GTO: The title refers to neither a car nor a Beach Boys song, but Great Teacher Onizuka, a 22-year-old homeroom teacher who gets in hot water after admitting on a TV talk show that he once almost buried a female student alive. He plies his trade at the educational institution known as, of all things, Kissho Academy.

This is the setup of Vertical Inc.’s latest manga imported for American audiences. Tohru Fujisawa’s series — in this initial volume, at least — plays an oddball mix of mild T&A horniness and a little less mild schoolyard violence. It is a tad more than mildly enjoyable.

In this academic adventure, GTO spends two weeks playing assist at the titular Shonan, a kids’ foster facility with a pair of 20-something hotties running the show, so immediately he imagines getting a flash of big, bra-clad boobs. He’s renowned for opening the hearts of troubled students, but not necessarily the legs of young women, despite their advances. Offers one 14-year-old, creepily, “I want your seed!”

His attempts to do good backfire, from confronting a guy taking upskirt pics to attempting to stop a shoplifter, but mostly with the more thugish Shonan students who don’t cotton to his usual way of doing things.

Although nowhere near the hotness and/or hilarity of Vertical’s three-part highly recommended PEEPO CHOO series, Fujisawa’s work strikes a confident balance between believability and outrageousness, so its more or less grounded nature keeps things accessible to a mass audience, occasional touch of sauciness aside: “Who’d ever get close to that moldy cock of yours? I bet it smells like a demon flower.”

The locust-adverse may want to skip the closing chapters. —Rod Lott

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Gary Phillips, the excellent and criminally underappreciated Los Angeles-based crime-fiction author, is no stranger to comics. Fact is, he’s been producing series and graphic works for almost as long as he’s written his various novels and short stories. Among his more recent illustrated ventures is Vertigo Crime’s COWBOYS, a stunning example of how a complex and involving crime story can be told as a graphic novel.
 
At the heart of the story are two law enforcement officers, different in their professional approach and personal lives as night and day. Deke Kotto is an investigative cop who works the urban streets in a reckless, rogue manner that always seems to get results. But when he discovers the dead body of tax auditor, he’s assigned to drastically clean up his appearance, go undercover and follow the trail of the money the auditor was involved with.

The other officer is Tim Brady, a white, fairly straight-laced FBI agent counting the days to his retirement pension. Then, Brady is assigned to go undercover as an investment broker and get close to a rap record producer suspected of using dirty money to fund his operations.
 
What Brady and Kotto don’t know is that they are both working the same case from opposite sides — and that their investigations are on a deadly collision course.
 
Phillips’ inventive and cross-cutting narrative effectively places both protagonists in worlds completely foreign to their experiences. Kotto quickly learns the subdued techniques of intricate white-collar crime, while Brady immerses himself in the flashy and extravagant surroundings of hip-hop. They quickly realize that both worlds, while in stark contrast, are equally dangerous as their investigations lead to an inevitable and violent showdown. Phillips further embellishes the story with his knowledge of investment trading and its potential connections with crime, and through the portrayal of the contrasting private lives of the lead characters that distract their investigation.
 
Illustrator Brian Hurtt, best known for his work on THE SIXTH GUN and DC’s HARD TIME, is equally effective in his black-and-white renderings of the differing urban settings, ranging from the stark coolness of a high-rise office to the swirling ambience of a downtown, after-hours dance club. His shifting scenes convey the contrasting stories with cinematic assurance that is especially effective in the erupting flashes of violence.
 
COWBOYS has enough story and character content for either a gripping crime novel or an pulse-pounding action movie. As is, it demonstrates how such a potent story can be effectively told in this unexpected medium – especially in the expert hands of Phillips and Hurtt. You’ll find yourself longing to re-read it several times to appreciate all it so successfully accomplishes. —Alan Cranis

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It’s with both great sadness and a sigh of relief that BLACK JACK: VOLUME 17 arrives — sadness, because this marks the end of Vertical Inc.’s trade-paperback reprints of Osamu Tezuka’s “peerless medical drama” manga; relief, because the publisher actually saw it through to the very end, as promised. I guess that meant the thing continued to sell.

If so, I’m not the least bit surprised. From the start, Tezuka’s series — first serialized from 1973 to 1983 — was a work of creative excellence, and stayed that way, through all these thousands of pages. If you’re looking to make an investment in a series that will pay off more than what you put into it, look no further.

Other than an appendix that points to which volume any given tale can be found, this one is like any other, offering a string of standalone adventures for Black Jack, our rogue, unlicensed surgeon with a scarred face and skunk-colored hair. Yes, he’s kind of a dick, but what surgeon isn’t, really?

In these stories, Black Jack:
• sends his Frankensteinian creation, Pinoko, on her way;
• turns a young woman into a literal bird;
• is asked to perform a sex change on a girl because her father wants it;
• is tricked into aiding a people smuggler;
• commits an unspeakable act of science on a horse;
• removes a stone from a man’s bile duct, then puts it right back in;
• tends to a little girl who jumped off a building to get her dad’s attention;
• actually refuses to administer life-or-death care to another child;
• digs out a tumor;
• creates a fully formed human out of a cystoma;
• works on a pop starlet’s lady parts during a typhoon; and
• performs emergency surgery on himself. Hey, he has mirrors.

As if you couldn’t tell, this Black Jack character is one of a kind, a real kick. I will miss him so. This body of work is one of genius, an ahead-of-its-time macabre soap opera that sliced open the boundaries of comics. —Rod Lott

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A doll possessed by the devil, a freshly dug-up corpse, a musician driven to madness, a mentalist with a twisted gift, a woman who suspects her husband is a vampire, a family driven by greed — these are among the tales of terror in the hardcover comics anthology INNER SANCTUM, written and illustrated by Ernie Colón.

Pegged right on the cover as being inspired by the radio program of the same name — which birthed a series of films starring Lon Chaney Jr. in the mid-1940s — the book presents stories in the spirit of the show, rather than adaptations.

By design, they are old-school. On one hand, that means filled with pulp elements; on the other, that means thoroughly predictable ends. All in all, this INNER SANCTUM is fun, if not particularly innovative or deep. Colón’s art, however, is a pleasure throughout. —Rod Lott

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RAT CATCHER is another in Vertigo Crime’s series of wonderfully intense and suspenseful graphics novels incorporating some of the finest writers and artists working the field today. This one is a bloody and breathless story of betrayal and retribution that starts off with a bang and rarely lets up until the conclusion.

A fire breaks out in a house on a deserted stretch of road outside of El Paso, Texas. As the investigation begins, it is revealed that the location was a federal safe house, and one of its current residents was a criminal due to provide states’ evidence against a high-ranking mob boss. Moses Burdon, an aging FBI agent specializing for many years in witness protection, arrives on the scene in search of his partner, now feared dead from the blaze.

For as long as they worked together, Burdon’s partner believed in the Rat Catcher, a shadowy hit man who targets potential mob snitches. Since there has never been enough hard proof of the Rat Catcher’s existence, many federal agents are positive he’s just a myth. Now Burdon feels the Rat Catcher is a reality, especially when it is discovered that somebody survived the fire and is on the run.

The survivor might be Burdon’s partner. Or it might be the Rat Catcher himself, seeking payback for a possible frame-up by the mob boss. Whatever the case, Burdon and other law enforcement officers chase the survivor through the West Texas Badlands as the case become more complicated and more dead bodies pile up.
 
Andy Diggle, best known as the author of THE LOSERS comic series (and basis for the underrated film adaptation), is no stranger to stories where those on the side of the law are suddenly left on their own with few insiders they can trust. He is inventive enough to keep some surprising plot twists under wraps until they add the most effective weight. Additionally, Diggle cross-cuts between locations and events — and, at one point, an essential flashback — with an unrelenting pace reminiscent of your favorite crime thriller screenplay.

Victor Ibanez ably assists the story with his sharp-focus, black-and-white drawings utilizing a variety of panel sizes and sometimes full pages for optimum shock effect. His character and location depictions are easily convincing and in perfect harmony with Diggle’s plot and dialogue.
 
RAT CATCHER will easily win high favor with comic fans, especially those who prefer crime/mystery-oriented graphic stories. They should pass it along to those crime-fiction fans who have yet to be initiated into graphic novels. It provides the same satisfying rush as a well-made movie you can’t wait to see again. —Alan Cranis

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Following 2010′s delightful DICK BRIEFER’S FRANKENSTEIN, this second volume in IDW’s “Chilling Archives of Horror Comics,” BOB POWELL’S TERROR, as edited by the ubiquitous Craig Yoe, is equally oddball-wonderful.

While the first book chronologically covered 15-odd years of both style and character development, this tome is limited to a much briefer segment. These 18 stories — from magazines like WITCHES’ TALES, THIS MAGAZINE IS HAUNTED, CHAMBER OF CHILLS and many others — all range from a narrow slice between July 1951 to August 1954.

Bob Powell learned his craft in the Eisner and Iger comics stable beginning in the late ’30s and honed his chops on Doc Savage, Captain America, Sheena and a number of other less-famous titles before plowing into the horror field under the EC influence.

While Dick Briefer funneled his focus into whimsical weirdness, Powell here plunges his pen into proto-Cronenbergian body horror. His writing is not — for the most of this volume — on par with what Bill Gaines and gang were doing over at EC, but Powell’s eerie powers creating ideas and images with blobby, gelatinous, festering new flesh in all its imaginable forms remains admirably peculiar. The opening story which features a throbbing wall of flesh eager to expand by absorbing any bystander is a gooey delight, and things go quickly downhill … for our protagonists.

What, however, really distinguishes and elevates this book from your standard, low-budget horror fare are two complete surviving stories reprinted from the collector-owned, original, uncolored artwork. Unlike the rest of the stories, which are smudged and smeared in a very endearing way, these two pieces showcase what Powell was truly capable of: His lines are fluid in the way that Harvey Kurtzman could be, elegant and expressive, yet grounded in reality. Importantly, the pair of tales allow the reader to peer at what is lurking underneath all the others, after colors, gunk and mediocre printing have done their damage.

Storywise, peculiarly for this early work, Powell seems to have an interest in and knowledge of near-death experiences. The volume contains several stories apparently drawing inspiration from related phenomena well ahead of its mid-’70s popularization. It gives some of the best bits in the book heft and a slight edge of seriousness that bumps them well above your run-of-the-mill grist. Whether this was intentional or even personal, I’ve no idea, but the results speak for themselves.

