Manga Critic

Gorgeous Carat, Vols. 1-4

May 11, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

gcvol1 Gorgeous Carat caught my eye because it seemed to be a frothy costume drama set in turn-of-the-century Paris, and I’m a sucker for historical fiction. There’s something delicious about seeing another time and place through a sympathetic character’s eyes, trying to imagine what it was like to live during the Napoleonic wars or the Tokugawa era. What’s not so delicious, however, is seeing a contemporary author unconsciously absorb the prejudices of another era and incorporate them into her story.

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

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Gorgeous Carat, Vols. 1-4

May 11, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

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

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

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

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

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

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

Short Takes: Genghis Khan and Venus Capriccio

May 7, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Much as I love composing in-depth reviews, the sheer number of new releases makes it impossible for even the most ambitious critic to give every interesting series the 800-word treatment. In an effort to stay abreast of current titles, therefore, I’ll be posting a regular column that offers more concise assessments of new and noteworthy books — manga tapas, if you will. This week, I look at two recent releases: Genghis Khan: To the Ends of the Earth and Sea (CMX), a done-in-one biography of the famous warrior; and volume one of Venus Capriccio (CMX), a romantic comedy about a tomboy and the piano prodigy who loves her.

GENGHIS KHAN: TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH AND SEA

BY NAKABA HIGURASHI AND SEIICHI MORIMURA • CMX • 178 pp. • RATING: TEEN PLUS (13+)

Cecile B. DeMille never made a movie about Genghis Khan, but if he had, it might have resembled To the Ends of the Earth and Sea, a beautiful but turgid biography of the great warrior. All of the requisite elements are there: sweeping vistas, epic battles, blood oaths, and feuding brothers. The only thing missing is camels.

To the Ends of the Earth follows Genghis Khan at two critical stages in his life: his early adolescence, when his father was grooming him to become the new head of the Borjigin clan (a powerful Monoglian tribe); and his mid-life, when he was systematically conquering the rest of Mongolia. In the first chapter of the story, we learn that Khan’s tribesmen questioned his parentage, suggesting that he was, in fact, the scion of a rival clan. We also see Khan’s fateful meeting with Jamuqua, the future leader of another powerful tribe, the Jadirat. These two scenes provide the subtext for later chapters, implying that Khan needed to conquer Mongolia to prove himself his father’s heir, and to settle an old score with Jamuqua, to whom he’d sworn a blood oath of allegiance as a child. Unfortunately, this effort to bring psychological nuance to Khan’s character falls flat; at 178 pages, the book isn’t long enough to accommodate quiet scenes of character development and epic battles without skimping on both. That leaves the dialogue with the primary responsibility of advancing the narrative, yielding passages that sound more like exposition than conversation: when was the last time you heard one of your siblings identify himself by birth order?

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Real, Vols. 1-4

May 3, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Slam Dunk may have been the series that put Takehiko Inoue on the map and introduced legions of Japanese kids to basketball, but for me, a long-time hoops fan who grew up watching Larry Bird lead the Celtics to numerous NBA champtionships, Slam Dunk was a disappointment, a shonen sports comedy whose goofy hero desperately needed a summer at Robert Parrish Basketball Camp for schooling in the basics. Real, on the other hand, offered this armchair point guard something new: a window into the fiercely competitive world of wheelchair basketball. Watching Inoue’s characters run a man-to-man defense and shoot three-pointers from their chairs gave me a fresh appreciation for just how much strength, stamina, and smarts it takes to play the game, with or without the use of ones’ legs.

Much of the series’ appeal lies with Inoue’s superb draftsmanship. As he does in both Slam Dunk and Vagabond, he immerses us in the action, making us feel as if we’re on the court with his characters, bumping rims and talking trash. No detail is squandered; even a close-up of a character’s eyes or hands helps us picture where his teammates are on the court, and imagine how the play might unfold.

