Nikopol Trilogy by Enki Bilal

            Enki Bilal’s Nikopol Trilogy is a series you definitely have to be in the right mindset to enjoy; I’ve picked it up numerous times over the years, but never got very far for one reason or another until now (sometimes it was the content, others it was due to lack of sufficient time).  As the word “trilogy” would imply, the Nikopol Trilogy is divided into three parts, all eventually twining around the twists and turns in the life of Alcide Nikopol, a man out of time due to being cryogenically frozen for several decades as punishment for avoiding the draft.  Thanks to the power of some [ancient Egyptian] divine intervention, Nikopol eventually finds himself usurping the head of the Fascist government of Paris.  Things only get more complicated from there.

Bilal creates his dystopian world through gorgeous art and an interesting [albeit sometimes confusing] story, but meanwhile I found most of his characters relatively unlikeable, Jill in particular; her need to continuously run away from her problems - often of her own creation (namely the slew of murders of men she’s slept with) – made it hard to sympathize with her and the different problems that befall her in the two stories she’s involved in.  Even Nikopol, one of the more relatable characters, starts taking a darker turn as events unfold and the story starts winding down.  Characters like Horus, as well as the other Egyptian gods, might be excused if only because their thought process and code of conduct may be a little different from the humans they rule over (and even so, I feel that’s grasping at straws).  Bilal’s choice to leave some questions unanswered did nothing to resolve some of the issues the characters were dealing with, which was frustrating to me as a reader.

Something that may shock readers unfamiliar with European comics is the lack of censorship when it comes to nudity, which is refreshing in comparison to their American counterparts.  A body is a body.  “Does the story call for it being naked?  Fine, it’s naked.  No big deal.”  The fact that the writer/artist believes the reader mature enough to get over the fact a character is naked, as well as not feel the need to sexualize it, is something I wish would carry over into American comics more.

American Born Chinese by Gene Yang

            Avoiding stereotypes and offensive racial depictions has been a bumpy road for anyone in the visual arts, and looking at older work its even tougher to avoid as tolerance and acceptance levels changed over the ages.  American Born Chinese is an interesting examination of the “coolie” stereotype unfortunately spawned in the U.S. during the 19^th century, as well as the kinds of issues one might face being a minority (the focus in this instance is on ethnicity, but definitely applicable to any minority role).

            The format itself is interesting in that the graphic novel is told in three parts, each seemingly standing on their own with little relation to one another; however, as the work goes on, they suddenly begin intertwining more, until the climax when each individual story suddenly smashes into one another (quite brilliantly).  While at first I disliked the almost non-sequitur feel, jumping from one story to another, as the three stories started correlating more I actually started to enjoy the story-hopping.  Those who prefer a lengthier story format might find it a little jarring, but it’s fairly easy to get used to.

            Yang’s examination of the coolie stereotype, alongside a second-generation immigrant in a modern setting, makes for an interesting juxtaposition as the latter is forced to deal with the antics of the other.  Jin/Danny’s eventual acceptance of his heritage, and consequentially how he manages to change his personal views of his self-image, brought a bit of a tear to my eye due to the struggles I’ve seen friends deal with when it comes to self acceptance; instead of ethnicity, though, it’s been about sexuality, and attempting to reconcile their personal preferences with themselves as well as deal with potential backlash of being open with their preferences to their parents and family.

            On a minor note, around 2008 or 2009, when my mother and I were visiting with her best friend and her family, we accompanied them on a shopping trip for her son, who was entering high school.  Among the books required for one of his courses (I forget the specific course) was American Born Chinese.  I find it interesting that a few schools have the graphic novel a part of their reading curriculum, and am curious as to what sort of things they may have discussed after reading it.

Err, it's a little bit of a spoiler.  Any way, I would have liked to see the consequences Wei-Chen would have to face for his actions, since the ending felt a tad abrupt, but it was definitely a heart-warmer. 

Maus by Art Spielgelman

Art Spielgelman's Maus was probably one of the first publications to shed light on comics as a respectable medium - and even one of the first to give way to the idea of the graphic novel, particularly as a more popular method of storytelling.  The story Art tells the reader is essentially a memoir from two people: the first belonging to his father, Vladek, and his life leading up to and during World War II; the second belonging to Art himself, as he deals with his father during the time working on the comic, as well as the aftermath of Part I's publication and his father's eventual death.

