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Lovely Muco!, Vol. 1

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For thirteen years, I lived with Grendel, a smart, stubborn Australian shepherd who treated me and my husband like a pair of unruly sheep. She woke us up at 5:45 am every day, herded us to the park, and marched us around until we were exhausted. She nipped our ankles when we left for work—we weren’t supposed to leave the farm, I guess—and had strong preferences about everything, from which routes we walked to which brand of kibble we bought. When she wasn’t trying to bend us to her will, she applied her formidable intelligence to foraging snacks; she had a black bear’s talent for opening jars and containers. I loved her dearly, but I admit that there were times when I fantasized about living with a dog who didn’t behave like she owned us.

With my current commute, I can’t own the happy-go-lucky dog of my dreams, but I can do the next best thing: read about one. That’s where Lovely Muco! comes in. It’s a gag manga inspired by the real-life relationship between Komatsu, a professional glass blower, and Muco, his exuberant shiba inu.

In every chapter, Muco makes a discovery—that her nose is shiny, or that Komatsu isn’t a dog—and becomes so consumed with excitement that she ends up in trouble. Muco’s reactions to everyday situations bring out her inner Gracie Allen; she’s less dim than dizzy, viewing the world with the peculiar logic of a canine enthusiast. A trip to the vet, for example, leads her to wax rhapsodic about the cone of shame, which she views as a stylish accessory, rather than an encumbrance. Even when her injury starts to itch, Muco remains convinced that she looks cool, going so far as to imagine how Komatsu would look with his own cone.

As much as I love Muco’s antics, though, my favorite storyline focuses on Komatsu, who hires his pal Ushiko to design him a website. Ushiko uses the tools that you’d expect—a digital camera, a laptop—but Komatsu’s reactions to these technologies seem more appropriate for someone who’d just spent the last 20 years living off the grid than someone making a living in modern-day Japan. His child-like wonder mirrors the way Muco approaches just about everything in her life, from tennis balls to car rides—a neat inversion of their usual roles of bemused owner and confused dog.

Takayuki Mizushina’s artwork is more gestural than literal, distilling each character to a set of bold lines and simple geometric shapes. Muco’s face, in particular, bears only a passing resemblance to a shiba inu’s; her head is a hexagon with two triangles perched on top, providing Mizushina an ideal canvas for capturing Muco’s over-the-top responses to everything. In many sequences, I was struck by how much her facial expressions reminded me of Domo’s, right down to the way she grimaces when she has an epiphany:

What I like best about Lovely Muco, though, is that Muco’s thought process isn’t like Grommit or Snoopy’s. She’s not building wild contraptions or fantasizing about being a World War I flying ace; she’s just trying to make sense of the people and things in her environment. Her fascination with ordinary objects is a nice reminder that part of living with a dog—or any sentient creature—is recognizing how strange and interesting our world must seem to them, and taking pleasure in their curiosity and enthusiasm. Recommended.

PS: If you just can’t get enough shiba inu hijinks, you can follow the real-life Muco’s exploits on Twitter. (Hat tip to @debaoki for the link.)

LOVELY MUCO! THE HAPPY DAILY LIFE OF MUCO AND MR. KOMATSU, VOL. 1 • ART AND STORY BY TAKAYUKI MIZUSHINA • TRANSLATED BY CASEY LEE •  KODANSHA COMICS  220 pp. • RATED 10+ (SUITABLE FOR READERS OF ALL AGES)

Insomniacs After School, Vol. 1

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First published in 1911, Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden has beguiled millions of readers with its portrait of Mary and Colin, two sickly children who heal themselves by finding a forgotten space and bringing it back to life. Burnett’s story is very much a product of the Edwardian era, steeped in colonialism and patriarchy, but the core plot—in which the children discover their own agency, and create their own sanctuary—seems as relevant in 2023 as it did over a century ago.

Insomniacs After School steals a page or two from The Secret Garden, shifting the action from a British manor to a Tokyo high school where Nakami, a grumpy, uptight boy, and Magari, a goofy, spontaneous girl, are struggling with insomnia. The two meet cute when Nakami stumbles over Magari sleeping on the floor of the school’s long-abandoned observatory. After commiserating about their difficulty falling asleep, Nakami and Magari hatch a plan to transform the observatory into a clubhouse where they can hang out or sneak in a much-needed midday nap. They scavenge furniture, hang curtains, and welcome a neighborhood cat into their space, in the process uncovering the telescope left behind by the now-defunct astronomy club and, of course, becoming friends.

As delightful as these early scenes are, the best sequence in volume one documents their first outing as members of the “Enjoy-the-Night Club.” Nakami and Magari sneak out of their homes and into the city, meandering through empty neighborhoods, dodging a night patrolman, posing for photographs, and gazing out over the harbor as the first glimmers of dawn form on the horizon. Though there are a few lines of dialogue sprinkled throughout the chapter, most of Nakami and Magari’s adventure unfolds in companionable silence, allowing us to appreciate the stillness of early morning, and their thrill at being the only ones to witness the sunrise:

One of the strengths of Insomniacs After School is Ojiro’s low-key approach to character development. Ojiro isn’t in a hurry to reveal too much about his characters, fleshing out their backstories in an organic fashion through snippets of conversation and brief glimpses into their home lives. Nakami’s dad, for example, seems troubled, though it’s not clear from context what might be wrong, while Magari reveals she suffered from a serious childhood illness that made her frail. Neither teen wants their parents to know the full extent of their exhaustion, however, so they don’t seek help from the adults; as Magari declares, “When I was sick as a kid, I really hated how everyone worried about me. That’s why I keep my insomnia a secret.”

Another strength is the clean, expressive artwork. Ojiro’s facial close-ups and fresh use of perspective give us a sense of the characters’ eagerness for connection as well as their vulnerability and inexperience. In this sequence, for example, we see what happens when Nakami’s simple, matter-of-fact statement lands differently than expected:

The shift in perspective neatly underscores Nakami’s confusion: one minute he felt at ease with Magari, and the next he’s puzzled by her reaction, a note of trepidation registering on his face. Ojiro resists the temptation to verbalize what his characters are thinking, instead letting the reader feel his characters’ discomfort as Nakami’s comment hangs in the air.

Ojiro’s knack for capturing these small but emotionally charged moments lends Insomniacs After School a realism that will appeal teen readers; it’s a quiet, carefully observed portrait of two kids who are navigating the space between friendship and romance, with all the confusion and excitement that entails. Other readers—especially those of us with vivid memories of The Secret Garden—will find Insomniacs a warm reminder that bringing light and life to a neglected place can heal the heart, no matter how old you are. Highly recommended.

INSOMNIACS AFTER SCHOOL, VOL. 1 • BY MAKOTO OJIRO • TRANSLATED BY ANDRIA CHENG • TOUCH-UP & LETTERING BY INORI FUKUDA TRANT • VIZ MEDIA • RATED T (FOR TEENS)

Marmalade Boy: Collector’s Edition, Vol. 1

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One of shojo manga’s most time-honored plot lines goes something like this: a young girl’s life is turned upside down when her mother or father remarries someone with a teenager of their own, usually a cute boy who’s smart, athletic, and insufferable. Over the course of six or ten volumes, however, the heroine gradually moves from indignation to infatuation, finally admitting to herself what everyone else could plainly see: she likes her stepbrother. There are a usually a few complications on the way to a blissful relationship—say, a crazy ex-girlfriend who won’t go away—but the step-siblings eventually realize that they’re meant to be together.