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Real, Vols. 1-4

May 3, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

The other thing that Real does incredibly well is give us a window into its characters’ emotional lives, something that the antic, frantic Slam Dunk never pauses to do. (In Inoue’s defense, I don’t expect a shonen comedy to shed much light on its hero’s interior life, especially one as dense and single-minded as the flame-haired Hanamichi Sakuragi.) Its three principle characters—Togawa Kiyoharu, a track-and-field standout whose promising career was snuffed by bone cancer, Nomiya Tomomi, a high school dropout responsible for paralyzing a girl in a motorcycle accident, and Takahashi Hisanobu, a high school basketball star sidelined by a spinal cord injury—are complex individuals whose foul tempers and bouts of self-loathing make them seem like ordinary people coping with extraordinary circumstances, rather than cardboard saints.

Consider Takahashi. Until the day he was hit by a truck, Takahashi embodied the big-man-on-campus stereotype, leading the basketball team, dating several girls at once, acing his exams, and enforcing the school’s social pecking order by ruthlessly hazing weaker students. The accident robs him not only of his mobility, but also his identity; Takahashi predicated his entire sense of self on what others thought of him. Once confined to a bed, however, he lashes out at anyone who shows him kindness: how dare these C- and D-list folk offer him pity? (In one of the series’ only running jokes, Takahashi evaluates everyone on a five-point scale, including the tough, homely nurse assigned to his ward. She rises in his estimation after ticking off a long list of American boyfriends.) As he begins the grueling process of rehabilitation, Takahashi’s sense of self is further undermined by the realization that learning to move again will require discipline, something he lacks. (In fact, Takahashi held his more disciplined teammates in contempt, viewing their work ethic as a sign of weakness.) His fear and anger begin curdling into self-pity, leaving him physically and emotionally paralyzed.

Degraded as the character may seem, however, Inoue never invites us to pity Takahashi. We feel his sense of loss and futility, yet it’s clear from Takahashi’s repellent behavior that he still has a strong will to live, giving us hope that his journey will end in redemption. What isn’t so obvious is how Takahashi will get his groove back, as Inoue doesn’t draw neat draw parallels between his story and Kiyoharu’s. (Nomiya, the dropout, emerged from his accident unscathed, and faces a somewhat different battle than the wheelchair-bound Takahashi and Kiyoharu.) Though it’s frustrating to wait and see what will happen to Takahashi, the slow and almost haphazard way in which his story unfolds gives the narrative a true-to-life rhythm that mitigates against a pat, uplifting resolution to the drama.

Inoue may take his time developing each character’s backstory, but he’s surprisingly efficient at establishing their personalities in just a few panels. The opening two pages of volume one, for example, speak volumes about Kiyoharu:

realpage1

realpage2

Through a combination of facial gestures and body language, those first five panels capture Kiyoharu’s fierce determination and incredible physical strength — he’s a consummate athlete pushing his body to its limits. Inoue then pulls back from Kiyoharu’s hands and face to reveal a lone figure dwarfed by an empty gymnasium. Kiyoharu’s discipline may make him a first-class basketball player, but as this image suggests, that discipline isolates him from other people — a theme that Inoue develops in volumes three and four, when Kiyoharu estranges his teammates with a grueling practice schedule and tough talk about winning.

Viz has done a terrific job of packaging Real, wrapping each issue in a beautifully designed cover and printing the artwork on creamy, high-quality paper that makes both the grayscale and full-color images pop. (I’m not really sold on the French flaps’ utility, though they certainly look cool.) John Werry’s fluid translation gives a distinct voice to each of the three principles — no mean feat, given how belligerent all three of them can be. Each volume includes a helpful set of cultural notes, as well as sidebars explaining the rules of wheelchair basketball; if anything, the American edition might have benefited from a more extensive appendix at the end of each volume.

I’m hoping that the deluxe presentation will encourage folks to give Real a try, regardless of their interest in basketball. It’s a sports story for those of us who care more about good writing and good artwork than the inner workings of a zone defense. But if you like to wax poetic about the Celtics/Lakers rivalry of yore, Real is your kind of series, too, as it will remind you just how beautiful the game can be when played with passion.

Review copies provided by VIZ Media, LLC.

