what really makes Rica ‘tte Kanji!? work is the art. That may seem like a funny thing to say about a story in which the characters are little more than well-dressed stick figures with cute, round faces, but Takashima’s illustrations have a warm, handmade quality. Better still, the artwork never panders to male yuri fans; by rendering the characters as cute, paper-doll figures, Takashima directs the eye away from Rica and Miho’s bodies towards their faces, compelling the reader to see the women as two people fumbling through a relationship, not fantasy objects.

And speaking of fantasy, a few reviewers have pointed out the absence of real conflict in Rica ‘tte Kanji!?. Though Miho and Rica’s relationship hits a few minor snags, their romance takes place in a bubble untouched by homophobia or workaday concerns. It’s a fair criticism, I suppose, but one that misses the point; Rica ‘tte Kanji!? is a cheeky, cheerful rebuke to the Tragic Gay Story, substituting a happily-ever-after ending for death and separation.

Impatient readers can find copies of Rica ‘tte Kanji on Amazon for about $24.00. If you’re willing to wait a few months, however, ALC Publishing will be releasing a new omnibus edition that will include the original Rica ‘tte Kanji stories, as well as material written for ALC’s Yuri Monogatari anthologies.

RICA ‘TTE KANJI!? • BY RICA TAKASHIMA • ALC PUBLISHING • 96 pp.

A Zoo in Winter

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One of the best-selling manga in the US right now is Bakuman, a drama about two teens trying to break into the Japanese comics industry. Flipping through the first two volumes, it’s easy to see why the series has such an ardent following: Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata have portrayed the characters’ journey not as an aesthetic or introspective process, but as an adventure story in which the boys battle progressively more talented opponents while they work toward their ultimate goal of creating a hit series.

For all its lip service to perseverance and craft, Bakuman is, at heart, a fantasy that trumpets youth, native ability, and confidence as the keys to artistic success. To be sure, Ohba and Obata make a concerted effort to show their characters engaged in the less dramatic aspects of manga-making: brainstorming story ideas, working with an editor, experimenting with unfamiliar tools. These scenes aren’t really meant to chart the boys’ growth as artists, however, but to reinforce the idea that Mashiro and Takagi are naturals.

Jiro Taniguchi’s forthcoming A Zoo in Winter offers a very different perspective on breaking into the manga industry, one in which the principle character engages in a long, complicated, and frequently humbling process of refining his skills. When we first meet seventeen-year-old Mitsuo Hamaguchi, he’s working at a manufacturing company, contemplating a future designing textiles while harboring dreams of becoming an artist. Hamaguchi spends his free time sketching animals at the local zoo, and chaperoning his boss’ wayward daughter on excursions around town.

At loose ends, Hamaguchi visits Tokyo on a whim, landing a position as an assistant to popular manga-ka Shiro Kondo. The work is anything but glamorous: Hamaguchi frequently pulls all-nighters, erasing pencil marks, blacking in objects, drawing speedlines, and copying backgrounds from other assistants’ drawings. Working on Kondo’s manga rekindles Hamaguchi’s own childhood ambition to become an artist, inspiring Hamaguchi to take live drawing classes and start work on his own story — a goal that proves more elusive than Hamaguchi imagined.

Hamaguchi’s emotional development is as fitful as his artistic. Though he’s savoring his independence, he frequently reverts to adolescent behavior whenever he hits a roadblock, wallowing in self-pity when another assistant seems poised to get his big break, for example, or drinking himself into a stupor when his girlfriend moves away. Hamaguchi’s relationship with his older brother is particularly telling: separated by ten years, Hamaguchi continues to view him as a father figure, squirming in embarrassment when his brother visits Kondo’s studio. (“Please, brother, try to mind your own business,” Hamaguchi pleads.) As their visit progresses, however, Hamaguchi marvels at his brother’s ability to chat up Kondo and mix with the bohemian element at the assistants’ favorite dive-bar, gradually realizing that his older brother isn’t as judgmental or rigid as Hamaguchi assumed, just deeply concerned with the family’s welfare.

In another artist’s hands, Hamaguchi’s brother might have been a sterner figure, one who dismissed an artistic career as a frivolous or irresponsible choice. Yet Jiro Taniguchi resists the temptation to make Hamaguchi’s brother into a straw man, instead allowing Hamaguchi to discover his brother’s relaxed decency for himself; Hamaguchi’s epiphany is a small one, but one that brings him a few steps closer to adulthood. Taniguchi manages the difficult feat of honoring the sincerity of Hamaguchi’s feelings while creating emotional distance between Hamaguchi and the reader; we’re not invited to experience Hamaguchi’s embarrassment so much as remember what it was like to learn that our parents were, in fact, just like all the other adults we knew and liked.

What makes these passages even more effective is Taniguchi’s draftsmanship. Though he has always been a superb illustrator, capable of evoking the bustling sprawl of a Japanese city or the craggy face of a mountain, his characters’ faces often had an impassive, Noh-mask quality. In Zoo in Winter, however, the characters’ facial expressions are rendered with the same precision he usually reserves for landscapes and interiors, capturing subtle shifts in their attitudes and emotions. Not that Taniguchi neglects the urban environment; one of the manga’s loveliest sequences unfolds in a zoo on a snowy day. Anyone who’s had the experience of running in Central Park on a rainy November afternoon, or walking a winter beach will immediately recognize Hamaguchi’s elation at having the zoo to himself, and of seeing the landscape transformed by the weather.

It’s the subtlety of the characterizations, however, that will remain with readers long after they’ve finished A Zoo in Winter. The story does more than just dramatize Hamaguchi’s journey from adolescence to adulthood; it shows us how his 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. To be fair, Ohba and Obata address the issue of craft in Bakuman, but I’ll take the quiet honesty of A Zoo in Winter over the sound and fury of a Shonen Jump title any day. Highly recommended.

Review copy provided by Fanfare/Ponent Mon. A Zoo in Winter will be released on June 23, 2011.

A ZOO IN WINTER • BY JIRO TANIGUCHI • FANFARE/PONENT MON • 232 pp.