Wataru Yoshizumi’s Marmalade Boy adds a new wrinkle to the formula, however, by engineering a crazy scenario for bringing her romantic antagonists under the same roof. In the opening pages of volume one, fifteen-year-old Miki Koishikawa’s parents come back from a trip with shocking news: they’re getting divorced. Making matters worse is that the Koishikawas have decided to swap partners with the Matsuras, a couple they met while traveling, and combine their families into a single household that includes both Miki and the Matsuras’ son Yuu. Yuu, of course, is a quintessential shojo prince: he’s gifted at tennis, an ace at math, and popular at school and—naturally—Miki hates him. She finds him smug in his refusal to criticize their parents’ impulsive behavior, and is furious that no one seems to understand her reservations about their new living situation. 

Their blended family life is established with great efficiency, setting the stage for plenty of misunderstandings and fights between Miki and Yuu. Yoshizumi also wastes no time in introducing other romantic prospects for both leads; a good part of volume one, in fact, follows the complicated friendship between Miki and Ginta, a cute tennis player who Miki used to like. Yuu, meanwhile, has his own romantic travails when his ex-girlfriend Arimi tracks him down at his new school, determined to rekindle their relationship by any means necessary. And if all those potential entanglements weren’t enough to fill thirty or forty chapters, Miki’s best friend Meiko starts hooking up with her hot homeroom teacher in the school library.

If I’m reading the story in Responsible Adult Mode™, it’s hard to ignore all the WTF? shenanigans. In one of the weirdest scenes in volume one, for example, the Matsuras and Koishikawas stage a fight to see whether Miki truly disapproves of their living arrangement, confessing their deceit only after a tearful Miki begs them to follow their hearts. The sight of all four parents gaslighting their daughter is comically awful; I’d be the first to admit that I’m on Team Miki, as she seems to be the only person who grasps the impulsiveness of the adults’ spouse-swapping arrangement. Then there are the usual shojo red flags: student-teacher relationships, stolen kisses, and characters whose behavior sails over the line between friendly interest and stalking.

If I allow myself to reconnect with my inner twelve-year-old, however, I have to admit that Marmalade Boy is funny, silly, and engrossing, offering a teenage gloss on Dynasty or Melrose Place. It’s the kind of manga in which two romantic rivals settle their differences with a high-stakes tennis match—in front of the whole school, of course—and characters state their intentions in a bald fashion: “I won’t lose you to him,” Arimi cheerfully warns Miki over a sundae. (A sundae!) Yoshizumi’s ability to balance the absurd with the everyday lends an air of plausibility to these scenarios; there’s always a kernel of emotional truth to the interactions between the characters, even when they’re dreaming up soap-worthy schemes.

Though the plotting is intricate, the artwork is clean and unfussy; backgrounds, hairdos, and clothing are rendered in a style that keeps the focus on the characters’ faces and body language. Miki has big, dramatic reactions to everything, but Yoshizumi avoids too much deformation or mugging to convey Miki’s distress. More surprising is how gracefully the artwork has aged, aside from an errant headband here and there; it wouldn’t look out of place at Barnes & Noble in 2023. (Well, that’s not entirely true; Yuu has a major case of 90s Shojo Prince Hair™, notable for its height and for the artful way it flops to one side of his face.)

All of this is to say that I enjoyed Marmalade Boy waaaaaaaaaay more than I expected, given my advanced age and my strong preference for stories about, y’know, adults. I cheerfully recommend it to anyone looking to recapture the feeling of reading their first shojo manga, or the palpable excitement of being a manga fan in the early 2000s, when Tokyopop published these kind of stories by the truckfull. Recommended.

MARMALADE BOY: COLLECTOR’S EDITION, VOL. 1 • BY WATARU YOSHIZUMI • TRANSLATED BY AMBER TAMOSAITIS • ADAPTED BY KRISTA GRANDY • LETTERING BY JENNIFER SKARUPA • SEVEN SEAS • RATED TEEN+ 

Blood on the Tracks, Vols. 1-5

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One part Mommie Dearest, one part Kids, Blood on the Tracks is an unsettling depiction of the toxic parent-child relationship between Seiko, an overbearing mother, and Seiichi, her thirteen-year-old son.

The first volume is an artful tease, frankly portraying Seiko’s controlling behavior while encouraging the reader to see it through her obedient son’s eyes: as an expression of parental love. Oshimi hints that Seiko’s attachment to Seiichi goes beyond a simple desire to protect him, but it isn’t until a fateful hiking trip that Seiko’s true ability to manipulate and terrorize Seichii is revealed. In the aftermath of the trip, Seiichi begins to question his earliest childhood memories, and forms a connection with his classmate Yuko, another teen caught in a toxic parent-child relationship. The teens’ effort to break free of abuse, however, is thwarted by their age and by Seiichi’s deep-seated guilt about running away from home; the final page of volume five shows Seiichi abandoning Yuko under a highway overpass to search for his mother, rain and tears streaming down his face.

I’d be the first to admit that Blood on the Tracks is a potent reminder of just how good an artist Oshimi is. No matter what genre he’s working in, he does a superb job of creating fully embodied characters whose facial expressions, gaits, and vocal tics reflect their lived experiences; we can see how socially and emotionally stunted Seiichi is from the way he slouches and stands on the fringes of his friend group at school, and from his difficulty making eye contact with other people. Even more striking is how fluidly Oshimi segues from crisp naturalism to abstraction, using the latter as a way of representing how feelings manifest not as fully formed thoughts but as vivid, unsettling images that intrude on everyday life. Oshimi’s expressive linework and creative use of perspective give these sequences a visceral authenticity that would be almost impossible to achieve with language. 

In this scene, for example, Oshimi shows us the turning point in Seiko’s relationship with his mother. The first image in the sequence offers a fleeting glimpse of Seiko as Seiichi used to see her: as a beautiful young woman who devoted her life to protecting her son from harm. The second and third images in the sequence, however, reveal how Seiichi now sees her: as a terrifying stranger, a point reinforced by his wide-eyed stare and the faint smirk on Seiko’s lips. Oshimi sharply contrasts the beauty of the setting with the horror of what just transpired, creating a visual analog for Seiichi’s shock at learning who his mother really is.

The stumbling block—for me, at least—is that Oshimi’s stories always veer into the uncomfortable terrain of transgressive behavior and power dynamics. His characters exhibit such destructive, sadistic tendencies that his work often leaves me feeling queasy, not least because so many of his protagonists are teenagers. Maybe that’s the point: we can’t understand what it’s like to live with a pathologically selfish person unless Oshimi uses jump scares and creepy close-ups to make us feel the same sense of apprehension that Seiichi does. Yet there’s something distressing about making entertainment out of this material, however convincing his portrayal of Seiko’s pathology may be; I couldn’t shake the feeling that watching Seiko squeeze the life out of her son was a kind of emotional torture porn. I threw in the towel with volume five, but your mileage may vary.

