Manga Bookshelf

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Manga Critic

Children of the Whales, Vols. 1-2

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Children of the Whales suffers from the same problem as many prestige television shows: it boasts a thought-provoking premise, compelling lead characters, and sophisticated visuals, but is such a relentlessly downbeat experience that you’d be forgiven for abandoning ship after a few chapters.

The story unfolds aboard the Mud Whale, a sentient vessel. Its 513 inhabitants have been exiled from their homeland for over 90 years, drifting across a vast ocean of sand punctuated only by the occasional island or abandoned boat. Fourteen-year-old Chakuro is the community’s archivist, tasked with recording births and deaths, strange encounters, and changes in the Mud Whale’s leadership, events he catalogs with almost fanatical devotion. Making his job more bittersweet is the discrepancy between the “marked” residents, whose ability to wield magic (or “thymia,” in the series’ parlance) dooms them to a short lifespan, and the unmarked residents, whose normal lifespans have forced them into the role of caretakers and governors.

To stave off despair, the Mud Whale’s residents eschew emotional display — a point reinforced in the earliest pages of volume one, when Chakuro sheds a tear at a 29-year-old woman’s funeral. Immediately, his peers enjoin him not to weep, lest “the souls at the bottom of the sea cry out for you.” It’s a simple but effective scene, one that reminds us that the Mud Whale’s inhabitants are caught between the real prospect of extinction and the uncertain possibility of survival; only their fierce commitment to living in the present moment preserves their tenuous existence.

While scavenging for supplies on a seemingly deserted island, Chakuro stumbles across a blank-faced girl about his own age. She attacks him with swords and sorcery, only to collapse, unconscious, from the effort of casting a spell. Chakuro is frightened but intrigued, and brings Lykos back to the Mud Whale where he learns her true identity: she’s an apatheia, an emotionless soldier. “Emotions will destroy the world,” she informs Chakuro. “The outside world you want to know so badly about is ruled by people deficient in feeling, using apatheias who have no heart to fight a war without end.”

The next major plot development — a surprise attack — delivers the series’ first truly grim moments, as the Mud Whale’s inhabitants are beaten, impaled, and gunned down by unknown assailants. Though Chakuro and Lykos have been fleshed out enough to earn the reader’s pity, the sheer size of the cast and the suddenness of the ambush blunt the impact of the carnage; we can see that Chakuro is devastated by the loss of his childhood friend Sami, but Sami is such a stock character — innocent, impetuous, infatuated with Chakuro — that her gruesome death registers as a manipulative attempt to illustrate the truth of Lykos’ earlier comments about the outside world. That same kind of heavy-handed editorializing extends to the villains’ physical appearance as well. They look like Juggalos in chain mail, sporting maniacal grins that scream, “Sadists ahoy!”, a point underscored in the gleeful way in which they violate corpses and taunt sobbing victims.

The most frustrating thing about these frenetic chapters is that they seem fundamentally at odds with the deliberate pacing and meticulous world-building in volume one. In these introductory pages, Umeda maps every nook and cranny of the Mud Whale, creating an environment as imposing and intimate as Hayao Miyazaki’s Laputa. She approaches her character designs with same patience and care, bestowing a semblance of individuality on each resident while establishing their collective identity as a people. Even Chakuro’s frequent voice-overs — presumably read from the Mud Whale’s archives — play an important role in helping us experience time the way the Mud Whale’s residents do; there’s a lyrical quality to Chakuro’s narration that captures the rhythms of their day-to-day existence.

Yet for all Umeda’s world-building skills, Children of the Whales‘ dour tone puts the reader at arm’s length from the characters. Minus the flashes of joy, humor, and warmth that temper Miyazaki’s most downbeat films, Children of the Whales feels more like an episode of The Leftovers or Rectify than Castle in the Sky; it’s so utterly mirthless that it casts a pall over the reader instead of prompting deep thoughts or empathy for the characters. Take my manga, please!

CHILDREN OF THE WHALES, VOLS. 1-2 • BY ABI UMEDA • VIZ • RATED T+ (FOR OLDER TEENS)

RWBY

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There was a moment in the early 2000s when Tokyopop slapped the “manga” label on just about anything it published, from licensed Japanese comics to comics made by aspiring American artists who were trying to break into the industry. Looking back on the heated debate over the legitimacy of OEL manga, I wonder how today’s readers will view RWBY, a work that meets the basic definition of manga as “comics created in Japan,” but has a more complicated history than other American properties that have been reimagined for Japanese readers.

RWBY’s path to the Shonen Jump imprint began in 2013 when Rooster Teeth, an American production studio, had a viral hit with an original, anime-influenced show about a team of girls who fight monsters. Over the next four years, interest in RWBY was strong enough to inspire a spin-off series, a video game, four soundtrack albums, and a manga illustrated by Shirow Miwa, creator of Dogs and Dogs: Bullets & Carnage. Like Miwa’s other work, RWBY ran in the pages of Ultra Jump alongside JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure and Bastard!! before being licensed by VIZ for American readers.

Flipping through its pages, there are hints that RWBY is a slightly different animal than Jiro Kuwata’s Bat-Manga or Kia Asamiya’s Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. RWBY reads like a skillful imitation of a battle-heavy shonen manga, a riot of flying fists, kicking legs, swinging scythes, and extreme camera angles. Almost every imaginable visual cliche is on display, from a girl with cat-ears (she’s a Faunus, or a “therianthrope”) to a school uniform that consists of a waist-nipping blazer and impossibly short skirt. And while Miwa’s artistic persona is evident in the story’s best pages, RWBY feels less like a manga adaptation of a popular American show than a compendium of things that American fans like about anime and manga.

The story follows a familiar template: four — or three, or five — special teens attend a special school where they learn how to use their special powers to defend the Earth from demons or aliens. Each teen has one unusual gift — say, teleporting or making killer bento boxes — and one well-defined personality trait that dictates the costume she wears, how much she talks, and whether she plays well with others. Though individually effective, the quartet — or trio, or quintet — is more formidable when they team up against their shared enemy, a lesson that’s reinforced early and often in the series both in the outcome of the battle scenes and in the characters’ on-the-nose conversations about friendship and cooperation. In RWBY, the principal team consists of four girls: Ruby Rose, a weapons expert, Weiss Schnee, a rich girl, Blake Belladonna, a former gang member, and Yang Xiao Long, a cheerful spazz who loves a good brawl. All four attend attend Beacon Academy, where teens train to become Hunters, skillful warriors who wield cool weapons and magical spells against the Grimm, a race of “soulless monsters” that threaten humanity’s existence.

On the screen, such a shopworn premise could still work with the addition of snazzy animation, strong voice acting, great sound design, and judicious pacing. On the page, however, RWBY falls flat. Miwa is hamstrung by the pedestrian source material, cranking out a manga whose principal characters are blandly pretty and prone to explaining things to one another. Just a few pages into chapter one, for example, Ruby blithely asks her teammates about Dust, the magical substance that powers their weapons. Without missing a beat, Schnee responds, “It’s a crystallized energy propellant that helps to power our world.” She then launches into a lengthy rumination on Dust that’s supposed to reveal something about her character — her family’s fortune is tied to Dust — but is such a poorly disguised information dump that it never rises to the level of conversation.

Glimpses of Miwa’s signature style — his sharp-featured characters and spidery linework — emerge most clearly in the battle sequences, when Ruby and friends face off with the Grimm. Miwa frames the action in panels whose bold, diagonal boundaries mimic the combatants’ slashing motions and flying leaps. In one of the manga’s most striking sequences, Miwa traces a bullet from the barrel of Ruby’s gun towards its target. This kind of tracking shot is a hackneyed gesture, but Miwa does something playful and surprising with it: he breaks the frame to create the illusion that the bullet is emerging from the page and whizzing past the reader:

The rest of the sequence, however, is a hot mess. Miwa’s relentless shift in perspective makes the fight as incomprehensible as a badly edited car chase; it’s never clear how many monsters are involved, or what makes the Grimm so lethal, despite the fact that Miwa has tried to mimic the show’s swooping camera work to show the carnage from every possible angle.