Overall, this is a wonderfully entertaining volume, and even those stories written to a formula are elevated by Powell’s mercurial penwork and creative layouts. That these images have not been processed, scrubbed and cleaned gives them charm, and even the original printing mistakes work for TERROR’s benefit under my gaze.

Of course, I’d still take a book of all original, black-and-white artwork over this beauty, but I’ll settle for those two extraordinarily gorgeous stories amid all the phantasmagorically lurid madness that surrounds them. —JT Lindroos

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Published by Vertigo Crime, RETURN TO PERDITION concludes Max Allan Collins’ crime-family saga that began with 1998′s ROAD TO PERDITION (basis of the Tom Hanks movie) and was continued in 2004′s ROAD TO PERDITION 2: ON THE ROAD and a pair of prose novels, 2004′s ROAD TO PURGATORY and 2005′s ROAD TO PARADISE.

This new work notably marks the return to the graphic-novel format that started the series, and reunites Collins with Terry Beatty, the artist he collaborated with to produce the MS. TREE crime comics.

It is 1973. Marine Officer Michael Satariano Jr., grandson of Michael O’Sullivan, is held prisoner in a camp in Vietnam. He passes the time patiently planning his escape and keeping himself fit when not forced to work in the nearby rice paddies. After Michael is suddenly saved and rushed to a secretly located hospital for recuperation, he learns his rescue was a Black Ops mission, and that he has been officially listed as killed in action.

When released from the hospital, Michael is recruited by the Justice Department, trained by the FBI and enlisted in a secret mission. He learns that his father, once a figure of organized crime, changed sides and collaborated with the government to supply valuable inside information … until he and the rest of Michael’s family were murdered. Now Michael is dispatched to hunt down various crime figures who eventually will lead him to the ones who killed his family.

As he nears the completion of his mission, Michael is assigned to ingratiate himself with mobster Johnny Rosselli, and then kill the man at close range. But the assignment is jeopardized when Michael falls in love with Angie, Rosselli’s beautiful niece.
 
The irony of Satariano’s criminal background, now recruited and refined by the Justice Department itself, is not lost on Collins. It underscores the story’s essential action, even while Michael feels he is avenging the death of his family. And using a technique he employs in his popular and acclaimed Nate Heller series, Collins combines his fictional characters with such actual historical figures as Rosselli, Santo Trafficante and Sam “Momo” Giancana.
 
As his affair with Angie is discovered, risking his life and the entire mission, Michael is suddenly pulled away from the assignment. Rossilli is mysteriously and violently disposed of, and Michael is sent on a final assignment that reunites him with someone he thought was long since dead. This new story, which takes up the final quarter of the novel, adds valuable details to the overall story arc, but seems rushed and only desperately related to all that preceded it.
 
Beatty’s drawings effectively capture the scenery and styles of the early-to-mid-1970s in his sharply detailed, black-and-white/halftone art. The lack of color actually enhances the starkness of the story. (And who wants to be reminded of the pastel-colored leisure suits from that era anyway?)

Despite the awkward coda, RETURN TO PERDITION is a fine and fitting end to this heralded series. But in his afterword, Collins hints that there may be a prequel or two in the works. So perhaps we’ve not seen the last of Michael O’Sullivan or the locale we’ve come to know as Perdition. —Alan Cranis

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As much a biography on Art Spiegelman as it is his Pulitzer Prize-winning masterpiece, METAMAUS: A LOOK INSIDE A MODERN CLASSIC, MAUS is a beautiful book, both in visuals and themes, as the writer and artist is interviewed by Hillary Chute about the book that will not die, that he cannot escape, that he wishes would’ve been discovered only after 25 years after his death instead of being talked about for 25 years straight.

Not a chance, Art! First serialized in RAW (reprint please, Pantheon?) in 1980, MAUS not only changed the life of Spiegelman, but for graphic fiction in general. I recall being in high school when my journalism teacher, Mr. Effinger, told me I had to read this great book about the Holocaust that used mice as characters instead of humans. He loaned it to me, and I learned more about the Holocaust from it than any history class.

At the time, the end the 1980s, MAUS was the first graphic novel I’d ever read. Oh, I’d been raised on comic books and MAD magazines, and had two long boxes still at home in my closet, but to think that the format could tell a grown-up, adult story — and be taken seriously by the mass media — well, that was mind-blowing.

The depth of METAMAUS is, too. In full color, the hardcover includes scads of early drawings, character tests and whatnot from Spiegelman’s “rat’s nest” of materials, some of which is compared to the final product. We also hear from his family members individually on how the book’s release affected them; it’s funny to hear his daughter, Nadja, recall the 5-year-old her proudly tell the waiter about her father’s Pulitzer win, and being chastised for bragging.

As if this book doesn’t yield enough insight and information into MAUS’ making and impact, slip in the DVD creatively concealed within the cover design. Containing the complete MAUS annotated with multimedia, it’s like a Criterion Collection treatment. —Rod Lott

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Being the adventures of two Terran spatio-temporal agents, Valerian and Laureline, from 700 years in the future, THE EMPIRE OF A THOUSAND PLANETS, a self-sufficient follow-up to THE CITY OF SHIFTING WATERS, is equally equipped with eyeball kicks as it is with high adventure.

From their Galaxity spaceship, Valerian and Laureline observe the planet Syrtre, capital of a massive planetary system, to find out whether these Syrtians present any threat to their semi-benevolent Terran empire. Decadent and dying under the rule of an aristocracy controlled by a mysterious religious cult, our heroes plunge feet first into a heap of political intrigue leading towards a revolution, while trying to understand the Machiavellian machinations of this alien culture.

More focused than the initial adventure, this book exemplifies the tradition of “planetary romance” in science fiction. I’m not talking about the more modern trend of science speculation. These stories are not imagined by engineers thinking what might be possible. This is in the grand tradition of planet-hopping sci-fi visionaries like Jack Vance, Leigh Brackett and Barrington Bayley. You don’t need to know how things work; you flip the switch and gravity goes bye-bye.

THE EMPIRE OF A THOUSAND PLANETS is littered with fictional ideas and fictional science. After our heroes escape a particularly bad situation in a small rocketship, they enter a rainstorm which transforms into a thick forest of ice pillars as the temperature quickly drops. Unable to dodge the massive walls of frozen torrential rain, they crash-land and end up inside a gaudy, jeweled cathedral, soon again liquefied as the twin suns of this particular system scorch down on the spectacle … releasing from underneath a Loch Ness-grade sea-snake intent on a tasty human snack.   

This type of adventure fiction remains timeless. Perhaps it is the purposefully careless manner with which science and technology are depicted, or the way aliens and humans and spacecraft and rayguns mingle amongst the scenery and plot. All accomplished with a casual brevity that throws in a bewildering array of unrestrained imagery from the pen of Jean-Claude Mézières.

The art remains cartoony in the best possible sense, supporting the excitement of the situation. There’s a looseness in his lines suggesting an artist trying to draw fast enough to capture even a portion of the alien vistas exploding into life behind his eyeballs. He’s tossing off visual ideas, composition and architecture — that lesser talents would build careers on — offhandedly into single panels.

Pierre Christin’s script only hints at the sophistication and character he would achieve in both his future work with Mézières, as well as that of other masters like Jacques Tardi and Enki Bilal. Yet even in these early stages of the 20-plus-book series, he concocts entertainments that remain astute and engaging. Soon his sharp but subtle sociopolitical ideas would merge into the rollicking space-time escapades seamlessly.

But even with those slight reservations, and only with an eye towards the future of this series, THE EMPIRE OF A THOUSAND PLANETS is a confection of joyful exuberance that comes highly recommended for both kids and adults hungry for imaginative adventure.  —JT Lindroos

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Like a silent film from long ago, Thomas Ott can say a lot without saying a single word. Okay, to be fair, a few words are used in R.I.P.: BEST OF 1985-2004, a Fantagraphics-pubbed collection of nearly 20 tales, but the word count is so minute, it’s hardly worth mentioning.

The same can’t be said for Ott’s darkly humorous, black-and-white work, which tells wordless short stories of horror and suspense while spoofing the genres of their comics past (“A FUCKING WAR STORY,” proclaims the EC-esque symbol adorning “Headbanger”). His structure is as unique as his line-heavy art, striving to birth narratives strictly through visuals. For the most part, it works.

In “A Wrinkled Tragedy,” a woman undergoes intensive plastic surgery to become pretty, and once she meets the man of his dreams, he looks absolutely hideous naked, right down to whatever that thing is he calls a penis. In “Goodbye,” a man tries to kill himself several ways to Sunday and fails, only to look out the window and see a nuclear explosion. In “Alice in Wonderland,” Alice goes down the rabbit hole … and right into a padded cell at a mental ward.

Bleak punchlines one and all, so a dark sense of humor is required, but well-rewarded. —Rod Lott

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How time flies. It was just five years ago when THE BEST AMERICAN COMICS was born, and how grown-up it’s become! Without looking a day over eight weeks!

Seriously, though, this sixth edition of the annual survey of the graphic story format — from both the worlds of print and the web — shows no signs of slowing down or slumping. If anything, it’s becoming more relevant with each passing year, as the general American audience grows more comfortable with the idea that, yes, Virginia, good words can be accompanied by good pictures.

This year’s edition is guest edited by Alison Bechdel, she of the bestselling FUN HOME. One might assume her choices would lean toward gay-friendly works, but wrong; there are no more than usual. If anything, her touch in selection is like her predecessors: invisible.

I admit to being a little startled how much of the 2011 volume I’d already read, from short pieces like Julia Gfrörer’s “Fear of Fire” to entire graphic novels like Dash Shaw’s BODYWORLD, the excerpt of which doesn’t do it justice and may baffle readers to the point of ignoring the full work. That would be a crime, as it’s a masterpiece.

Among this collection’s highlights include:
• Chris Ware’s sad yet compelling “Jordan W. Lint to the Age 65,” done in the artist’s unmistakable, innovative style;
• John Pham’s “St. Ambrose,” a two-page remembrance of his childhood and the friends he made and lost, told in a layout that Ware would have to admire;
• David Lasky and Mairead Case’s “Soixante Neuf,” which tells the love story of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin from the two celebs’ perspectives and presented in a flipped, meet-in-the-middle manner that’s a little stunning;
• Kate Beaton’s “Great Gastbys,” in which F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic Jazz Age novel is adapted into a string of three- and four-page newspaper funnies;
• the ridiculously talented Noah van Sciver’s “Abby’s Road,” about a Juggalo stoner’s first love;
• Peter and Maria Hoey’s “Anatomy of a Pratfall,” a wordless examination of just that, admirably presented in a series of panoramic grids, with each panel moving the action forward; and
• David Lasky’s self-expalnatory, bite-the-hand-that-feeds-you “The Ultimate Graphic Novel (in Six Panels).” Bravo!