BLOOD ON THE TRACKS, VOLS. 1-5 • BY SHUZO OSHIMI • TRANSLATED BY DANIEL KOMEN • VERTICAL

The Best and Worst Manga of 2022

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When I sat down to compose my Best of 2022 list, I was certain I’d compiled a similar one as recently as 2017, only to discover that I hadn’t done so in almost seven years. In looking over some of my earlier efforts, I hardly recognize myself: who was this person with the energy to review 40 or 50 books in a year? Or who thought that Yowamushi Pedal was the best new series of 2015? It felt a little daunting to revisit those lists, honestly, as I’ve often let my blog lie fallow for months at a stretch as I adjusted to a more demanding teaching schedule or a longer commute; I’ve been vowing to “bring back” The Manga Critic for years. Reading other bloggers’ year-end lists, however, inspired me to get back in the saddle and take stock of the manga I loved—and didn’t—in 2022.

Best New Manga: Shuna’s Journey
By Hayao Miyazaki • Translated by Alex Dudok de Wit • First Second
In this deceptively simple work, Hayao Miyazaki creates a richly detailed world filled with beautiful, strange imagery that invites the reader to contemplate where and when the story takes place without definitively answering those questions. Miyazaki’s hero is just as mysterious as the landscapes he crosses; Shuna’s odyssey is not a journey of self-discovery but a practical quest that, despite its myriad hardships, leaves him fundamentally unchanged. Is a he a folkloric hero or a witness to environmental catastrophe? Miyazaki leaves that question unanswered as well, creating a work that’s more ambiguous and less didactic than Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind or Princess Mononoke, but similar in its emphasis on the complex relationship between humans and the natural world.

Best Archival Project: Talk to My Back
By Yamada Murasaki • Translated by Ryan Holmberg • Drawn & Quarterly
“For six years now, I’ve never walked at a pace that was mine,” observes Chiharu, the protagonist of Yamada Murasaki’s sharply observed Talk to My Back. First published in the 1980s, Murasaki’s thirty-six vignettes chronicle the small pleasures and intense disappointments of a middle-class Japanese housewife. Through spare linework and judicious use of blank space, Murasaki conveys Chiharu’s quest to define herself outside the role of mother and wife, documenting Chiharu’s anger, frustration, and alienation in a restrained fashion that suggests how stifled and powerless Chiharu often feels. In a thorough, thoughtful companion essay, translator Ryan Holmberg explores Murasaki’s trailblazing role as an alt-manga creator; Murasaki was one of the first women artists to be featured in the pages of COM and Garo magazines, opening the door for creators such as Akino Kondo and Junko Mizuno. Here’s hoping that Drawn & Quarterly decides to publish more of Murasaki’s work in English.

Best New Sci-Fi Manga: Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou
By Hitoshi Ashinano • Translated by Daniel Komen • Adapted by Dawn Davis • Seven Seas
I’m not sure if I would have been as receptive to Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou five or ten years ago, as its low-key depiction of life in the aftermath of an environmental catastrophe might have struck me as hopelessly twee. With the worst of the pandemic behind us, however, I found the series’ emphasis on small, everyday moments more resonant; Hitoshi Ashinano convincingly evokes the rhythm of everyday life in a world of scarcity, minus the Hobbesian emphasis on violent competition. Alpha, the main character, is an android who divides her time between running a small cafe and roaming the coastline on her scooter, photographing the empty roads and submerged towns as well as the small, vibrant communities where people still find time to hold rowdy association meetings and stage elaborate firework displays. Her efforts to document humanity’s final chapter offer a wistful—and hopeful—meditation on what it means to persevere in the face of uncertainty and change.

Best New Romance: Kowloon Generic Romance
By Jun Mayuzuki • Translated by Amanda Haley • Yen Press
The aesthetic of Kowloon Generic Romance is pure 80s manga—think City Hunter or RG Veda—but the story and characters suggest the work of filmmaker Wong Kar-Wai, as Kowloon focuses on an intense but unconsummated flirtation between Reiko, a real estate agent, and Kudou, her brash, horny colleague. Like Kar-Wai, manga-ka Jun Mayuzuki is as enamored of settings as she is of characters, leading the reader on a languid tour of Kowloon’s shopping districts, cafes, back alleys, and apartment blocks, conveying how densely settled this city-within-a-city truly is. Though there are some minor elements of science fiction in play, the main attraction is the artwork and pacing; Mayuzuki devotes an entire chapter to depicting, in rapturous detail, Reiko’s evening ritual of enjoying a cigarette on her flat’s meager balcony, allowing the reader to experience the moment as Reiko does: a brief, wordless respite from the hustle and bustle of Kowloon.

Best New Comedy: Phantom of the Idol
By Hijiki Isoflavone • Translated by Max Greenway • Kodansha
In this delightfully bonkers series, a grumpy male pop star swaps bodies with the ghost of a former teen idol whose discipline and talent help transform Yuya into a charismatic, telegenic performer. The twist? Yuya’s been possessed by Asahi Mogami, a perky girl whose budding career was cut short by a car accident. The physical slapstick takes the humor in some unexpected directions as Asahi navigates the complexities of inhabiting the lazy Yuya’s body, while the dialogue offers plenty of sly pokes at the music industry, as well as some not-so-subtle reminders that pop stardom can be as grueling as it is exhilarating.

Best Manga I Thought I’d Hate: The Men Who Created Gundam
By Hideki Ohwada, Hajime Yatate, and Yoshiyuki Tomino • Translated by Jason Moses • Denpa
Of all the ways you could tell the story of Japan’s most famous robot franchise, it seems only right that Gundam creators Hideki Ohwada and Yoshiyuki Tomino opted for an over-the-top manga that dramatically recreates key moments in the series’ early history. The prevailing tone is reminiscent of a VH-1 Behind the Music special, complete with sudden reversals and last-minute triumphs; every line of dialogue is delivered with the kind of urgency usually reserved for a nuclear crisis, even when the conversation is focused on the more mundane aspects of creating a hit television show. Interspersed among the chapters are brief but useful essays connecting the storylines to real events, offering readers a more nuanced explanation of how Gundam helped the create the template for modern pop-cultural fandoms around the globe.