A Zoo in Winter

by

One of the best-selling manga in the US right now is Bakuman, a drama about two teens trying to break into the Japanese comics industry. Flipping through the first two volumes, it’s easy to see why the series has such an ardent following: Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata have portrayed the characters’ journey not as an aesthetic or introspective process, but as an adventure story in which the boys battle progressively more talented opponents while they work toward their ultimate goal of creating a hit series.

For all its lip service to perseverance and craft, Bakuman is, at heart, a fantasy that trumpets youth, native ability, and confidence as the keys to artistic success. To be sure, Ohba and Obata make a concerted effort to show their characters engaged in the less dramatic aspects of manga-making: brainstorming story ideas, working with an editor, experimenting with unfamiliar tools. These scenes aren’t really meant to chart the boys’ growth as artists, however, but to reinforce the idea that Mashiro and Takagi are naturals.

Jiro Taniguchi’s forthcoming A Zoo in Winter offers a very different perspective on breaking into the manga industry, one in which the principle character engages in a long, complicated, and frequently humbling process of refining his skills. When we first meet seventeen-year-old Mitsuo Hamaguchi, he’s working at a manufacturing company, contemplating a future designing textiles while harboring dreams of becoming an artist. Hamaguchi spends his free time sketching animals at the local zoo, and chaperoning his boss’ wayward daughter on excursions around town.

At loose ends, Hamaguchi visits Tokyo on a whim, landing a position as an assistant to popular manga-ka Shiro Kondo. The work is anything but glamorous: Hamaguchi frequently pulls all-nighters, erasing pencil marks, blacking in objects, drawing speedlines, and copying backgrounds from other assistants’ drawings. Working on Kondo’s manga rekindles Hamaguchi’s own childhood ambition to become an artist, inspiring Hamaguchi to take live drawing classes and start work on his own story — a goal that proves more elusive than Hamaguchi imagined.

Hamaguchi’s emotional development is as fitful as his artistic. Though he’s savoring his independence, he frequently reverts to adolescent behavior whenever he hits a roadblock, wallowing in self-pity when another assistant seems poised to get his big break, for example, or drinking himself into a stupor when his girlfriend moves away. Hamaguchi’s relationship with his older brother is particularly telling: separated by ten years, Hamaguchi continues to view him as a father figure, squirming in embarrassment when his brother visits Kondo’s studio. (“Please, brother, try to mind your own business,” Hamaguchi pleads.) As their visit progresses, however, Hamaguchi marvels at his brother’s ability to chat up Kondo and mix with the bohemian element at the assistants’ favorite dive-bar, gradually realizing that his older brother isn’t as judgmental or rigid as Hamaguchi assumed, just deeply concerned with the family’s welfare.

In another artist’s hands, Hamaguchi’s brother might have been a sterner figure, one who dismissed an artistic career as a frivolous or irresponsible choice. Yet Jiro Taniguchi resists the temptation to make Hamaguchi’s brother into a straw man, instead allowing Hamaguchi to discover his brother’s relaxed decency for himself; Hamaguchi’s epiphany is a small one, but one that brings him a few steps closer to adulthood. Taniguchi manages the difficult feat of honoring the sincerity of Hamaguchi’s feelings while creating emotional distance between Hamaguchi and the reader; we’re not invited to experience Hamaguchi’s embarrassment so much as remember what it was like to learn that our parents were, in fact, just like all the other adults we knew and liked.

What makes these passages even more effective is Taniguchi’s draftsmanship. Though he has always been a superb illustrator, capable of evoking the bustling sprawl of a Japanese city or the craggy face of a mountain, his characters’ faces often had an impassive, Noh-mask quality. In Zoo in Winter, however, the characters’ facial expressions are rendered with the same precision he usually reserves for landscapes and interiors, capturing subtle shifts in their attitudes and emotions. Not that Taniguchi neglects the urban environment; one of the manga’s loveliest sequences unfolds in a zoo on a snowy day. Anyone who’s had the experience of running in Central Park on a rainy November afternoon, or walking a winter beach will immediately recognize Hamaguchi’s elation at having the zoo to himself, and of seeing the landscape transformed by the weather.

It’s the subtlety of the characterizations, however, that will remain with readers long after they’ve finished A Zoo in Winter. The story does more than just dramatize Hamaguchi’s journey from adolescence to adulthood; it shows us how his 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. To be fair, Ohba and Obata address the issue of craft in Bakuman, but I’ll take the quiet honesty of A Zoo in Winter over the sound and fury of a Shonen Jump title any day. Highly recommended.

Review copy provided by Fanfare/Ponent Mon. A Zoo in Winter will be released on June 23, 2011.

A ZOO IN WINTER • BY JIRO TANIGUCHI • FANFARE/PONENT MON • 232 pp.

A Bride’s Story, Vol. 1

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For nearly 3,000 years, the Silk Road connected Asia with Africa and the Middle East, providing a conduit for the ancient world’s most precious commodities: silk, spices, glassware, medicine, perfume, livestock. By the nineteenth century, when A Bride’s Story takes place, the overland trade routes had been eclipsed in importance by maritime ones that linked China directly with India, Somalia, and the Mediterranean. Yet the Silk Road continued to play a vital role in bridging smaller geographical divides, as the main plot in A Bride’s Story demonstrates.

Set in Central Asia, A Bride’s Story focuses on two clans: the Halgal, a nomadic tribe whose livelihood depends on a mixture of hunting and herding, and the Eihon, farmers with a permanent homestead near the Caspian Sea. The families arrange a marriage between twenty-year-old Amir, the oldest Halgal daughter, and twelve-year-old Karluk, the future Eihon patriarch. As that age gap implies, Amir and Karluk’s union is one of political and economic expedience, designed to help the Eihon clan preserve its territory. Each family has reservations about the match: the Eihon believe that Amir is too old to bear Karluk a good-sized family, while the Halgal want to dissolve the union and betroth Amir to the leader of a neighboring tribe.