On the downside — for my tastes, at least — the de rigueur contribution from one of the Hernandez brothers (here, Jaime) isn’t up to the sibs’ usual level of excellence, and while Joe Sacco’s journalism-style of comics is wildly beloved in the community, it’s never flipped my switch.

Still, no anthology of this size is going to tickle your joy buttons; the important thing is if it does so more often than not. Like the years before it, this does. Only one more year ’til the next one! —Rod Lott

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Although this Western graphic novel opens with the public execution of a man guilty of eating children as the lead character assumes the role of the town hangman, it remains elegiac and even romantic in its overall tone.

Confounding expectations is something writer Alejandro Jodorowsky does extremely well, and when he’s pouncing on all cylinders, he can milk miracles out of age-old clichés. And if he’s teamed with an artist of the caliber of Francois Boucq, as in BOUNCER: THE ONE-ARMED GUNSLINGER, the results can knock you over with a feather.  

It’s almost unnecessary to describe the plot, which borrows in equal amounts from Anthony Mann and Sergios Leone and Corbucci, but much of it circles around “payback” in one way or another. The multiple sprawling storylines intermingle and overlap, once or twice relying a bit heavily on coincidence, but none of that really matters when we’re in the hands of masters.

Every single page of BOUNCER is incredibly detailed, beautifully colored — an unending parade of character expressions and actions that enhance and supply the words and storyline their true strength. The outdoor vistas are suitably spectacular, but when we go deep into Barro City, the mud, the bars, the animals and rotting wood are equally artistically rendered. Boucq shows superb natural artistic flair, rendering each page and panel with easyflowing precision that lingers comfortably between the comic and the fine arts.

Given that nobody is printing the Charlier/Giraud BLUEBERRY books in English at this time, and how the current JONAH HEX run just wrapped up, I’d heartily recommend this gorgeous volume for any lover of the Western genre in general, and the more extravagant spaghetti Westerns in particular. Using the genre’s clichés as its springboard, this minor masterpiece manages to surprise, shock and enchant in equal measures as it races toward the sunset. —JT Lindroos

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First serialized from 1970 to 1971, Osamu Tezuka’s THE BOOK OF HUMAN INSECTS skitters into a nice-looking hardcover release courtesy of the manga tastemakers at Vertical Inc. Too bad it’s a minor Tezuka work.

The focus of HUMAN INSECTS is a lovely woman named Toshiko Tomura, who, as the graphic novel opens, has just won a prestigious literary prize; meanwhile, her roommate and fellow writer has been found dead, hanging from the ceiling. It seems Toshiko has a history of quickly switching careers and achieving success in each, but accused of engaging in ethically compromising ways to do so — specifically, mimicking. In the case of the literary honor, pure plagiarism.

A tabloid reporter calling Toshiko’s authorship into question follows her to her home. Playing Peeping Tom, he looks through the window to see Toshiko sucking on the breasts of a wax grandmotherly figure, then rolling around naked in pleasure. Discovered in these acts, she agrees to have sex with the journalist to buy his silence, and post-romp, he compliments her on her insatiability by saying she could do 100 men in turn.

From there, HUMAN INSECTS accumulates storylines of abortion and assassination. The meld is a strange one — a mix of political potboilers, spy thriller and sexual manipulation. Whether that works depends on which section you’re reading.

The book is uncharacteristically uneven for Tezuka — too episodic, no cohesion. The man was always about tackling big ideas in manga, well before such a thing was in vogue, but this work — while illustrated with his usual perfection — just doesn’t jell with a degree of satisfaction. —Rod Lott

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Good day, citizen.

From the day in 1984 when Dad handed me a copy of the new Judge Dredd reprint comic book, I loved it. The art was spectacular (Brian Bolland of BATMAN: THE KILLING JOKE fame) and the stories wickedly funny. There was something irrepressibly irresponsible about this motorcycle cop in an Orwellian future who also took on the roles of the judge, the jury and (often enough) the executioner.

“I am the law!”

Drawing inspiration from popular American culture, this British character from the pages of the weekly 2000 AD magazine would throw wild science-fiction ideas, vicious satire and crackpot humor into what was still essentially an action comic. As much fun as this in itself could be, the best stories could flip on a pinhead and hit a profoundly affecting tone just as it could make you curiously look at yourself after spending several pages giggling at a fascist judicial machine doing things utterly wrong.

Dredd’s satire targeted anything that happened to be in the news that particular week, mining ideas equally from I, CLAUDIUS as it did from TV commercials. In fact, during the earlier “Cursed Earth” saga (an indirect ripoff of Roger Zelazny’s brilliant DAMNATION ALLEY), when Dredd comes across a city dominated by warring fast food factions (led by Burger King, Ronald McDonald and the Jolly Green Giant), the magazine was successfully sued and agreed never to reprint the offending segments of the saga (which included many memorable scenes such as Ronald McDonald gleefully machine-gunning down a gang member who spilled his milkshake).

Of the COMPLETE CASE FILES series, the first volume (JUDGE DREDD: THE COMPLETE CASE FILES 01) included mostly short, one-off stories which nevertheless laid down the building blocks of the universe. It’s essential reading for those interested in the character, but hardly the place to start if you’re new to the joys of this particular comic book character.

The second volume (JUDGE DREDD: THE COMPLETE CASE FILES 02) is a massive improvement on the first, and I highly recommended it. Most of the 336 page tome is dedicated to just two epic story lines, “Cursed Earth” and “The Day That Law Died.”  The artwork from from Brian Bolland, Ian (THE BALLAD OF HALO JONES) Gibson, Ron Smith, Dave (WATCHMEN) Gibbons and especially Mike McMahon is consistently terrific, and on occasion reaches spectacular levels.  

Which brings us up to date with JUDGE DREDD: THE COMPLETE CASE FILES 03. Slightly shorter, and consisting mostly of one-shot “progs,” this is an easy entry point to reading classic Judge Dredd.

Like any “complete collection” of comic books, there are some stinkers in the lot (which are mostly concentrated in the beginning of this book). But once you get past this lot, the rewards are plentiful.

Offbeat characters illustrated by cream of the early Judge Dredd artists and mostly written by John Wagner (of A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE fame), this volume kickstarts a multitude of story threads which would populate the pages of 2000AD and Judge Dredd Megazine for decades to come.

Oddball stories featuring anything from addictive candy to seed-grown aliens are littered liberally in between a massive mutant spider invasion, the future of televised ‘reality’ entertainment  and the requisite dinosaurs-eating-people stories. As much fun as many of these escapades are, the true killer of the collection is the Bolland/Wagner collaboration, “Judge Death”:

“Long ago Judgess on my world saw that all crime was committed by the living. Therefore life itself was made illegal. We judged our people — all of them. We wiped the curse of life from our world. Now I have come to judge yours. THE SENTENCE IS DEATH! IT WILL BE CARRIED OUT!”

The interdimensional Judge (as plastered on the cover) hits all of its marks with polished perfection. It’s utterly brilliantly drawn and designed, creepy, hilarious, and it also manages to hit some poignant notes amidst all the chaos. It introduces Judge Anderson of the PSI division (who would later get her own publication) and even calls back to an earlier one-shot story to come up with a clean resolution, giving in a nice treat to longtime fans.

It is long past high time that these affordable black-and-white collections are being released in the U.S. While the writing would continue to improve in leaps, the characters and the world they inhabit would become more defined, there is something intrinsically great about the kitchen sink approach in these early “progs.”

Do yourself a favor, citizen. —JT Lindroos

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Vertical Inc. doesn’t import just any manga like other companies that shall remain nameless. They have to be something different.
Jiro Matsumoto’s VELVETEEN & MANDALA, indeed, is something different. It’s just not good.

You’d think it would be, as what’s not to love about a post-apocalyptic, SUCKER PUNCH-y story of soft-boiled eggs, ladybug attacks, field fires, DONKEY KONG, fleshless skeletons and red bean candy? Well, a lot, although the art itself is fine.

In the weird, war-torn world of Matsumoto’s creations, Velveeten and Mandala are tough chicks roaming a vast, mostly empty countryside with a tank. Occasionally, bombers drop withered corpses from overhead, and they run into the walking dead, but they don’t often meet the living. When they do, it’s an eye patch-wearing guy with no pants and a crooked penis.

If that sounds a little repulsive, wait until you see Velveteen taunt detractors by dropping her panties, stretching open her genitals and yelling, “Stinking pussy that hasn’t been washed in a week! Supply is limited!” This pales in comparison to a later scene when she thwarts her rapists by shooting out a stream of diarrhea as she’s being penetrated. Mind you, this is all drawn in graphic detail.

That’s where I pulled the plug. Whereas Vertical’s incredibly creative PEEPO CHOO series probably could make that funny, here it just feels incredibly icky and kiddie-pornographic, not to mention just unnecessary. Even worse, Matsumoto feels a story is not needed, either, as I could not detect an actual story. Mandala says “Tape recorder” over and over, leaving me as confused as the not-entirely-in-order timeline. —Rod Lott

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Judging from the lone strip on KINKY & COSY‘s back cover, I really wanted to enjoy this collection of European strips by the mono-monikered Nix. It depicts the mischievous twin sisters stating a need to divert attention from their poor grades. In the next panel, their mom’s on the phone and peering out the window at a burning skyscraper: “Yes, I see that cloud of black smoke.”

Dark humor is a personal favorite. Sadly, that’s the one strip that made me smile. Everything inside struck me as utterly toothless and, worse, obvious. There’s little here Bil Keane wouldn’t approve.

Example: A guy at a Chinese restaurant orders only water. Then he produces super-long chopsticks to snatch a piece of meat from a neighboring table.

Another? The girls get a letter via registered mail. It’s from their mom! It reads, “Clean up your room!”

And another? At a dance club, one of the girls is approached by a drug dealer who asks, “Wanna pill?” Her response: “I’m not sick.”

Yet another? Nah. I’m not going to do that to you. —Rod Lott

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If you love comics, reading THE INCAL is essential. Originally published in France between 1981 and 1989, this hardback volume collects the complete six-book sequence under one cover.

Conceived by the great prankster-provocateur Alejandro Jodorowsky, and visualized by the man who is to comics what Jimi Hendrix was to the electric guitar, Jean “Moebius” Giraud, this remains one of the greatest science-fiction graphic novels of all time.