Worst Manga I Thought I’d Love: Crazy Food Truck
By Rokurou Ogaki • Translated by Amanda Haley • VIZ Media
On paper, Crazy Food Truck sounded like a blast, a cross between Mad Max: Fury Road and The Great Food Truck Race. In practice, however, Crazy Food Truck was surprisingly dull, serving up fight sequences as unimaginative as the food its hero serves his few paying customers. The central joke might be funnier if Gordon’s menu was so good that people would risk life and limb for his gourmet sandwiches, but when a BLT with mustard is his signature dish, it seems more like a failure of imagination than a real attempt at humor, especially when creator Rokurou Ogaki frequently reminds us that Gordon has mounted a cannon on top of his truck to ward off bad guys. Gordon’s sidekick Anisa is a one-note character, inserted into the narrative primarily for fan service that’s so indifferently executed it’s hard to muster any outrage. I have no doubt this series rocked some reader’s world, but I found it flavorless. (Reviewed at The Manga Critic on 6/7/22)

Worst Manga I Read in 2022: Rooster Fighter
By Sou Sakuratani • Translated by Jonah Mayahara-Miller • VIZ Media
Rooster Fighter is a disappointment: the premise is too slight to sustain a long series, the script is strenuously unfunny, and the storylines are numbingly predictable. In every chapter, the nameless hero wanders into a new town, antagonizes and befriends the locals in equal measure, then kills a grotesque demon that’s been terrorizing the community. About the only good joke in whole series is how the rooster kills demons; anyone who’s lived on or near a farm will enjoy a rueful laugh or two at the hero’s superpower. Otherwise, this series is a total Cock-a-Doodle-Don’t. (Reviewed at Manga Bookshelf on 8/16/22)

Emma Dreams of Stars: Inside the Gourmet Guide

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Before Yelp! and Open Table made it easy to find a good restaurant, you had two options: consult your local newspaper’s Arts & Leisure section, or buy a guidebook that ranked and sorted joints by price, cuisine, decor, and service. Zagat’s, for example, offered pithy, sometimes withering, assessments of restaurants that were capped by a starred rating, while The Fearless Critic used a ten-point scale that resembled the scoring system for a gymnastics meet. The most trusted—in the US, at least—was the Forbes Travel Guide, which employed an army of undercover critics to evaluate hotels and restaurants, and rank them on a scale from “average” to “one of the best in the country”. Though different in tone and format, all three owed a debt to a much older publication: The Michelin Guide, which was introduced in 1900.

The Guide was the brainchild of Édouard and André Michelin, founders of the Michelin Tire Company. At the time their booklet debuted, France was just beginning to embrace the automobile; the brothers hoped that distributing free copies might encourage people to buy their first car, as the Guide contained a wealth of information for the would-be motorist, including maps, auto repair tips, and lists of hotels, garages, restaurants, and attractions. In the 1920s, the Guide introduced its first rating system, eventually settling on a scale of one to three stars. The Guide also began hiring anonymous male inspectors to visit restaurants and hotels around Europe, reasoning that the nature of the job—travelling solo for weeks at a time—made it impossible for a woman to perform.

Enter Emmanuelle Masionneuve, who joined the Guide almost 100 years after Michelin introduced its star system. Masionneuve had an unusual path to becoming an inspector, training first as a lawyer and journalist before pivoting into the culinary industry. After working for three France’s most esteemed chefs—Michael Bras, Alain Ducasse, Alain Passard—she decided to put her food expertise to the ultimate test by auditioning for the Michelin Guide. Emma Dreams of Stars: Inside the Gourmet Guide, co-written with Julia Pavlowitch and illustrated by Kan Takahama, tells Masionneuve’s story.

In the early chapters, Emma functions both as a character and a reader surrogate. We follow Emma through every stage of her training, from her initial interview to her first solo trip, along the way gleaning interesting tidbits about how inspectors maintain their anonymity, interact with chefs and hoteliers, and avoid heartburn. (Eating rich meals all day isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.) Emma Dreams of Stars also explores Maisonneuve’s efforts to navigate the stuffy male culture of the Michelin Guide, where she’s reminded on a daily basis that she’s the only woman inspector. Though most of her male peers are collegial, she feels the weight of being a trailblazer, worrying that even the smallest mistake will jeopardize her future with the Guide.

Of course, Emma Dreams of Stars is also a story about French cuisine, and that front, the authors deliver exceptionally well. Throughout the book, there are lengthy discussions about the merits of various cheeses and wines, as well as numerous soliloquies extolling the virtue of simply prepared dishes, locally sourced ingredients, and regional specialties. Artist Kan Takahama does an expert job of rendering the food, using a soft palette that captures the texture and presentation of each meal in life-like detail. The same is true of her backgrounds; every setting demonstrates similar attention to light, pattern, and color, making it easy for the reader to feel the atmosphere of every restaurant and hotel that Emma visits, from a chic Parisian cafe to a dim but cozy rural pub.

Whenever the shop talk threatens to stop the story in its tracks, Takahama breaks up the stream of chatter by breaking the flow of her tight, orderly grids. Characters burst out of the frame, allowing us to more fully appreciate their enthusiasm and resolve. As these panels demonstrate, Takahama has a great talent for faces, working in a naturalistic style that’s reminiscent of Naoki Urasawa; Takahama imbues each one of her characters with an individuality that speaks volumes about their age and experiences, as well their taste in food and wine.

Though Takahama’s artwork is stellar throughout the book, there are a few passages where the authors didn’t fully trust the images to tell Emma’s story, most notably when depicting her strained relationship with Thomas, her long-term boyfriend. The two never meet in person, but exchange increasingly tense voice mails and text messages that reveal just how much Thomas resents Emma’s growing independence. Takahama’s artwork does a great job of showing us how conflicted Emma feels, but the authors saddle these moments with heavy-handed voice overs that spell out what the reader can readily grasp from Emma’s facial expressions and body language: she’s determined to have a meaningful career on her own terms, even if that means leaving Thomas behind.

If these moments feel a little forced, Emma’s interactions with other female foodies do not. In one particularly delightful chapter, for example, the Guide dispatches Emma to the Côte Vermeille, where a chance encounter with Natalie, a local vinegar maker, leads Emma to a lively farm-to-table bistro on the outskirts of town. As Natalie and Emma chat about the terroir–the secret ingredient in Natalie’s concoctions–we can see how their expertise and enthusiasm helps them form an immediate bond; by the time they arrive at the restaurant, they’re chatting like old friends.

The same spirit of mutual respect animates Emma’s interactions with another culinary expert: Kanami, a travel guide who leads Emma through a whirlwind tour of Tokyo. Kanami explains the origins of particular dishes, challenges the Michelin rating for a famous restaurant, and takes Emma to the Tsukiji Market to see how local fishmongers transform enormous tuna into delicate morsels. Emma is humbled by the depth and breadth of Kanami’s knowledge, and vows to return to Japan so that she can “keep learning and growing.” By the time I finished Emma Dreams of Stars, that’s how I felt, too. I was reminded of how little most of us know about the food we eat, and pledged to develop a deeper, more thoughtful relationship with the meals I prepare, and the dishes I enjoy. Recommended.

EMMA DREAMS OF STARS: INSIDE THE GOURMET GUIDE • BY EMMANUELLE MAISONNEUVE AND JULIA PAVLOWITCH • ART BY KAN TAKAHAMA • TRANSLATED BY EAMON FOGARTY • KODANSHA COMICS • NO RATING • 192 pp. 

 

Crazy Food Truck, Vol. 1

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Crazy Food Truck isn’t the worst manga I’ve read this year, but it’s one of the most disappointing, marred by lazy writing, paper-thin characterizations, and excessive fan service.

