Manga

Little Fluffy Gigolo Pelu, Vol. 1

November 5, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Poignant — now there’s a word I never imagined I’d be using to describe one of Junko Mizuno’s works, given her fondness for disturbing images and acid-trip plotlines. But Little Fluffy Gigolo Pelu is poignant, a perversely sweet and sad meditation on one small, sheep-like alien’s efforts to find his place in the universe.

The story is simple: on the “cute and pink” planet of Princess Kotobuki, Pelu lives with a beautiful race of women and a “calm but carnivorous giant space hippo.” Pelu has always been aware of how different he is from his fellow Kotobukians, but when he learns that he will never be able to have a family of his own, he falls into a terrible funk, begging the hippo to eat him. When the hippo demurs — Pelu is just too woolly to be appetizing — Pelu borrows the hippo’s magic mirror and teleports to Earth in search of others like him. What Pelu discovers, however, is that Earth women view him as an exotic pet, a companion who’s entertaining but disposable. He careens from one unhappy situation to another, meeting young women who are down on their luck: an aspiring singer with a lousy voice, a homely orphan who’s raising an ungrateful brother, a pearl diver plying her trade in the sewer.

Like Mizuno’s other works, Little Fluffy Gigolo Pelu aims for maximum shock value by depicting cute characters engaged in degenerate behavior: popping pills, doing the nasty in nasty places. Yet Fluffy Gigolo leaves a very different aftertaste than Mizuno’s other manga. Pure Trance, for example, is far less coherent, a set of vivid, Hieronymus Bosch-meets-Hello Kitty set pieces, with doll-like girls binging and purging, brandishing chainsaws, and enduring medical procedures that might give Dr. No pause. One could argue that Pure Trance was intended to point out the absurd lengths to which women go to achieve physical perfection, though one could also argue, as Shaenon Garrity does, that Pure Trance is really a vehicle for Mizuno to draw whatever crazy-ass things popped into her head (i.e. naked, chainsaw-wielding Bratz dolls). Either way, Pure Trance feels like a stunt, its Grand Guignol excesses trumping whatever social commentary might inform the story.

By contrast, Fluffy Gigolo‘s shock tactics serve dramatic and thematic functions, inviting the reader to feel sympathy for Pelu while prompting reflection on pregnancy and motherhood — or perhaps more accurately, the way in which childlessness is dramatized in manga, movies, and soap operas, as if being childless were worse than being afflicted with a terminal disease. “I’m better off dead!” Pelu declares. “I can’t have a baby, and I’ll always be alone for life.” Whether or not Mizuno is striving for deeper social commentary is hard to gauge — after all, her story features copious nudity, drug use, and a teleporting, man-eating space hippo from the Planet of the Dolls — but in Pelu’s odyssey, many readers will recognize the way in which biology, social conditioning, and hormones can prompt us to make compromises in pursuit of motherhood.

LITTLE FLUFFY GIGOLO PELU, VOL. 1 • BY JUNKO MIZUNO • LAST GASP • 168 pp. • RATING: MATURE (NUDITY, SEXUALITY, STRONG LANGUAGE, VIOLENCE, DRUG USE — IN SHORT, THE WORKS)

Manga Artifacts: Domu: A Child’s Dream

October 25, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Revisiting AKIRA prompted me to re-read Domu: A Child’s Dream, an earlier work that helped cement Katsuhiro Otomo’s reputation as the leading manga-ka of his generation. Though both series include elements of horror and science fiction, the two are utterly different in approach: AKIRA is sweeping, grand, and allegorical, whereas Domu is compact, a taut psychological thriller that unfolds in a mere 230 pages.

Domu begins like a police procedural: an older detective and his hot-headed young partner arrive at a Tokyo apartment complex to investigate a series of deaths. Though the victims’ histories suggest foul play rather than suicide, the detectives are baffled by the crime scenes: all of the victims have jumped off rooftops or slashed their own throats, with no evidence of anyone watching or aiding them. A few tantalizing clues lead investigators to “Old Cho,” a seemingly benign, senile resident who spends most of his time sitting on a bench and muttering. Inspectors Yamagawa and Tamura can’t connect Cho to the crimes, but Etsuko, a stolid little girl who has just moved into the complex, knows how Cho killed them: telekinesis and hypnotic suggestion.

What follows is an intensely creepy cat-and-mouse game between Etsuko and Cho. Though Cho is nominally an adult, his mind is terrifyingly child-like; he kills his neighbors for their “treasures”: a baseball cap with wings, a fake ruby ring, an umbrella, a stuffed toy. Cho initially regards Etsuko as an impediment to his fun, but when he discovers that Etsuko can also move objects with her mind, he begins testing her strength and sense of morality. Their battle begins in the narrow hallways and dim elevator shafts of Etsuko’s building, but quickly consumes the entire complex as Cho attempts to annihilate Etsuko.

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Though I found the artwork for AKIRA a bit dated, a relic of a particular moment in sci-fi history, Domu seemed less mired in the 1980s. The characters are refreshingly realistic in their appearance; Cho actually looks like an eighty-year-old man, with a stooped frame, a deeply-etched face, and liver-spotted hands, while Etsuko’s plump cheeks and slightly awkward proportions seem appropriate for an eight-year-old. Otomo lavishes similar attention on his bit players, too, giving each apartment dweller a distinctive look that speaks volumes about his economic status, age, and fear of being swept up in Yamagawa and Tamura’s murder investigation. Even the apartment complex functions as a kind of character, a sterile collection of high-rise buildings whose imposing exteriors give way to dark, dingy interiors and cramped apartments. As Otomo guides us through its labyrinthine hallways and stairwells, we feel a palpable sense of dread; the complex is filled with the kind of dead ends and blind spots that feature prominently in our worst nightmares.

Domu would be a solid, if not remarkable, thriller on the strength of its artwork alone, but Etsuko’s predicament gives the story an added jolt of energy and terror. She’s the strongest, most adult character in the story, the only one with a clear sense of what’s happening, and the only one powerful enough to stop Cho. Making her plight more compelling is the fact that Etsuko behaves like an eight-year-old who just happens to have a deadly gift, rather than a god-like creature who just happens to be eight years old; she’s small and vulnerable, eager for the comfort of her mother’s arms, but she’s also fiercely moral and incredibly brave in the face of nightmarish events, a child whose natural desire to set things right is cruelly tested by a childish adult.

N.B. Domu has been out of print for several years, though copies are relatively easy to find through eBay and Amazon’s extended seller network. Dark Horse released Domu in several formats, including three slim TPBs and an omnibus edition.

DOMU: A CHILD’S DREAM • BY KATSUHIRO OTOMO • DARK HORSE • NO RATING (RECOMMENDED FOR OLDER TEENS)

AKIRA, Vol. 1

October 22, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

My first exposure to Katsuhiro Otomo came in 1990, when a college boyfriend insisted that we attend a screening of AKIRA at an artsy theater in the Village. I wish I could say that it had been a transforming experience, one that had awakened me to the possibilities of animation in general and Japanese visual storytelling in particular, but, in fact, I found the film tedious, gory, and self-important. Little did I imagine that I’d be reviewing AKIRA nineteen years later, let alone in its original graphic novel format.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Otomo’s epic tale works better on the page than it does on the screen, though it’s easy to see why Otomo felt the lengthy motorcycle chases and fight scenes were swell fodder for a movie. Ditto for the setting: what artist wouldn’t want the chance to rebuild a city as complex and ultra-modern as Tokyo from the ground up?

The story, however, demands the more intimate medium of print, as those chases and fights seem urgent and kinetic on the page, an essential tool for drawing the reader into the story, rather than an opportunity for the animators to dazzle audiences with their technical prowess. The story’s setting works better in print as well; the city feels feels more claustrophobic when rendered in black and white than in color. And the story’s length, too, is a factor; the movie compresses over 2,000 pages of material into two hours, trimming some of the manga’s more interesting subplots and secondary characters in order to accommodate the explosions and high-speed chases, and grossly simplifying the relationship between Tetsuo and Kaneda. As in the movie, neither personality is firmly established before Tetsuo begins morphing from juvenile delinquent to god-like psychopath, yet the manga gives each character more room to be, and not just react. As a result, both seem human and vulnerable, more teenage boys than action figures.

The basic plot has held up well. Its paranoid, don’t-trust-the-military vibe seems as resonant in 2009 as it did when the manga was first released in 1982, as does its message about the devastating consequences of WMDs. Watching China prepare for the Beijing Olympics in 2008 — leveling shanty towns, silencing protests — suggested parallels with AKIRA‘s own Olympic subplot, both in the secrecy surrounding the facilities’ construction and in the government’s adamant denial of citizen opposition to the projects.