On base level, THE INCAL is a propulsive, futuristic action-adventure on an epic, galaxy-wide scale. It’s hilarious and profound at the same time, filled with preposterous situations featuring a cast of oddball characters attempting to save the universe from an encroaching darkness.

As such, it’s terrific fun, gorgeously illustrated, fast-paced and vividly imaginative.

But bringing in your own interests and input, you can start looking at the book more closely. Adding your own level of knowledge of history, sciences and the Western esoteric tradition to the narrative, you’ll notice layers upon layers that allow you to approach the book from numerous different angles.

Writer Jodorowsky (perhaps best known for his films EL TOPO, THE HOLY MOUNTAIN and SANTA SANGRE) mines religion and metaphysics for his canvas, digs into the tarot deck for his characters, shovels in the ultimate killing machine intent on pulverizing the enlightened and the fools (and the astral plane for good measure) by brutality and vehemence of ridiculous proportions, while juggling plotlines with the nimble beauty of a Gombud master-weaver.

As the story is told, Chilean-born Jodorowsky — among many other mind-boggling facets of his career — was a master mime who created some of the most recognizable routines of Marcel Marceau after learning his trade in the circus and theater. (He was also the mime teacher for MAD and GROO cartoonist Sergio Aragonés, which kind of makes sense when you think about it.)

So when it came time to pen the story of THE INCAL, instead of writing it down on paper, Jodo acted it all out for Moebius, who filled notepads with quick sketches and voluminous notes, which they then discussed and massaged into the finished piece.

Moebius, then best known for his BLUEBERRY Western saga, was both at his creative peak and influential prime. His work, appearing in HEAVY METAL magazine, was an acknowledged key blueprint for Ridley Scott in visualizing BLADE RUNNER, not to mention the novel milieu of William Gibson and other cyberpunks. Collaborating with Syd Mead, he would also be responsible of the many key designs in TRON.

What Moebius achieves in THE INCAL is a flamboyant synthesis of his earlier styles. Equally capable of shifting from chunky underground comix penmanship to detailed realism or fluid organic lines, he pulls all those styles into a cohesive whole here.

He can fill a small frame with innumerable detail (like a later disciple, Geoff Darrow of HARD-BOILED fame), but he also understands when empty space is necessary to let the page “breathe.” His futuristic cityscapes range from cluttered garbage heaps to luxurious elegance, from organic to mechanical, with a naturalistic ease that on its own would be enough to make this a significant work.  

But when you wed that amount of peerless visual artistry with the kind of writing that can turn you into a jellyfish, the result was, is and will remain a masterwork. Whether you take it for a metaphysical satire or a slam-bang, sci-fi actioner, THE INCAL throbs with brilliance.

The book has been released before, but it has always been difficult to find in any cohesive, unmolested form. The last U.S. printing was a re-colorized travesty which destroyed Moebius’ elegant lines with smudgy Photoshop splotches (a nasty modern tradition which has also recently fouled up much of the power of Barry Windsor-Smith’s work in the early CONAN comics).

So it’s not printed in the extra-large format it was originally published in (and reprinted earlier this year in an expensive super-limited edition that sold out in a couple of hours). So I noticed two typos. So what.

THE INCAL CLASSIC COLLECTION from Humanoids is a spectacular bargain at this price. The colors are luminous, the sequence is complete, the artwork unblemished and unedited, the translation superb, and the sturdy hardback book a joy to hold. About goddamned time. More, please. —JT Lindroos

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SEEDS, Ross Mackintosh’s debut work, is a brief autobiographical recalling of his father’s death from cancer … and yes, it’s a graphic novel. So if nothing else, the author proves once and for all that even the most serious topics — like death and personal loss — can be presented with honest emotion, sincerity and empathy in cartoon form.

In July 2009, Mackintosh learns that his father has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He tries to take it in stride at first. After all, his father had survived a triple bypass operation several years earlier. But this time, it’s different; this time, all the doctors and specialists tell Mackintosh the same thing: His father is dying.

Mackintosh details his father’s stay at the hospital, his brief return home, and his final days at a hospice. Through it all, Mackintosh recalls his father — a humorously irascible, but hard-working man who saw a steady income as the ultimate sign of success — as his body deteriorates to where he can hardly control his bowels, and his voice becomes a harsh whisper when spores of the disease — the seeds — lodge in his throat.
 
From start to finish, Mackintosh reflects and ponders on the frailty of life, the true meaning of love and progeny, and the task of learning to deal with the loss of someone who is such a dominant presence in his life. These moments tiptoe tenderly toward pretension, especially when he seeks the counsel of an unnamed, bearded friend who knows much about art and philosophy. Fortunately, these moments are short-lived, and what resonate are the lessons Mackintosh learns by himself.
 
The story is presented in mostly unadorned, black-and-white drawings laid out generally in uniform, six-to-a-page boxes. Yet Mackintosh’s art is effectively emotive, especially when he eschews dialogue entirely like the scene where he and his mother embrace each other in first a medium, then long-shot box. Also amazingly evocative are the moments when his characters appear without a mouth, such as the illustrations of Mackintosh and father that appear on the cover.

It’s easy to imagine copies of SEEDS given out to families at grief-counseling sessions or to those who are about to lose a loved one to terminal disease. The author himself might not approve, as he obviously intended his work to be an intimate expression rather than something instructive. Or as he states in his introduction, “This is not a book about death. It’s a book about my Dad.”
 
Yet, by keeping his story so personal, Mackintosh has hit upon something universal. Ironically, the manner and format he chose to present his story may seem incongruous at first, but it is one he is familiar with and very good at — and one that we all can approach and understand. —Alan Cranis

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You don’t have to be a fan of Krazy Kat to appreciate KRAZY KAT & THE ART OF GEORGE HERRIMAN: A CELEBRATION. The Abrams ComicArts hardcover represents yet another fine assemblage from comics historian Craig Yoe.

For me, the character of Krazy Kat and his pals are terrifically designed, and the classic Krazy Kat comic strips are fun to look at, but difficult to read. I’m sure this was not the case in the strip’s heyday — before my time, being between 1913 and 1944 — but the dialogue is so dense with outdated slang and phrasing, it’s difficult to decode. Many newspaper strips of that era suffer from the same problem.

Yet Herriman’s influence cannot be denied. He helped us accept violence in the funny pages, what with Krazy Kat forever being bonked in the head with a brick tossed by Ignatz Mouse. Who doesn’t love their slapstick comedy served with a gravy of bodily harm? Thanks, George!

Yoe’s book present many examples of Herriman’s best installments, plus private greeting cards, photos of toys and memorabilia, family photos (to get to know the man behind the madness) and appreciations by distinguished guests, including the reclusive Bill Watterson, who’ll be the subject of one of these things decades after he’s gone (assuming print exists then). —Rod Lott

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Thirteen years after Joe Simon and Jack Kirby created Captain America and sidekick Bucky, they created Fighting American and sidekick Speedboy. The latter aren’t all that different from the former in looks or tone. Really, the only difference is in longevity and cultural impact. Captain America now has his own blockbuster feature film, while Fighting American has … well, a complete collection of his adventures, courtesy of Titan Books. That should be enough.

The FIGHTING AMERICAN paperback features every story of the superhero ever published (24 total, over the course of eight issues), as well as three that weren’t. Simon introduces the volume by acknowledging the resemblance: “They all look alike.” It’s the stories, he writes, that distinguish the two.

He can say that, but these tales don’t strike me as anything special — well, anything special beyond the usual Simon/Kirby work, that is. Kirby’s art is and has always been unique, and he and Simon comprised a terrific team, although the writer tended to get too wordy for the medium. Many did in that day and age, and FIGHTING AMERICAN certainly is no exception.

In the star-spangled stories, Fighting American’s origin is eerily similar to Captain America, but then you get themes of Communism, robotics, crime syndicates, greed, the space race, sci-fi and good ol’ fashioned patriotism. As with Titan’s previously recommended THE BEST OF SIMON AND KIRBY, reproduction quality is superb.

And if this leaves you wanting more, Titan simultaneously has released Simon’s autobio in hardcover, the prodigiously illustrated MY LIFE IN COMICS. —Rod Lott

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Edgar P. Jacobs created his titular team of Captain Francis Blake of the MI5 and Professor Philip Mortimer for the Belgian comics magazine TINTIN in 1946. A decade later, he published in book form what is generally considered his finest achievement, THE YELLOW “M”.

In this book, a mysterious criminal is committing a series of robberies in London, informing the press of his activities and leaving behind a circled letter M in yellow paint on each crime scene. After the Imperial State Crown is stolen from the Tower of London, Blake is assigned to the case, and he gets in touch with his friend Mortimer. This series of events is only the engine that sets a very complex plot in motion.

Delightfully reminiscent of H.G. Wells, THE YELLOW “M” piles history, psychology, action and science (factual and fictional) in equal doses for the reader’s enjoyment. Wordy to a fault, Jacobs’ characters talk, discuss, debate, lecture, argue, negotiate and otherwise parlay an amount almost preposterous for a comic book (I suppose this deserves to be called a graphic novel).

The plotlines dovetail nimbly, and you can spend hours with this relatively slim volume simply reading the words and enjoying the superbly detailed ligne claire stylings of the author. The similarities of his style to that of Hergé are not accidental, given that Jacobs worked on many TINTIN albums as an assistant and was featured as a character in others. (He is the second mummy from the right on the cover of CIGARS OF THE PHARAOH, for example.)

Lacking the sleek simplicity and humor of Tintin, Jacobs’ story pumps up the melodrama and intrigue, and the result is an equally timeless entertainment. Its flaws are more charming than glaring, and the derring-do of the overtly British Brits and their villainous nemeses remains a joy to read nearly 60 years after it was published.

It’s always difficult to follow in the footsteps of a popular master, whatever your field. You have to be able to continue the tradition of the originator and to leave your own mark as well, rather than merely mimic the motions of your predecessor. Of course, another problem arises when you understand that the original was created 50-odd years ago, and those who devoured said work as children are not only living in a different world now, but are likely to lack some of the qualities they had in their younger days. The problems caused henceforth start multiplying exponentially.

Which brings us to THE VORONOV PLOT, published in French in 2000 and released recently in its first English-language edition. Stepping into the shoes of Jacobs, writer Yves Sante and artist André Juillard valiantly attempt to recapture the magic of Jacobs’ work, and with mostly successful results. Featuring Colonel Olrik (a villain who appears in nearly every Blake and Mortimer book), the plot is focused on Cold War espionage and biological experimentation between the Russians and the Brits. Assassinations and intrigue abound, and Juillard illustrates a solidly clever plot with superb clarity.