Miwa’s indifference to the material also manifests itself in the almost total absence of background detail. Though he introduces the fight sequences with an establishing shot or two — a glimpse of trees, an aerial view of a railroad track — the action unfolds in blank space. Plenty of manga-ka take similar shortcuts, but when a manga is 70% combat and 30% character-building, the effect is like looking at a scene from The Last Jedi or Avatar before the special effects were added; in the absence of any objects, buildings, or landmarks that would contextualize their actions and words, the characters look downright silly.

Part of me wishes RWBY were better, as it’s fascinating to see an American program get the manga treatment, especially one that wears its Bleach and Magic Knight Rayearth influences on its sleeve. Ten years ago, fans would have derided such a program as inauthentic; today, it seems, such trans-Pacific exchanges are unremarkable. Too bad RWBY never escapes the prison of Overused Anime and Manga Tropes to become something more original, compelling, or entertaining.

RWBY • MANGA BY SHIROW MIWA • BASED ON THE ROOSTER TEETH SERIES CREATED BY MONTY OUM • TRANSLATED BY JOE YAMAZAKI, ADAPTED BY JEREMY HAUN & JASON HURLEY • VIZ MEDIA • 260 pp. • RATED T, FOR TEENS (Fantasy violence, mild fanservice)

Drifting Dragons, Vols. 1-2

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The nineteenth century whaler was a tough character. He’d board a ship in Nantucket or New Bedford, sail around the tip of South America and then into the Pacific hunting grounds in quest of sperm whales. Every aspect of his job was dangerous and unpleasant; as author Eric Jay Dolin notes in Leviathan: The History of Whaling in America, crewmen endured “backbreaking work, tempestuous seas, floggings, pirates, putrid food, and unimaginable cold” during their long stints at sea. At the end of a two- or three-year tour, a whaler might still be in debt from all the equipment he’d purchased at the outset of his journey, especially if the ship’s yield was low. Yet the gruesome work he performed was vital to the Victorian economy: whales’ bodies yielded the fat, bones, and oils that illuminated homes, corseted ladies, and gave shine and staying power to paint (Dolin 12).

The characters in Taku Kuwabara’s Drifting Dragons are engaged in a similar enterprise: they trawl the skies in a flying ship looking for dragons. The opening pages of the story make the connection between whaling and “draking” explicit, as we join the crew of the Quin Zaza on an aerial Nantucket sleigh ride. We glimpse a dragon through a parting in the clouds: first its back, then its tail, and finally the entire animal, as enormous and majestic as a blue whale. As the wounded dragon begins to tire, a crew member rappels down the tow line to plunge a harpoon into the animal’s back, delivering the final blow:

This image is a perfect introduction to draking, simultaneously conveying the peril and thrill of hunting such a powerful, swift animal at high altitude. Kuwabata’s thin, graceful lines and sparing use of screen tone capture the speed of the wind, the texture of the dragon’s skin, and the delicate feathering on the dragon’s ears, but also the vast emptiness of the sky. These details allow us to imagine for ourselves what it would be like to stand astride the dragon’s back, gazing at a mountain peak that’s poking above the clouds, or looking back at the ship and realizing the impossibility of rescue if something goes wrong.

As exciting as the dragon hunting sequences are, Drifting Dragons is as much an exercise in careful world-building as action-oriented storytelling. Kuwabara devotes page after page to the crew’s routines, capturing the heat, smell, and physical labor of stripping meat from bones and rendering fat. He also renders the physical environment of the Quin Zaza in precise detail, from the main deck and crow’s nest to the sleeping quarters and the hold, where most of the butchering, smoking, and boiling takes place. Last but not least, Kuwabara shows us how each member of the crew contributes to the functioning of the ship, and explains what first drew them to the skies.

Though the crew is drawn in broader strokes than the ship itself, the characters are distinctive enough to register as people with feelings, desires, motivations, and frustrations. Kuwabara is generous with his supporting cast, giving each a scene or subplot that reveals an unexpected facet of their personalities. Kuwabara lavishes the most attention, however, on the Mutt-and-Jeff duo of Mika and Takita: he’s a bold risk-taker with little regard for his own safety, while she’s a cautious newbie, eager to learn the ropes and prove her worth.

In trying to make Mika a more fully rounded character, however, Kuwabara depicts him as a swaggering gourmet, an Anthony Bourdain of the air. Mika is always dreaming up new strategies for preparing dragon meat, regaling his shipmates with lengthy monologues about a new technique he tried or goading the Quin Zaza’s cook into making his favorite dishes. This culinary concept carries over to the end of each chapter, which concludes with detailed recipes for Dragon Tail Meat Sandwich, Dragonet alla Diavola, and Pressed Dragon Liver Confit. These interludes aren’t very funny or appetizing; if anything, they feel more like a naked attempt to jump on the weird-cooking-manga bandwagon than an organic part of the story Kuwabara’s trying to tell.

If Drifting Dragons’ efforts at comedy fall flat, the manga is nonetheless engrossing. Kurabawa clearly knows the history of whaling, and has found a clever way to integrate those details into his fantasy world. At the same time, however, the vividness of the world he’s created has its own integrity; one could read Drifting Dragons in blissful ignorance of Moby Dick or The Wreck of the Whaleship Essex and still be swept up in the activity of the Quin Zaza’s crew and the thrill of flying alongside dragons in the clouds. Highly recommended.

WORKS CITED

Dolin, Eric Jay. Leviathan: The History of American Whaling. W.W. Norton & Co., 2007.

Kuwabata, Taku. Drifting Dragons, vols. 1-2. Translated by Adam Hirsch. Kodansha Advanced Media, LLC, 2018.

The Manga Critic’s Year in Review: 2017

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When I put The Manga Critic on hold in 2012, the Internet was changing: Facebook and Twitter were replacing forums, Live Journals, and personal blogs as the primary way in which Internet users shared opinions. The manga industry, too, was in flux, recovering from the collapse of brick-and-mortar retailers such as Borders, the scourge of One Manga, and the demise of power players such as Tokyopop. Looking back on that transitional moment, I feel pangs of nostalgia for the old blogosphere — where each blog functioned like a virtual water cooler, providing a place for manga lovers to gather and discuss what they were reading — and for the days when teenagers clogged the graphic novel aisles at bookstores as they pored over the latest installments of Naruto.

At the same time, however, I recognize how necessary many of these adjustments were. The introduction of digital manga and the increased emphasis on day-and-date releases have had a positive effect on the market, creating a viable alternative to scanlations (at least for licensed titles). Manga publishers have also gotten bolder with licensing choices: who’d have thought that Seven Seas — the company that brought us Aoi House and Monster Girls — would play such an instrumental role in bringing classic manga to the US, raising the possibility that 2018 might be the first time two manga by Ryoko Ikeda were available in English?

Finding my voice in this new environment has been my biggest challenge this year. I often found myself struggling to say anything insightful about the books I was reviewing, not because they were offensive or poorly executed, but because they were too obvious, too familiar, too… focus grouped. These are occupational hazards for anyone who reviews popular media, to be sure, but I felt that weight more fully this year, in part because I felt a stronger responsibility to myself and to my readers not to treat middle-of-the-road titles with contempt — a goal I didn’t always achieve.

On a more personal note, 2017 was the year I said goodbye to Grendel, my canine sidekick for the last thirteen years. She’d been with me through graduate school, divorce, moving, and job changes — the low points — but also with me for wonderful adventures: climbing Mount Washington and kayaking in the Finger Lakes. I learned a lot from her, from the importance of routine to the importance of being in the moment. Most of all, however, she taught me the importance of boundaries; she was tough, sweet, willful, and not above nipping my ankles when she wanted me to do something. I’d never lived with a dog who was as feisty or independent as Grendel, two qualities that made her a pain in the ass sometimes, but also made our relationship richer and more rewarding. R.I.P., Woozums — I miss you.

What I’ve compiled below is an index of sorts, an attempt to document in numbers and links what I accomplished here at The Manga Critic in 2017. The format owes a debt to — OK, shamelessly copies — the Harper’s Index, but the contents are a lot less stodgy. So without further ado, here is a guide to my first year back in the saddle as a manga reviewer.

THE YEAR IN NUMBERS

BOOKS REVIEWED

MANGA REVIEWED

* Denotes a digital-only or digital-first release

The Best Manga You’re Not Reading: Star Wars

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I was five years old when Star Wars: A New Hope blasted its way into movie theaters. Like most members of Generation X, the film cast a long shadow over my childhood, dictating my Halloween costumes, afterschool play, Happy Meal purchases, toy collections, and clothing; I had Princess Leia action figures, Star Wars drinking glasses, Star Wars t-shirts, and a Star Wars beach towel. One of the few tie-in products I didn’t own, however, was a comic book adaptation of the movie. I’d purchased The Star Wars Storybook at a Scholastic book fair in 1978, but never knew that Marvel Comics or manga publishers were peddling something similar.