The most basic problem is that Crazy Food Truck reads more like a rough outline than a fully realized story. The premise is–if you’ll pardon the expression–half-baked: a gruff ex-soldier ekes out a living by operating a food truck in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. In scene after scene, Gordon laments the lack of paying customers, a joke that doesn’t square with the fact that he’s mounted a cannon on his truck to ward off the rogue military officers and exploitative creeps who inhabit this desert. Gordon’s cooking exploits aren’t particularly interesting or educational, either; the scenes of him drying squid meat or waxing poetic about mustard are executed in such a perfunctory way that they could have been lifted from almost any food manga.

Another issue is that Gordon is less a person than an archetype, a man with a secret military past who reluctantly helps people in need, always getting the upper hand in situations where he’s outmanned and outgunned. Early in chapter one, for example, he stumbles across a teenager in a sleeping bag. Arisa initially seems helpless and kind of dim, but turns out to be just as lethal as Gordon, with considerable martial arts skills and weapons expertise. Her bubble-headed observations and refusal to wear clothing grate on Gordon’s nerves, yet Gordon tolerates her child-like behavior, allowing her to tag along with him even after she eats all his food. (Surely that would be a bridge too far for a cook, no?) We never learn why Arisa is on the run from authorities, or why she acts like a six-year-old; she’s just a pin-up who pigs out with gusto. Fair enough, I guess, since this series ran in Monthly Comic @Bunch, but the infantilization of her character makes her exchanges with Gordon more icky than amusing, and gives us little insight into either character’s motivations.

Perhaps the most serious problem with Crazy Food Truck is Rokurou Ogaki’s lack of vision. A story this outlandish needs bold, individual artwork that matches the intensity and silliness of its central conceit, but Ogaki opts for a blandly synthetic approach that borrows liberally from better series. Each character seems to have been created by a different person: some are grotesquely cartoonish—the better to emphasize their villainy—while others look like they’ve escaped from Food Wars or Golden Kamuy. The backgrounds, too, lack panache, even when Ogaki teases the idea that the world was once a more lush place teeming with animals and people. In the absence of a distinctive, unifying style, the characters and objects look like they’ve been clipped out of different magazines and pasted into the panels.

It’s a shame that Crazy Food Truck is so indifferently executed, as I thought its Mad Max-meets-Food-Network premise sounded like fun. Alas, it’s the manga equivalent of a failed Iron Chef experiment, a mish-mash of ingredients don’t quite add up to a tasty dish. Not recommended.

CRAZY FOOD TRUCK, VOL. 1 • BY ROKUROU OGAKI • TRANSLATED BY AMANDA HALEY • ADAPTED BY JENNIFER LEBLANC • LETTERING BY E.K. WEAVER, JEANNIE LEE, SARA LINSLEY, AND JAMES GAUBATZ • VIZ MEDIA • RATED MATURE (NUDITY AND VIOLENCE) • 198 pp.

Sakamoto Days, Vol. 1

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The opening pages of Sakamoto Days unfold with ruthless efficiency: in just a handful of panels, author Yuto Suzuki shows us how twenty-two-year-old Taro Sakamoto, once Japan’s most “feared and revered” hit man, became Mr. Sakamoto, twenty-seven-year-old husband, father, and shopkeeper. Though Sakamoto seems content being the neighborhood jack-of-all-trades, his former associates view him as a potential threat, dispatching renown assassin Shin the Clairvoyant to kill him. Shin appears to have the upper hand in this contest—he’s younger, fitter, and, as his name suggests, telepathic—but Sakamoto quickly subdues Shin with a bag of cough drops and a well-timed kick, leaving Shin gasping for breath—and, oddly, eager to join forces with his old rival.

This initial encounter highlights Suzuki’s strengths and weaknesses as a storyteller. In the plus column is Suzuki’s ability to stage a great sight gag, as evidenced by Sakamoto’s MacGuyver-esque ability to transform ordinary objects into powerful weapons. Suzuki also makes the most of Sakamoto’s sangfroid; no matter how chaotic the scene or ridiculous his opponent, Sakamoto never betrays a hint of emotion, making him an excellent foil for the chatty Shin. In the minus column is Suzuki’s fixation with Sakamoto’s weight. Other characters routinely comment on how “out of shape” Sakamoto is, and express surprise at his speed and agility—Shin, for example, initially dismisses Sakamoto as a threat because “he’s gone all tubby now.” One or two comments in this vein are enough to subvert the idea that a skilled assassin needs to be fit to be lethal, but this “joke” is repeated almost every time Sakamoto mixes it up with a new bad guy. 

Art-wise, Suzuki’s style is pleasingly organic, relying more on linework than screentone to create depth and volume. Suzuki compliments this approach with an imaginative use of perspective and panel shape that suggests the controlled frenzy of Sakamoto’s attacks. In chapter three, for example, Shin and Sakamoto attempt to rescue Officer Nakase, a newly-minted cop who’s been kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. Sakamoto uses a smoke bomb to surprise his opponents, then unleashes a series of kicks, body slams, and upper cuts to overwhelm the gang members:


Suzuki presents the fight in a kaleidoscopic fashion, using panels of varying shapes and sizes to show how Sakamoto takes advantage of the smoke screen to dispatch his enemies, using the poor visibility to bob and weave his way to victory. The density of the images allows Suzuki to compress the action into just a few pages, creating a reading experience that puts the viewer in the middle of the action, watching the fight unfold in something approximating real time—a welcome antidote the bloated, multi-chapter fights scenes characteristic of so many Shonen Jump titles.

If some of the later chapters aren’t as tightly executed as the first, Sakamoto Days nonetheless achieves a good balance between character development and karate-chopping, affording us enough insight into Shin and Sakamoto’s personalities to make their Laurel and Hardy dynamic amusing. Recommended.

SAKAMOTO DAYS, VOL. 1 • ART AND STORY BY YUTO SUZUKI • TRANSLATED BY CAMILLA NIEH • LETTERING BY EVE GRANDT AND SNIR AHARON • VIZ MEDIA • RATED TEEN PLUS (VIOLENCE AND GORE) • 196 pp.

Days on Fes, Vol. 1

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Like many Gen-Xers, I cut my musical teeth at rock concerts. I didn’t have much experience going to festivals—they were rare in the 1980s—but I did catch the first Lollapalooza tour as it passed through the Boston area in 1991. My memories of that day are impressionistic; it was hot, dirty, and loud, and I considered leaving when I learned that Siouxsie and the Banshees had cancelled their appearance. I’m glad I didn’t, though, as the festival helped expand my musical horizons, introducing me to the sound of rap-metal and the Rollins Band, and reminding me just how phenomenal Living Colour was. Reading Days on Fes reminded me of that formative experience, though not in the way I’d expected. I imagined that a manga about rock festivals would focus on the music, but Days on Fes is equally concerned with food stalls, merch, and concert-going logistics, even dedicating one chapter to finding the perfect campsite at an outdoor festival.

The first volume follows two characters: Otoha, a goofy high school student, and Gaku, her thirty-something brother. In the first half of the book, Otoha persuades her classmate Kanade to attend the Meteorock Festival with her, while in the second Gaku drags his Eeyore-esque employee Ritsuru to the Fries & Sushi Festival. Both siblings face predictable hurdles in getting to the venue, from lack of interest—Kanade confesses that she doesn’t like rock—to lack of funds—Ritsuru bemoans the fact that he’s too poor to afford a ticket. Once at the festivals, however, both Kanade and Ritsuru succumb to the excitement of eating good food, wandering the grounds, drinking beer, sleeping under the stars, and—yes—hearing some concerts.