What is more problematic, though, is the wordiness. Jacobs certainly did not shy away from verbosity, yet Sante seems to be attempting to trump his predecessor in the one part of the work where he should have been restrained. VORONOV PLOT actually contains some pages with more words than illustrations, and when the words fail to be all that clever or interesting, one must wonder why they’re there. If it’s an attempt at replicating Jacobs’ style, I understand that, but times change and a story needs to reflect this. There is a charm to the Blake and Mortimer series that grows the more you read the books. That charm faltered during some segments of this particular episode.

Moreover, I wonder who the audience is for this book. I personally enjoyed it, but I may be a somewhat curious case as, unlike most of the English-speaking world, I grew up reading Franco-Belgian comics alongside my standard superhero fare. Without knowing the history behind events depicted, and while living in a fast-paced world littered with streams of ADD-inducing diversions, this may be a difficult work to grasp for a kid today. Those who grew up reading these as they were published probably don’t read a whole lot of comics these days. I fall somewhere in the middle, and remain charmed by how intrinsically different these books are from what is nowadays standard comic-book fare.

With those caveats, I remain absolutely thrilled someone still produces old-fashioned entertainment with such loving care. There are worse things than wordiness. Regardless, I would recommend starting with THE YELLOW “M.” If you’re interested in comics, it’s a classic which has delighted millions of readers of all ages for more than half a century, and one that should be read for its historical value alone. Should you take more from it than a history lesson, there’s a trove of similar treasures slowly making their way into the marketplace. —JT Lindroos

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Hard to believe, but the now-dead genre of romance comics once bested superheroes. At their peak, there were hundreds of love-oriented titles, some selling in excess of a million copies an issue. That’s a lot of young women poisoned by some rather inane ideas!

Michael Barson recalls these days of whine and roses with AGONIZING LOVE: THE GOLDEN ERA OF ROMANCE COMICS, when the June Cleaver model of the 1950s was what every girl hoped to be one day — a servant — before the feminism movement of the ’60s snapped the would-be Stepford wives awake.

In 2006, Marvel Comics put out a great, self-deprecating volume of the best of the worst from their own yesteryear publications, called MARVEL ROMANCE. Barson’s AGONIZING LOVE is like that, but with biting commentary and examples beyond just Marvel’s, all in an oversized, full-color, slickly designed paperback that’s more than 200 pages, all of them delightful.

Everything about the genre — from GAY LOVE (as in happy) to COWGIRL ROMANCES — now is outdated, from the insults (“You spineless milksop!”) to the dilemmas (“I’m now going to let myself fall in love with a rotten communist — I’m not! I swear it!”). Plus, all the guys wear suits 24/7, all men are to be catered to, acquiring a new last name is the only thing a girl wants, and if she can’t cook and sew, she’s not worth proposing to. One story is even so bold to suggest that if a woman neglects the laundry one afternoon to go out with friends, her hubby will nearly die from falling down the basement stairs.

Scattered about the stories — which are separated into thematic sections mirroring the stages of relationships, i.e. “Bliss,” “Jealousy and Despair,” “Despair” and “Marriage Hell” — are numerous covers, lists and other sidebars, reprinted advice columns and quizzes, and other miscellany to keep you entertained longer than a shotgun wedding.

Highly recommended for comics historians, kitsch collectors, star-crossed lovers and spurned exes everywhere. —Rod Lott

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Simply put, if you’ve enjoyed any of Alex Chun and Jacob Covey’s series of glamour-girl cartoon retrospectives they’ve assembled for Fantagraphics over the years, you’ll want — if not need — their latest, THE PIN-UP ART OF HUMORAMA. It is not, as I first feared, a “best of” from their volumes centered on Dan DeCarlo, Bill Ward, Jack Cole and Don Flowers.

In fact, while you get more of the same from those guys, you get much more from other artists who never merited their own volume, but worked for the men’s humor digests throughout the 1950 and ’60s. Of note are Jefferson Machamer, Kremos, MAD vet Dave Berg and even Basil Wolverton.

It even includes art that may even be subpar against the giants; for example, Bill Wenzel, whose approach is too sketchy, too goofy against the near-lifelike work of Ward, who took great pains to make sure every curve of his women would induce great pains in HUMORAMA readers. Wenzel’s hardly the only one whose stuff isn’t as good, but his signature was clear to read, unlike many chicken-scratchers.

The gags here are reprinted in three sections of duotone — blue, yellow, red — but pop as if they were four-color. Hardly a page goes by that isn’t sexy in one way or another. Exception: The work of someone credited as “Gregory,” who drew his women as if they were dead-eyed mannequins.

As with Chun and Covey’s previous collaborations, the captions to the cartoons rarely matter — sometimes, they don’t even match what’s depicted. All that matters is the art, full of lovely, curvy, super-sexy women whose bra sizes run deep into the alphabet. It may not come in a brown paper wrapper, but yeah, this book’s hot. It spills over with an abundance of retro tease to please. —Rod Lott

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I knew I was going to love BLACK JACK: VOLUME 14 from the start, having enjoyed all the previous collections issued by Vertical Inc. But I knew I was going to really love it on page 18. See, the lead story is about an injured acrobat as part of a twin circus act. Strangely, when one hurts, the other feels it, too. So when our renegade, unlicensed surgeon hero starts to repair the ruptured organs of Twin 1, and Twin 2 starts writhing in agony, Black Jack just walks over to Twin 2 and punches him in the stomach.

Viva Black Jack! The scar-faced doc is so badass, he can operate on himself, to remove bullets, using a mirror! He can throw a scalpel into the barrel of an opponent’s gun! He can remove someone’s rectum to craft an artificial anus!

All of these adventures come from the highly creative mind and hand of Osamu Tezuka. We can forgive the late writer and artist’s rare lapse in consistency; in “Captain Satan,” Black Jack defends operating on a Vietnam officer responsible for war atrocities because he claims he never can deny care, yet throughout the series, he has to goaded and/or bribed into even scrubbing up.

Of the stories in this batch, “Urashima” is still timely all these decades later, because it deals with a coal mine tragedy. In “Little Devil,” a kid tries to fatally drug Black Jack out of revenge for the doc not being able to save the fetus inside his mother. In “Black Jack Disease,” he learns that, yes, there’s a malady named after him!

So what if a couple of the stories end too abruptly or without a real conclusion? This is vintage manga at its best and ballsiest. —Rod Lott

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From the ever-expanding world of LOVE AND ROCKETS, Gilbert Hernandez’s LOVE IN THE SHADOWS is the third in a series of graphic novels from Fantagraphics, depicting B movies starring the over-the-top-heavy, lisping beauty Fritz, so why not review it like one?

LOVE IN THE SHADOWS is somewhat inappropriately titled, as it sounds like a romance, but is really a sci-fi sex mash-up, with a big dash of David Lynch-ian “what the fuck just happened here?” It’s definitely no chick flick, despite its strong female lead. Women will hate it; guys may love it strictly for “the scenery.”

Dolores (played by Fritz) and her gay brother have dad issues. Their relationship is rocky, to say the least, but it’s less tenuous than the various elements Hernandez strings together to form a near-shapeless plot of a cave of mystery, aliens who barrage our starlet with questions, an inexplicable change in hair color, dealings with swarthy bad guys, and a whole lot of jumping from bed to bed.

Don’t expect SHADOWS to make a whole lot of sense. Do expect, however, for Fritz to show the goods, appearing full-frontal in several scenes and swinging her pendulous breasts as if she’s earning overtime pay. Unseen since the heyday of Russ Meyer, they’re marvelous special effects for a film too low-budget to afford any. Just enjoy the view. —Rod Lott

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And now for a random quote from Johnny Ryan’s TAKE A JOKE: “Mmm! Ahh! Hot, nourishing pee!”

Grossed out? Understood, but know that that barely scratches the surface of offensiveness in Fantagraphics’ third volume of Ryan’s ANGRY YOUTH COMIX and single-page works from the pages of VICE magazine. Either I just convinced you to move on, or totally made a sale.

If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be clicking over to buy a copy.

No matter the recurring character — funniest-ever comedian Boobs Porter or zit-faced Loady McGee — the adventures start at an outrageousness level that’s over-the-top and go north of there, until they climb higher, then scale a wall, then take an elevator, then an escalator, and finally jump real high. They never, ever come down.

This is good news for those who can delight in the purposeful satire of the profane, whether it’s a gag — emphasis on “gag” — about how to get rid of breast cancer, a woman’s boobs secreting fecal matter, a suit made from celebrity asses, a rape machine, death by shit puddle, and so on. And those are just the things I can mention.

In any other artist’s hands, I’d probably hate the damn thing. But Ryan’s cartoon style is rendered in such a manner that makes the filth seem innocent, as if the deviant behavior within his panels are perfectly acceptable. In other words, unlike many of the underground comix of the 1960s and ’70s, I can’t see anyone “getting off” to this. It’s as if it’s poking fun of those works’ puerile nature, by topping it.

While I admit I found some it very, very funny, I’ll never be able to look at a bottle of A-1 sauce the same way again. Or Robert Crumb, Yogi Bear and THE NEW YORKER, all of whom take quite the licking. Licking just what, I leave to you to discover on your own. —Rod Lott

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Scouring out the singles scene … in comics!

Allow me to introduce you to Cat Rackham, star as Steve Wolfhard’s CAT RACKHAM LOSES IT! (Koyama Press). He’s a selfish cat who wears a green shirt, hangs out with Jeremy the Squirrel, and has a curl of hair atop his head that looks like — or might actually be — a lump of poo. This single issue is a collection of a few pieces, most of which are very brief, but one of which takes up nearly the whole thing. It’s an adventure involving Cat Rackham’s run-in with Ratta Tat Cat, a grumpy feline with a live pistol strapped to its body. Yes, a twisted sense of humor is required. Luckily, I have one.

Issue 4 of OMEGA COMICS PRESENTS (Pop! Goes the Icon) has even more variety than its predecessor, and that’s an improvement on an anthology that really wasn’t in need of any. The first of four stories, the World War II-set “L’ange de Bastogne,” would not be out of place in DC’s horror titles of the 1960s and 1970s, involving a nurse, a wounded soldier and a … well, find out. Meanwhile, the action serial “OMEGA” concludes in a bit at the bomb-laden Hoover Dam, and “Cold” concerns two astronauts in space whose situation has just gone all FUBAR. Finally, “The Night Shift” follows a Batman-esque superhero on the job to an unexpected home life. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: More, please! I look forward to a hopefully eventual trade paperback collecting all the issues.