Amir and Karluk, however, seem more content with the arrangement than their elders. Given their age gap, Amir is more mother than wife to Karluk. There’s a note of urgency and purpose in Amir’s ministrations — she’s keen to prove her worth to the Eihons, especially when Karluk falls ill — but there’s also a genuine warmth and kindness in her gestures. Karluk, for his part, seems very much like a young teenager, intrigued by Amir’s beauty and charisma, but still too uncomfortable in his own skin to be physically demonstrative with her; Amir seems much keener to consummate their marriage, lest she lose her standing with the Eihon clan.

One of the great pleasures of A Bride’s Story is its strong cast of female characters. Balkirsh, the Eihon matriarch, proves Amir’s staunchest ally, fiercely rebuffing the Halgal’s efforts to reclaim Amir with a well-placed arrow. Though Balkirsh never explicitly states why she identifies with her daughter-in-law, the bow-and-arrow scene is telling, hinting at a shared cultural heritage that binds the two women. Amir, too, is a memorable character; she’s a terrific physical specimen, agile and fearless on horseback, but her true strength is her keen emotional intelligence. She accepts her new marriage without complaint, rapidly insinuating herself into the Eihon clan while preserving her own sense of self by introducing Karluk to her family’s customs.

The artwork, too, is another compelling reason to read A Bride’s Story. As she did in Emma and Shirley, Kaoru Mori pours her energy into period detail: clothing, furnishings, architecture. By far her most striking designs are the tribal costumes worn by the Eihon and the Halgal. Mori painstakingly draws embroidery, ornaments, and layers of fabric; watching Amir mount her horse, one can almost hear the swish of her skirts and the jingle of her earrings. Mori is similarly meticulous when rendering the surfaces of common household objects; she etches an intricate floral design into a silver tea set and weaves elegant, delicate patterns into the rugs that grace the walls and floors of the Eihon compound, luxuriating in the artistry with which these items were made.

At the same time, however, the Central Asian setting grants Mori greater license to make her characters move — something she rarely did in the overstuffed parlors  and crowded London streets in Emma and Shirley. To be sure, Mori’s flair for staging dynamic scenes was evident in Emma, when Hakim Atawari made a show-stopping entrance astride an elephant. In A Bride’s Story, however, Mori’s active sequences are less flashy and more fluid; they feel less like dramatic stunts than an organic part of the story, helping the reader understand how physically taxing Amir and Karluk’s labors are while helping us appreciate the scale and severity of the landscape.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of volume one is just how uneventful it is. Kaoru Mori is content to let her narrative follow the rhythms of everyday life, pausing to show us a master carver in his wood shop, or a group of women cooking a meal, or a young boy tending chickens. 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 discussing the merits of rabbit stew. By allowing her story to unfold in such a naturalistic fashion, A Bride’s Story manages to be both intimate and expansive, giving us a taste of what it might have been like to live along the Silk Road in the nineteenth century. Highly recommended.

A BRIDE’S STORY, VOL. 1 • BY KAORU MORI • YEN PRESS • 192 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

A Bride’s Story, Vol. 1

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For nearly 3,000 years, the Silk Road connected Asia with Africa and the Middle East, providing a conduit for the ancient world’s most precious commodities: silk, spices, glassware, medicine, perfume, livestock. By the nineteenth century, when A Bride’s Story takes place, the overland trade routes had been eclipsed in importance by maritime ones that linked China directly with India, Somalia, and the Mediterranean. Yet the Silk Road continued to play a vital role in bridging smaller geographical divides, as the main plot in A Bride’s Story demonstrates.

Set in Central Asia, A Bride’s Story focuses on two clans: the Halgal, a nomadic tribe whose livelihood depends on a mixture of hunting and herding, and the Eihon, farmers with a permanent homestead near the Caspian Sea. The families arrange a marriage between twenty-year-old Amir, the oldest Halgal daughter, and twelve-year-old Karluk, the future Eihon patriarch. As that age gap implies, Amir and Karluk’s union is one of political and economic expedience, designed to help the Eihon clan preserve its territory. Each family has reservations about the match: the Eihon believe that Amir is too old to bear Karluk a good-sized family, while the Halgal want to dissolve the union and betroth Amir to the leader of a neighboring tribe.

Amir and Karluk, however, seem more content with the arrangement than their elders. Given their age gap, Amir is more mother than wife to Karluk. There’s a note of urgency and purpose in Amir’s ministrations — she’s keen to prove her worth to the Eihons, especially when Karluk falls ill — but there’s also a genuine warmth and kindness in her gestures. Karluk, for his part, seems very much like a young teenager, intrigued by Amir’s beauty and charisma, but still too uncomfortable in his own skin to be physically demonstrative with her; Amir seems much keener to consummate their marriage, lest she lose her standing with the Eihon clan.

One of the great pleasures of A Bride’s Story is its strong cast of female characters. Balkirsh, the Eihon matriarch, proves Amir’s staunchest ally, fiercely rebuffing the Halgal’s efforts to reclaim Amir with a well-placed arrow. Though Balkirsh never explicitly states why she identifies with her daughter-in-law, the bow-and-arrow scene is telling, hinting at a shared cultural heritage that binds the two women. Amir, too, is a memorable character; she’s a terrific physical specimen, agile and fearless on horseback, but her true strength is her keen emotional intelligence. She accepts her new marriage without complaint, rapidly insinuating herself into the Eihon clan while preserving her own sense of self by introducing Karluk to her family’s customs.

The artwork, too, is another compelling reason to read A Bride’s Story. As she did in Emma and Shirley, Kaoru Mori pours her energy into period detail: clothing, furnishings, architecture. By far her most striking designs are the tribal costumes worn by the Eihon and the Halgal. Mori painstakingly draws embroidery, ornaments, and layers of fabric; watching Amir mount her horse, one can almost hear the swish of her skirts and the jingle of her earrings. Mori is similarly meticulous when rendering the surfaces of common household objects; she etches an intricate floral design into a silver tea set and weaves elegant, delicate patterns into the rugs that grace the walls and floors of the Eihon compound, luxuriating in the artistry with which these items were made.