The artwork hasn’t aged quite as gracefully as the story; it’s the manga equivalent of a mullet, betraying its early eighties roots. Otomo’s backgrounds and weaponry look liked they’ve been traced from The Star Wars Storybook, exuding the same mixture of sterility and rust that was a hallmark of period science fiction, while his characters have thick bodies and pudgy faces, just like the heroes of Tsukasa Hojo’s manga. Yet it’s hard to deny AKIRA‘s visual appeal. Otomo is one of the few artists who can make a chase or an explosion seem like it’s actually happening on the page, thanks to his ability to convey what I call the “geography” of the scene: how big the space is, how high off the ground it is, how far apart the characters are standing. The sound effects are almost superfluous, as Otomo does such a superb job of showing us how the characters move through the space that one can almost hear the whoosh! and vroom! as they fly past.

If you didn’t finish collecting AKIRA when it was still a Dark Horse property, you can round out your set without compromising its appearance on your shelf; the Kodansha edition is virtually identical, save for the logo on the spine. (No, really: it’s the same translation, same trim size, same cover design, and same price as the 2000 version.) And if you haven’t read it yet? Well, now’s your chance to read one of the medium’s greatest sci-fi epics in a nice, oversized package. Recommended.

Review updated on October 5, 2010.

AKIRA, VOL. 1 • BY KATSUHIRO OTOMO • KODANSHA • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+) • 368 pp.

Rin-Ne, Vol. 1

October 18, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

I read a Rumiko Takahashi manga for the same reason I watch an Alfred Hitchcock thriller: I know exactly what I’m going to get. Certain plot elements and motifs recur throughout each artist’s work — Hitchcock loves pairing a brittle blond with a rakish cad on the run from authorities, for example, while Takahashi loves pairing a female “seer” with a demonically-tinged boy — yet the craft with which Hitchcock and Takahashi develop such tropes prevents either artist’s work from feeling stale or repetitive. Takahashi’s latest series gives ample proof that while she may have a limited repertory, she’s the undisputed master of the supernatural mystery.

Sakura Mamiya and Rinne Rokudo, Rin-ne‘s oil-and-water leads, are a classic Takahashi pair: Sakura is a seemingly ordinary teenager with the ability to see ghosts, while Rinne is a hot-headed boy who’s part human and part shinigami. The two meet cute in Sakura’s tenth-grade classroom when Rinne arrives to claim his long-empty seat. “Looks like he made it,” Sakura whispers to a friend before realizing that she’s the only person who can see the tall, flame-haired boy in a fancy ceremonial robe. Sakura then watches Rinne attempt to banish an enormous Chihuahua demon to the afterlife — an exorcism that goes horribly (and comically) awry when the dog’s spirit merges with the spirit of a love-starved teen. Now forced to contend with an even more powerful, angry ghost, Rinne uses Sakura to lure it to the Wheel of Reincarnation, an enormous portal that separates the material and spirit worlds.

rinne_chihuahua

After their dramatic introduction, Sakura and Rinne forge a reluctant partnership. Sakura provides material assistance and ethical guidance to Rinne, while Rinne banishes the spirits that plague Sakura’s high school. Sakura soon learns that Rinne’s grandmother, a shinigami, fell in love with a young man whose spirit she was sent to collect. In exchange for extending his life by fifty years, Rinne’s grandmother agreed to “fulfill her shinigami duties at ten times her usual quota.” When she failed to reach that target, Rinne was forced to enter the family trade, operating on the fringes of both the human and spectral worlds with limited ability to function in either realm — hence his weak exorcism skills.

Where, exactly, Takahashi plans to take the story is still something of a mystery. As she did with InuYasha, she’s using the first few volumes to establish the premise, explain how the Wheel of Incarnation works, and develop the chemistry between her lead characters by subjecting them to a host of unhappy spirits. The first eight chapters have a pleasant, spook-of-the-week feeling, as Sakura and Rinne tangle with a ghostly cell phone caller, a damashigami (a shinigami who meets his quota by luring innocent people to their deaths), and an ochimusa (a disgraced warrior). At the same time, however, Takahashi is clearly laying the groundwork for a more extended storyline, introducing several supporting characters, leaving key questions about Sakura’s past unanswered, and creating space for a Naraku-esque villain to fill.

The first volume’s leisurely pace also allows Takahashi plenty of room to showcase her comedic talents. Though InuYasha, Mermaid Saga, and Rumic World have canted more strongly towards horror, Rin-ne is decidedly humorous, incorporating supernatural elements into everyday settings in delightfully absurd ways. Takahashi’s demon Chihuahua is a great example: the demon continues to behave like a nervous, short-haired toy even after it grows to enormous size, and remains susceptible to the savory appeal of milk bones. Rinne’s grandfather is another example of the supernatural made ridiculous; as Rinne’s grandmother wistfully notes, her husband was reincarnated as a mackerel — the destiny for which he was slated when she fell in love with him.

Though utterly enjoyable, Rin-ne has its flaws. Takahashi relies a little too heavily on interior monologues to cue us into what’s happening; Sakura is frequently called upon to mutter, “So that’s why no one can see him!” even when the illustrations make it plain that Rinne is invisible to humans when he dons his flame-patterned haori. Takahashi isn’t above recycling bits from other works, either; Rokumon, a familiar introduced in chapter six, bears a strong resemblance to InuYasha‘s Shippo in both appearance and plot function, comic relief in the form of a child-like animal spirit. Sakura, too, seems more like a Kagome clone than a character in her own right, though she’s a little edgier and more skeptical than her jewel-seeking predecessor.

Still, it’s hard to dismiss a manga that’s crafted with as much skill and good humor as Rin-ne. The story and characters may remind readers of other works in the Takahashi canon, but that strikes me as a good thing — yet another opportunity to spend time with the kind of spunky heroines, rash-but-kind heroes, and oddball supporting characters that give Takahashi’s work its distinctive flavor.

Review copy provided by VIZ Media, LLC. Volume one of Rin-ne will be available on October 20, 2009.

RIN-NE, VOL. 1 • BY RUMIKO TAKAHASHI • VIZ • 182 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Summit of the Gods, Vol. 1

October 12, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

On a brilliant summer day in 1924, British explorer George Mallory began what would be his third and final attempt to climb Mt. Everest. Armed with oxygen tanks and masks, he and fellow mountaineer Andrew Irvine began their approach to the summit on the morning of June 8th, reaching the Northeast Ridge around one o’clock in the afternoon — a potentially fatal mistake, as they had barely enough time to reach the peak and return safely to camp before nightfall. Noel Odell, another member of Mallory’s expedition, spotted the pair ascending the so-called “steps,” three rock formations located 2,000 vertical feet below the top. As he would recall in the 1924 book The Fight for Everest, Odell caught a brief glimpse of his mates through a break in the cloud cover:

I saw the whole summit ridge and final peak of Everest unveiled. I noticed far away on a snow slope leading up to what seemed to me to be the last step but one from the base of the final pyramid, a tiny object moving and approaching the rock step. A second object followed, and then the first climbed to the top of the step. As I stood intently watching this dramatic appearance, the scene became enveloped in cloud once more, and I could not actually be certain that I saw the second figure join the first. (p. 130)

Odell was the last to see either man alive; for the next 75 years, Mallory and Irvine’s fate remained a mystery, though a few tantalizing clues — Irvine’s ice axe, Mallory’s discarded oxygen canister — suggested that neither had reached the top. In 1999, a joint American-British expedition recovered Mallory’s body not far from where Irvine’s axe was discovered, spurring new questions about their climb: had Odell, in fact, watched the men descending the Steps after a successful trip to the summit? Had Irvine and Mallory become separated on the mountain face, or did they fall together to their deaths? And where was Irvine’s body?

The mystery surrounding Mallory’s disappearance forms the core of Yumemakura Baku and Jiro Taniguchi’s award-winning series The Summit of the Gods. Based on a 1998 novel by Baku, Summit focuses on Makoto Fukamachi, a photographer who picks up Mallory’s trail in Kathmandu, where a 1924 Vestpocket Autographic Kodak Special — the camera Mallory supposedly carried up Everest — turns up in a second-hand store frequented by climbers and sherpas. As Fukamachi tracks the camera’s descent from Everest to Kathmandu, he crosses paths with Jouji Habu, a taciturn Japanese climber who knows more about the camera than he’s willing to reveal. Fukamachi begins trailing Habu, interrogating Habu’s acquaintances and climbing partners in hopes of learning what Habu is doing in Kathmandu. Though Fukamachi expects his questions will lead him to the camera’s source, he discovers instead that he and Habu have similarly haunting pasts: Fukamachi watched — and documented — two climbers fall to their deaths on an Everest glacier, while Habu tried — and failed — to rescue a climbing partner who lost his footing and plunged one hundred feet over a cliff in the Japanese Alps.