You may have seen Chris Eliopoulos’ work in Marvel’s self-parodic STRANGE TALES, FRANKLIN RICHARDS: SON OF A GENIUS and LOCKJAW AND THE PET AVENGERS. But there’s another Chris Elipoulos in comics whose work you probably haven’t seen, and MONSTER PARTY! (Koyama Press) is his. This standalone shows you what happens when a kid is asked to clean the dirty basement: He discovers goofy-looking creatures who good-naturedly wreak havoc throughout the house. It’s silly, not scary, and to give you an idea of where it’s at, the kid looks uncannily like Randy, the bully puppet from PEE-WEE’S PLAYHOUSE.

HABITAT #2 (Sparkplug Comic Books) is your everyday, average comic, assuming that to you, “everyday” and “average” means trails of puking ants, a talking chihuahua and a video transmission emerging from the toilet bowl. (And if it is, hello, Dr. Leary!) The surreal sequel to Dunja Jankovic’s equally bizarro DEPARTMENT OF ART is as loosey-goosey storywise, purposely eschewing logic for the loopy, in a nonsense narrative about an apartment renter who, um, disintegrates into his own bathtub, for lack of better words in this particular mortal coil. Jankovic’s art recalls snatches of Peter Kuper, Big Daddy Roth, Wayne Coyne, Daniel Johnston, that guy at the bus stop who mumbles as he twitches, Art Spiegelman and numerous experimental creatives. It’s unique, to say the least. I still think $9 is way too high, but who knows? Jankovic could be the next big MOMA golden boy, so consider it an investment.

Produced more or less annually, Michael DeForge’s LOSE #3 (Koyama Press) is a bizarro anthology, starting with a page of “Tongue Fads” (that is, fashions for your tongue, like “grated”) and ending with a baby’s head. Don’t ask; just experience. The three-page “Improv Night” story made me laugh out loud, because I find improv to be anti-comedy. I found the lengthy “Dog 2070″ to be amusing, because, well, I’ve never read a story about talking mutts who create websites to get back at slutty classmates, mope, and talk about masturbating. Judging from the super-surreal final story, DeForge may have been high when he created all this; if so, he should keep it up. —Rod Lott

As rightly celebrated as Steve Ditko’s work with Marvel Comics is — Spider-Man, anyone? — it’s the non-character work of his early career I find most fascinating. Blake Bell threw the spotlight on those neglected stories two years ago with Fantagraphics’ superlative STRANGE SUSPENSE: THE STEVE DITKO ARCHIVES. Now, he’s back with the second in the series, UNEXPLORED WORLDS.

The hardcover collected nearly 250 pages’ worth of sci-fi and horror material that sprung from the master comics artist’s pen in the mid-1950s. The stories may not be amazing, but the art is what’s worth dissecting; Blake’s introductory essay even intersperses Chip Kidd-style microscopic looks at panels among words detailing Ditko’s life at that point, which included a brush-with-death battle with tuberculosis.

Even if you’ve read the first volume, UNEXPLORED WORLDS offers plenty more surprises. For one, the first of dozens and dozens of story reprints is a MAD magazine-style humor piece about a terrible singer, from the pages of the short-lived FROM HERE TO INSANITY; for another, there’s a pure Western yarn, from the “that existed?” title TEXAS RANGERS IN ACTION.

Whereas the first volume’s material came culled from now-forgotten perodicals THIS MAGAZINE IS HAUNTED, BLACK MAGIC and SPACE ADVENTURES, this follow-up pulls from the likes of OUT OF THIS WORLD, STRANGE SUSPENSE STORIES, MYSTERIES OF UNEXPLORED WORLDS and TALES OF THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER.

From there, we get colorful tales of a seemingly indestructible circus performer, a radiated scientist, a painting that doubles as an entrance to another dimension, a not-so-unfamiliar spaceship stowaway, steaks of unusual origin, the fabled Flying Dutchman ghost ship, prehistoric creatures emerging from an icy mist, a would-be Nostradamus, visions of a mermaid, one very special mule and many an alien race.

While the “twists” rarely match up to the initial imagination of any given piece, Ditko’s art is solid throughout. As always, Fantagraphics’ top-notch presentation makes the publisher the go-to stop for comics preservation. Only one complaint: The contents page is almost impossible to read; you will require a high-beam flashlight. —Rod Lott

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Two new manga from different creators and companies illustrate how wildly divergent the young audiences to which they’re directed can be treated.

Kazue Kato’s BLUE EXORCIST is a new series from Shonen Jump Advanced. A little like Harry Potter meets Regan MacNeil, it makes puberty rather difficult for orphan Rin Okumura. Not long after this initial volume begins, the student of Southern Cross Boys’ Academy is told by Father Fujimoto that the reason Rin never knew his father is that because said pop is Satan. Literally.

Yes, Rin’s the bastard child of Ol’ Scratch, and now that he knows, his life is in great danger. Rather than use his powers for evil, he’s taught by Father Fujimoto to use them for good, and off the kid goes into the big, bad world to conquer the forces of Hell as an exorcist. Among other unusual elements, enter a rather feminine foil with the name of Mephisto, a guy with bugs swarming around his head, a requisite love interest and various goblins.

Kato’s art is lively and excellent, full of fun and, er, spirit. But his story is far-fetched and yet highly limited in scope. Much like the intolerable, current JACK FROST manga series that takes place among the paranormal halls of Amityville High, BLUE’s plotting is forced fast to get to the fights, as if it were written for the screen instead of the page. Plus, there’s really nothing realistic for which its intended teen audience can latch onto and relate.

That cannot be said for Kou Yaginuma’s TWIN SPICA, now up to its seventh volume. Realism is the one thing this marvelous series from Vertical Inc. continues to have going for it, even at such a high number. Set amid a space academy in Japan, the ongoing storyline is nothing if not relatable. Even kids who don’t want to be astronauts know what it’s like to feel loneliness, sadness and despair, no matter one’s background.

Longtime SPICA fans will notice right off the bat that this installment appears considerably larger than its predecessors, and it is, by nearly 100 pages. Better yet, Yaginuma surprises by shifting his focus away from pint-sized series star Asumi and her imaginary lion pal to reveal a secret among classmate Marika, the pretty rich girl who doesn’t quite fit in with her peers.

It’s from left field, no doubt, introducing a scoop of science fiction into what has generally been a story of science fact. After readers’ initial shock wears off, they’ll see it remains very much in step with the tone established thus far. The second half of the book poses a problem to the students, being locked in individual jail cells and given three days to determine a way out. Jacques Futrelle would be pleased. —Rod Lott

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For anyone who grew up with reading the Sunday funnies as part of his or her weekend ritual, Brian Walker’s THE COMICS: THE COMPLETE COLLECTION is for you. This is not the first release for the huge, oversized hardcover — we’re talking nearly 700 pages on thick, glossy stock — but Abrams ComicArts has brought it back in a new edition that’s four pages longer than the 2004 release, so I’m assuming something has been added. I’ll just be damned if I know what that is.

Walker, a cartoonist himself, takes on the enormous task of chronicling the history of newspaper comics, splitting the book into two distinct sections: everything before 1945, and everything after. The split reflects both the end of World War II, which had seen the comics shrink in size to keep newsprint costs at bay, and a brewing golden age for the medium.

It’s natural that readers will feel more at ease re-acquainting themselves with the strips and characters that they once read. But Walker’s approach is so deliciously illustrated — more than 1,300 examples, with many being reprinted in full, rather than excerpts — that you can’t ignore at least a short journey down the origin years.

It’s interesting to see, for example, how much of the strips of the time — “Mutt & Jeff,” “Krazy Kat” and “The Katzenjammer Kids” among them — utilized broken English for dialogue. Reading them today is almost like cracking a code. It’s also worth marveling at the sheer artistry of Windsor McKay’s output. Whereas a majority of today’s comics are mere gags (sometimes in more than one sense), he sought to tell a story and break ground.

While comedy has always ruled the funnies (hence that horrible term), I much prefer the crime and adventure strips of Chester Gould, Milton Caniff and Alex Raymond, who gave us heroes that still thrive in today’s popular culture: Dick Tracy, Steve Canyon and Flash Gordon. I also found myself drawn to the oddball work of Rube Goldberg and Robert Ripley, whose cartoons defy categorization.

Whatever you liked — then or now — Walker covers it here. It may take you a year’s worth of Sundays to give this book the attention it asks, but you’ll want to do so. —Rod Lott

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Having recently attended my high school reunion, I can sympathize with Pascal Girard’s extreme anxiety in going to his approaching 10th, in his autobiographical graphic novel, REUNION. I wasn’t among the popular crowd, either, so the thought of seeing those people again after a decade of not seeing them was terrifying. I agonized over it for months; Girard does the same for 152 pages.

In his sparse, simple cartoony style, he frets and fears the get-together so much that he forgets to RSVP with payment. He also tells little lies to classmates to appear “better” — or at least better off — and sheds several pounds in hopes of landing That Girl. Dream on!

REUNION is real, wry and cathartic, knowing someone had a worse time than you. (And actually, mine was fun. Decades are great equalizers.)

On the flip side of fun but an equal plane of quality is another new release from Drawn & Quarterly, Shigeru Mizuki’s ONWARD TOWARDS OUR NOBLE DEATHS. Appearing in its first English translation, the Japanese work was originally published in 1973.

Set in New Guinea at the end of 1943, the World War II tale is like any other you might read, with the marked exception of being told through the POV of one of America’s then-enemies. Just looking at most of the situations or dialogue, you wouldn’t know it, suggesting that war is indeed hell, no matter your allegiance.

ONWARD’s three-page cast of characters that opens the 368-page volume is quite intimidating, but Mizuki’s story is presented so episodically, familiarity with each and every officer isn’t required. They sing dirty songs, talk about getting laid, and — when the shit hits the fan — fight. Those battle scenes are depicted largely without words, save for sound effects, and they stunning.

Mizuki’s art is close in nature to Osamu Tezuka; ditto his grounded, epic storytelling, especially at the bitter end, so RIYL and all that jazz. —Rod Lott

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A publisher’s offerings can vary greatly in quality, yet still have one thing in common. In Vertical Inc.’s case, that’s balls. The American label imports some oddball things from Japan; some work, some don’t, but at least it touches the things no else would dare. No matter the outcome, that’s to be commended.

Nowhere is this more evident than Usamaru Furuya’s LYCHEE LIGHT CLUB, a manga adaptation of a Grand Guignol stage show in Tokyo. Vertical’s paperback translation notes right on the cover that its lesson will never be taught in schools, and for good reason: Anyone caught with this one-and-done graphic novel in the classroom might be expelled.