That’s a pity, because Star Wars has a long and fascinating history in print. Marvel’s six-issue adaptation of A New Hope, for example, was cooked up by a Lucasfilm executive to drum up business for the film — in essence, it was a trailer for comic geeks, arriving on newsstands a month before the movie opened. Though Marvel executives had been reluctant to license Star Wars — according to former editor Jim Shooter the “Prevailing Wisdom” at Marvel was that “science fiction doesn’t sell”  — it proved one of the company’s best business decisions of the 1970s. “The first two issues of our six issue adaptation came out in advance of the movie,” Shooter observed:

Driven by the advance marketing for the movie, sales were very good. Then about the time the third issue shipped, the movie was released. Sales made the jump to hyperspace. Star Wars the movie stayed in theaters forever, it seemed. Not since the Beatles had I seen a cultural phenomenon of such power. The comics sold and sold and sold. We reprinted the adaptation in every possible format. They all sold and sold and sold.

By contemporary standards, Roy Thomas and Howard Chaykin’s version is skillful but a little stodgy, relying on voice-overs to introduce key characters and explain plot points, rather than allowing the art to shoulder the responsibility of telling the story. Nonetheless, as Star Wars fever crossed the Pacific, Weekly Shonen Magazine republished Thomas and Chaykin’s comic, touching off a Star Wars manga blitz in Japan.

Japan caught Star Wars fever again in 1997, when the Special Edition trilogy hit theaters across the globe. Kadokowa’s MediaWorks division churned out a new set of Star Wars manga, hiring Hisao Tamaki (A New Hope), Toshiki Kudo (The Empire Strikes Back), and Shin-Ichi Hiromoto (Return of the Jedi) to handle the adaptations. And while all three are good, faithfully reproducing the main beats from each film, Tamaki’s version of A New Hope is that rarest of tie-in products: it captures the look and feel of the movie without slavishly copying it, offering both a fresh perspective on a canonical text and a point of entry for someone wholly unfamiliar with Star Wars. 

Part of what makes Tamaki’s version so fascinating is how he compensates for the absence of a soundtrack — no mean feat, given how noisy the Star Wars universe is. While Tamaki uses plenty of hand-lettered sound effects, he never uses them as a crutch, instead finding nifty ways to help us imagine the sound of a landspeeder skimming the desert floor or a Stormtrooper firing his blaster. Tamaki’s most effective tactic is careful attention to the velocity and direction of moving objects; through deft placement of speedlines and artful manipulation of the panels’ shape and size, he conveys the same information that a well engineered roar, squeak, thud, or electronic rumble might.

Then there’s the film’s lush, Wagnerian score, the kind of movie music that had been fashionable in the era of Ben Hur and Lawrence of Arabia but was considered unhip in the gritty, naturalistic world of early 70s cinema. The opening fanfare and dense web of leitmotifs are unquestionably part of A New Hope‘s appeal, goosing fight scenes and capturing the melancholy of a young Luke Skywalker as he gazes at a Tatooine sunset. Absent those musical prompts, however, Tamaki is forced to think about how to elicit the same emotions in words and pictures. One of the most dramatically successful attempts to bridge sound and silence occurs in volume one of Tamaki’s adaptation, right after R2D2 and C3PO land on Tatooine:

In the film, John Williams accompanies C3PO’s trek with music cribbed from The Rite of Spring — a decent choice, as Stravinsky’s dour ostinati and octatonic harmonies imbue the harsh landscape with an otherworldly quality. Tamaki, however, distills this two-minute scene to an evocative two-page spread in which a wide-angle view of the Tatooine desert unfolds beneath the individual panels, reminding us just how small and vulnerable both droids are. These images track closely with Lucas’ own vision, but the implied silence of the first and final panels in this sequence more powerfully conveys C3PO’s isolation than any musical gesture could:

The absence of sound has another unexpected benefit: minus the actors’ desperate attempts to make George Lucas’ dialogue sound… well, like conversation, the script has more room to breathe. Tamaki plays the earnest stuff straight and ramps up the comedy whenever someone is surprised or indignant. Luke, in particular, benefits from such an approach, given his age and naivete; in Tamaki’s hands, he’s Monkey D. Luffy with a lightsaber, freaking out over chores, the Millennium Falcon’s shabby appearance, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s death, a kiss from Princess Leia… you get the idea. Tamaki’s elastic deformations of Luke’s face transform him from blandly handsome farm boy to Shonen Jump hero, equal parts brave and ridiculous:

One of the manga’s other great virtues is its ability to expand and contract time in ways that a purely temporal medium like film can’t. The ability to speed up and slow down the unfolding the plot isn’t unique to comics, of course; filmmakers can use slow motion imagery or cross-cutting to manipulate the viewer’s perception of time, but a good manga artist takes advantage of the fact the reader can, in fact, stop time by poring over an image or a scene for minutes, savoring small but telling details that would otherwise get lost in the cinematic flow. Writing for Animerica in 2004, Patrick Macias offered a thoughtful explanation of how this kind of creative expansion of time adds new layers of meaning to Tamaki’s story:

It is in Tamaki’s take on destruction of the planet Alderaan that he really shows off his stuff. A scene that took mere moments to depict on-screen is drawn out to fill half a dozen pages. He inserts images of the Alderaan populace looking up to the heavens, and you can almost hear those “millions of voices suddenly crying out in terror” with more dramatic impact in the manga than in the film.

Of course, none of this would matter if Tamaki lacked the precision to bring Lucas’ vision to life on page. Again and again, Tamaki delivers amazingly detailed drawings of space ships, aliens, and weapons that pulse with the same life as Katsuhiro Otomo’s AKIRA and Shirow Masamune’s Ghost in the Shell; if you’d never seen or heard of Star Wars, you might reasonably infer that Tamaki dreamt up this world on his own. Tamaki proves equally adept at staging deep space dogfights, too, conveying both the dizzying speed with which the ships are moving and the maze-like surface of the Death Star:


For readers coming to the manga from the films, the biggest stumbling block will be the character designs: did Tamaki get them right? The short answer is yes, if you can tolerate a little artistic license with hairdos and body types. Not surprisingly, R2D2 and C3PO look most like their big-screen counterparts — no pesky noses or mouths to draw — but the rest of the cast bear a passing-to-strong resemblance to the actors who portrayed them, though Obi-Wan Kenobi looks and moves more like Chuck Norris than Sir Alec Guiness. Tamaki does an even better job of bringing Darth Vader and his Stormtroopers to life on the page, adding an extra touch of menace in the way he draws their helmets; you can almost see the soldiers grimacing under their plastic armor from the way he draws their browlines.

If I’ve sold you on manga Star Wars, you’ll be happy to know it’s a relatively inexpensive way to relive the original trilogy. The digital versions — currently available through Amazon and ComiXology — retail for $1.99 per volume. There’s also a Phantom Menace manga for the morbidly curious; Kia Asamiya is the author, and he’s been given the truly thankless task of condensing that stinker into two volumes. At least it won’t be as interminable as the movie.

WORKS CONSULTED

Macias, Patrick. “Star Wars, The Manga.” Animerica, VIZ LLC, 7 Apr. 2004, https://web.archive.org/web/20040407180902/http://www.animerica-mag.com/features/starwars.html. Accessed 27 Dec. 2017.

Rickard, Ron. “Retro Foreign: Japanese Weekly Shōnen Magazine #18 – 23 (1978).” Star Wars Comic Collector, 20 May 2016, http://swcomiccollector.blogspot.com/2016/05/retro-foreign-japanese-weekly-shonen.html. Accessed 27 Dec. 2017.

Shooter, Jim. “Roy Thomas Saved Marvel.” Jim Shooter, 5 July 2011, https://web.archive.org/web/20150912134444/http://www.jimshooter.com/2011/07/roy-thomas-saved-marvel.html. Accessed on 28 Dec. 2017.