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Both characters’ backstories are as harrowing as any passage from Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air, thanks to Taniguchi’s impeccable illustrations. Taniguchi captures the mountains’ desolation and danger with his meticulous renderings of rock formations, glaciers, and quick-changing weather patterns; one could be forgiven for wanting to clip into a securely anchored harness before reading volume one. Taniguchi’s talent for evoking the mood and energy of a landscape is also evident in his depiction of Kathmandu, a maze-like city filled with dead ends, bazaars, billboards, temples, and con artists eager to hustle European tourists. Through intricately detailed backgrounds juxtaposing squalid, overcrowded neighborhoods with sleek, modern buildings, Taniguchi suggests the city’s almost uncontainable energy.

The sheer beauty and power of these scenes distracts from the series’ biggest flaw: the omniscient narrator. In the afterward to volume one, Baku explains that he felt that Taniguchi was “the only artist” who could do justice to “the overwhelming massiveness of the mountains, the details of the climbing, the depictions of the characters.” In adapting his novel for a graphic medium, however, Baku never fully entrusts the artwork with the responsibility of telling the story; too often, Baku inserts unnecessary explanations into gracefully composed panels. In one scene, for example, Fukamachi dreams that he’s trailing a silent, mysterious figure up the summit of Everest, his calls going unheeded. To the reader, it’s obvious that Fukamachi is dreaming about Mallory, as Fukamachi has spent three days locked in his hotel room reading accounts of Mallory’s final climb. Yet the sequence is heavily scripted, with Baku decoding all of Taniguchi’s images rather baldly; it’s as if Baku is narrating the scene for someone who can’t see the pictures.

That Summit of the Gods remains compelling in spite of such editorial interventions is testament both to Taniguchi’s skill as a visual storyteller and to the story’s alluring location; as anyone who’s read Into Thin Air will tell you, the extreme conditions on Everest — the weather, the terrain, the frigid temperatures, the remoteness of the mountaintop — all but guarantee drama, even when the climbers are experienced and the weather cooperative. How Makafuchi and Habu will cope with these challenges remains to be seen, but it’s a sure bet that there will be plenty of nail-biting moments on the way to unraveling the mystery of what happened to George Mallory on that bright June day in 1924.

THE SUMMIT OF THE GODS, VOL. 1 • SCRIPT BY YUMEMAKURA BAKU, ART BY JIRO TANIGUCHI • FANFARE/PONENT MON • 328 pp. • NO RATING

Moyasimon: Tales of Agriculture, Vol. 1

September 27, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Warning: the Surgeon General has determined that reading Moyasimon: Tales of Agriculture may be hazardous to your health. Individuals who routinely consume large quantities of yogurt, miso, or natto; keep stashes of Purell in their purses and desk drawers; or have an irrational fear of germs or dirt are cautioned against reading Moyasimon. Side effects include disgust, nausea, and a strong desire to wash one’s hands repeatedly. Those with stronger constitutions, however, may find this odd little comedy fun, if a little too dependent on gross-out humor for laughs.

Moyasimon tells the story of Tadayasu, a country boy with an unusual gift: he can see and talk to bacteria. (In other words, he’s the Doctor Doolittle of the microbial world.) At the urging of his grandfather, Tadayasu leaves his small rural village to attend an agricultural college in Tokyo, his best friend Kei in tow. Tadayasu’s abilities bring him to the attention of the eccentric Professor Itsuki, a terraforming expert, and his foul-tempered research assistant Haruka Hasegawa, a graduate student who dresses like a dominatrix. Though they wax poetic about the scientific applications of Tadayasu’s gift, the pair seem more intent on making fermented delicacies — the smellier, the better — than actually conducting experiments. Also vying for Tadayasu’s attention are Misato and Kawahama, two sad-sack sophomores who reach out to him after bacteria compromise one of their numerous get-rich-quick schemes: bootleg sake.

Tadayasu, for his part, finds the attention unsettling. His dearest wish is to have a normal college experience, a desire frustrated by his family’s refusal to send him anywhere but an agricultural school. He also feels ambivalent about his gift. On the one hand, he understands its life-saving potential after thwarting an e-coli outbreak (he overhears the microorganisms rallying around the cry of “Brew ‘n’ kill!”); on the other hand, his microscopic “Spidey sense” makes many everyday activities — shaking hands, eating yogurt, visiting a messy dormitory room — agonizing, as he’s keenly aware of the bacteria’s presence. (In one of the story’s running gags, Tadayasu swoons whenever he visits Misato and Kawahama’s foul bachelor pad, a veritable bacteria playground of half-consumed beverages, dirty dishes, and fetid mattresses.)

hasegawa The humor is good-natured, though Masayuki Ishikawa indulges his inner ten-year-old’s penchant for gross-out jokes every chance he gets.He repeatedly subjects Tadayasu and Kei to Itsuki’s food fetishes, forcing them to watch Itsuki exhume and eat kiviak (a fermented seal whose belly has been stuffed with birds), or try a piece of hongohoe, a form of stingray sashimi so pungent it makes their eyes water. Ishikawa’s decision to render the bacteria as cute, roly-poly creatures with cheerful faces prevents the story from shading into horror, though it’s awfully hard to shake the image of bacteria frolicking in a bed of natto or around the slovenly Misato’s nostril.

Where Moyasimon really shines is the artwork. Ishikawa’s layouts are detailed yet clear and easy to follow, giving the reader a strong sense of the college and its shabby environs. Ishikawa’s character designs are similarly effective, whether he’s drawing an L. yogurti bacterium or an unscrupulous professor. Take Misato and Kawahama. The two are a classic Mutt-and-Jeff duo: Misato is tall with a scruffy beard, a greasy ponytail, and weasel eyes, while Kawahama is short and round with a dirty face. When we first meet them, we immediately recognize them as a pair of sweating, scheming losers whose big dreams yield little returns. Hasegawa provides another instructive example of how design can play a critical role in establishing character. She’s prickly and aggressive, personality traits amplified by her unusual choice of labwear — knee-high boots with dozens of buckles and sky-high heels, studded belts, and a leather miniskirt — her sharp facial features, and her preferred accessory: a scowl.

Though the art is solid and the characters firmly established, Moyasimon hasn’t quite found its groove yet. Ishikawa can’t make up his mind if he wants us to admire the diversity and tenacity of bacterial life or squirm at the thought of its ubiquity; every educational speech about bacteria’s numerous benefits is punctuated by an icky rim shot. Still, it’s hard to deny the odd appeal of Moyasimon, as Ishikawa takes an all-too-familiar trope — the teen who sees things that other people can’t — and gives it a fresh, idiosyncratic spin.

MOYASIMON: TALES OF AGRICULTURE, VOL. 1 • BY MASAYUKI ISHIKAWA • DEL REY • 224 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

The Manga Hall of Shame

September 20, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Though my taste in manga is very particular, I’m much less discriminating in my reading habits. My willingness to try anything has yielded some wonderful surprises: Ai Morinaga’s Duck Prince, Taiyo Matsumoto’s No. 5, Shioko Mizuki’s Crossroad, Kazuo Umezu’s Scary Book, Motofumi Kobayashi’s Apocalypse Meow. The flipside of being a gourmand is that I’ve encountered my share of truly dreadful stuff, too — the kind of manga with such incoherent plots, unappealing characters, clumsy artwork, and tin-eared dialogue that they beg the question, Who thought this was a good idea?

Now that I’d donned my flame-proof pants, here are my candidates for the Manga Hall of Shame:

miyuki 10. Miyuki-chan in Wonderland
By CLAMP • Tokyopop • 1 volume
I’ve read my way through the highs and lows of the CLAMP canon, from the Gothic angst of Tokyo Babylon to the cutesy antics of Kobato, and can say with great confidence that this odd one-shot represents the nadir of this talented quartet’s work. Miyuki-chan probably sounded like a great idea on paper: a young girl falls down a hole and finds herself in a sexed-up version of Lewis Carroll’s famous story. Unfortunately, the story bears almost no resemblance to Carroll’s original; Miyuki-chan is really just a pretext for CLAMP to draw scantily-clad beauties engaging in vaguely naughty behavior, usually by making a pass at Miyuki or inviting her to play strip poker. The stories are short and repetitive, barely spanning 100 pages in total, and are so inane that they don’t work as pornography or parody.