With no backstory, LYCHEE digs right into the dirt, telling its unpleasant story of young, homosexual boys who look like girls, dress in military garb, and carry out sick, secret deeds in their underground hovel. Repulsed by the “lumps of fat” known as breasts, the boys assemble a Frankensteinian monster of sorts to kidnap and bring them pretty girls, who bodies they strip and defile. One girl — and I do mean girl, as in kindergarten — is essentially raped by a metal pipe. The boys, meanwhile, get off on sucking one another off.

While Furuya is an excellent artist whose work leans toward the detailed and lifelike, I’m unsure what the point is of his über-disturbing story, nor do I wish to read it again to see if meaning can be gleaned further. I can’t recommend it beyond anything but its sheer, in-your-face intent to shock and offend. Some call it a “horror comedy,” a label I can’t affix to it in the slightest.

On the other end of the age-appropriate spectrum is the sixth volume of TWIN SPICA. Grade schoolers can enjoy it, but adults can, too, because it doesn’t dumb itself down or go out of its way to be nauseatingly cute as the bulk of manga. When we last left the astronaut students in VOLUME: 05, they were left in the middle of the forest as part of a survival exercise. Here, we see what they find: mostly themselves.

Sound all ABC AFTERSCHOOL SPECIAL? I know, I know, but Kou Yaginuma has done an excellent job thus far of keeping his series in reign and moving, rather than maudlin and melodramatic. In turn, we learn more about the early childhood of our heroine, Asumi, but also of the backgrounds of her peers. Whereas Asumi is the lead, this round her taking a bit of a backseat to flesh out the others’ stories. That strong, ongoing characterization is a mere one element of what keeps SPICA shining bright. —Rod Lott

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It takes only slightly longer to read J. Marc Schmidt’s EGG STORY than it does to scramble an egg. True to its title, the Slave Labor Graphics-reissued graphic novel follows a carton of talking eggs, from the chicken coop to the grocery store to the refrigerator of their purchaser.

While she’s out, the eggs explore her home, checking out her panty door, reading her e-mail, watching ninja movies, and racking up her credit card. Two eggs fall in love, while another — name: Feather — sets out to become an actual ninja. There’s not much to it, and I mean that in a nice way. Schmidt charms with a simple tale and draws it with an appropriate clean crispness. —Rod Lott

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Papercutz Slices rips Stephenie Meyer’s four-book TWILIGHT series a well-deserved new one in BREAKING DOWN, a comics parody aimed squarely at young Twihard audiences. Will they have a sense of humor about it?

Although titled after the fourth and final book in the series, Maia Kinney-Petrucha and Stefan Petrucha’s spoof tackles the entirely storyline in a mere 64 pages, renaming Meyer’s works as NIGHTLIGHT, TOO SOON and ELLIPSES. The first three are blazed through comparatively to the bulk, which is dedicated to breaking BREAKING DAWN in pieces.

Having not read Meyer’s books or seeing the movies (well, I saw an hour of TWILIGHT before giving up), I didn’t catch all the references. For example, I find it amusing that werewolf J-Bob keeps ripping off his shirt at every opportunity (whether or not it’s called for, which it never is), but don’t get why the Bella character — here, Bleh-Bleh — keeps sticking her tongue into lamp sockets.

Rick Parker draws with a more-or-less unrestrained insanity, recalling the early days of MAD, when it was a comic book. He fills the panels with details to nudge at other pop-culture institutions. During the DOWN’s climactic showdown, in fact, keep an eye out for Vampirella, Nosferatu and, um, Stewie from FAMILY GUY.

I’d also say keep your eye out for references to the Petruchas’ previous Papercutz Slices title, HARRY POTTY, but they kinda beat you over the head with those that you don’t even have to be paying attention. —Rod Lott

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We live in a golden age of comic reissues. I mean, who would have though that Marvel would put out a CAPTAIN AMERICA OMNIBUS from Jack Kirby’s 1970s run? Or better yet, that Dark House would have a shelf’s worth of CREEPY and EERIE hardcovers? This column actually goes even deeper with two series from Gold Key and one from Warren Publishing, but the one thing everyone should take home is that these comics are fun. And that’s what comics should be.

MIGHTY SAMSON ARCHIVES: VOLUME 1 and VOLUME TWO by Otto Binder, Jack Sparling and Frank Thorne — What’s the best way to describe this series. Oh, I know: bat-shit insane. Imagine a comic where the most bizarre monsters come into being. MIGHTY SAMSON is a peaceful strongman living in a radioactive future in a city called N’Yark, aka New York.

Each issue feels like an epic tale, and what’s even better is what you see on the cover actually happens in the comic. The stories find Samson teaming up with a scientist of sorts and his daughter. The first issue tells all the backstory we need, and from that point on, it’s full-on nuttiness, all in a good way: Samson and company travel to a new location, and either fight a group of people or some new monster, like a gorilla with tentacles or a many-headed shark. I’m not making this up at all.

These books are pure fun, plain and simple. These were the days when comics weren’t bogged down by sheer continuity and history — take that, X-MEN fans. There are some recurring characters, but you will be about as lost as standing on your street in front of your house.

Included are some fantastic introductions; in the second volume, Paul Tobin’s sums it up perfectly: If they ever make this into movie, it better be over-the-top, in 3-D and maybe even a musical. These collections are great for the whole family, so if you have a small one who loves monsters, this is some perfect reading. And just think: These came out years before Kirby would take this type of idea and turn it into KAMANDI.

THE OCCULT FILES OF DOCTOR SPEKTOR ARCHIVES: VOLUME ONE and VOLUME TWO by Donald Glut and Jesse Santos — Long before THE X-FILES, there was Dr. Adam Spektor, a monster hunter and occult detective. He originally was just supposed to be the host of a comic book series, but writer Donald Glut figured he had full reign and gave the doc his own comic. SPEKTOR is unlike other horror comics, since the main character would break the fourth wall throughout the run. His stories deal with a wide variety of ghost-like entities and other legendary monsters. We get tales of mummies, cults, vampires and even a tale that is a take on DORIAN GRAY.

What is funny is some of the changes that you see happen as the series progressed — namely, that of Spektor’s young, female assistant, who magically changed skin color. Their relationship seems subversive for the day. How many assistants sleep over at the boss’ house? (Hmmm … wonder what was going on there.)

These stories are pure fun with enough goosebumps to go around. Glut provides introductions to both volumes (with two more to come), going into great detail about the development of the series and his creative process. Please note the introduction in the second volume is spoiler-heavy and should be read after the actual issues. These collections also have some of the greatest endpapers ever.

VAMPIRELLA ARCHIVES: VOLUME 1 and VOLUME TWO — Let me be honest: When Dynamite Entertainment announced it was collecting the VAMPIRELLA magazines in ARCHIVE editions akin to the Dark Horse Warren books, I laughed and said, “They won’t even get past VOLUME ONE.” Well, as I write this, VOLUME THREE should be on its way next month (fingers crossed).

Vamperilla, the sexy space vampire in the revealing red suit, plays not only host to terror tales, but in later issues, is the star of some of the stories. These comic magazines are from the same people who also wrote EERIE and CREEPY, and it’s just amazing to see the list of creatives involved. It’s a who’s who of comic talent.

Each book contains seven issues, including the covers and ads. The reproduction is fine — just a notch or two below Dark Horse’s titles. Of course, the main selling point of the series is its host. Hell, a certain Oscar-winning director proclaims his love for the comic on the back cover — hint: He directed AVATAR — and says the main reason he bought all those issues in his youth was because of the cover girl.

Vampi plays only the host role in the first book, but in the second volume, we get a continuing storyline with her in a central role, being hunted down by vampire killers. These books are so much fun, I’m hopeful Dynamite continues with both the quality and schedule of putting these out quickly, because now I’m hooked. My only real complaint is that their logo is super-distracting on the spine. —Bruce Grossman

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Alex Kalienka, the inexplicably dog-faced protagonist of Mark Kalesniko’s graphic novel FREEWAY, spends the entirety of the story stuck in his car in the thick of Los Angeles traffic, and this thick, 414-page volume does its damndest to make you feel every excruciating minute of his journey. And that is both the creative point of difference and, unfortunately, the downfall of this narrative.

FREEWAY essentially begins and ends with Alex getting into and out of his shitty AMC hatchback, driving across town to the Disney-esque Babbitt Jones animation studio. Or is he?

I’m honestly not entirely sure, because the story flashes to at least four different periods of time: child Alex watches TV in the wood-paneled basement of his parents’ Canadian home; young Alex moves to Los Angeles with dreams of working for his favorite animation studio; middle-aged Alex deals with soul-crushing office political gamesmanship; and a human-faced Alex lives in a utopian vision of 1940s Los Angeles, joining the artists-in-residence during the golden age of Babbitt Jones animation.

Kalesniko is a deft, widescreen storyteller, and at times — with long, wordless stretches — FREEWAY reads like a mundane take on AKIRA, the landmark manga and anime featuring mind-bogglingly intricate architectural design and art direction. The author/artist piles environmental detail atop environmental detail and it’s at once impressive and exhausting.

As the story literally inches forward, he cuts back and forth between each vision of Alex and his vision of working at Babbitt Jones, as well as his relationship with the Chinese-American love of his life, Chloe. But then he throws the reader for a loop with a twist about 300 pages in that still has me scratching my head at what’s real, what’s dreamed and what’s potentially hallucinated.

The final chapters are paced like an action film, drawing Alex ever closer to his destination/destiny, and Kalesniko does skillfully edit his storytelling at a breathless clip. But the conclusion raises more questions than it answers, and while some could argue from a bullshit LOST fan perspective that the journey is more important than the destination, the lack of clarity leaves a hollow feeling rather than a resonant satisfaction.

After such a commitment to these characters, it’s a shame that the intricate details of the art were not echoed in the clarity of the narrative. —Brian Winkeler

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Jason Shiga just can’t seem to get away from libraries. His deliriously winning graphic novel of half a decade ago, BOOKHUNTER, presented the humorous tale of a library cop who takes his job very seriously. Now, in EMPIRE STATE: A LOVE STORY (OR NOT), protagonist Jimmy works at a library, but doesn’t take things seriously enough.

The library is actually a small piece of the pie Shiga has baked for us this time around, presenting instead a coast-hopping work so grounded in realism and obviously autobiographical that anyone who’s gotten their hopes up and/or been rejected in matters of the heart will all too easily relate.