Spellman, Ron. “A Long Time Ago: The Strange History of Marvel’s Original Star Wars Universe.” Comics Alliance, Townsquare Media, 28 Jan. 2016, http://comicsalliance.com/original-marvel-star-wars-comics-history/. Accessed 28 Dec. 2017.

Tamaki, Hisao. Star Wars: A New Hope, adapted from an original script by George Lucas, Marvel Comics, 1998. 4 vols.

Kigurumi Guardians, Vol. 1

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The first ten or so pages of Kigurumi Guardians are a gas. Hakka, a cheerful fifteen-year-old, comes home from school to find a kigurumi (animal mascot) in her kitchen. Though Ginger looks like the product of a Holstein/penguin tryst, no one in Hakka’s family is fazed by Ginger’s appearance, treating him like one of Hakka’s classmates. And if the Sasakuras’ warm embrace of Ginger wasn’t strange enough, Ginger’s method of communication puts things over the top: he’s reduced to scrawling short messages on cue cards since he can’t speak. Not until Hakka attends a school council meeting does she learn that Ginger is one of three animal-shaped guardians defending Earth from a race of puppet masters, and she’s his new handler.

So far, so good: the oddball premise, brisk pacing, and tart exchanges between Hakka and Ginger are executed with comic zest. As Hoshino begins laying the groundwork for the magical combat, however, it becomes clear that she’s making it up as she goes along. That tendency is most pronounced in the fight scenes, which are devoid of any tension, surprise, or humor, since it’s a forgone conclusion that Hoshino will think of a new rule or magical power that helps her heroes win the day.

More problematic is the dynamic between Hakka and Ginger. Bickering leads are a staple ingredient of romantic comedies, but the main point of contention between girl and mascot gets hammered into the ground by the end of chapter three. That joke — if one can call it a joke — is that Hakka must kiss Ginger to activate his magical powers; when she does, he immediately transforms into a dashing young warrior. Hakka hates kissing Ginger, but is repeatedly forced to go against her own wishes because, y’know, Earth’s future hangs in the balance. In our current #MeToo moment, this gag is an unpleasant reminder of how many books, movies, television shows, and manga reinforce the idea that women who refuse unwanted hugs and kisses are difficult, confused, or selfish.

It’s a shame that this gag is so central to the story, as Hoshino clearly intends Guardians to be naughty fun for teen girls — why else would all three mascots transform into tousle-haired bishonen?— but gets too caught up in drawing costumes and mascots to pay careful attention to the plot or consider the full implications of Hakka and Ginger’s relationship. By the end of volume one, the story has traded wacky hijinks for messy fight scenes and sappy conversations, losing its screwball zing in the process.

The verdict: File under D, for disappointment, and S, for squandered potential.

KIGURUMI GUARDIANS, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY LILY HOSHINO • KODANSHA COMICS • RATED: TEEN (13+) • 160 pp.

Mangasia: The Definitive Guide to Asian Comics

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The strengths and weaknesses of Paul Gravett’s latest book are neatly encapsulated in its title. Though the book purports to be a “definitive guide to Asian comics,” Gravett’s true aim is to trace the influence of the Japanese manga industry on comic book traditions across the Asian continent, from China and South Korea to Bhutan, India, Indonesia, Malayasia, Mongolia, and Vietnam.

Gravett’s thesis rests on two core assumptions. First, he argues that manga is Asia’s dominant comic book tradition, as evidenced by its “cultural influence and its extraordinary sales figures” (24); even Japan’s dojinshi (amateur) scene, he observes, “has more participants and publications than entire national markets” (31). Second, Gravett argues that colonialism played an essential role in extending manga’s reach beyond Japanese borders. The first wave of colonization was physical: as Japan invaded and occupied neighboring countries, manga proved “an ideal medium for spreading propaganda about the benefits of Japan’s leadership” and painting the Japanese as liberators, freeing Asia from Europe’s tyrannical grasp. The second wave of colonization was virtual: in the years following World War II, a demilitarized Japan reinvented itself as an industrial powerhouse, exporting consumer goods and pop-cultural products — manga, anime, and video games — in what Gravett characterizes as a “soft cultural invasion” of Asia and the West (14-15).

Gravett eschews a strictly chronological or geographical approach to the material, instead grouping his examples under six suggestive headings: “Mapping Mangasia,” “Fable and Folklore,” “Recreating and Revising the Past,” “Stories and Storytellers,” “Censorship and Sensibility,” and “Multimedia Mangasia.” This thematic approach gives him the freedom to explore parallels between manga and other Asian comic traditions in a creative — if sometimes non-linear — fashion. In his introductory chapter, for example, he traces the influence of Western comic strips across East Asia, showing how syndicated cartoons such as George McManus’ Bringing Up Father (1913-2000) and Oscar Jacobsson’s Adamsson (1920-1953) helped popularize the comic strip format with artists in Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, inspiring them to develop their own characters who were wrestling with “the allure of affluence, the desire for upward social mobility, and the nostalgia… for simpler past pleasures,” just as McManus’ Jiggs and Maggie did (28).

Two later chapters — “Recreating and Revising the Past” and “Censorship and Sensibility” — offer Gravett an opportunity to examine the complex dynamic between nationalism, censorship, and comics. Using the Phillippines as an example, Gravett explores the changing way in which Filipino artists depicted Japanese colonialism. His analysis focuses on three series: The Kalibapi Family, a wartime comic strip created at the behest of the Japanese Propaganda Corps; Kalawang sa Bakal (Corrosion of Steel), one of the first postwar comics to grapple with the horrors of Japan’s invasion of the Philippines; and Suicide Susy, a long-running series that pitted a spunky Filipina saboteur against Japanese soldiers. Over the course of forty years, Gravett observes, Japanese characters evolved from benign overlords to symbols of foreign oppression, reminders of Filipino collaboration, and — in the Marcos era — bumbling villains whose foolish antics distracted from the Marcos’ ruthless treatment of their own people.

“Censorship and Sensibility” also delves into gender politics. As one might expect, Gravett addresses genres such as yaoi, recognizing them as both pornography and resistance. “Manga about male-male romance,” he argues, “offer women an expressive playground in which to question and customize the alternatives to the oppressive heteronormativity of the powerful male and the weak female” (217). Gravett examines the legal complexities of obscenity laws as well, using Rokudenashiko’s protracted battle with the Japanese government to expose the inherent misogyny in many such regulations. He notes that she was convicted of distributing digital pictures of her vagina, but not for hanging manko (pussy) art in a gallery that only admitted women. “In the Japanese court’s eyes,” Gravett drily notes, “only men can be aroused by a vagina” (218-19).

For sheer visual beauty, Mangasia‘s stand-out chapter of  is “Fables and Folklore,” which focuses on comic-book adaptations of such important national texts as the Romance of the Three Kingdoms (China) and the Ramayana (India). The imagery runs the gamut from the merely functional to the photorealistic, with some genuinely striking selections. Zhang Guangyu’s wordless treatment of Journey to the West (1945), for example, is a unique synthesis of Chinese, Persian and Mexican influences, yielding a series of images that are at once playful and somber, rendered in a muted palette similar to Diego Rivera’s most famous murals, while Anant Pai and Ram Waeerkar’s Hanuman (1971) strikes an elegant balance between classical Hindu depictions of the popular deity and contemporary portrayals of superheroes and martial artists.

As one might expect from such a wide-ranging book, Mangasia‘s chief fault is its ambition: Gravett discusses examples from nineteen countries over a 100-year period, a tall order for a single volume. Important texts and artists get a few sentences each, making it difficult to fully appreciate their impact on the comics medium in their own countries or elsewhere. Likewise, historical contexts are rendered in broad strokes, through timelines and generalizations. In “Stories and Storytellers,” for example, Gravett asserts that “In the aftermath of World War II, the next generation in Japan strived to make their lives better,” a sentence that only hints at the incredible devastation caused by American bombing, or the economic hardships faced by ordinary Japanese citizens in the 1950s (164).

The title itself points to another drawback of Gravett’s approach: some of the examples in Mangasia bear only a tenuous visual connection to manga. In the absence of a clear, specific discussion of how manga influenced comics outside the immediate sphere of Japanese colonization, the reader is left to wonder whether a comic book retelling of the Mahabharata owes a debt to Shotaro Ishimonori, or if the story borrows more heavily from Indian sources. Some attempt to demonstrate the size of the international manga market, identify the countries where manga is most popular with readers, discuss the global piracy of manga, or examine manga fandoms across the Asian continent would have provided useful context for understanding how manga has insinuated itself into such a diverse array of comic traditions.