At the same time, however, the Central Asian setting grants Mori greater license to make her characters move — something she rarely did in the overstuffed parlors  and crowded London streets in Emma and Shirley. To be sure, Mori’s flair for staging dynamic scenes was evident in Emma, when Hakim Atawari made a show-stopping entrance astride an elephant. In A Bride’s Story, however, Mori’s active sequences are less flashy and more fluid; they feel less like dramatic stunts than an organic part of the story, helping the reader understand how physically taxing Amir and Karluk’s labors are while helping us appreciate the scale and severity of the landscape.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of volume one is just how uneventful it is. Kaoru Mori is content to let her narrative follow the rhythms of everyday life, pausing to show us a master carver in his wood shop, or a group of women cooking a meal, or a young boy tending chickens. 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 discussing the merits of rabbit stew. By allowing her story to unfold in such a naturalistic fashion, A Bride’s Story manages to be both intimate and expansive, giving us a taste of what it might have been like to live along the Silk Road in the nineteenth century. Highly recommended.

A BRIDE’S STORY, VOL. 1 • BY KAORU MORI • YEN PRESS • 192 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Pick of the Week: A Bride’s Story & Others

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New manga from Kaoru Mori (unsurprisingly) steals the show at Midtown Comics this week, but check out our recommendations for additional picks as well!

KATE: A new Kaoru Mori manga is always cause for celebration, so I’m getting this week’s party started by recommending A Bride’s Story, which debuts on Wednesday. Like Emma and Shirley,A Bride’s Story is as much about the historical period — its customs, its social hierarchies, its clothing — as it about the characters. In this case, the setting is the Silk Road in the nineteenth century, and the characters are Amir, a twenty-year-oldwoman, and Karluk, her twelve-year-old husband. Their union is one of political expedience, but their growing respect for one another suggests that their marriage has the potential to evolve. Not a whole lot happens in the first volume, but the artwork is lovely, and the gently meandering storylines allow us to see just how capable and complex Amir really is. I’m already pining for volume two!

MICHELLE: I’m keen to read A Bride’s Story myself, but my pick this week goes to the second volume of Natsume Ando’s Arisa, back from a long hiatus as publishing rights shifted from Del Rey to Kodansha Comics. Volume one served up delicious shoujo creepiness as a tough girl named Tsubasa disguised herself as her more refined twin to figure out what in her school life caused her to attempt suicide, and ended just as she was on the verge of discovering the identity of “the King,” a mysterious person with the ability to grant any wish. Not only is the series back, it’s also on a bimonthly schedule from this point on.

DAVID: I’m going to have to second Kate’s pick of A Bride’s Story. I’m such a fan of Mori’s Emma that it would seem treasonous to do otherwise. (Though I’m also very much looking forward to Arisa.)

MJ: You can add me to the list of Manga Bookshelf-ers eagerly anticipating A Bride’s Story, but I’ll also take this opportunity to give a shout-out to one of my favorite shoujo series, Peach Pit’s Shugo Chara!. Kodansha Comics brings out volume 10 this week, following its long run with Del Rey Manga, and I can’t wait to pick it up! I’ve written a lot about this series (including a heartfelt plea for lowering its age rating) much of which can be accessed via my Shugo Chara! Evangelism post. After all that, can I pass up the chance to recommend it one more time? I think not!

Amazon.com Widgets

Readers, what looks good to you this week?

Bookshelf Briefs 5/22/11

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This week, MJ, Kate, David, & Michelle take a look at a slew of manga from Viz Media and one lonely manhwa from Yen Press.

13th Boy, Vol. 7 | By Sangeun Lee | Yen Press – There are few currently-running romance series I find as charming as Sangeun Lee’s 13th Boy, and exactly none can match it in sheer whimsy. Volume seven’s main drama revolves around sometimes-talking-cactus Beatrice who, in the midst of some serious heartache, reverts to his human form off-schedule without any sign of turning back, placing him smack in the middle of Hee-So’s newfound romance without a comfortable pot to retreat to. It’s an absurd situation, obviously, but though the series’ author doesn’t try to deny that fact, the emotional drama created for the story’s main characters is utterly serious. Lee’s sense of humor never sinks to self-concious eye-rolling, even in its most outrageous moments. It doesn’t hurt that I kinda ‘ship the story’s heroine with the cactus. What can I say? Still recommended. -MJ

Afterschool Charisma, Vol. 3 | By Kumiko Suekane | Viz Media – After two volumes of build-up and teasing, Kumiko Suekane finally offers readers a reward for their patience: not only does stuff blow up in volume three, but Suekane drops a nasty little surprise in one of her characters’ laps, forcing him to question his very identity as a clone. Good as volume three may be, pacing remains an issue; every time Suekane stages a bit of comic relief, the series’ creepy, unsettling vibe dissipates in a cloud of fanservice and lame historical jokes. Still, Afterschool Charisma gathers enough momentum in these chapters to overcome its narrative weaknesses, ending on a cliffhanger that’s sure to please fans. And really, what’s not to like about a manga that portrays Freud and Mozart as petulant bishies, or Rasputin as the class bad boy? -Katherine Dacey

Detroit Metal City, Vol. 9 | By Kiminori Wakasugi | Viz Media – As I struggle to come up with a summary for this volume that might distinguish it from those before, I think it may be time to admit that I’ve reached my limit with this series. I’ve been a fan since the beginning, but as is the case with so many gag manga, Detroit Metal City has worn out its gag. Yes, Negishi still wants to be a Swedish pop star, and yes, he still reverts to his death metal alter-ego whenever things (inevitably) do not go right in his sweet, cheese-tart-filled life. Though it was once interesting (and certainly hilarious) to ponder on Negishi’s real personality, the question has long outlived its potential for fascination, and even the best jokes are beginning to wear thin. Detroit Metal City, it was good to know you. But all things must pass. -MJ

Gente, Vol. 3 | By Natsume Ono | Viz Media – Is this the best Ono title available in English? Heavens, no. Did I enjoy it a great deal? Certainly. This volume is even more of a collection of casually related shorts than the previous two, but they’re good shorts with a gracious nature and a warm sense of humor. Ono takes closer looks at the lives of the distinguished staff of the Ristorante Casetta Dell’Orso. We see one man’s life before he took up the work of a waiter, and it’s an intriguing surprise. A married couple, regulars at the restaurant, brings their marital strife to the dining room, sparking a lot of gossip and some intriguing revelations. There’s family, friendship, romance, and food, and there are many worse ways to spend a sunny afternoon than in the company of Ono’s cast. Should you also be reading House of Five Leaves? Clearly. -David Welsh