9. Nightmares for Sale
By Kaoru Ohashi • Aurora Publishing • 2 volumes
The premise of Nightmares for Sale is pure comeuppance theater: in exchange for having their dearest wishes granted – in this case, by the proprietors of Shadow’s Pawn Shop – bad people receive their just desserts. For this old-as-the-hills premise to succeed, three basic conditions need to be met. First, the audience needs to understand the subject is unrepentantly bad and not merely flawed or misguided. Second, the audience needs to see the chain of decisions that lead to the subject’s downfall. And third, the punishment needs to fit the crime. Alas, manga-ka Kaoru Ohashi doesn’t satisfy these basic criteria in Nightmares for Sale. A few characters get what they deserve, but many of the stories are sloppily executed; we don’t learn how or why the subject is being punished until Shadow appears at the end of the story to tell us. By far the worst chapter is “Children of Darkness,” in which a woman is tormented by the spirit of her unborn child. No matter what your personal convictions on abortion, the story is both macabre and misogynist, and shows an astonishing lack of compassion for the subject’s situation. Not even the artwork can redeem this clunker: it’s both busy and generic, a hot mess of awkwardly posed bodies and poorly applied screentones. (Review originally posted at PopCultureShock, 11/28/07)

armkannon 8. Arm of Kannon
By Masakazu Yamaguchi • Tokyopop • 9 volumes
After a nearly three-year absence, archaeologist Tozo Mikami returns to his family with a mysterious object in tow: the Arm of Kannon, an ancient Buddhist relic that, unbeknownst to Mikami’s son Maso, is a parasitic weapon that feeds off its host’s life force while transforming him into a tentacled killing machine. Before we’re too far into volume one, the Arm of Kannon destroys Tozo, choosing Maso as its next host. What follows is an unholy marriage of gore, mystical mumbo-jumbo, and military conspiracy theories, as Maso rapes and dismembers people, gets captured by an army contractor, then kills some more. A third-act detour into the distant past adds unnecessary complications to the plot; it’s as if Yamaguchi got bored with his characters but realized that he hadn’t quite resolved things enough to simply end the story. The art is incredibly detailed, which is a mixed blessing: if you like your entrails rendered with anatomical specificity, Arm of Kannon might be your cup of tea. Anyone in search of a coherent plot or sympathetic characters, however, is advised to look elsewhere.

devilwithin 7. The Devil Within
By Ryo Takagi • Go! Comi • 2 volumes
If 98.7% of shojo heroines are kind, smart, enthusiastic, and/or sincere—read likeable—Rion, the sixteen-year-old heroine of The Devil Within is a rare outlier: she suffers from a full-on shota complex that makes her seem mentally unbalanced. Forced into choosing among three prospective fiances (all adults), Rion instead pins her hope on a young neighbor who happens to be a fifteen-year-old trapped in a five-year-old’s body. Making this whole distasteful concept even more unpalatable is the way in which manga-ka Ryo Takago treats the principle character; Rion endures truly grotesque forms of abuse from her suitors that results in her abject humiliation. Hats off to anyone who made it through the first volume without squirming — I couldn’t.

dragonsister 6. Dragon Sister!
By Nini • Tokyopop • 2 volumes
Buried beneath the slapstick, speedlines, and extreme mammary close-ups is an intriguing premise: what if ancient China’s greatest warriors were, in fact, women? Dragon Sister! begins around 184 AD, when three brothers—Zhang Jiao, Zhang Bao, and Zhang Liang—acquire a set of magical scrolls capable of granting any wish. In their desire to overthrow the Han Dynasty, the brothers pray that no more heroes will be born. Their scheme backfires, however, transforming them into a cabal of power-hungry girls. As the country descends further into chaos, young nobleman Liu Bei forms a volunteer army to oppose the Zhangs, recruiting two busty babes, Zhang Fei and Guan Yu, to aid his cause. None of this is explained very clearly—we never have a sense of who the various factions are, or why Liu Bei remains faithful to a corrupt emperor. Instead, Nini treats us to a seemingly endless parade of costume failures, crude jokes, and scenes of predatory lesbianism, all delivered in speech that vacillates between present-day dudespeak and wuxia film formality. Strictly for the fanservice crowd. (Review originally posted at PopCultureShock, 11/2/08)

gorgeouslife 5. The Gorgeous Life of Strawberry-chan
By Ai Morinaga • Media Blasters • 2 volumes
I didn’t think it was possible to dislike anything by Ai Morinaga, but this sadistic boarding-school comedy proved me wrong. There’s no real story here; most of the “action” revolves around Akiyoshi, a fatuous pretty boy, and Strawberry-Chan, his talking frog. Akiyoshi delights in torturing his pet, squashing Strawberry-Chan, burying him alive, and even inflating him like a balloon via a well-placed straw. (If Morinaga is trying to make a greater point with her hero’s perverse antics, I can’t imagine what it is.) Adding insult to injury is the art, which is a riot of misapplied screentones, clashing patterns, and extreme facial close-ups—it’s the best representation of a migraine I’ve ever seen committed to paper, but some of the worst sequential art I’ve seen, period. (Review originally posted at PopCultureShock, 5/31/08)

jpopidol1 4. J-Pop Idol
Story by MILLENNI+ M, Art by Toko Tashiro • Tokyopop • 2 volumes
Until Tokyopop releases a Glitter Cinemanga, otaku eager for overripe musical drama will have to content themselves with J-Pop Idol. But unlike Glitter, which is bad in a jaw-dropping, can’t-take-my-eyes-off-it way, J-Pop Idol is just plain bad. A big part of the problem is the story, which has been hastily cobbled together from dozens of similar, Star Is Born narratives–so hastily, in fact, that many scenes feel like complete non-sequitors. One of the most egregious examples can be found in the very first pages, when the members of an up-and-coming girl group face a test of their friendship: after winning a major talent competition, only one of them is singled out for a recording contract. From the context, however, it’s impossible to see why producers chose Maki over band mates Kay and Naomi, as Maki lacks the charisma, talent, and sex appeal that distinguished Diana Ross from her fellow Supremes.

The rest of volume one charts Maki’s attempt to build a recording career under the tutelage of handsome idol Ken, who motivates his protege with tough talk and hard lessons. There’s also a subplot involving tuberculosis that might not seem out of place in a Joan Crawford weepie, but seems downright ludicrous in a manga aimed at a teenage audience. The bottom line: J-Pop Idol may have been a “#1 hit mobile manga in Japan,” but that endorsement carries about as much weight as Paula Abdul’s enthusiastic cheerleading on American Idol. (Review originally posted at PopCultureShock, 3/10/08)

seraphicfeather 3. Seraphic Feather
Art by Hiroyuki Utatane • Story by Yo Morimoto and Toshiya Takeda • Dark Horse • 6 volumes
Seraphic Feather has three strikes against it: an overly fussy plot, tin-eared dialogue, and lousy artwork. The story revolves around the discovery of an alien spaceship on the far side of the Moon. Various Earthly factions compete for the downed ship, hoping to unlock its powers using the Emblem Seeds, ~~a high-protein energy bar~~ a mysterious power source. Running in tandem with the main plot are a love story between a young man named Sunao and his childhood friend Kei — who mysteriously re-appears after dying in an explosion on the Moon — and a subplot involving Kei’s brother Apep, who mysteriously sprouts a pair of wings. Making these baroque plot twists harder to take is the dialogue, all of which sounds like it was pilfered from an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000. The frosting on the cake, however, is the art: Hiroyuki Utatane seems more interested in drawing buxom girls and explosions than advancing the plot. Though characters yell and grab each other by the arm on almost every page, the story is dead in the water long before the end of volume one. Anyone who finds the cover art sexy will find the actual story an even bigger let-down, as it’s much tamer than the bustier and riding crop might suggest.

innocentw 2. Innocent W
By Kei Kusonoke • Tokyopop • 4 volumes
I can’t decide if Kei Kusonoke is exceptionally efficient or just plain disgusting. To wit: on the very first pages of this three-volume series, she treats us to a panty shot of a girl with a gruesome injury. Things don’t improve much from there, as the story quickly devolves into a Wiccan Battle Royale, pitting a group of young witches against an assortment of sadistic weirdos in a remote, wooded area. The hunters rape, torture, and mutilate the young women for sport, leaving a trail of dismembered corpses in the forest before the survivors gain the upper hand. Perhaps more disturbing than the actual story is the artwork. Kusonoke lavishes considerable attention on the characters’ costumes and hairstyles, but can’t be bothered to endow their faces with any expression; it’s as if the entire cast consumed large amounts of valium right before the mayhem began. They look bored. Funny, I was too…

colorofrage1 1. Color of Rage
Story by Kazuo Koike • Art by Seisake Kano • Dark Horse • 1 volume
First published in 1973, this historical drama plays like a mash-up of The Last Samurai, Rush Hour, and Mandingo. The story begins in 1783, when a whaling ship goes down off the coast of Japan. Two men — George, who’s Japanese, and King, who’s African-American — wash ashore, cut off their shackles, and head inland, only to discover a landscape populated by unscrupulous samurai and feudal lords who hold the peasants in thrall. For such a far-fetched premise to work, its principal characters’ thoughts, words, and actions need to make sense in historical context. Yet George and King behave like two modern action heroes deposited in feudal Japan, not two products of the eighteenth century; it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to imagine John Cho and Will Smith slashing and wise-cracking their way through a big-screen adaptation. Making things worse are several scenes of brutal misogyny — what the editors euphemistically call “pulpy sexiness” — that are made all the more cringe-worthy by the unexamined racial stereotypes on parade. Kazuo Koike is always pushing the boundaries of good taste — that’s part of what makes Crying Freeman and Lady Snowblood so much fun — but Color of Rage sails way over the line and keeps on going. (Review originally posted at PopCultureShock, 5/18/08)

* * * * *

I’ll be the first to admit that this list reflects my own biases. I don’t have much patience for fanservice, sadism, or gore for gore’s sake; if I’m going to be treated to dismembered bodies and panty shots, there needs to be a story and some memorable characters for me to be on board with it. I realize that some folks don’t feel the same way as I do, and that’s OK. There’s plenty of room for all of us under the manga-loving tent, even if we can’t agree on whether Arm of Kannon is awesome or awful. (In other words: hate the manga, not the critic.)