Whatever the limitations of a pan-Asian survey, Gravett recognizes the enormous cultural, religious, and historical differences that separate Muslim Indonesia from Hindu India, Buddhist Tibet, and the Catholic Philippines. If these differences are sometimes glossed over in service to his thesis, Gravett nonetheless does an admirable job of balancing discussion of Asian comics as a singular phenomenon and Asian comics as a set of discrete but overlapping traditions. The book’s design complements Gravett’s curatorial approach with evocative juxtapositions that reveal how certain themes and storytelling techniques manifest themselves across cultural lines.

The real stars of the show, however, are the 1,000 images that grace Mangasia‘s pages, allowing readers to see the transformation of a rough pencil sketch into a finished page, savor the richly saturated color palette and dynamic flow of a martial-arts adventure, and note the growing influence of digital technology on comic art. Whether you’re a manga reader or a comics scholar, the best way to tackle Mangasia is to follow Park Chan-wook’s advice, which appears at the very beginning of the text. “There’s the joy of simply taking in the art,” he observes (13), an apt assessment of this fascinating, flawed book’s appeal. Recommended.

Thames & Hudson provided a review copy.

Gravett, Paul. Mangasia: The Definitive Guide to Asian Comics, foreword by Park Chan-wook, Thames & Hudson, 2017.

A Polar Bear in Love, Vol. 1

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Don’t be fooled by the cute cover: A Polar Bear in Love is neither gag strip nor conventional rom-com about an improbable couple overcoming their differences. It’s a fitfully amusing, sometimes melancholy reflection on what it’s like to fall in love for the first time, filled with the awkward moments and misunderstandings that all dating newbies experience.

The set-up is simple: Polar Bear falls head-over-paws for Lil’ Seal. Lil’ Seal, for his part, is understandably terrified by Polar Bear’s declaration of love and suffers violent tremors and visions of his imminent demise. Author Koromo complicates this one-joke premise, however, by revealing that both Polar Bear and Lil’ Seal are male, and that neither of them are old enough to understand what it means to be in an adult relationship. Polar Bear, for example, labors under the impression that it’s normal for people to eat their loved ones. While that sounds like a cutesy, kids-believe-the-darndest-things punchline, Polar Bear’s belief is rooted in a fundamental law of the Arctic: the strong eat the weak. His own experiences with love, loss, and scavenging tug — OK, yank — on the heartstrings in an unexpected way, revealing the extent to which his carnivorous instincts are complicated by his desire for friendship.

The art, too, is deceptively minimalist. Both Polar Bear and Lil’ Seal are rendered as thick outlines against a wintery landscape, an artistic decision that allows Koromo to deform her characters for maximum humorous effect, but also underscores the fact that their white fur coats are intended to camouflage them from one another. Though the characters’ conversations are distinctively human, their physical movements are not; even when Polar Bear clasps Lil’ Seal to his chest in a tender embrace — a seemingly anthropomorphic moment — Koromo poses Polar Bear firmly on his haunches, capturing the muscular weight of his enormous hind quarters, and emphasizing the disparity between his size and Lil’ Seal’s.

But is it good, you ask? I’m not sure. There’s a brisk efficiency in Koromo’s artwork and a few delightfully absurd moments that illustrate the major gap between what Polar Bear says and what Lil’ Seal hears — an apt metaphor for what happens when two people try sorting out their feelings for one another. The story never finds a consistent rhythm or tone, however, lurching between somber reflections on arctic survival and antic scenes of Polar Bear glomping Lil’ Seal. The same is true of the characters; in some scenes, their chatter pegs them as worldly seven- or eight-year-olds, while other conversations make them seem like jejune high schoolers.

What I can say, however, is that I was genuinely surprised by A Polar Bear in Love. The manga didn’t follow any obvious formula, and wasn’t afraid to explore dark or weird emotional terrain in the service of character development. I wish I’d laughed more, or found the narrative less circular, but I won’t lie: a few scenes made me sniffle and feel protective of Polar Bear, despite his penchant for over-the-top pronouncements and bone-crushing hugs. His sincerity carried me past volume one’s weaker moments, and made me curious about what’s next for him and his harp seal pal.

A POLAR BEAR IN LOVE, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY KOROMO • TRANSLATED BY TAYLOR ENGEL • YEN PRESS • 160 pp. • RATED A, FOR ALL AGES

A First Look at The Promised Neverland

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Crack pacing, crisp artwork, and a shocking plot twist in chapter one — those are just three reasons to pick up The Promised Neverland when it arrives in comic shops on December 5th. The first volume is a masterful exercise in world-building, introducing the principal characters and the main conflict in a few economic strokes, avoiding the trap that ensnares so many fantasy authors: the info-dump introduction. Instead, the writer-artist team of Kaiu Shirai and Posuka Demizu allow the reader to figure out what’s happening by revealing important plot details as the characters uncover them, and letting the artwork establish the setting. That makes the very earliest pages of the story flow more like a rollercoaster than a Star Wars screen crawl, making every page turn feel like an urgent necessity.

The story begins at Grace Field House, an orphanage plucked from a Victorian novel: the main building is a homey Tudor villa that’s surrounded by open meadows and lush forest, perfect for a game of tag. Our first hint that something is amiss comes just six pages into the story, as Emma, the narrator, makes a mental note of all the things she’s grateful for: “a warm bed, delicious food” and “an all-white uniform.” Before we can ponder the significance of the uniform, however, Demizu inserts a panel revealing that every resident of Grace Field House has a number tattooed on her neck, a sure sign that the orphans are more prisoners than temporary wards:

A smattering of other clues — including a series of daily IQ tests and a fence encircling the property — reinforce our perception that Emma and her friends Roy and Norman are in grave danger. And while the earliest chapters occasionally bow to Shonen Jump convention with on-the-nose narration, it’s the artwork, not Emma’s voice-over, that makes each new revelation feel so sinister. Consider the panel that introduces the testing ritual:

In the first ten pages of the story, Demizu uses little to no shading to create volume or contrast, instead depicting the setting and characters through clean, graceful linework. The image above, which appears on pages 12-13, is the first time that we see such a dramatic use of tone; the students at the back of the frame look like they’re being swallowed by a black hole, while the students at the front sit under a klieg light’s glare. Demizu’s subsequent drawings are more restrained than this particular sequence, but her artwork becomes more detailed and complex than what we saw in the story’s first pages — it’s as if the setting is coming into focus for the first time, complicating our initial impressions of Grace Field House as a place of refuge.

I’m reluctant to say more about the plot, since the first chapter’s spell loses some of its potency if you know the Big Terrible Secret beforehand. (If you absolutely, positively must know what happens, Wikipedia has a decent, one-paragraph summary of the premise.) By the time Emma, Roy, and Norman realize the real purpose of their incarceration, however, the basic “rules” of the Promised Neverland universe have been firmly established, and the characters fleshed out enough for us to care whether they succeed in escaping. More importantly, the lead trio are smart and capable without seeming like miniature adults, making their likelihood of success seem uncertain, rather than preordained. That element of suspense may be difficult to sustain for 10 or 20 volumes, but hot damn — volume one is a nail-biter. Count me in for more!

Volume one debuts on December 5th in print and ebook form. Chapters 1-3 are available for free on the VIZ website; the story is currently being serialized in the English edition of Weekly Shonen Jump.

Manga in Theory and Practice: The Craft of Creating Manga

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Part manifesto, part how-to manual, Hirohiko Araki’s Manga in Theory and Practice: The Craft of Creating Manga is as idiosyncratic as the series that made him a household name in Japan. Araki characterizes his book as both a map, guiding the aspiring artist along the “golden way” of manga, and a tool kit for developing one’s storytelling chops. “If you were to go hiking on an unfamiliar mountain, you’d bring a map, right?” he states. “If you also have with you a foundation of mountaineering skill, you could wander onto side paths and discover unexpected scenery, and if you were to come across any dangers, you could find your way around them and still reach the summit” (12-13).