Saturn Apartments, Vol. 3 | By Hisaw Iwaoka | Viz Media – The third volume of Saturn Apartments serves a hearty slice of sometimes disheartening, sometimes uplifting, and sometimes downright mysterious life. It seems that everyone besides the members of the window washers guild themselves think it’s a wretched occupation, and Mitsu refuses several job offers from wealth clients before ultimately being able to prove the importance of his job to a former classmate. Meanwhile, underemployed engineer Sohta begins work designing a craft with the capability to descend to Earth and thinks Mitsu might just be the perfect candidate to test it out someday. I’d say this volume is still about 90% episodic, but a 10% focus on an ongoing plot is a welcome change! -Michelle Smith

Vampire Knight, Vol. 12 | By Matsuri Hino | Viz Media – Volume twelve advances the narrative a full year ahead: Cross Academy is in shambles, Yuki’s uncle Rido is presumed dead, and Yuki is about to make her vampire society debut. The time jump is a wise decision, allowing Matsuri Hino to transition away from school-oriented plot lines while bringing different characters to the fore. As rewarding as it is to see villain Sara Shirabuki get a proper turn in the spotlight, however, Vampire Knight still suffers from a glaring problem: mediocre artwork. Hino lavishes so much attention on hairstyles and accessories that more basic design elements — background detail, panel flow, facial expressions — often feel like an afterthought. Though hardcore fans will be more focused on the relationships than on the art, readers with a more casual investment in the story may find the blandly undifferentiated character designs an impediment to following the story. -Katherine Dacey

Moon and Blood, Vol. 1

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If Rumiko Takahashi and Kaoru Tada collaborated on a manga, the results might look a lot like Nao Yazawa’s Moon and Blood, a cheerful mish-mash of slapstick humor, romance, and light horror.

Sayaka, the protagonist, walks into her kitchen one morning to discover that a handsome, imperious teenager named Kai has taken up residence with her family. “He’s the son of an old friend,” dad explains, though no one seems to remember which friend’s son Kai might be or when Kai’s family arranged the visit. Kai promptly enrolls in Sayaka’s school, where he distinguishes himself primarily by sleeping through every class, stirring only to solve a complex equation or dunk a basketball. Though Sayaka is annoyed by her new house guest, she’s also deeply curious about his nocturnal wanderings, as he slips out of the house every night, returning only at dawn. (Gee, I wonder what he could be up to?)

For a manga that covers such familiar territory, Moon and Blood proves surprisingly nimble and charming, poking gentle fun at many of shojo mangadom’s hoariest tropes. The first chapter reads like an affectionate parody of Itazura na Kiss, as Sayaka struggles to adjust to living under the same roof as Kai — he’s as smart and smug as Itazura‘s Naoki — and tries to fend off Takeshi, her big, goofy neighbor who’s adored her since childhood. Moon and Blood also scores points for allowing the reader to figure out what’s happening, rather than relying on an omniscient narrator to explain who Kai is, and why he’s insinuated himself into Sayaka’s home. Better still, Yazawa doesn’t artificially prolong that mystery by insisting the other characters behave like willful idiots; by the end of volume one, Sayaka and her brother are both on the verge of uncovering Kai’s true identity.

Art-wise, the characters boast the same upturned noses and rubbery faces of the Itazura na Kiss gang. The notable exception is Ai, a shape-shifting vampire who looks more like one of Takahashi’s sinister child minions, with her feline eyes, doll-like clothes, and blank, bored expression. (Her cat-form, too, has a Takahashian flair; Ai wouldn’t be out of place in Rin-ne, perhaps as Rokumon’s arch-nemesis.) Though Yazawa’s linework is clean, and her use of tone sparing, Yazawa isn’t quite Tada or Takahashi’s artistic peer; her character designs aren’t as refined as either Tada or Takahashi’s, and her reaction shots distort the characters’ faces and bodies to near-abstractions.

On the whole, however, Moon and Blood is a light, entertaining read that feels like something Tada or Takahashi might have produced in the late 1980s or early 1990s. That’s not a knock on Yazawa; if anything, the story’s character-driven plotlines, bickering antagonists, and horror-lite subplot are a welcome departure from the kind of intense, sexually fraught supernatural romances that are posting big numbers on the New York Times Manga Bestseller List in 2011. Recommended.

Review copy provided by Digital Manga Publishing, Inc.

MOON AND BLOOD, VOL. 1 • BY NAO YAZAWA • DMP • 70 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

Moon and Blood, Vol. 1

by

If Rumiko Takahashi and Kaoru Tada collaborated on a manga, the results might look a lot like Nao Yazawa’s Moon and Blood, a cheerful mish-mash of slapstick humor, romance, and light horror.

Sayaka, the protagonist, walks into her kitchen one morning to discover that a handsome, imperious teenager named Kai has taken up residence with her family. “He’s the son of an old friend,” dad explains, though no one seems to remember which friend’s son Kai might be or when Kai’s family arranged the visit. Kai promptly enrolls in Sayaka’s school, where he distinguishes himself primarily by sleeping through every class, stirring only to solve a complex equation or dunk a basketball. Though Sayaka is annoyed by her new house guest, she’s also deeply curious about his nocturnal wanderings, as he slips out of the house every night, returning only at dawn. (Gee, I wonder what he could be up to?)

For a manga that covers such familiar territory, Moon and Blood proves surprisingly nimble and charming, poking gentle fun at many of shojo mangadom’s hoariest tropes. The first chapter reads like an affectionate parody of Itazura na Kiss, as Sayaka struggles to adjust to living under the same roof as Kai — he’s as smart and smug as Itazura‘s Naoki — and tries to fend off Takeshi, her big, goofy neighbor who’s adored her since childhood. Moon and Blood also scores points for allowing the reader to figure out what’s happening, rather than relying on an omniscient narrator to explain who Kai is, and why he’s insinuated himself into Sayaka’s home. Better still, Yazawa doesn’t artificially prolong that mystery by insisting the other characters behave like willful idiots; by the end of volume one, Sayaka and her brother are both on the verge of uncovering Kai’s true identity.