While Artie shows how difficult his relationship with his father was throughout the comic, a point of contention between father and son I particularly glommed on to was Vladek's need to continuously hoard things.  While Vladek claims it’s due to his experiences during WWII, we see other examples of people who endured experiences like Auschwitz and the concentration camps, and came out without developing similar habits (this is even pointed out by several characters in the story).  We see how Vladek’s tendencies to keep what possessions he could out of practicality and caution serve him throughout his experiences during WWII, and I found it interesting that none of the characters seem to catch on to this.  This type of attitude, along with a little luck, are essentially what saved him and his wife, Anja, during the Holocaust, and later show to serve how, mentally, Vladek never really came out of the War (and possibly Anja, although we are never given the chance to hear her side of the story).

Artie’s inability to deal with or completely comprehend his father’s almost survivalist mentality is interesting because it shows how disparate their experiences have been – the fact that Artie acknowledges this, saying he has “Some kind of guilt about having an easier life than they did,” reinforces this, and further emphasizes how Vladek’s experiences shaped him, versus Artie’s experiences.  Artie’s oscillating desire between wanting to have experienced Auschwitz alongside his parents, versus being grateful for his life as it occurred, is another interesting aspect of the story touched on throughout the comic, albeit not as conspicuously as it could have been.  The fact that Vladek accidentally calls Artie “Richieau,” the name of their son who didn’t survive the Holocaust, also hints at a particular guilt he might still be feeling about the boy’s death, and subsequently why he and Artie have had such a difficult time ever making a close connection (and why Artie feels like he’s always been competing with Richieau, despite the boy’s death).

There are many good reasons why Maus won a Pulitzer prize, and just as many more why the stories held within its pages are just as important as similar memoirs like The Diary of Anne Frank.  Although the mediums are different, the poignancy of each work and the characters’ experiences are incredibly memorable, and the simplistic visuals found in Maus make it all the easier to be touched by said experiences.

Underground Comix and Robert Crumb

When the Comics Code Authority came into play during the 1950s, the possibilities for artistic expression through the graphic medium quickly became stilted.  Authors and artists wishing to depict more than what the CCA would allow began to self-publish their work, creating an underground form of the comic book that would eventually be referred to by the moniker of “Comix.”

Comix came into the world during the period of the Vietnam War: a time of social upheaval back home in the US, caused by an increasing dissonance in values and ideals in its populace.  This clashing of values is easily seen in Comix like Whiteman (and a number of R. Crumb’s other works, including the animation, Fritz the Cat), and progressively glimpsed more and more in Howard Cruse’s Barefootz.

My first encounter with R. Crumb was when his illustrated version of the Book of Genesis came out in 2009, and WMagazine rolled out an article featuring his work; I didn’t his work appealing then, and still grasp at straws attempting to find something I genuinely enjoy about it now.  Crumb’s ink work has an intentionally heavy-handed feel that I never really took to, and his particular portrayal of most women – thick thighed, thick legged, “balloon-busted” figures – is, personally, offensive in its invocation of the image of a blow-up doll (meanwhile, males in the spotlight may take on licentious tendencies and engage in often drug-induced buffoonery).

Focusing more on the content of the works read this week (again, primarily on Whiteman, although this analysis is still applicable to parts of Barefootz), Comix seemed to take the freedom they could of being self-published, and ran with it, often heavily relying on shock value (the influence of the free-love Hippie culture and heavy use of psychedelics is also evident).  Sex, drugs, and violence interplay throughout the body of Comix in varying levels (Whiteman focuses more on the sex, Barefootz tends to play more with drugs and sex when dealing with any of the aforementioned), to the degree that they actually begin to lose their shock value and become moot point.

I will fully own up to the fact that I enjoyed some of the Comix discussed, to a small degree.  But I believe part of the disconnect being experienced can be found in the generation gap: these comics were published during a time when there were intense social and political disturbances occurring in the nation – the hippie culture was surfacing alongside the later half of the Civil Rights movement, while young men were being shipped off and [hopefully] returning from the Vietnam War, for better or worse from their experiences overseas.  Comix were contemporary during this time, and, depending on which ones read, addressed or even satired issues that would have been relevant for the time of their publication.  Essentially fifty years later, Generation Y – my generation – has not really experienced the same things they would have back in the 60s and 70s.  With the flattening of the world through the ‘net, the idea of a great, cultural upheaval seems to diminish (as far as I can tell, we don’t even have a distinctive type of music to attribute to Generation Y, unlike previous generations).  There hasn’t really been a great rebellion, be it against parents, society, or the government.  Generations Y and onward seem almost placated by technology and the cultural saturation being experienced, which makes it difficult to relate to such Comix published during a time when discontent ran rife through the hearts of generational contemporaries.