Araki’s own map to the summit was Hitchcock/Truffaut. First published in 1967, the book traced Hitchcock’s journey from title boy at Paramount’s Famous Players to director of Rear Window, analyzed Hitchcock’s signature techniques, and considered Hitchcock’s contributions to the development of film. It’s not hard to imagine why Truffaut and Hitchcock’s words beguiled Araki; they provided Araki practical tips for creating memorable characters and surprising plot twists while reassuring him that a popular medium like film or comics could, in fact, be a high art form.

That fancy pedigree helps explain what differentiates Manga in Theory and Practice from hundreds of other books aimed at the manga novice. Instead of tutorials on choosing pen nibs or drawing “manga” eyes, Araki offers a chatty, first-person treatise on writing a hit series, explaining the techniques he uses to sustain to a long-form story with examples from his favorite movies, manga, and novels. Araki also uses his own manga to illustrate how his ideas work in practice, narrating scenes from JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Poker Under Arms, and Cool Shock B.T. By choosing material from every stage of his career, he allows the reader to appreciate just how much his own style has evolved through years of study, practice, and editorial critique — a valuable example for any aspiring manga artist.

The book’s core chapters — “Designing Characters,” “How to Write a Story,” “Art Expresses Everything,” “What Setting Is to Manga,” and “All Elements Connect to the Theme” — outline Araki’s process for creating characters and settings, offering sound advice about which genres are best suited to serialization. Though Araki’s techniques are highly individual, the thoroughness with which he approaches world building is a useful model for less experienced writers. Araki even includes a detailed chart for capturing “sixty facts for fleshing out your characters,” from the obvious — age, gender, size — to the mundane — handedness, favorite brands.

Another recurring theme of Manga in Theory and Practice is that art is a means to an end, not an end in itself. “What your readers will see is the artwork,” Araki observes, “but behind those drawings exist the interconnected elements of character, story, setting, and theme” (41). To illustrate this point, Araki devotes several pages to explaining the difference between signification and realism, suggesting when one technique is more effective than the other. Using Jiro Taniguchi’s Solitary Gourmet (Kodoku no Gourmet) as an example, Araki notes that the hero “is drawn as an everyday salaryman, but the food is drawn with complete realism.” By drawing Goro in less detail than the food, Araki argues, Taniguchi directs the reader’s eye to the presentation, texture, and ingredients of every dish, rather than Goro’s reaction to the meal — a subtle but effective way to highlight the uniqueness of each restaurant Goro visits (45).

Araki returns to this idea later in the book, noting that the artist’s credibility lies, in part, with his ability to convince the reader that the story is taking place in a real world where characters walk, drive, text, cook, shop, and go to school. Under the provocative heading “How to Draw Guns,” Araki explains that hands-on experience with “machinery and tools” is essential to creating a realistic setting. “If you are drawing a motorcycle or bicycle, and you don’t understand how the wheels are attached or where the handlebars are placed, the result will be unsuitable for riding upon, and your setting will become incoherent,” he notes (131-32).

As pragmatic as Araki’s advice is, the book sometimes sags under the weight of Araki’s pedantic tone; it’s a little like reading a how-to book written by Polonius or your pompous Uncle Frank. In a section titled “The Difference Between Drawing Men and Women,” for example, Araki counsels the aspiring manga-ka that “nowadays, both men and women can become heroes.” And if that advice seems self-evident, what follows is even less useful. “If anything sets apart male and female characters, it’s only visual,” he elaborates. The decision to include female characters “is purely a matter of your own taste,” he continues, “as long as your characters are appealing, you could get away with a world of all men” (58-59). Small wonder so many male comic artists have no idea how to write female characters.

More amusing is a passage in which Araki castigates Francis Ford Coppola for extending the storyline of The Godfather beyond Michael Corleone’s promotion to family don. As Araki sees it, the plot developments that follow Michael’s ascent — Fredo’s betrayal, his divorce from Kay — violate Araki’s dictum that “protagonists are always rising.” “In the sequels,” Araki opines, “Michael is beset by troubles and family betrayals in a series of realistic scenes that are brilliantly rendered, but from the point of view of the audience, are unwanted and depressing” (100). Araki does praise Coppola’s commitment to this dreary vision of mob life, but it’s hard to escape the idea that Araki is dissing Coppola for the The Godfather II‘s downbeat ending.

And while I’m tickled by Araki’s assessment of The Godfather II, these odd digressions are part of Manga in Theory and Practice‘s charm. It’s one of the few how-to manuals that seems to have been written by a flesh-and-blood person working in the industry, rather than a manga illustration bot. More importantly, Manga in Theory and Practice is a valuable reference work, filling a niche that most manga manuals ignore: how to unify images and words into a dynamic story. Recommended.

VIZ Media provided a review copy.

Works Cited

Araki, Hirohito. Manga in Theory and Practice: The Craft of Creating Manga, translated by Nathan A. Collins, VIZ Media, 2017.

Astra Lost in Space, Vol. 1

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While the US manga market has plenty to offer teen readers, there’s a dearth of titles for kids who have aged out of Yokai Watch but aren’t quite ready for Bleach or Soul Eater. Astra Lost in Space, a new addition to the VIZ catalog, is a perfect transitional title for ten, eleven, and twelve-year-olds who want to read “real” manga: its slick illustrations and adventure-driven plot feel just edgy enough for this group, while the content falls safely within the boundaries of what’s appropriate for the middle school crowd.

The plot of Astra Lost in Space may remind older fans of Moto Hagio’s sci-fi classic “They Were Eleven”: nine high school students find themselves stranded aboard a spaceship whose communication system has been disabled. With only a few days’ supply of water and food on board, the group is forced to improvise a plan for making the five-month journey home. Their solution: hopscotching between planets — let’s call them “Class M” for the sake of convenience — where an abundant supply of water, plants, and animals await harvesting.

As you might guess, the planet-of-the-week formula provides artist Kenta Shinohara (Sket Dance) ample opportunity to draw menacing fauna and flora, and stage imaginative action sequences. In the volume’s best scene, for example, team captain Kanata Hoshijima leap-frogs across a field of sky-high lily pads to rescue the group’s youngest member from a flying, six-legged monster. Shinohara lavishes more attention to detail on Kanata’s long jump technique than on the turgon itself, breaking down each of Kanata’s jumps into discrete steps recognizable to any track-and-field fan: the approach, the takeoff, the hang, and the landing. In a further nod to realism, Shinohara shows us the physical toll that each jump exacts from Kanata; we can practically hear Kanata’s heaving breaths as he readies himself for the next one, an effective gambit for casting doubt on Kanata’s ability to reach Funicia.

For all the skill with which this rescue is staged, Shinohara can’t disguise the fact his characters feel like they’re the products of a Shonen Jump reader’s poll, rather than original creations. Kanata, for example, is a walking, talking checklist of shonen hero traits: he’s strong, friendly, over-confident, and burdened with a tragic backstory that gives him the will to persevere in any situation, no matter how dire. He also happens to be a decathlete, a fact that’s revealed as he rescues Funicia from the turgon’s grip. (At least that explains his javelin-throwing skills.) The other characters are less developed than Kanata, but will seem familiar to anyone who’s read three or four Shonen Jump titles: there’s Quittierre, a pretty rich girl whose tantrums conceal a good heart; Aries, a cute spaz who makes Edith Bunker look like a genius; Zack, a calm, smart boy who speaks in complete paragraphs; Charce, a boy who’s so handsome he sparkles; and a handful of less-defined characters who — according to the Third Law of Manga Plot Dynamics — will either be monster fodder or directly responsible for their classmates’ terrible predicament.

Manga novitiates, however, will be less troubled by these nods to convention, thanks to the story’s brisk pacing, smart-looking layouts, and game attempts at humor. Though there’s a mild bit of fanservice and “fantasy violence” (VIZ’s term, not mine), parents, teachers, and librarians should feel comfortable allowing middle school students to read Astra.

N.B. The first 45 chapters are currently available through the VIZ website for anyone wishing to screen the story for younger readers. Volume one of Astra is also available in a Kindle edition, and will be available in a print edition that’s slated for a December 5th release.