Art-wise, the characters boast the same upturned noses and rubbery faces of the Itazura na Kiss gang. The notable exception is Ai, a shape-shifting vampire who looks more like one of Takahashi’s sinister child minions, with her feline eyes, doll-like clothes, and blank, bored expression. (Her cat-form, too, has a Takahashian flair; Ai wouldn’t be out of place in Rin-ne, perhaps as Rokumon’s arch-nemesis.) Though Yazawa’s linework is clean, and her use of tone sparing, Yazawa isn’t quite Tada or Takahashi’s artistic peer; her character designs aren’t as refined as either Tada or Takahashi’s, and her reaction shots distort the characters’ faces and bodies to near-abstractions.

On the whole, however, Moon and Blood is a light, entertaining read that feels like something Tada or Takahashi might have produced in the late 1980s or early 1990s. That’s not a knock on Yazawa; if anything, the story’s character-driven plotlines, bickering antagonists, and horror-lite subplot are a welcome departure from the kind of intense, sexually fraught supernatural romances that are posting big numbers on the New York Times Manga Bestseller List in 2011. Recommended.

Review copy provided by Digital Manga Publishing, Inc.

MOON AND BLOOD, VOL. 1 • BY NAO YAZAWA • DMP • 70 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)

Ginga Legend Weed, Vol. 1

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As a critic, I tend to focus on how stories are told, rather than how they make me feel. Much as I’d like to chalk up that tendency to rigorous academic training or a Vulcan-like disposition, I’m afraid the underlying reason is much simpler and less flattering: I’m a snob.

I should qualify that statement by saying that I’m not really a snob, but I’ve spent enough time in the Ivory Tower to know that I’m supposed to appreciate the difference between Great Art and commercial crap, between penetrating explorations of the human condition and cheap sentiment. Crying while watching Sansho the Bailiff? Perfectly OK — it’s a Criterion film based on a critically regarded novel! Crying while watching Marley & Me? Intellectually suspect — it’s a mawkish paean to dog ownership, and an obvious play for the audience’s sympathy!

Except I’m more likely to weep buckets while watching Marley & Me.

OK, that’s only partially true. I cried harder during the final reel of Marley & Me than I did during the final reel of Sansho the Bailiff, though both left me devastated. But you grasp the point: Sansho the Bailiff may be a deep, moving statement about cruelty, sacrifice, and loyalty, but on an autonomic level, Zushio and Anju’s plight can’t hold a candle to a pooch in peril.

Which leads me to Ginga Legend Weed. The story is, in fact, a sequel to Ginga: Nagareboshi Gin, an eighteen-volume manga about an Akita who abandons his human master, joins a pack of feral dogs, and wrests control of the Ōu Mountains from a powerful, demonic bear nicknamed “Red Helmet.” Ginga Legend Weed picks up the thread several years after Akakabuto’s defeat: Gin’s mate, Sakura, has given birth to a pup, but is unable to raise him. On her deathbed, she implores an English Setter named GB to bring Weed to his father, thus initiating the first of many battle arcs that will pit Weed against a genetically altered dog, a vicious baboon troupe, a dog army led by an evil German Shepherd named Victor, and a “large hybrid bear.” (Actually, I have no idea what a “large hybrid bear” is, though it certainly sounds dangerous and impressive. Thanks, Wikipedia!)

As a well-trained product of a fancy-pants university, I can say with confidence that Ginga Legend Weed suffers from a host of structural problems. The pacing is uneven; the action sequences are repetitive, recycling the same attacks again and again; and the script is both tin-eared and thoroughly sentimental, ascribing a full complement of human emotions and motivations to its canine characters. Were I to judge Ginga purely on the quality of its execution, I’d have to proclaim it a mediocre specialty product calculated to appeal to a particular audience, the kind of readers who aren’t likely to roll their eyes dismissively when a puppy cries out for his mommy. Readers like… well, me.

Trading my critic’s cap for a dog lover’s,  I can see the obvious skill behind Yoshihiro Takahashi’s drawings; he’s spent many hours observing canine body language and facial expressions, and uses flattened ears, tucked tails, and raised hackles to show the full extent of his characters’ emotional states. Takahashi is also a student of canine social behavior. His dog societies may use human terms to describe each member’s rank — general, captain, and so forth — but Takahashi clearly grasps pack dynamics; canine power struggles frequently drive the plot, as dogs vie for alpha status and bully weaker members of the group.

What Ginga Legend Weed does most powerfully, however, is take the core values of a Shonen Jump manga — “friendship, effort, victory” — and apply them to a story about a young dog trying to find his place in the world. Weed’s unswerving commitment to his friends, his willingness to risk his life for others, and his ability to rally dogs to his cause are, perhaps, a bit absurd — he’s Naruto in quadriped form — but his efforts remind us that dogs are emotionally complex, intelligent creatures capable of forming deep attachments. For an animal lover like me, Ginga affirms the warm, affectionate bond I have with my own dog while stoking my indignation that many human-canine relationships are fraught with violence and neglect. (Many of the characters have been abandoned or abused by their human masters.) That may not have been Takahashi’s intended message, but that’s how Ginga Legend Weed made me *feel.*

And speaking of my emotional response to Ginga Legend Weed, yes, I did sniffle a bit while I read, especially during a story line involving a pup who’d been cruelly separated from his mother. And yes, I felt compelled to write a check to the Humane Society when I finished. I don’t know if either of those actions are testament to Ginga‘s quality, exactly, but they speak to its ability to push my emotional buttons. And sometimes knowing that I’m still attuned to my inner sap is reward enough for a highbrow gal like me.

Pick of the Week: Signature Style

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MJ is on the road this week, so we’ve assembled a slightly smaller version of the Manga Bookshelf Battle Robot to take on Wednesday’s new arrivals. As always, we’re basing our recommendations on what will go on sale this week at Midtown Comics. And — not surprisingly, given the team’s reading habits — David, Michelle, and I are bullish about the new VIZ Signature offerings. Read on for our recommendations.