REAL, VOLS. 1 – 4 • BY TAKEHIKO INOUE • VIZ • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Samurai 7, Vol. 1

April 29, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

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

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

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Samurai 7, Vol. 1

April 29, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

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

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

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

Forest of Gray City, Vols. 1-2

April 27, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Mourning the cancellation of Suppli? Still in Tramps Like Us withdrawal? Then I have something to help you heal that josei jones: Forest of Gray City, a two-volume soap opera about a twenty-something woman and her nineteen-year-old roommate—a May-July romance, if you will.

Forest of Gray City begins with a meet-cute scene as precious as anything in a Nora Ephron movie. Single and cash-strapped, illustrator Yun-Ook Jang posts an ad for a roommate. No one seems interested until Bum-Moo Lee, an aloof, impeccably dressed young man shows up at her door. She pleads with him to take the room. He accepts. There’s just one problem: Yun-Ook is tipsy and tearful when Bum-Moo arrives, and fails to recognize him as the barkeep she rudely dressed down just a few days prior to posting her ad. When she sobers up, Yun-Ook discovers that Bum-Moo makes a surprisingly good housemate. But would he make a good life mate? That’s the question at the heart of Forest of Gray City, as Yun-Ook wrestles with her attraction to Bum-Moo, an attraction complicated by romantic rivals, family entanglements, ambitious career goals, and that pesky age gap.

Though we learn a lot about Yun-Ook in these opening chapters, Bum-Moo remains a cipher for much of volume one. Given his age and his lack of direction—he’s a high school drop out—that seems appropriate, and helps explain why Yun-Ook initially rebuffs him when he asks, “Is it OK to have a crush on you?” Volume two provides the missing pieces in Bum-Moo’s history, beginning with an extended flashback to Bum-Moo’s relationship with his stepsister, an unhappily married college graduate who harbors an unhealthy attachment to her younger brother.

Volume two packs enough sudsy twists for a sweeps’ week worth of General Hospital episodes, from second-chance weddings and fatal car crashes to law suits, abusive husbands, and romantic rivals. Yet Forest of Gray City never devolves into melodrama, thanks to the quiet, relaxed presentation of the story. Artist Jung-Hyun Uhm relies on close-ups and body language instead of idle chatter to suggest her characters’ feelings. Midway through volume one, for example, there’s a lovely sequence in which Bum-Moo consoles his drunken, agitated roommate. Yun-Ook—who has just returned from a close friend’s wedding—is feeling unsettled and lonely, masking her anxiety with the defensive assertion that “Marriage isn’t the goal in life!” Bum-Moo offers no words of wisdom or soothing comments, just a glass of water and an arm to lean on. He sits with Yun-Ook until she falls asleep, then retreats to his own room looking dazed and wounded. It isn’t a profound moment, but it’s an honest one, and the kind of scene I wish I found in more manga.

Speaking of Uhm’s artwork, I think it’s both a strength and a weakness of this series. Her character designs are elegant if typical for sunjeong manhwa: both Bum-Moo and Yun-Ook are unnaturally long and slender with pretty faces, giraffe-like necks, and sparkling eyes, making them ideal mannequins for an assortment of elaborate, stylish outfits. The backgrounds, on the other hand, are very minimal. In some scenes, the lack of detail is effective; Yun-Ook’s apartment, for example, looks like my very first studio, complete with rickety, self-assembled furniture and improvised bookshelves. In others scenes, the backdrops look unfinished or hastily drawn, especially when contrasted with the characters’ costumes. On the whole, however, I found the artist’s preference for white spaces and spare interiors an effective metaphor for her characters’ sense of isolation.

Much as I like the artwork and the pacing, the real selling point of Forest of Gray City is its strong, plausible heroine. Yun-Ook isn’t just a collection of quirks and mannerisms, but a young woman with real problems and real aspirations. She’s 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. Highly recommended.

This review is a synthesis of two earlier reviews posted at PopCultureShock. My original review of volume one can be found here; my original review of volume two can be found here.

FOREST OF GRAY CITY, VOLS. 1-2 • BY JUNG-HYUN UHM • YEN PRESS • RATING: TEEN (13+)