ASTRA LOST IN SPACE, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY KENTO SHINOHARA • TRANSLATED BY ADRIENNE BECK • VIZ • 204 pp. • RATED T for TEEN

Yokai Rental Shop, Vol. 1

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Yokai Rental Shop is a classic example of Monkey Paw Theater, in which a foolish person comes into possession of a magical object, uses said object to grant an ill-advised wish, then pays a terrible price for his rash decision. Author Shin Mashiba puts a Japanese spin on W.W. Jacob’s famous story, substituting a nekomata and an okuri-inu for a cursed paw, but otherwise conforms the tenets of the genre. The clientele of Pet Shop Crow seek quick or unwise solutions to everyday problems: one mourns the untimely demise of her favorite idol, another dreads his daily encounter with bullies, and a third worries that her younger sister is trying to steal her boyfriend. To help each client “solve” her problem, shop owner Karasu rents them an exotic pet with special abilities. That pet comes with specific instructions — defy them and the deal goes sideways, resulting in bodily harm or emotional trauma.

I liked this story better when it was called Pet Shop of Horrors.

Part of the problem is that Karasu’s clientele is an unsympathetic lot, especially when contrasted with the characters in “The Monkey’s Paw” or Pet Shop of Horrors. The bullying victim, for example, is so enraptured by his yokai companion’s powers that he explicitly ignores Karasu’s instructions, fantasizing about how he will utilize his new-found strength. Within two pages, however, he realizes the folly of his arrogance, as the okuri-inu metamorphoses into a canid Godzilla with a taste for human flesh. Only a quick intervention from Karasu prevents the chapter from devolving into a gruesome spectacle, though you may wish that Karasu had adopted a more laissez-faire attitude towards his foolish client.

The other major issue plaguing Yokai Rental Shop is that Mashiba doesn’t stick with the monster-of-the-week formula for long. A subplot involving Karasu and his half-brother Hiiragi, a fussy civil servant, takes a detour into InuYasha territory when Karasu makes an important discovery about their father. Mashiba tries milking the brothers’ temperamental differences for laughs, but the jokes don’t land with much force; if you’ve seen one episode of The Odd Couple or read a chapter of xxxHolic, you’ve seen this dynamic executed with more gusto and imagination, two qualities that Yokai Rental Shop sorely lacks.

Neither of these deficiencies would be so glaring if the artwork was less perfunctory, but Mashiba’s serviceable character designs and settings do little to imbue the story with its own identity. The shop’s clientele, in particular, are blandly interchangeable; they look like they belong in a government-issue manga about tax returns or recycling, lacking the kind of individuality that might highlight the poignancy of their dilemmas or underscore just how determined they are to get what they want. Even the “turn” in each story — in which the yokai reveal their true natures — is executed in get-the-job-done manner, relying too much on dialogue, smudgy screentone, and slashing lines to suggest what’s happening.

By skimping on these moments, Mashiba misses a crucial opportunity to make the reader feel pity, revulsion, satisfaction, or fear at the outcome of each story; the strongest reaction that any of these scenarios elicits is a shrug of the shoulders. The reader is left wondering why the author even bothered with the horror angle when her true objective seems to be writing a dramedy about a Mutt-and-Jeff pair of brothers—albeit eccentric ones.

YOKAI RENTAL SHOP, VOL. 1 • BY SHIN MASHIBA • TRANSLATED BY AMANDA HALEY, ADAPTED BY JULIA KINSMAN • SEVEN SEAS ENTERTAINMENT • RATED TEEN

Until Your Bones Rot, Vol. 1

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When Lois Duncan passed away in 2016, fans and critics alike fondly remembered her as the author of I Know What You Did Last Summer, the first great psychological thriller for teens. Duncan’s story took a tried-and-true plot and retooled it for younger readers, focusing on a quartet of teens who commit and conceal a crime, only to be stalked by an anonymous avenger. While the plot was pure potboiler, Duncan’s characterizations were remarkably realistic, convincingly depicting the confusion, uncertainty, and rashness of the teenage mind under extreme duress.

Until Your Bones Rot explores similar terrain as I Know What You Did Last Summer. Bones’ teen protagonists — Shintaro, Akira, Haruko, Ryu, and Tsubaki — are bound by a gruesome crime they committed when they were eleven years old. Artist Yae Utsumi doesn’t immediately reveal what, exactly, they did, though he plants tantalizing clues throughout volume one: a fleeting glimpse of a nighttime ritual, a nightmarish vision of a bloodied face. The plot is set in motion by an anonymous phone call threatening to expose the group unless they meet the caller’s demands. Though the five initially work together to protect their secret, fault lines soon develop within the group, particularly between Akira — the group’s alpha male — and Shintaro, the odd man out.

Utsumi handles the set-up with finesse, but his tone is less assured. Some passages feel like they’ve been ripped from Love Hina, with bikini-clad girls fawning over the nebbishy Shintaro; other passages read more like MPD Psycho, with characters doing disgusting things to dead bodies; and still other passages play out like a Very Special Episode of The OC in which one character silently copes with an abusive boyfriend. None of these scenes feel like they belong to the same story; about the only common thread that binds them is Utsumi’s fanservice, which gratuitously eroticizes a scene of sexual assault.

It’s a pity that the first volume is so uneven, as Utsumi makes a game attempt to create believable characters. Tsubaki and Shintaro, in particular, behave like real teenagers whose emotional and sexual attraction to one another is so overwhelming that they don’t know how to have a normal conversation or behave like friends; their one-on-one interactions suggest that both were deeply scarred by their participation in the murder, but lack the words — or the maturity — to say how it effected them, instead turning to each other for physical comfort. That’s a level of psychological nuance that Lois Duncan herself might have appreciated, even if Utsumi takes a few narrative shortcuts to establish the dynamic between Tsubaki and Shintaro.

And that, in a nutshell, is what makes Until Your Bones Rot so frustrating: Utsumi clearly understands the teenage mind, but can’t decide if he’s writing a finely observed psychological thriller or a junior-league Saw. The push-pull of these two different storytelling modes robs the most gory scenes of their horror and the most dramatic scenes of their poignancy, yielding a muddled stew of blood, boobs, and tears. Someone should make him read I Know What You Did Last Summer for a few pointers on how to walk the line between Grand Guignol and Afterschool Special more convincingly.

UNTIL YOUR BONES ROT, VOL. 1 • STORY AND ART BY YAE UTSUMI • TRANSLATION BY URSULA KU • KODANSHA COMICS • RATED 16+ (SEX, PARTIAL NUDITY, GRAPHIC VIOLENCE)

H.P. Lovecraft’s The Hound and Other Stories

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If you admire the fecundity of H.P. Lovecraft’s imagination but not the turgidity of his prose, you might find Gou Tanabe’s manga adaptations of The Hound and Other Stories an agreeable alternative to the originals. Tanabe sticks close to the source material while pruning away the florid language characteristic of Lovecraft’s writing, offering more polished — and, frankly, unnerving — versions of three early works: “The Temple,” first published in 1925, “The Hound,” from 1922, and “The Nameless City,” from 1921.

Tanabe is no stranger to literary adaptations; he’s also tackled works by Maxim Gorky (“Twenty-Six Men and a Girl”), Franz Kafka (“A Hunger Artist”), and folklorist Lafcadio Hearn (“The Story of O-Tei”). Lovecraft’s writing, however, occupies a unique place in Tanabe’s oeuvre, as he’s published adaptations of other Lovecraft stories — “The Color Out of Space” (1927) and “The Haunter of the Dark” (1935)” — and expanded Lovecraft’s novella “At the Mountains of Madness” into an ongoing, multi-volume series. Reflecting on his fascination with Lovecraft, Tanabe reverentially describes him as a “priest of his own Mythos,” capable of summoning “unknowable darkness” on the page. “By illustrating his stories,” Tanabe declares, “I intend to become an apostle of the gods he made” (172).

And while Tanabe’s sentiments are a little purple, his affinities with Lovecraft are evident in his artful translation of words into images. Consider “The Temple,” a tense drama set aboard a German U-boat in the waning days of World War II. While Lovecraft’s narrator baldly ascribes the crew’s irrational behavior to “peasant ignorance” and “soft, womanish” dispositions, Tanabe focuses instead on the extraordinary claustrophobia of their environment, cramming every panel with ducts, pipes, valves, levers, and gauges; the walls of the ship seem to press in on the characters as their disabled submarine plunges to its doom. That sense of entombment is heightened by Tanabe’s stark use of tone in the story’s final act, when the light emanating from the ship barely pierces the jet-black depths of the ocean. A fleeting glimpse of a dolphin — normally a symbol of innocent playfulness — becomes a sinister omen when lit from below, its smiling visage transformed into a sneer.