DAVID: It’s hard for me to pick among the three VIZ Signature titles that are arriving this week, as I like them all for their own reasons. Like an over-compensating parent, I’ll focus on the one I feel like I may be neglecting: the third volume of Shunji Aono’s I’ll Give it My All… Tomorrow. This shaggy, funny tale of a mope’s attempt to become a mangaka is the perfect tonic for Bakuman. Even more exciting is MJ’s promise that “in volume three stuff actually happens.” Slice-of-loser-life isn’t usually my genre of choice, but I love this book for its combination of biting humor and surprising sympathy. As Johanna Draper Carlson puts it, “I can relate, as can most adults who’ve grown up and made trade-offs.”

KATE: My vote goes to Gente: The People of Ristorante Paradiso, a series I initially found too drowsy to engage me. The latest installment, however, reminded me of a good Italian film: it has some comic moments, but the prevailing mood is wistful, as adults contemplate failed relationships, flirt with attractive strangers, and struggle to confess deeply buried feelings. At the risk of sounding like a grouchy old bat, one of the things I like best about Gente is that Natsume Ono makes age and experience look sexy; for someone who’s read a few too many stories about shy fifteen-year-olds who pine in secret for hot jerks, it’s refreshing to read a manga about real adult relationships. If only Marcello Mastrioanni had lived long enough to star in an adaptation… now *that* would have been hot.

MICHELLE: I’ll cast my vote for the other VIZ Signature offering, volume three of Saturn Apartments.  I described the first volume as a “low-key dystopia,” but the tone warmed up to “homey” levels in the second volume. After setting up the world and fleshing out its characters, I’m wondering where Hisae Iwaoka will take the story next, since volume two alluded to some mysterious action upon Earth’s surface. Even if it remains mellow, I’ll be happy, but should Saturn Apartments actually develop some intrigue, I can only assume that will be even better!

 

So, readers, what looks good to you this week? Inquiring minds want to know!

Bookshelf Briefs 5/16/11

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This week, David, Kate, Michelle, & MJtake a look at several titles from Yen Press and Viz Media, including a special dual-view of Usamaru Furuya’s Genkaku Picasso.

Arata: The Legend, Vol. 4 | By Yuu Watase | Viz Media – Shôjo superstar Watase’s first foray into shônen has a number of appealing qualities, many of which are reminiscent of the work of Rumiko Takahashi. There’s a durable quest plot that suggests that Watase is in this for the long haul. There’s the concurrent fish-out-of-water narrative, with an average, contemporary kid swapping places with a roguish boy from a fantasy kingdom in turmoil. And there’s a burgeoning supporting cast of cranky but amusing jerks who can’t resisting throwing their lot in with the heroes. It’s not all Takahashi pastiche, though. Careers could certainly be (and probably have been) built on that, but Watase has her own sensibility that’s very much in evidence here: recognizable emotions writ large, and ordinary people thrown into extraordinary circumstances. It’s a very endearing, sturdy series that may not be particularly surprising, but it’s always nice to see Watase in good form. -David Welsh

Case Closed, Vol. 38 | By Gosho Aoyama | Viz Media – One of the unfortunate side effects of long-running shônen is a build-up of excessive familiarity, especially if there isn’t much forward plot motion. Case Closed is certainly guilty of that, but this high-concept mystery is lively fun if you don’t read too much of it at once. This volume is business as usual. Teen-turned-tyke super-sleuth Conan Edogawa looks for a way to restore himself to his proper age, helps his elementary-school friends solve a theft, figures out who murdered a professional wrestler in spite of adult dismissal and incompetence, and helps a rival teen super-sleuth out of a sticky situation. Aoyama certainly knows how to keep his episodes moving briskly, and it’s entertaining to try and solve the cases along with Conan and company. My favorite bits feature Conan and his classmates, and there’s at least one laugh-out-loud moment in their amiable investigation. -David Welsh

Genkaku Picasso, Vol. 3 | By Usamaru Furuya | Viz Media – The third and final volume of Genkaku Picasso follows the same basic template as the previous installments: Hikari, a.k.a. “Picasso,” draws pictures of what’s inside his classmates’ hearts, then plunges into the images to decode their meaning. This time around, however, Hikari finds himself trapped inside one of his own visions, and must interpret what he’s seeing in order to heal his own emotional wounds. Although the series ends on a happy note, the prevailing tone is decidedly cheeky; Furuya can’t seem to decide if he’s writing a Shonen Jump title or mocking one. That ambiguity isn’t a bad thing, however, as it injects even the most mawkish or predictable scenes with a jolt of subversive energy. -Katherine Dacey

Genkaku Picasso, Vol. 3 | By Usamaru Furuya | Viz Media – I was a bit critical of Genkaku Picasso‘s first two volumes, generally finding Usamaru Furuya’s art to be the main draw instead of the too-easy efforts of antisocial artist Hikari (and ghostly pal, Chiaki) to solve the secret problems plaguing his classmates. Imagine my surprise, then, when the final volume of this weird little series actually evoked a sniffle or two! True, some elements of the final chapter, in which Hikari dives into his own heart and must learn to accept the truth of Chiaki’s death, are kind of hokey, but I liked it anyway. – Michelle Smith

Higurashi When They Cry: Demon Exposing Arc | Story by Ryukishi07, Art by En Kito | Yen Press – The family that slays together stays together — or so we’re led to believe through most of the Demon Exposing Arc. The story focuses on the Kimiyoshis, recent transplants from the Hinamizawa region. In the days following a terrible explosion in Hinamizawa, Grandma Kimiyoshi becomes convinced that Oyashiro-sama, guardian spirit of Hinamizawa, was punishing the villagers for their lack of faith, and sets out to prove her devotion to this ancient and wrathful god. Grandma’s resolve alone would make for a spooky story, but as her family is drawn into her paranoid fantasies, the plot takes a grislier and more compelling turn. As with other installments of the Higurashi franchise, the story sometimes bogs down in dense, info-dump dialogue, but the story remains suspenseful from beginning to end, rewarding readers with a deliciously nasty surprise in the final pages. -Katherine Dacey