The most satisfying passages in volume one focus on getting ready for a festival. Oka vividly captures the feeling of pre-concert anticipation, carefully documenting the small but important rituals that festival-goers observe, from picking out an outfit to deciding what to bring; he even includes a two-page spread detailing the contents of Kanade and Otoha’s backpacks. Though this illustration serves a legitimate educational purpose, showing the festival n00b what they’ll need—suncreen, snacks—it also speaks volumes about the two girls’ personalities and expectations for the festival itself. Less satisfying are the performances. Oka relies on reaction shots and close-ups of musicians’ faces to convey the excitement of hearing live music, but the blandness of the illustrations undercuts the efficacy of this time-honored strategy for showing what can’t be heard: whoops, claps, whistles, boos, sing-alongs. The dialogue provides the only clue that these performances were good; characters spend more time talking and thinking about how the music effects them then they do listening to music.

For anyone old enough to remember the original Lollapalooza tour, the contrast between the lackluster performance scenes and the rhapsodic discussions of festival foods may be jarring; it often feels like Oka has channeled too much energy into depicting the things you can buy and do at a festival rather than what you might hear. For younger readers, however, Days on Fes offers a safe but tantalizing glimpse of what it might be like to attend Coachella or Bonnaroo, as well as a down-to-earth reminder that festivals are an expensive habit—a message that’s sure to be music to parents’ ears.

DAYS ON FES, VOL. 1 • ART AND STORY BY KANAKO OKA • TRANSLATED BY AJANI OLOYE • LETTERING BY ALEXIS ECKERMAN • YEN PRESS • RATED TEEN • 208 pp.

Downfall

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Downfall is the story of Karou Fukazawa, a deeply flawed, forty-something manga artist whose career has stalled, marriage has soured, and self-esteem has curdled into a toxic form of self-pity. He lies; he procrastinates; he cheats on his wife; he berates his assistants. Though he eventually finds a path forward, his journey is not one of self-discovery or personal growth, but of resignation, of realizing that the life he’d imagined for himself turned out to be deeply disappointing.

Inio Asano underscores the depth of Fukuzawa’s self-loathing in the way he depicts Downfall‘s female characters. Fukazawa’s wife Nozomi, for example, is a successful manga editor in her own right, but she carries herself like a remorseful child, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, and lips pursed. Fukuzawa complains that Nozomi devotes too much time to her job, criticizing her for paying more attention to the artists in her portfolio than to him, and excoriating her for not supporting him. His sense of entitlement is so powerful, in fact, that he coerces her into sex during a particularly nasty argument, a scene that’s so visceral, awkward, and claustrophobic that it’s genuinely hard to read, not least because it is such an unflinching portrayal of his narcissism.

Other female characters fare worse than Nozomi. Yunbo and Marimekko, two sex workers whom Fukazawa visits, are drawn in the same grotesque fashion as the pompous, foolish, and hypocritical characters in Dead Dead Demon’s Dedededestruction and Goodnight, Punpun. Fukazawa’s contempt for these women is thrown into sharp relief when contrasted with Chifuyu, an escort who reminds Fukazawa of an old girlfriend. Chifuyu is a gamine figure, with stylishly cropped hair, cat-like eyes, and a lithe body—a symbol of youth, possibility, and sexual desirability, unburdened by years of marital and professional disappointments—whereas Yunbo and Marimekko are awkward and unattractive, less individuals than vessels for Fukuzawa’s rage, and reminders of how much shame he feels over his faltering career.

As damning as all this sounds, Downfall isn’t simple misery porn. Fukuzawa is a rotten person, to be sure, but his ennui is genuine, rooted in the question of what it really means to turn one’s passion into a career. For Fukuzawa, that question is all-consuming, as he wrestles with the difficulty of making art in the context of the commercial publishing industry, where deadlines, reader surveys, and fickle fans exact their tolls. Fukuzawa also struggles with the manga industry’s voracious appetite for new talent, as he watches his book sales plunge while young, inexperienced artists find the kind of readership and acclaim that he himself once enjoyed. Even as I recoiled from Fukazawa’s sourness and misogyny, his professional dilemma resonated with me as a fellow forty-something with a career in the arts. What is the emotional and creative cost of making art on demand? How do you continue telling a story, creating art, or writing music when you are fundamentally disillusioned with the process? If you allow work to consume you in the name of becoming an expert, what remains when you reach those benchmarks of success? 

To explore these questions, Asano eschews a conventional narrative form, instead juxtaposing past and present in a rondo-like fashion (ABACA). The “B” and “C” sections take place in the present, unfolding in a linear manner, while the “A” section revisits a specific moment in Fukuzawa’s past: a youthful relationship that ended when Fukuzawa’s girlfriend declared, “As long as you keep drawing manga… you’ll keep on hurting people.” Asano is particularly adept at capturing the way in which the past and present sit side by side in the mind of an agitated person, rendering Fukuzawa’s memories as vividly as the present-day scenes, with consummate attention to small but meaningful details. From the way Fukazawa remembers this relationship—reciting the same observations about his girlfriend over and over again—it’s clear that he views this moment as a turning point in his life, and an explanation for who he has become. 

Yet these final pages feel less like a condemnation of Fukuzawa’s selfishness than a plea to understand his behavior: I renounced love for art. For me, at least, that feels like a cop-out, a way for Fukuzawa—and perhaps Asano—to tacitly acknowledge the character’s monstrous behavior while suggesting that it was somehow inevitable, pre-ordained, or natural. Viewed from a feminist perspective, though, it’s awfully hard to muster sympathy for a character who justifies his tantrums, violence, and vicious remarks as necessary to his art, especially when so much of his vitriol is directed at women. Your mileage may vary.

DOWNFALL • STORY AND ART BY INIO ASANO • TRANSLATED BY JOCELYNE ALLEN • EDITED BY PANCHA DIAZ • TOUCH-UP ART AND LETTERING BY JOHANNA ESTEP • VIZ MEDIA • 246 pp. • RATED MATURE (sexual situations, violence)

Zom 100: Bucket List of the Dead, Vol. 1

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If your chief criticism of King of Eden was “not enough boobs,” have I got the manga for you: Zom 100: Bucket List of the Dead, a comedy about a corporate drone whose life is transformed by the onset of a zombie plague. Its hero, Akira Tendo, sees opportunity where others see only chaos, and decides to make a bucket list of 100 things he wants to do before he, too, becomes one of the walking dead. His top priorities? Telling his voluptuous co-worker Ohtori how much he likes her—even if she is the “boss’ side piece”—and tracking down a mysterious hottie he encounters in a convenience store.