So what manga belong on your all-time worst list and why? Inquiring minds want to know!

POSTSCRIPT, 9/28/09: Over at Okazu, Erica Friedman posts her Yuri Manga Hall of Shame, five blisteringly funny critiques of books like Suzunari and Alice on Deadlines. Go, read, and be glad you dodged a 4-koma manga about cat clone twincest.

Love*Com 14 by Aya Nakahara: B-

September 16, 2009 by Michelle Smith

Tall Risa Koizumi and her short boyfriend, Atsushi Ôtani, have been dating for a while and have weathered various obstacles. Their latest opponent is Risa’s visiting grandpa, whose primary objection seems to be their difference in height. He feels so strongly about it that he hires a hostess to seduce Ôtani in order to sabotage their relationship. This leads to two chapters of extremely frustrating angst and misunderstanding, in which Ôtani believes the tale fed him by a buxom stranger over Risa’s insistence that her grandfather is responsible. Of course, after all is revealed and Ôtani bravely dashes off to rescue Risa from the clutches of some possibly dangerous men, Gramps has a change of heart.

For the most part, the events in this volume are annoying. Grandpa blows in like a foul breeze, causes a few chapters’ worth of havoc, then wafts out again. Everyone acts like a moron at least once. The follow-up chapter, in which Haruka, Grandpa’s pick for Risa’s suitor, has his heartbreak assuaged by his fangirls, is pointless.

And yet, for all of that, it’s hard to completely dislike this volume of Love*Com. Scattered throughout are some genuinely nice moments between the lead couple, like Ôtani’s adamant declaration that Risa’s the only one he loves or an evening scene in a playground after Risa has run away from home to protest her grandfather’s meddling ways. This series certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s easy to forgive its flaws when it manages to deliver when it really counts.

Review copy provided by the publisher. Review originally published at Manga Recon.

Love*Com 12-13 by Aya Nakahara: B

September 15, 2009 by Michelle Smith

I used to be very fond of Love*Com but after a disappointing eleventh volume, my ardor cooled and the volumes have been piling up. For most of these two volumes, I was happy again, but when Risa’s grandfather is introduced at the end of volume thirteen, it all goes rapidly downhill.

Volume twelve begins with the gang awaiting Ôtani’s exam results and Risa trying to decide which vocational school she wants to attend. After this is resolved nicely, it’s revealed that one of their friends, Suzuki, failed to get into the same college as his girlfriend and is now waffling on whether to give her up to a more muscled dude who might protect her in his absence. This plot involves a judo challenge, which would otherwise be very stupid, but somehow Suzuki is kind of appealing and I wound up not disliking this story, despite all the silliness. I think a lot of the appeal is that, while helping their friend, Risa and Ôtani work together well. Overall, I noticed a distinct lack of squabbling between the two of them in these two volumes, which is nice!

Of course, our couple can’t remain stable and happy for long, so as soon as the Suzuki plot is resolved, Risa’s brother has to voice his objections to the relationship which stupidly causes the protagonists to wonder whether they belong together. And as soon as that’s resolved, Risa’s horndog grandfather, who is about as one-note and ridiculous as a character possibly could be, objects to Ôtani because of his height and sets about trying to break them up. At least Risa reacts hotly, and some nice discussions about trust result, but my intense dislike for grandpa means this arc can’t be over soon enough for me!

On the positive side, these two volumes contain quite a few amusing moments. I shan’t list them all here, but I will end with my new favorite absurd quote from an author’s sidebar.

Drain your salads thoroughly! This is my plea!

Review copy for volume thirteen provided by the publisher.

Ooku: The Inner Chambers, Vol. 1

September 15, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Built in 1607, the Ooku, or “great interior,” housed the women of the Tokugawa clan, from the shogun’s mother to his wife and concubines. Strict rules prevented residents from fraternizing with outsiders, or leaving the grounds of Edo Castle without permission. Within the Ooku, an elaborate hierarchy governed day-to-day life; at the very top were the joro otoshiyori, or senior elders, who supervised the shogun’s attendants and served as court liaisons; beneath them were a web of concubines, priests, pages, cooks, and char women who hailed from politically connected families. This elaborate social system was mirrored in the physical structure of the Ooku, which was divided into three distinct areas — the Rear Quarters, the Middle Interior, and the Front Quarters — each intended solely ladies of a particular rank. The only male permitted into the Ooku (unescorted, that is), was the shogun himself, who accessed the “great interior” by means of the Osuzu Roka, a long corridor that connected the shogun’s living quarters with the imperial harem.

The “great interior” plays a prominent role in Fumi Yoshinaga’s latest series, Ooku: The Inner Chamber. In Yoshinaga’s alternate history of eighteenth-century Japan, however, women run the show, thanks to a devastating plague that killed most of the country’s men. The shogun’s duties remain unchanged by this unexpected gender reversal, and she, too, enjoys the same perks that her male predecessors did. The twist: the Ooku is now home to hundreds of handsome men from important families, all of whom live according to the code established in Hideata Tokugawa’s reign.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing about Yoshinaga’s conceit is that so much remains the same, despite the sudden challenge to established gender norms. Marriage practices remain firmly rooted in money, social status, and fertility (men’s fertility, that is); palace residents continue observing the established pecking order and its attendant rituals; the shogun questions the cost, but not the necessity, of the Ooku itself. The men, in fact, embrace their subordinate roles without hesitation; their petty squabbles, hazing rituals, and political jockeying suggest their inability to imagine anything more important than competing for the shogun’s attention.

Where Yoshinaga takes the most risks is in her portrayal of Yoshimune, the newly appointed shogun. Yoshimune is a rare type in popular entertainment: a strong, intelligent, brusque, and frankly carnal woman with uncanny leadership instincts. She’s dismayed by excess and ritual, which she views as a drain on the shogunate’s dwindling resources; in her personal and political decision-making, she strives for simplicity and efficiency, even going so far as to restrict herself to two meals a day. In true Tokugawa fashion, Yoshimune is wary of the outside world; in one of the volume’s best scenes, she receives Dutch ambassador dressed in male attire, then uses her throne as a bully pulpit to inquire about the all-male crew of his ship. “‘Tis reported that there is not one woman in your entire company. Wherefore is that?” she demands of the bewildered captain. “Are all the women of Holland weak and sickly?”

Like Yoshinaga’s other costume dramas — especially Gerard and Jacques — Ooku is very talky. Too talky, in fact; the first three chapters unfold at what might charitably be described as a glacial pace, as we watch a young samurai enter the Ooku to avoid a financially beneficial but emotionally sterile marriage. Normally, Yoshinaga excels at conversation-driven storytelling, but the dialogue in Ooku falls flat, thanks to a stilted script that’s liberally peppered with “thees,” “wherefores,” and “forsooths.” (One character angrily addresses another as “thou vile cur!”, an insult that last carried weight in Elizabethan England, while another makes reference to a “man’s nether hole.”) Without an intimate knowledge of Japanese, it’s impossible to know if the problem originates with Yoshinaga’s script or Akemi Wegmuller’s translation; either way, the dialogue’s awkward marriage of contemporary and archaic language proves distracting, keeping the reader at arm’s length from the characters’ feelings.

The other problem with the script is that Yoshinaga uses conversation to explain everything, from the mysterious origins of the redface pox (the fictional disease that kills off the male population) to the elaborate rituals observed within the Ooku. Too often, the script reads like a history textbook; characters don’t have a discussion but lecture one another, revealing little about themselves in the process. Yoshinaga pauses from time to time to stage a dramatic moment — an attempted rape, a sword fight, a lovers’ parting — but she never quite brings the Ooku to life; the first few chapters feel more like a pageant or a historical re-enactment than a drama.

Yoshinaga’s artwork, on the other hand, is elegant and effective, capturing the opulence of Tokugawa-era fashions as well as the austere beauty of Edo Castle. As with all her manga, Yoshinaga’s limited repertoire of character designs seems less a flaw than a charming idiosyncrasy, as if she’s employing the same troupe of actors again and again. Yoshimune, for example, strongly resembles Flower of Life’s Majima, yet Majima’s sharp profile suits Yoshimune perfectly, as do the determined gait and fierce stare that distinguish Yoshimune from the softer, more stereotypically feminine women in her orbit. In service of Flower, those physical characteristics made Majima seem like a shifty operator, but when re-purposed for Ooku, these traits endow Yoshimune with an almost god-like aura, suggesting both her discipline and her strong sense of purpose.