Tanabe also demonstrates a flair for drawing lost cities, evoking the grandeur and mystery of ancient civilizations through sheer scale: his temples and monuments are so large that they spill off the page, while their interiors are cramped and dark, more cave than castle. In “The Nameless City,” for example, we follow the narrator through a labyrinth of dark tunnels, his torch briefly illuminating objects and surfaces that hint at the true nature of the city’s inhabitants. These panels culminate in an extraordinary two-page spread revealing a Romanesque fresco that, on closer inspection, is populated not with demons, angels, and men, but reptilian monsters arranged in concentric circles around a Christ-like figure.

The revelation of who lived there — and how they treated their human subjects — provides a moment of thematic continuity with the other two stories in the anthology. As writer Robert M. Price explains in his forward to The New Lovecraft Circle, Lovecraft’s heroes seek forbidden knowledge, “gradual[ly] piecing together… clues whose eventual destination one does not know.” Price elaborates:

The knowledge, once gained, is too great for the mind of man. It is Promethean, Faustian knowledge. Knowledge that destroys in the moment of enlightenment, a Gnosis of damnation, not of salvation. One would never have contracted with Mephistopheles to gain it. One rather wishes it were not too late to forget it. (xviii–xix)

At the same time, however, the narrator’s terrible discovery exemplifies another important strand in Lovecraft’s writing: a sense of cosmic indifferentism, the idea that the universe is, in Lovecraft’s words, “only a furtive arrangement of elementary particles” that “presage of transition to chaos.” As Lovecraft observed,

The human race will disappear. Other races will appear and disappear in turn. The sky will become icy and void, pierced by the feeble light of half-dead stars. Which will also disappear. Everything will disappear. And what human beings do is just as free of sense as the free motion of elementary particles. (Riemer)

Viewed in this light, the rendering of the fresco seems less like a simple artistic choice by Tanabe than an expression of Lovecraft’s own cosmic indifferentism. By parodying the Christian iconography enshrined on Medieval cathedral walls, ceilings, and portals, Tanabe points both the futility of belief — it didn’t save the monsters, after all — and the inevitability that mankind will repeat the cycle of birth, life, and death that the monstrous fresco depicts.

And if all of this sounds like the ruminations of a freshman philosophy major, fear not; The Hound and Other Stories can still be enjoyed on its own merits. All three stories are well paced and vividly rendered, each embodying the Romantic definition of the sublime — “all that stuns the soul, all that imprints a feeling of terror”— while offering the kind of satisfying twists that pulp fiction readers craved in the 1920s. And for those more invested in the Lovecraft mythos, The Hound provides an opportunity to revisit these stories afresh, seeing them through the eyes of an artist who has dedicated his career to finding the poetry, the mystery, and the weirdness in Lovecraft’s words. Recommended. 

References

Price, Robert M. “Introduction.” The New Lovecraft Circle. Del Rey, 2004, xiii-xxvi.

Riemer, Andrew. “A Nihilist’s Hope Against Hope.” Sydney Morning Herald, 28 June 2003, http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/06/27/1056683892274.html. Accessed on 11 Oct. 2017.

Tanabe, Gou. H.P. Lovecraft’s The Hound and Other Stories. Translated by Zack Davisson, Dark Horse, 2017.

Hergé à Québec

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One of the highlights of my August visit to Québec City was the Hergé à Québec exhibition at the Musée de la civilisation. The show, which has already made stops in Paris, Geneva, and London, offers a retrospective on the life and work of Georges Prosper Remi (1907 – 1983), better known to children around the world as Hergé, creator of Tintin, intrepid boy reporter, and Snowy, his sardonic canine companion.

Hergé à Québec spans Remi’s entire career, from his first childhood drawings to his late-in-life brush with contemporary art. As a means of introducing Hergé to visitors, the show begins with a gallery of items culled from his formative years, including a comic drawn when he was a sixteen-year-old Boy Scout. This room is followed by a sequence of exhibits exploring three seminal Tintin stories, Tintin in the Land of the Soviets (1930), The Blue Lotus (1932) and Cigars of the Pharoah (1934). Through a series of well-chosen projections, photographs, and pages, the curators define Hergé’s ligne claire (clear line) style, and state the main thesis of the show: that Tintin teaches young readers about the world through his adventures — in which Tintin is subject to the slings and arrows of fortune as he travels through foreign lands — and missions — in which he pursues a specific objective, such as finding a lost object. This idea is further developed in later galleries, culminating in a charming display of pages from and items associated with Tintin’s two lunar adventures: Destination Moon (1953) and Explorers on the Moon (1954).

The show also includes a gallery featuring commercial posters designed by his production company l’Atelier Hergé-Publicité. These advertisements, rendered in a bold, colorful style reminiscent of Cassandre’s, urge consumers to fly Sabena Airlines, read Le Vingtième Siècle, and buy Parein biscuits. As playful and striking as many of these images are, the inclusion of one toy company’s poster — an image of a thick-lipped African child holding an umbrella — points to one of the exhibition’s main flaws: it misses the opportunity to address Hergé’s racist depictions of colonized people in a historically responsible fashion.

A selection of posters produced by l’Atelier Hergé-Publicité.

In tracing the development of Hergé’s storytelling from Tintin in the Land of the Soviets to The Blue Lotus, the show only tacitly acknowledges the two works that fell between them: Tintin in the Congo (1931) and Tintin in America (1932). Instead, the curators focus on Hergé’s relationship with Chinese artist Zhang Chongren, whom Hergé befriended shortly before writing The Blue Lotus. Through his interactions with Zhang, they argue, Hergé learned the importance of researching the places Tintin visited, rather than defaulting to popular stereotypes about their peoples. And while the discussion of Hergé and Zhang’s friendship offers evidence that Hergé was capable of taking a more nuanced view of other cultures, the show never examines Hergé’s paternalistic view of Belgium’s African subjects, an issue that’s explicitly addressed in both Benoit Peeters’ Hergé: Son of Tintin and Pierre Assouline’s Hergé, The Man Who Created Tintin.

The exhibition does a better job of addressing Hergé’s stint at Le Soir (1939-1944), the official newspaper of occupied Belgium. After the war, Hergé was arrested four times on suspicion of collaborating with the Nazi regime — charges that almost cost him his citizenship. To the curators’ credit, the show includes a brief video interview with Hergé about this episode in his life. By acknowledging his involvement with Le Soir in such a neutral fashion, however, the show misses another opportunity to present a more nuanced picture of Hergé’s political beliefs, warts and all.

Where the show excels is in its ability to immerse the visitor in Hergé’s creative process, from crude storyboards — with cross-outs, arrows, and editorial notes — to published work. Throughout the exhibition, there are numerous pairings of early drafts with finished products, allowing the viewer to trace the development of characters and scenes from concept to completion. The galleries also include several side-by-side comparisons of objects with the images they inspired, most notably in Tintin and the Broken Ear (1937). Although some of these pages are presented in their final form, with word balloons and dialogue, many are not. This decision allows the visitor to more fully appreciate the role of Hergé’s line work and colorful palette in creating Tintin’s world — without the mediating influence of text.

The exhibition also makes a strong case that Hergé deserves serious consideration as both an art collector and painter. The final gallery juxtaposes Hergé’s acquisitions — including Roy Lichtenstein’s Rouen Cathedral (1967) — with his own original canvases. And as fascinating as it was to contemplate Hergé’s taste in art, I found the modernist work that he produced under the tutelage of Belgian painter Louis Van Lint (1909-1986) more striking than the work he’d collected. His own paintings demonstrate strong affinities with Joan Miró and Marc Chagall, but also demonstrate strong affinities with his cartooning, as evidenced by his careful delineation of space and strong sense of color.

This 1973 mural greets visitors to the Musée de la civilisation.

It’s a shame that the curators didn’t explore Hergé’s life with the same zeal; doing so would have provided valuable context for understanding him as a product of a specific place and time, immersed in ideas that shaped the characters he created and the stories he told. Yet for all the show’s limitations, Hergé à Québec gave me new insight into Hergé’s evolution as an artist and storyteller, and a deeper appreciation of his craft. For an artist’s perspective on Hergé à Québec, see Ben Towle’s thoughtful evaluation of the exhibit.

Hergé à Québec is on display at the Musée de la civilisation in Quebec City through October 22nd. For information and tickets, click here. Note that the show is not included in the general admission price to the museum.