When the final issue of Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Strikes Again came out, reactions were mixed, to say the least. Jeff Lester said "Did I just read the largest budget corporate sponsored underground comic ever published?" James Kolchaka compared it to a 14-year-old's idea of what a comic book masterpiece should be - raw, exploding talent with no reins holding it back. Others thought it was a self-indulgent, wasteful piece of shit that DC let escape from the asylum because it had three words that, together, could do no wrong at all in the sales charts. "Frank Miller Batman."
I've reread it a few times since then and have come to the conclusion that this is an interesting experiment by a keen professional. Whether or not it succeeds is up to the reader's investment. If they're expecting a Batman story, like I was the first time around, "disappointed" is going to be an understatement. There is something to be said for the slapdash, obnoxious effort put on by Miller and his wife and colorist, Lynn Varley.
The whole punk ethic runs strongly in DK2 - pages are jammed together almost randomly and the same three loud, jarring chords are played again at alternating rates and patterns for the reader to try to glean some sort of innate meaning from. This isn't true, underground, filthy punk, though. This is the Sex Pistols doing their Filthy Lucre tour. Sure, it's punk, but it's dad punk. It's still loud and has everything there, but the age of the participants and their distance from the original material takes away from of the vitality the collaboration had the first time around. Considering that Dick Giordano and Klaus Janson were both missing from the sequel's formula, you could extend the metaphor to include Sid Vicious's self-induced absence the last time the Pistols made the rounds.
So, if The Dark Knight Strikes Again is Filthy Lucre, what's the comics equivalent of Never Mind The Bollocks?
I present to you Teenagers From Mars, with a name swiped from a Misfits tune and an attitude that is pure garage punk with a clever manager behind it that makes sure we listen to what's being said and talk about it. There's just enough craft from the players involved - Rick Spears and Rob G - for this wreckage of energy and not-so-subtle messaging to find a cohesion that's rare in self-published books.
Macon works behind the book and magazine counter at a Wal-Mart analogue in a small town that could be anywhere. At night, he makes comics. He believes in the power of the medium and he's going to tell anyone that he comes across about them. It's after a mother brings in an ultraviolent superhero comic and throws it on the counter, demanding a refund and screaming about protecting the children that all hell breaks loose in his life. He assaults his manager after being fired for not pulling all the comics off the rack just as Madison (the girl - every great punk record has one somewhere) is dragged out by the cops for viciously beating a pervert.
These two principals find themselves united with a comics shop owner, the kid whose mother helped kick start this incident, and a redneck with a serious gun fetish against Mayor Wertham, who has outlawed comics and is now regularly holding book burning in the town square. No, it's not subtle at all - neither was "Anarchy In The UK," but it means something. The Comic Book Liberation Army (not to be confused with the CBLDF, who get a shout-out and a succinct breakdown of their goals) is formed to do one thing - save comics from those who don't get it. In other words - it's time fight the power, set the streets alight, use violence, do anything to get the message across.
If Rick Spears' writing is the nearly-repellent, bombs-bursting snarl of Johnny Rotten, then Rob G (later to cement his reputation further on The Couriers) is the rest of the band. With his perfect timing on action and spiky visual sense, the reader finds themselves turning pages quickly, not in an effort to quickly get to the next bit of dialogue or story, but to find out what happens next. This is a near-perfect fusion of story and art. Each seems to know where the other's strengths lie, covering the weaknesses adeptly and with a professional sheen that reminded me of Malcolm McLaren's pitch-perfect promotion of the Pistols. I can practically feel them frantically gesturing towards the page and screaming "No, ignore this awkward and unrealistic plot contrivance because there's zombies dancing and hot teen girls!"
For a $20 paperback, this experience may seem too short during your first read, but it's just like the 38-minutes-long Never Mind The Bollocks - a dose of raw momentum and a barely-contained cacophony that, if you get it, changes everything and holds up to repeated scrutiny.
I've reread it a few times since then and have come to the conclusion that this is an interesting experiment by a keen professional. Whether or not it succeeds is up to the reader's investment. If they're expecting a Batman story, like I was the first time around, "disappointed" is going to be an understatement. There is something to be said for the slapdash, obnoxious effort put on by Miller and his wife and colorist, Lynn Varley.
The whole punk ethic runs strongly in DK2 - pages are jammed together almost randomly and the same three loud, jarring chords are played again at alternating rates and patterns for the reader to try to glean some sort of innate meaning from. This isn't true, underground, filthy punk, though. This is the Sex Pistols doing their Filthy Lucre tour. Sure, it's punk, but it's dad punk. It's still loud and has everything there, but the age of the participants and their distance from the original material takes away from of the vitality the collaboration had the first time around. Considering that Dick Giordano and Klaus Janson were both missing from the sequel's formula, you could extend the metaphor to include Sid Vicious's self-induced absence the last time the Pistols made the rounds.
So, if The Dark Knight Strikes Again is Filthy Lucre, what's the comics equivalent of Never Mind The Bollocks?
I present to you Teenagers From Mars, with a name swiped from a Misfits tune and an attitude that is pure garage punk with a clever manager behind it that makes sure we listen to what's being said and talk about it. There's just enough craft from the players involved - Rick Spears and Rob G - for this wreckage of energy and not-so-subtle messaging to find a cohesion that's rare in self-published books. Macon works behind the book and magazine counter at a Wal-Mart analogue in a small town that could be anywhere. At night, he makes comics. He believes in the power of the medium and he's going to tell anyone that he comes across about them. It's after a mother brings in an ultraviolent superhero comic and throws it on the counter, demanding a refund and screaming about protecting the children that all hell breaks loose in his life. He assaults his manager after being fired for not pulling all the comics off the rack just as Madison (the girl - every great punk record has one somewhere) is dragged out by the cops for viciously beating a pervert.
These two principals find themselves united with a comics shop owner, the kid whose mother helped kick start this incident, and a redneck with a serious gun fetish against Mayor Wertham, who has outlawed comics and is now regularly holding book burning in the town square. No, it's not subtle at all - neither was "Anarchy In The UK," but it means something. The Comic Book Liberation Army (not to be confused with the CBLDF, who get a shout-out and a succinct breakdown of their goals) is formed to do one thing - save comics from those who don't get it. In other words - it's time fight the power, set the streets alight, use violence, do anything to get the message across.
If Rick Spears' writing is the nearly-repellent, bombs-bursting snarl of Johnny Rotten, then Rob G (later to cement his reputation further on The Couriers) is the rest of the band. With his perfect timing on action and spiky visual sense, the reader finds themselves turning pages quickly, not in an effort to quickly get to the next bit of dialogue or story, but to find out what happens next. This is a near-perfect fusion of story and art. Each seems to know where the other's strengths lie, covering the weaknesses adeptly and with a professional sheen that reminded me of Malcolm McLaren's pitch-perfect promotion of the Pistols. I can practically feel them frantically gesturing towards the page and screaming "No, ignore this awkward and unrealistic plot contrivance because there's zombies dancing and hot teen girls!"
For a $20 paperback, this experience may seem too short during your first read, but it's just like the 38-minutes-long Never Mind The Bollocks - a dose of raw momentum and a barely-contained cacophony that, if you get it, changes everything and holds up to repeated scrutiny.