I’ll be honest: I’m not quite sold on Ooku yet. For all its dramatic and socio-political ambitions, volume one isn’t nearly as daring or weird or pointed as it might have been. If anything, it reminds me of a BBC miniseries: it’s tasteful, meticulously researched, and a little too high-minded to be truly compelling. The introduction of the complex Yoshimune, however, bodes well for future volumes, as she brings a sense of urgency and purpose to a script that sometimes meanders.

Review copy provided by VIZ Media, LLC.

OOKU: THE INNER CHAMBERS, VOL. 1 • BY FUMI YOSHINAGA • VIZ • 216 pp. • RATING: MATURE

What Belongs in the Manga Canon?

September 11, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Back in 2006, I stumbled across this entry at Otaku Champloo, reflecting on the need for a manga “canon.” The author noted that books in the Western literary canon (e.g. Aeschylus, Dante, Shakespeare) were not the “most popular” titles, but titles that “reflect[ed] the progress of humanity” from classical antiquity to the machine age. She then posed several intriguing questions:

[W]hat really struck my head was the idea of a canon for manga. Could we come up a list of mangas that would best represent humanity and the manga genre? Another interesting question would be… what good would a manga canon bring? Does the world of manga need one?

When I first responded to her essay back in 2006, I hadn’t read very much manga — just enough to be dangerously opinionated and scornful of shojo* — and my knowledge of “classic” titles was limited to a few works by Osamu Tezuka and Kazuo Koike. I thought it would be an interesting challenge to revisit and revise that initial response to reflect where I am now, three years and hundreds of series later.

TO INCLUDE OR NOT TO INCLUDE, THAT IS THE QUESTION

As I noted in my initial response, I used to teach at a university that organizes its undergraduate curriculum around the idea that certain works of art, literature, music, and philosophy represent the acme of Western civilization. You might think that the list of canonic works would be fixed, but in fact, the canon is constantly evolving. When the university first mandated its “great works” curriculum in the 1920s, for example, Mary Wollenstonecraft didn’t make the cut; only with the rise of feminist scholarship in the 1970s was her groundbreaking Vindication of the Rights of Woman added to the canon. The 1980s prompted a similar round of revisions to the curriculum: realizing that its emphasis on Western culture excluded some of the oldest and most influential literature in the world, the university developed courses about the canonic work of Eastern civilizations: The Art of War, The Tale of Genji, The Shahnameh.

I cite these curriculum changes because they remind us that defining a canon is a tricky business. There’s a veritable cottage industry of think-tanks and self-appointed cultural guardians who view the inclusion of new voices as a threat to the integrity of the literary canon, as if the recognition that women and blacks have written important books might undermine the point of the whole exercise. (They generally fuss less about Great Art and Great Music, though more conservative scholars in those fields police these canons with a similar zeal: Clara Schumann, hit the road!) In their eyes, the canon is a super-exclusive night club open only to a few “universally” recognized authors; they reject the notion that scholars might have valid historical reasons for admitting a few more folks past the velvet rope.

Then there’s that pesky issue of relevance. My students were always shocked that our music survey didn’t include familiar composers like Tchaikovsky: if we were still performing The Nutcracker and Swan Lake, why wasn’t he taking his rightful place alongside Hildegaard of Bingen and Anton Webern, two composers that 98% of them had never heard of before taking my class? As a music historian, I could rebut their arguments, but my students had a point: sometimes we become so obsessed with the idea that a canon represents the best, most timeless products of a culture that we forget the extent to which taste and connoisseurship play a role in deciding what to include — and what to exclude. (Poor old Tchaikovsky is just too tacky for some scholars, I guess.) We ignore that distinction at our own peril, however, as a canon can become a self-perpetuating list impervious to criticism or revision. Anyone intent on making a list of manga masterpieces, therefore, should bear in mind these observations about how and why we create canons — observations drawn from own experiences studying one of the most canon-centric fields, music.

First, historians play a major role in deciding what works make the cut. This is what I call the “Bach” rule: by the time J. S. Bach was writing his best-known works, his style was seen as old-fashioned, even a little stodgy, and not something an up-and-coming composer would want to emulate. Yet 250 years later, Bach is a household name. Why? Because Bach was “discovered” in the nineteenth century by prominent historians and composers who admired the rigor of his counterpoint and the beauty of his compositions. As a result, he became one of the most studied and posthumously influential composers in Western history. I say this not to slight Bach, or to perpetuate Romantic notions of genius (“they only appreciate you after you’re dead!”), but to remind any would-be canon-builders that an artist’s role in advancing the medium is often the most important rationalization for including his work in a canon.

Second, scholars tend to be suspicious of artists whose work is genuinely popular. This is what I call the “Rachmaninoff” rule: audiences may flock to performances of the Second Piano Concerto, but the canon’s gate-keepers treat Rachmaninoff as “just” a tunesmith whose crowd-pleasing melodies lack the harmonic or structural sophistication of Stravinsky and Wagner’s best work. Rachmaninoff’s tenuous membership in the canon reflects our lingering skepticism about popularity: if everyone likes Rachmaninoff’s music, could it really as worthy of study and emulation as music that aspires to greater levels of compositional complexity (e.g. The Rite of Spring, Parsifal)? It’s the same impulse that might lead a manga scholar to include Tezuka’s Buddha in the canon while excluding Kishimoto’s Naruto or Takahashi’s Ranma 1/2 — we wouldn’t want the “merely” popular taking its place alongside bonafide masterpieces, would we?

Third, there is no such thing as a “universal” canon. This is what I call the “Gershwin” rule. From the perspective of an American historian, George Gershwin is a canonic composer, profoundly influencing the development of American music with his distinctive marriage of black vernacular styles to European art forms. But from a Russian or Italian perspective, Gershwin is a local anomaly, a decent American composer who enjoys a far greater reputation among his fellow countrymen than in the international community. (Translation: he ain’t no Stravinsky or Verdi.) As such, Gershwin is less likely to be mentioned by an Italian musicologist in the same breath as Rossini, Verdi, or Beethoven. Undoubtedly, there will be artists whose importance to Americans may make them obvious candidates for inclusion in a manga canon, but who may not be viewed as favorably on the other side of the Pacific (and vice versa, I might add).

Finally, there is no such thing as an opera or a novel or a manga that is timeless. This is what I call the “Don Giovanni” rule: we still perform Mozart’s opera 200+ years after its initial premiere, but our experience of Don Giovanni is utterly different than that of audiences who heard it 1787. Most of the opera’s musical “in jokes,” for example, are lost on us—how many of us would recognize Mozart’s shout-out to fellow composer Martin y Soler? And how many of us would grasp the subtle musical gestures that Mozart uses to indicate his characters’ social status—gestures that were old hat to his audience? It’s a safe bet that Osamu Tezuka’s current audience experiences his work differently than its original readers, even though we may admire some of the same qualities in his work as the first generation of Princess Knight and Astro Boy fans.

Is there a need for a similar “canon” of manga masterpieces? The growing body of literature on influential artists such as Osamu Tezuka suggests that scholars already entertain some notion of a manga canon. As we begin labeling works “masterpieces,” however, we need to be mindful of the way in which these labels can trap us, preventing us from critiquing or questioning, say, Tatsumi or Tezuka’s greatness. We also need to remember that whatever canon we devise will be flawed from the outset, revised many times, and say as much about our own tastes and values as it will about the inherent quality or relevance of the manga it includes.

POSTSCRIPT

Having identified several potential pitfalls of canonization (if I might re-purpose that term for non-Vatican usage), I’m curious to know (a) whether it makes sense to talk about a manga “canon” and (b) what titles and authors you think belong in the canon. I’m particularly interested in the issue of gender: what female manga-ka belong in a canon and why? Do we have an innate bias towards seinen works, to the exclusion of shojo and josei titles? Inquiring minds want to know!

UPDATE, 9/15/09: Over at Extremely Graphic, librarian-blogger Sadie Maddox offers a thoughtful response to the question of whether or not Americans even have any business talking about a “manga canon.” She notes:

By being translated the integrity of the original work is compromised. Of course, I’m all for translating because it means I get to read manga and I know that most translators do an excellent job. But still, that’s one layer removed from the original intent. Are Americans really the ones who should be making a canon out of completely foreign material?

I didn’t get into the issue of translation (obviously one that would need to be addressed, if we were going to take this exercise to its logical conclusion), so go, read, and join the discussion at Extremely Graphic.