While Akira’s quest doesn’t sound particularly memorable, his new-found optimism makes him an agreeable guide through a Tokyo overrun by zombies. His palpable joy in quitting a soul-crushing job is infectious—if you’ll pardon the expression—as he finds pleasure in small things: riding a motorcycle for the first time, scavenging for his favorite beer, playing video games during normal business hours. No matter how much carnage he encounters, or how many of his bucket-list errands don’t go according to plan, Akira’s can-do spirit remains undiminished. So, too, is his loyalty to others, as evidenced by his willingness to rescue his childhood friend Tencho from a hotel overrun by zombies.

The hotel scene is indicative of what’s good and not so good about Zom 100. On the one hand, the friends’ shared ordeal leads to a heartfelt exchange in which they discuss why they drifted apart after college. Their dialogue is a little on-the-nose—“I got jealous of how successful you were and took my anger out on you,” Akira confesses in a torrent of tears and snot—but the characters’ sincerity makes Akira and Tencho’s reconciliation feel like a genuine moment of maturity.

On the other hand, the main reason this scene begins in a hotel—specifically, a love hotel—is to offer some good old-fashioned fan service, as Kencho is trapped in a bondage chamber with an irate, naked zombie who’s been chained to the wall. The zombie is drawn in loving detail, right down to her perky breasts, but serves no real dramatic purpose; she exists mainly to make young male readers gawp at Kencho’s predicament. The same goes for several other gratuitous moments of nudity and pin-up posturing, none of which feel necessary or demonstrate artist Kotaro Takata’s skill at drawing attractive, anatomically correct women. (All of his figures seem to have a few extra vertebrae.)

The fan service is indicative of a deeper problem as well: the zombies—or the boobs, for that matter—don’t feel essential to Akira’s story. Almost any catastrophe or life-altering event could have set the plot in motion, whether it was a devastating medical diagnosis or Earth’s impending collision with a meteor. Equally disappointing is that Akira’s quest feels more like a to-do list than a real emotional journey; even he seems disappointed in his inability to come up with a sufficiently long or imaginative bucket list. As a result, Akira seems like just another standard-issue shonen lead, blessed with an optimism that sometimes makes him seem a little dim, a superhuman ability to escape life-threatening situations, and an uncanny knack for stumbling into situations with hot women. I don’t know about you, but I would have enjoyed this series 100% more if the gender roles had been reversed, if only for the sight of a former office lady cheerfully riding a Harley through a zombie horde on her way to score a few brews.

To read a brief excerpt of Zom 100: Bucket List of the Dead, click here.

ZOM 100: BUCKET LIST OF THE DEAD, VOL. 1 • STORY BY HARO ASO • ART BY KOTARO TAKATA • TRANSLATION BY NOVA SKIPPER • TOUCH-UP ART & LETTERING BY VANESSA SATONE • EDITED BY KARLA CLARK • VIZ MEDIA • RATED: OLDER TEEN (PARTIAL NUDITY, GORE, VIOLENCE) • 159 pp.

King of Eden, Vol. 1

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Is it too soon to enjoy a pandemic-themed manga? That question was foremost in my mind as I read King of Eden, a new thriller that pits a group of globe-trotting scientists against an assortment of terrorist organizations that have weaponized a lethal virus. I’m happy to report that King of Eden didn’t remind me of the COVID crisis, but it did something arguably worse: it bored me.

The dullness of the story is all the more surprising for a series written by Takashi Nagasaki, Naoki Urasawa’s collaborator on such entertaining pot-boilers as Monster, Master Keaton, and 20th Century Boys. All of Nagasaki’s worst tendencies are on display in King of Eden: there are pointless flashbacks to the main characters’ childhoods, solemn monologues about the Old Testament, long-winded conversations about global terrorism, and an interminable lecture on the ancient Scythians that name-checks Herodotus because… why not? Though the first volume introduces a dizzying number of characters, Nagasaki barely fleshes them out. Even leads Rua Itsuki and Teze Yoo feel more like skill sets than actual people, as evidenced by an on-the-nose exchange in which a bureaucrat recites Dr. Itsuki’s resume and reminds her that she “hold[s] a black belt in Tae Kwon Do” and is “proficient in the Israeli martial art of Krav Maga” as if she didn’t know these things about herself.

None of this would matter, of course, if King of Eden were entertaining, but Nagasaki is so intent on world-building that he overwhelms the reader with information, all delivered in such earnest, exhaustive detail it saps the narrative momentum. Itsuki and Yoo cross paths with MI-6 agents, WHO officials, IRA terrorists, crazy archaeologists, Interpol officers, and zombies—ZOMBIES, for Pete’s sake!—yet none of these encounters are memorable. Had Nagasaki placed more trust in artist SangCheol Lee (a.k.a. Ignito), King of Eden might have been a brisker, more imaginative entry in the zombie canon.

The first chapter offers a tantalizing glimpse of that potential partnership. Gone are the long-winded speeches; instead, Lee drops the reader into the action alongside two police officers who stumble across a baffling, gruesome scene. After the officers arrest a potential suspect, Lee skillfully cross-cuts between two spaces at the local precinct—an interrogation room and the morgue—allowing us to glimpse what’s unfolding in each room, and to feel the policemen’s growing unease. Lee’s crack pacing keeps the reader invested in the characters’ fate, building to a satisfying reveal of the carnage’s true source: a hideous, lantern-jawed creature that’s part werewolf, part zombie.

Alas, that cinematic flair disappears as soon as the characters begin talking; the next two chapters consist of information dumps punctuated by the occasional fist fight or car chase. By the time Nagasaki and Lee introduce a vampire arms dealer near the end of volume one, it barely registers as a major development. And that, in a nutshell, is what’s wrong with King of Eden: the story is so overstuffed with characters and events that I couldn’t muster the energy for another 15 or 100 chapters of talking heads explaining zombie behavior or Scythian culture just to figure out who this vampire is, and why he matters.

Yen Press provided a review copy of volume one.

KING OF EDEN, VOL. 1 • STORY BY TAKASHI NAGASAKI • ART BY IGNITO • TRANSLATED BY CALEB COOK • LETTERING BY ABIGAIL BLACKMAN • RATED OLDER TEEN (16+) • 384 pp.

The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes, Vol. 1

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Google the term sanpaku, and you’ll quickly discover why the word resists easy translation. In its most basic sense, sanpaku means “three whites,” a condition in which the iris sits a little higher or lower in the eye than normal, exposing more of the schlera. The significance of having sanpaku eyes, however, seems hotly contested, with some websites proclaiming it a curse and others declaring it evidence of great emotional turmoil. The heroine of Denpa Books’ newest series is neither doomed nor crazy, just deeply frustrated that her chronic Resting Bitch Face makes it difficult to show Katou, her crush, how cool and awesome she thinks he is.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes is the artwork. The illustrations are rendered in a warm, pink palette that captures Amane’s agitation more effectively than deformations and sweat drops alone could do. The character designs are somewhat generic—Katou is a standard-issue shojo prince, right down to his mega-watt grin—but Amane and her siblings are drawn with genuine individuality, revealing their shared family curse: all three look meaner than they are. Amane, in particular, stands apart from her galaxy-eyed peers with her cat-like pupils and scowling expression that make her look more like a bosozoku gang member than a sweet, timid high school student.