My Girlfriend’s a Geek, Vol. 3 | By Rize Shinba, story by Pentabu | Yen Press – Taiga gets a shock as this volume opens, when his girlfriend informs him that she’s found a girlfriend. Later on, he gets roped into some romantic Christmas cosplay, and nearly roped into attending winter Comiket. This series may not be deep, but it sure is fun, enhanced nicely by Rize Shinba’s skillful visual storytelling and fujoshi-tinged sense of humor. As a bonus, volume three also includes a chapter from Sepatte Takuro, Yuiko’s favorite slashable shounen manga-within-the-manga, drawn by mangaka Hiromi Namiki, which is frankly delightful. This is one of those series I feel I probably shouldn’t like, but I just really do, more so with each new volume. Recommended for a light weekend read. -MJ

Blood Alone, Vols. 1-3

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In his essay Moe: The Cult of the Child, Jason Thompson argues that one of the most pernicious aspects of moe is the way in which the father-daughter relationship is sentimentalized. “Moe is a fantasy of girlhood seen through chauvinistic male eyes,” he explains, “in which adorable girls do adorable things while living in questionable situations with adult men.” The idealized “daughters” found in Kanna, Tsukuyomi: Moon Phase, and Yotsuba&! adore their “fathers” in an uncritical fashion, showering them with affection and trying — often unsuccessfully — to play the role of wife and mother, in the process endearing themselves to both the hero and the reader with their burnt meals, singed shirts, and sincere desire to please.

Blood Alone provides an instructive example of this phenomenon. The story focuses on Misaki, a young female vampire whose appearance and mental age peg her as an eleven- or twelve-year-old girl. Misaki lives with Kuroe, a twenty-something man who’s been appointed as her guardian — though in Yotsuba-eqsue fashion, the circumstances surrounding their arrangement remain hazy in the early volumes of the manga. When we first meet Kuroe, he seems as easygoing as Yotsuba’s “dad,” a genial, slightly bumbling man who supports himself by writing novels and moonlighting as a private detective. And if that isn’t awww-inducing enough, Kuroe’s first gig is to locate a missing pet, a job that Misaki takes upon herself to complete when Kuroe bumps up against a publisher’s deadline.

As soon as Misaki’s cat-hunting mission goes awry, however, we see another side of Kuroe: he’s handy with his fists, quickly dispatching a rogue vampire who threatens Misaki’s safety. Small wonder, then, that Misaki has a crush on her guardian; not only is he the kind of sensitive guy who writes books and rescues kitties, he’s also the kind of guy who goes to extreme lengths to protect his family.

If that were the extent of their relationship, Blood Alone would provide enough heart-tugging moments to appeal to moe enthusiasts without offending other readers’ sensibilities, but Masayuki Takano plays up the romantic angle to an uncomfortable degree. The most unsettling gambit, by far, is Kuroe and Misaki’s penchant for sleeping in the same bed together. That a grown man would even entertain such behavior is disturbing enough, but what makes it particularly egregious is that Kuroe rationalizes this arrangement because Misaki is afraid of “ghosts and monsters.” I think we’re supposed to find this endearing — a vampire who’s afraid of the dark! — but it serves to infantilize Misaki even more than her little-girl dresses, terrible cooking, and fierce jealousy of Sainome, the one adult woman in Kuroe’s life. If we only saw things from Misaki’s point of view, one could make a solid argument that Masayuki Takanao is deliberately showing us things through a distorted lens, but Takano’s narrative technique simply isn’t that sophisticated; Kuroe’s behavior — his solicitousness, his guilt — suggests that Misaki’s understanding of their relationship isn’t as far off the mark as an adult reader might hope.

This kind of confusion extends to other aspects of the manga as well. About one-third of the stories fall into the category of supernatural suspense. The dialogue favors information dump over organic revelation of fact, while the plot frequently hinges on characters suddenly disclosing a convenient power or revealing their vampire connections. Yet these chapters are more effective than the slice-of-life scenes, blending elements of urban fantasy, police procedural, and Gothic horror into atmospheric stories about vampires who use the anonymity of cities to hide among — and prey on — the living.

The rest of the series, however, is jarringly at odds with the suspenseful mood of these stories; we’re treated to numerous chapters in which very little happens, save a Valentine’s Day exchange of chocolates or a jealous spat. As a result, the series feels aimless; whatever overarching storyline may bind the supernatural element to the domestic is too deeply buried to give the series a sense of narrative urgency.

Art-wise, Blood Alone boasts attractive, cleanly executed character designs and settings, but stiff, unpersuasive action scenes. Backgrounds disappear when fists fly, and the bodies look like awkwardly posed mannequins, their legs and arms held away from the torso at unnatural angles.

The most distinctive element of the artwork is Takano’s willingness to abandon grids altogether, creating fluid, full-page sequences in which the characters’ faces play a similar role to panel boundaries and shapes in directing the eye across the page. In this spread, for example, Sainome gently teases Misaki about her relationship with Kuroe:

The undulating lines and overlapping images give these pages a pleasing, sensual quality, but what’s most striking is the way in which the strongest lines on the page point to Misaki’s eyes and mouth, showing us how difficult it is for Misaki to conceal her feelings for Kuroe. The wordless sequence below — in which Misaki waits for Kuroe to join her on a date — works in a similar fashion, using the direction of Misaki’s gaze to lead us through the proper sequence of events:

Though these two scenes are gracefully executed, they point to the biggest problem with Blood Alone: Misaki and Kuroe aren’t portrayed as ward and guardian, or brother and sister, but as star-crossed lovers whose age and circumstance make it impossible for them to fully express their true feelings for one another. Some readers may find their unconsummated romance heartwarming, the story of a love that can never be, but for other readers, Misaki and Kuroe’s relationship will be a deal-breaker, a sentimental and uncritical portrayal of an inappropriate relationship between a young vampire and her adult protector.

Review copy provided by Seven Seas.

BLOOD ALONE, VOLS. 1-3 • BY MASAYUKI TAKANO • SEVEN SEAS • 600 pp. • RATING: TEEN (13+)