UPDATE, 10/6/09: Scholars John E. Ingulsrud and Kate Allen, authors of Reading Japan Cool: Patterns of Manga Literacy and Discourse, posted an interesting response to the question, “What belongs in the manga canon?” Their argument hinges on pedagogy: they note the original purpose of a canon was “to teach and test,” citing the New Testament as a body of literature compiled, in part, to answer the question, “Who was Jesus?” They suggest that any manga canon will arise from a similar need to teach and test. I think that’s a valid argument for the Japanese academy, but is more problematic in a Western context; it’s simply too early to know whether manga will be a permanent part of the American cultural landscape or just a passing fad. I also think they’re too quick to dismiss the question of artistry, as one of the most important contemporary functions of the so-called Western canon — by which I mean literature, art, and music — is to teach aesthetics. Whatever my philosophical differences with Ingulrud and Allen, I found their historical arguments compelling, and encourage you to read their essay for a different perspective on the issue of canonicity.

* I got over it, so don’t paint me as a shojo-hater. Anytime someone wants to license The Windows of Orpheus or The Poe Family, I’ll be a very happy camper.

Jyu-Oh-Sei, Vols. 1-3

August 14, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

In the year 2346 A.D., humans have colonized the Vulcan solar system, a region so inhospitable that the average life span is a mere thirty years. Rai and Thor, whose parents belong to Vulcan’s ruling elite, enjoy a life of rare privilege — that is, until a political rival executes their parents and exiles the boys to Kimaera, a penal colony reserved for violent criminals. To say Kimaera’s climate is harsh understates the case: daylight lasts for 181 days, producing extreme desert conditions and water shortages, while nighttime plunges Kimaera into arctic darkness for an equal length of time. Making the place even more treacherous is the flora, as Kimaera’s jungles team with carnivorous plants capable of eating men whole.

On the planet’s surface, Rai and Thor discover a tribal society based on physical strength and skin color. Four tribes, or “rings,” as they’re known, provide their members food and protection from the extreme climate, but there’s a catch: each person must prove himself strong enough to defend the ring from encroachment by rival factions. The strife within rings is mirrored in the uneasy relationship among the tribal leaders, a motley assortment of criminals, ex-military men, and native Kimaeran women. The ring leaders compete to become the Beast King, Kimaera’s official representative in the Vulcan government and the only person allowed to leave the planet’s surface.

Sensing an opportunity to upset the uneasy truce that exists among the Blanc, Noir, Ochre, and Sun Rings, several unscrupulous figures encourage Thor to fight his way up the ranks to become the Beast King — his best (and perhaps only) opportunity for escaping Kimaera and finding out why his parents were murdered. Aiding him is Tiz, a tough, resourceful Kimaeran girl who wants Thor for a mate. (In a nice change of pace, women choose their partners, a request men can’t decline.)

Natsumi Itsuki does a superb job of world-building in volume one, striking the right balance between exposition and action. The plot twists come fast and furious, but they feel like a natural outgrowth of the situations the characters find themselves in, rather than an arbitrary decision to move the story in a particular direction. Only in the third and final volume do things begin to fall apart; the first hundred pages are filled with talking heads explaining Kimaera’s true purpose (hint: it involves evil scientists), revealing Thor’s identity, and waxing philosophic about whether mankind should be allowed to become extinct. Perhaps sensing that the story was beginning to sag under the weight of its own pretentiousness, Itsuki then stages a lengthy, exciting battle that pits Thor against those infamous, man-eating plants and a super-computer of HAL-like malevolence.

9781427810168-1 Though the story is well-executed, the artwork is something of a disappointment. Itsuki goes to great pains to create a diverse cast — a task at which she’s generally successful — but her character designs are generic and dated; I’d be hard-pressed to distinguish the Kimaerans from, say, the cast of RG Veda or Basara. Itsuki also struggles with skin color; her dark-skinned women bear an unfortunate resemblance to kogals, thanks to Itsuki’s clumsy application of screentone.

More disappointing are Itsuki’s fight scenes: they register as scratchy messes, thanks to her over-reliance on speedlines and trapezoidal panels. The third volume, for example, consists of several lengthy scenes of hand-to-hand combat in which all of the action is suggested by superimposing horizontal lines on close-ups of contorted faces; we never get a clear sense of where the characters are standing in relation to one another, nor do we always have a clear sense of where the action is unfolding.

Tokyopop has done a good job of presenting Jyu-Oh-Sei. The manga was originally released in five volumes; Tokyopop wisely repackaged the story in omnibus format to allow Jyu-Oh-Sei‘s lengthy and complicated story arcs to unfold without significant interruption. The translation is clear and idiomatic, even when the characters are called upon to speak in unadulterated Science Fiction. The only downside to Tokyopop’s presentation is the paperstock: as many readers have observed, it’s thin and greyish, like newsprint, and allows images to bleed through the page.

Aside from a third-act detour into sci-fi pomposity, Jyu-Oh-Sei is a solid, entertaining read: think B-movie in manga form. Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers and District 9, Jyu-Oh-Sei addresses social taboos — race, gender roles — and scientific issues — genetic engineering, environmental devastation — while serving up generous portions of what audiences crave: action, romance, monsters, explosions. Best of all, Jyu-Oh-Sei comes in a neat, three-volume package that’s long enough to allow for world-building and character development but short enough to stay fresh and surprising until the end. It’s the perfect summer escape, minus the sticky floors, endless previews, and seven dollar buckets of popcorn.

This review is an expanded version of an earlier review posted at PopCultureShock. My original review of volume one can be found here.

Review copy of volume one provided by Tokyopop.

JYU-OH-SEI, VOLS. 1-3 • BY NATSUMI ITSUKI • TOKYOPOP • RATING: TEEN

Tegami Bachi: Letter Bee, Vol. 1

August 7, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

Tegami Bachi has all the right ingredients to be a great shonen series: a dark, futuristic setting; rad monsters; cool weapons powered by mysterious energy sources; characters with goofy names (how’s “Gauche Suede” grab you?); and smart, stylish artwork. Unfortunately, volume one seems a little underdone, like a piping-hot shepherd’s pie filled with rock-hard carrots.

The problem lies with the story: manga-ka Hiroyuki Asada takes a simple premise and gussies it up with fussy, poorly explained details. The story itself may remind readers of Banya the Explosive Delivery Man or The Postman, as Tegami Bachi‘s principal characters are also mail carriers — or, in the series’ parlance, Letter Bees — who traverse dark wastelands to deliver letters and packages to the far-flung residents of their homeworld. In the case of Tegami Bachi, that homeworld is Amberground, a planet illuminated by a single, man-made star that hovers above its capital city, Akatsuki, where the wealthiest, most powerful citizens live. Amberground’s cities are separated by country inhabited only by Gaichuu, giant insects whose metal exoskeletons are impervious to most weapons, save the shindanjuu, or heart gun, the preferred sidearm of Letter Bees.

How, exactly, the shindanjuu works is never satisfactorily explained, despite its prominent role in the story. I had to consult the appendix, which defines “heart” as a magical, omnipresent energy that penetrates and surrounds most living beings, not unlike The Force. (The Gaichuu, lacking heart, are vulnerable to its awesome power, especially when it takes the form of hollow bullets). The shindanjuu also enables Letter Bees to experience other people’s memories in a vivid, almost hallucinatory fashion. As with the magic bullets, the gun’s dream-sharing capacity gets only a cursory explanation; the dream sequences are hella confusing, requiring several readings to figure out whose memories we’re seeing.

Tegami Bachi‘s other shortcoming is its two principal characters. Gauche Suede, the older, more experienced Letter Bee, is a stock shonen hero: a confident, tough-talking loner who turns out to be a softie under his cool, competent exterior. Lag Seeing, the younger one, begins his journey as a package — he’s one of Gauche’s deliveries — and decides to become a Letter Bee after Gauche safely guides them through Gaichuu-infested territory. Lag, too, is a familiar type, the slightly dim but very sincere Kid on a Mission who views mail delivery as his true calling. Both characters have sad back stories involving female relatives — again, a standard shonen trope that does little to enrich the story.

The artwork, on the other hand, is genuinely striking; Tegami Bachi is one of the best-looking titles in the Shonen Jump catalog. Hiroyuki Asada’s landscapes are beautifully rendered, giving a clear sense of Amberground’s geography, technology (they’re in the nineteenth-century Bavarian phase of development, to judge from the architecture), fauna, and flora. And man, what flora! In one amusing sequence, Lag fights Gaichuu in a forest of giant broccoli. Does make you wonder, though: how do those florets get so big without sunlight?

Asada makes effective use of screentone to capture Amberground’s perpetual night, reserving true black for the sky and for a few important details: Gauche’s jacket, the Gaichuu’s carapaces. He incorporates star imagery into almost every scene without it ever seeming cheesy or heavy-handed; the stars have symbolic importance, to be sure, but they also serve an artistic purpose, bringing light and contrast to a layout that might otherwise be a murky mess.