Though artist Shunsuke Sorato convincingly shows us how flustered Amane becomes in Katou’s presence, there’s almost no dramatic or comedic tension in this series; by chapter three, it’s obvious that the sweetly hunky Katou likes Amane, too, and is eager to reciprocate her affection. Therein lies the biggest problem with The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes: the story is so one-sided and predictable that it barely registers as a rom-com, since there’s almost nothing at stake in Amane and Katou’s exchanges. For middle-school readers navigating a first crush, Sorato’s storytelling approach will feel reassuring, but for older teens The Girl with the Sanpaku Eyes may be too anodyne to be truly engaging.

A review copy was provided by Denpa Books. Volume one will be released digitally on August 25th at the Denpa Books website and September 1st on additional digital platforms. The print edition will be released on September 15th.

THE GIRL WITH THE SANPAKU EYES • ART & STORY BY SHUNSUKE SORATO • TRANSLATED BY DAVID GOLDBERG • LETTERING BY GLEN ISIP • DENPA BOOKS • 128 pp. • NO RATING (SUITABLE FOR READERS AGED 10+)

The Way of the Househusband, Vols. 2-3

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The Way of the Househusband has the rhythms of a good sitcom: it has a simple, well-defined premise, a few lead characters with strong personalities, and an episodic formula that’s flexible enough to create endless opportunities to tell the same joke in new and surprising ways. In the first volume, for example, almost every storyline revolved around Tatsu’s fanatical dedication to his role as stay-at-home spouse, whether he was bargain hunting at the grocery store or racing to the train station with his wife’s lunchbox. The mere sight of him in an apron, track suit, and aviator glasses was a good sight gag made better by Tatsu’s sheer cluelessness; he never seemed to realize that people were staring at him in the checkout line and the butcher’s shop.

Volumes two and three find Tatsu in equally incongruous situations. In chapter 10, for example, he joins the neighborhood housewives’ aerobics class, flashing his terrifying yakuza sneer every time the instructor commands her charges to “smile,” while in chapter 16, Tatsu demonstrates a hidden talent for spiking and setting when he joins the ladies’ volleyball team. The volleyball game is a great variation on the series’ best running joke. Though most civilians find him a terrifying oddity, the neighborhood ladies’ association looks at Tatsu as one of their own; they include him in activities, offer him tips on how to run his household more efficiently, and even help him impress a former boss with an impromptu display of culinary prowess.

Perhaps the most important development in volumes two and three, however, is the introduction of Tatsu’s old enemies, all of whom are genuinely bewildered by his retirement from the knee-capping business. These exchanges thrum with the comic energy of a Damon Runyon story as Tatsu schools his fellow yakuza on stain removal and dessert making. That Tatsu discusses his career change without apology or explanation is a nice touch, as it throws his opponents off their game and reinforces the idea that he likes being a stay-at-home husband.

My only concern about The Way of the Househusband is that Tatsu’s wife is more a collection of moods and preferences than a fully persuasive character. Miku is marked by extremes: she has an intense, child-like obsession with Poli-Cure, an anime whose core fanbase is about ten years old, but is also a fierce workaholic whose resists Tatsu’s efforts to pamper her with scented candles and scalp massages. Though the gags built around her personality usually land, it sometimes feels like they’d be funnier if we understood a little more about how Miku and Tatsu met, or what keeps them together. From time to time, author Kousuke Oono hints the two have more in common than meets the eye–Miku is handy with a knife and a bat, too–but a little more attention to her character would be welcome.

That said, The Way of the Househusband remains consistently funny three volumes into its run, offering a fresh take on that most timeless of sitcom premises: the fish out of water. Recommended.

VIZ Media provided a review copy of volume two.

THE WAY OF THE HOUSEHUSBAND, VOLS. 2-3 • STORY AND ART BY KOUSUKE OONO • TRANSLATION BY SHELDON DRZKA AND AMANDA HALEY, ADAPTATION BY JENNIFER LEBLANC • VIZ MEDIA, LLC • RATED T+, FOR OLDER TEENS (SUGGESTED VIOLENCE, YAKUZA JOKES)

Where to Buy Manga in a Pandemic: Comicopia

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One of my favorite places to shop for manga is Comicopia, a small but well-stocked comic shop in the heart of Boston’s Kenmore Square. I’ve been a loyal customer since 2008, the year I relocated from New York City to my hometown. As I noted back in 2009, Comicopia is a manga lover’s comic store:

Highbrow, lowbrow… and everything in between. That’s the slogan of Comicopia, a Mecca (mecha?) for Beantown manga lovers. For twenty years, this modest Kenmore Square storefront has been catering to discerning comic fans of all persuasions, stocking everything from Introducing Derrida to Mr. Arashi’s Amazing Freak Show, as well as crowd-pleasers like Peanuts, Bone, Y: The Last Man, Justice Society of America, and, of course, Bleach, Naruto and Fruits Basket. Comicopia’s low-key, friendly vibe is more bookstore than comic store, making it a great place for former Barnes & Noble junkies to ween themselves off the chain store habit.

Owner Matt Lehman claims to have “New England’s largest selection of manga,” a claim substantiated by both the quantity and variety of titles on Comicopia’s shelves. On my most recent visit, for example, I found all nineteen volumes of Full Metal Alchemist alongside full runs of Dragon Head, Eden: It’s An Endless World, and Swan, as well as a generous assortment of older and more obscure titles: Junko Mizuno’s Cinderalla, Shirow Masamune’s Black Magic, Junjo Ito’s Museum of Terror, numerous volumes of Basara, and the first volume of The Monkey King. “We’re committed to carrying every manga in print,” Lehman explains. “We make an effort to stock the first two or three volumes of each new series as it comes out, and continue carrying what sells.” That commitment isn’t limited to seinen titles or certifiable hits; Comicopia has devoted entire walls to kid-friendly manga and yaoi as well. It’s the only place I’ve ever seen all eighteen volumes of Dr. Slump and all three volumes of Yakuza in Love in stock.

With the new stay-at-home advisory in place right now, however, Comicopia has been forced to close its doors to foot traffic. Manga lovers around the country can still show their support for this Boston mainstay by placing email orders for their favorite series. Right now, for example, Comicopia is offering special discounts for “binge” orders of four or more volumes of the same series:

  • Buy at least 4 books of the same series, get 10% off.
  • Buy at least 8 books of the same series, get 15% off.
  • Buy at least 12 books of the same series, get 20% off.

Books are sent by Priority Mail; buyers are charged the exact shipping costs for their order, with no additional mark-up for handling. To place an order, just email info@comicopia.com. (You can find more information about the store here.) I don’t usually plug stores or vendors on my site, but I would hate to see Comicopia go out of business, as it’s a progressive, welcoming alternative to the stereotypical LCS—or Amazon, for that matter. And in case you’re worried they don’t have “your” manga, owner Matt Lehman sent me this picture of the store’s current inventory:

Note that there are EVEN MORE SHELVES of manga; this is just a small portion of Comicopia’s total inventory.

Oh, and one last thing: I just put my money where my mouth is and ordered the latest volumes of all the series I’m currently following, from Blank Canvas to The Way of the Househusband. Hope you will, too.