If I seem unduly harsh in my assessment of Tegami Bachi, it’s only because it has the potential to be good — really good, if Asada focuses more on character development and less on mystical hoo-ha. The premise lends itself to both a Delivery of the Week format, in which each chapter functions as a stand-alone story, and to a more traditional Boy on a Quest narrative, in which Gauche, Lag, or both set out to rescue the people they love. Either way, I’ll be picking up volume two to see if the storytelling rises to the level of the artwork.

Review copy provided by VIZ Media, LLC. Volume one will be available on September 1, 2009.

TEGAMI BACHI, VOL. 1 • BY HIROYUKI ASADA • VIZ • 200 pp. • RATING: TEEN

Children of the Sea, Vol. 1

August 5, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

The ocean occupies a special place in the artistic imagination, inspiring a mixture of awe, terror, and fascination. Watson and the Shark, for example, depicts the ocean as the mouth of Hell, a dark void filled with demons and tormented souls, while The Birth of Venus offers a more benign vision of the ocean as a life-giving force. In Children of the Sea, Daisuke Igarashi imagines the ocean as a giant portal between the terrestrial world and deep space, as is suggested by a refrain that echoes throughout volume one:

From the star.
From the stars.
The sea is the mother.
The people are the breasts
Heaven is the playground.

How, exactly, sea and sky are connected is the central mystery of Children of the Sea. The story begins in the present day, as a woman promises to tell her son “about a giant shark that lives deep beneath the waves,” “the ghosts that cross the sea,” and “the path that connects the sea to space.” We then jump back to a defining moment in Ruka’s childhood when, on a visit to the local aquarium, she saw a fish disappear in a bright flash of light – what she describes as “a ghost in the water.” Ruka doesn’t think much of the incident until she meets Umi and Sora, two humans whose bodies are better adapted to life in the ocean than on land. Under the watchful eye of her father and his assistant Jim, the boys live at the aquarium, venturing out into daylight only to visit the hospital and swim in the open ocean. Eager to know more about Umi and Sora, Ruka sets out to sea with them, where she watches the boys swim with a second “ghost in the water”: a luminescent whale shark that leaves a starry wake in its trail.

As Ruka struggles to understand Umi and Sora’s connection to the shark, she begins to realize that a profound change is taking place at sea. Thousands of common fish are disappearing from aquariums around the world; rarely seen deep-water species are washing ashore on Japanese beaches; and dugongs are visiting waters normally too cold for such tropical creatures. What these events mean is not yet clear, though they all seem like manifestations of the same phenomenon.

ruka1

Daisuke Igarashi is a masterful storyteller, liberally mixing genres – the coming-of-age story, the scientific mystery – to create a unique drama that’s eerie and compelling. As fanciful as the story’s details may be, Children of the Sea maintains a firm grip on reality, thanks to its memorable, true-to-life characters. Ruka, in particular, is a fine creation, a strong, independent girl who reacts with her fists instead of her mouth, has trouble making friends, and burns with curiosity about the things she’s seen. Umi and Sora, too, both have distinctive personalities; whatever their role in the story’s eventual denouement, neither are portrayed as innocents or naifs but as smart, worldly, and sometimes prickly individuals who are in a desperate race against time.

Igarashi’s expert storytelling is beautifully complemented by his artwork. He favors a naturalistic style, rendering every element of the layout in his own hand rather than relying on tracings or prefabricated backgrounds. As a result, his pages are visually complex but thoroughly organic; every element of the design feels essential to establishing the story’s location in space and time. His characters are realistic, though their proportions are slightly awkward. Their large heads and big hands make them seem otherworldly and fragile, especially when contrasted with the large, powerful animals they encounter at sea.

If you’re not yet sold on Children of the Sea, I strongly encourage you to visit Viz’s IKKI website, where all eight chapters of volume one are available for free online browsing. Be warned, however, that this poetic, graceful, and thought-provoking story may cast a spell on you, too, making you reflect on the truth of Jacques Cousteau’s comment that “The sea, the great unifier, is man’s only hope. Now, as never before, the old phrase has a literal meaning: we are all in the same boat.”

Review copy provided by VIZ Media, LLC.

CHILDREN OF THE SEA, VOL. 1 • BY DAISUKE IGARASHI • VIZ • 320 pp. • RATING: OLDER TEEN (16+)

Dororo, Vols. 1-3

July 27, 2009 by Katherine Dacey

If Phoenix is Tezuka’s Ring Cycle, Wagnerian in scope, form, and seriousness, then Dororo is Tezuka’s Don Giovanni, a playful marriage of supernatural intrigue and lowbrow comedy whose deeper message is cloaked in shout-outs to fellow artists (in this case, Shunji Sonoyama instead of Vicente Martin y Soler), self-referential jokes, pop-culture allusions, fourth-wall humor, and a bestiary of bodacious demons.

Its hero, Hyakkimaru, is born under a black cloud, thanks to a deal his father, Lord Daigo, struck with forty-eight devils: in exchange for political and military power, Daigo allowed each demon to claim one of his unborn child’s body parts. After his son’s birth, Daigo places Hyakkimaru in a basket and, against his wife’s wishes, sets the baby adrift on a river. A kind doctor rescues and raises Hyakkimaru, eventually building him a new body that transformed the legless, armless boy into a fighting machine equipped with an exploding nose and sword prostheses. It doesn’t take long, however, before Daigo’s minions begin attacking Hyakkimaru and menacing Dr. Honma. In an effort to spare his mentor’s life, Hyakkimaru bids farewell to Dr. Honma and embarks on a quest to reclaim his body from the demons who aided Lord Daigo.

Hyakkimaru soon acquires a traveling companion: Dororo, a pint-sized pickpocket with a big mouth and a bad attitude. Despite Hyakkimaru’s efforts to rid himself of Dororo, the kid bandit vows not to leave Hyakkimaru’s side until he gets his hands on one of Hyakkimaru’s swords. The two wander a war-torn landscape, stumbling across fire-ravaged temples, starving villages, bandits, profiteers, homeless children… and demons. Lots of them.

dororo2 Though much of the devastation that Hyakkimaru and Dororo witness is man-made (Dororo takes placed during the Sengoku, or Warring States, Period), demons exploit the conflict for their own benefit, holding small communities in their thrall, luring desperate travelers to their doom, and feasting on the never-ending supply of human corpses. Some of these demons have obvious antecedents in Japanese folklore — a nine-tailed kitsune — while others seem to have sprung full-blown from Tezuka’s imagination — a shark who paralyzes his victims with sake breath, a demonic toad, a patch of mold possessed by an evil spirit. (As someone who’s lived in prewar buildings, I can vouch for the existence of demonic mold. Lysol is generally more effective than swordplay in eliminating it, however.) Hyakkimaru has a vested interest in killing these demons, as he spontaneously regenerates a lost body part with each monster he slays. But he also feels a strong sense of kinship with many victims — a feeling not shared by those he helps, who cast him out of their village as soon as the local demon has been vanquished.

dororo3 For folks who find the cartoonish aspects of Tezuka’s style difficult to reconcile with the serious themes addressed in Buddha, Phoenix, and Ode to Kirihito, Dororo may prove a more satisfying read. The cuteness of Tezuka’s heroes actually works to his advantage; they seem terribly vulnerable when contrasted with the grotesque demons, ruthless samurai, and scheming bandits they encounter. Tezuka’s jokes — which can be intrusive in other stories — also prove essential to Dororo‘s success. He shatters the fourth wall, inserts characters from his stable of “stars,” borrows characters from other manga-kas’ work, and punctuates moments of high drama with low comedy, underscoring the sheer absurdity of his conceits… like sake-breathing shark demons. Put another way, Dororo wears its allegory lightly, focusing primarily on swordfights, monster lairs, and damsels in distress while using its historical setting to make a few modest points about the corrosive influence of greed, power, and fear.

If I had any criticism of Dororo, it’s that the story ends too abruptly. Neither hero has reached the end of his journey, yet neither seems firmly resolved to continue his quest; they simply part ways at Hyakkimaru’s suggestion. I’m guessing that Tezuka was avoiding the obvious, sentimental conclusion suggested by a major revelation in volume three, but even that would have been better than slamming on the brakes at an arbitrary point in the narrative.

Weak ending notwithstanding, Dororo is one of Tezuka’s most accessible series, free of the historical and cultural baggage that can be an obstacle to enjoying his more ambitious, adult stories. If you haven’t yet explored Tezuka’s work, have found titles like Apollo’s Song too fraught for your tastes, or are wondering why this somewhat corny, boy-versus-monster manga beat out critical favorites like Monster and solanin in this year’s Eisner race, Dororo makes a perfect (re)introduction to Tezuka’s unique storytelling style. Highly recommended.

This review is based on complimentary copies provided by Vertical, Inc. for the purposes of a review. I have not received any form of compensation from Vertical, Inc. in exchange for publishing my opinion of this book.

DORORO, VOLS. 1-3 • BY OSAMU TEZUKA • VERTICAL, INC. • NO RATING