Although a young adult, Jimmy still turns over his salary to his mother, who then grants him an allowance. It’s an Asian thing, he explains to his platonic best friend, Sara, who suggests he really needs to cut that umbilical cord once and for all, cultural traditions be damned. He’s somewhat forced to when Sara announces she’s moving to New York City, and he realizes if he doesn’t do the same, he’s likely to lose her forever.

So he does, but the welcome he receives isn’t quite what he expects. Rather than ending on a moment of victory, EMPIRE STATE closes more on the side of defeat, or at least mired in a cloud of uncertainty, just like real life. And iconic city aside, this story could — and does — take place anywhere. For this honesty — but also for Shiga’s cartoonish but dedicated drawing style, coupled with a deft hand at juggling two timelines — EMPIRE STATE handily earns my goodwill and recommendation. —Rod Lott

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On one hand, it’s sad that Drawn & Quarterly’s third volume of John Stanley’s MELVIN MONSTER comics of the 1960s is the final one. On the other, the title’s short life — all of nine issues — means it never got a chance to suck.

Collecting issues #7-#9 of ye olde Dell series, the hardcover finds little Melvin up to his old tricks. Basically, that amounts to him attempting to be as normal a kid as possible, despite his green skin, scary visage and backward-acting parents, the aptly named Mummy and Baddy.

Amid the stories here — some shorter than ever at two pages, and even one that’s literally just half a page — Melvin gets a babysitting job, where the tot is a giant; encounters a mammoth “supermonster”; is chased by a totem pole inexplicably brought to life; turns the tables on a talking tree; and temporarily becomes a frog (not to mention a normal human boy, in the series’ final gag).

Two recurring plotlines pop up, in both this volume and the series at large. In one, Melvin tries unsuccessfully to convince witch Miss McGargoyle to enroll him in her school — akin to Charlie Brown attempting to kick the football held in place by Lucy. In the other, Melvin tries successfully to prevent being eaten by Cleopatra, his family’s pet alligator.

The former isn’t funny compared to the latter. In fact, what was to be Melvin’s last go-round with Cleopatra makes for this book’s highlight. Devoid of dialogue, it’s purely an exchange of physical comedy — something at which Stanley excelled like no other creative talent, writer or artist, in the medium. —Rod Lott

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What if you gave a party and nobody came? That’s the plight facing a robot programmed to prep a pad for guests in BORIS AND THE OPEN HOUSE, the first in a series of dialogue-less graphic novels by Katharine Miller.

The adventures of this “robot of leisure” can be read in two to three minutes, literally. Lucky for us, Miller’s illustrations are something to see, leaning toward the retro. The house Boris readies with balloons, cocktails and a hi-fi selection is mid-century modern, complete with a George Nelson ball clock on the wall. Swank! —Rod Lott

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Thirteen volumes into Vertical Inc.’s reprints of Osamu Tezuka’s classic BLACK JACK manga series, and I still love how unsympathetic and callous its title character can be: “Used and thrown away. Happens all the time to women. Now you’ve learned. Guys like that die in gutters” and “Suicide by jumping … what an idiot. He’s just a kid! His kind’s not worth saving.”

Yes, our favorite filterless, unlicensed surgeon of both good and greed is back, in another 300-page paperback of “peerless medical drama.” While the 14 adventures here are self-contained, I sensed a theme running unofficially through this one: Black Jack reluctantly saving the asses of self-absorbed, obstinate athletes.

There’s the one-time ace swimmer now losing the use of his legs, the gymnast who loses a hand, the baseball player who can’t grasp the concept of “aneurysm,” and a pitcher stricken with the rare disease of “Honma’s hemotoma.” (So dreaded is that malady that it’s often followed by an exclamation point.)

Another unintended, recurring theme is one of identity, from an elderly movie star desperate to recapture her youth through plastic surgery for one final role, to a lovesick ugly guy who stretches to rules of playing Cyrano to ridiculous lengths, to a survivor of an explosion who pulls a Don Draper to fool a dead pal’s family.

Elsewhere, Black Jack helps — or doesn’t, as is sometimes the case — a guy whose body absorbed his twin, surgeons who dared mess with the remains of a mummy, a pregnant woman contemplating drowning herself and her unborn child, a runaway boy and, um, aliens from outer space. Yeah, that last one’s a bit of a silly stretch, but with a “say what?” ratio of 1 to 13, I think Tezuka can be forgiven.

Besides, he more than makes up for any bouts of goofiness with his rather graphic, realistic illustrations of surgeries. You’ll be fascinated at their detail while relieved they’re not color photographs. This is — predictably — another all-out winner. —Rod Lott

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I think about Hell. A lot. I know that, in our feel-good, no-consequences society, it’s no longer kosher to believe in God, let alone the idea of eternal punishment for infractions against Him, but, as I continually face my own mortality, I can’t help but to dwell on it, the idea and the reasonings behind it and the need for it to keep our society in check.

If there is a Hell, then what is it exactly? An endless sea of fire and brimstone and tormented souls? A desolate, lonely wasteland where your pleas for forgiveness from God fall on deaf ears? A horrific final hallucination as the brain dies? Or, even worse and more apropos, the life we’re living at this very moment?

I like Macon Blair and Joe Flood’s take on the whole matter. In their finally concluded masterpiece, HELLCITY: THE WHOLE DAMNED THING, Hell is depicted as a modern-day demonically possessed view of our own world, teeming with cruel demons doling out punishment on a whim while humans are the lowest rung on the societal ladder, the flies on the feces.

It makes sense when you think about it. Wouldn’t Hell be a place where you can never live a normal life again? Surrounded by skewed versions of the world you once knew, walking around in a living nightmare? HELLCITY, written by Blair, is a brilliantly reasonable, fantastically realistic depiction of Hell, with artist Flood thisclose to being a latter-day Hieronymus Bosch — every satanically detailed panel is worthy of magnifying-glass inspection.

It’s all viewed through the eyes of a hard-boiled private eye, sent to Hell for his Earthly suicide. He’s hired by the upper echelons of Hellcity’s government to keep tabs on Satan as he goes through an embarrassing mental breakdown. As the devil goes off the rails on the crazy train, the political coups for power mount in the boardroom as the humans revolt against their oppressors on the streets. God even makes a not-so-benevolent cameo, offering a slight bit of comical hope.

HELLCITY: THE WHOLE DAMNED THING is the most original graphic novel to come along in years, like Dante’s INFERNO for a pop-culture-obsessed generation with no religious upbringing. It’s diabolically cinematic and fully fleshed-out, well worth the three-year wait which, at the time, did seem like an eternity without any anticipation of salvation. Maybe sometimes prayers do get answered. —Louis Fowler

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Yes, its subject may just be illustrated, but Des Taylor’s THE VESHA VALENTINE STORY is one sexy book! Billed as “a pin-up storybook,” the Slave Labor Graphics paperback chronicles the life of the beautiful buxom brunette, from her burlesque stage days in post-World War II Paris to Hollywood film stardom and beyond.

Valentine is fictional, of course, but the backstory Taylor has given her harbors elements culled from any number of iconic sex symbols, including Marilyn Monroe and Bettie Page, to name just two. In a work like this, however, story is completely secondary. It’s all about the visuals.

And what visuals they are! Taylor tackles Vesha’s curves like a pro, and every page oozes with all-American, red-blooded sexuality, albeit one that doesn’t feel naughty. Like Vesha’s stage act, it’s all a tease. Everything about her is alluring — the beauty mark on the left cheek, her wavy curls, and especially her hourglass figure. Don’t get this one to read, get it to gawk. —Rod Lott

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Ask any comic-book nerd you meet about all of the different fictional women who have taken on the name and mantle of Batgirl over the years and they no doubt will tell you tales of the blonde, miniskirted Betty Kane, the silent assassin Cassandra Cain and the once-briefly-dead-Robin Stephanie Brown, with short and annoying asides about Helena Bertinelli and Charlotte Gage-Radcliffe. But ultimately, even they will concede that this is mere prattle, and that the only true Batgirl remains the redheaded librarian we all first came to know and love.

DC itself seems only too willing to acknowledge this fact in its new trade collection, BATGIRL: THE GREATEST STORIES EVER TOLD, given that none of the other past or present Batgirls appear within its pages, devoted as they all are to the adventures of one Barbara Gordon. This is remarkably wise of them.

Comprised of the 10 previously published stories its editors have deemed to be the best in her canon, the collection proves to be a colorful, entertaining delight that highlights all of the virtues of the silver and bronze age of comics and virtually none of their detriments.

Some of the pleasures are admittedly inadvertent, such as the way Batman is depicted in her origin tale as a sexist asshole who refuses to thank her for saving his Dark Knight butt, instead insisting like a jerk that he was totally about to free himself before she got there. It’s the same kind of retro-douchebag behavior that makes MAD MEN so fun to watch.

Also included are several stories devoted to Gordon’s successful run for Congress (a fun part of the character’s history that was later eradicated out of continuity after the events of CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS) and — best of all — two of her BATMAN FAMILY team-ups with a pre-Nightwing Dick Grayson. In the first of these, they battle the ghost of Benedict Arnold, who’s given a day pass out of Hell courtesy of a devil who looks suspiciously a lot like Stan Lee; in the second, they come up against The Joker’s Daughter, one of my favorite wacky, obscure characters from that period.

If there are any duds in the bunch, it’s probably the two-part “Folie a Deux” from 1998, which, like a lot of comics from that period, takes itself a bit too seriously for its own good, despite featuring some gorgeous art by Terry Dodson (who eventually would get even better after his wife, Rachel, started inking his work). Much more satisfying is 1997′s “Photo Finish,” in which we see Batgirl and Robin meet for the first time as they trail a criminal into a closed shopping mall.

About as fun as any collection of its kind could ever hope to be, this is a must-buy for both casual and devoted fans alike. I defy you to get through it without both a big grin on your face and an urgent desire to fly to England, find Alan Moore and punch him as hard as you can in his big, bearded genius face. —Allan Mott

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Art Spiegelman’s Pulitzer Prize-winning MAUS casts an imposing shadow upon every graphic novel memoir that has arrived in its wake. Is it a fair comparison? No, but when the topic is the struggles between the artist and his refugee parents years after a tumultuous war, it’s almost impossible to ignore. Unfortunately, GB Tran’s VIETNAMERICA falls far short, even when graded on a steep curve.

GB Tran is the American-born son of parents who fled Vietnam after the fall of Saigon in 1975. He maintains a casual disinterest in his family’s history and indeed the history of the Vietnam War until he travels to the country for the first time to attend his grandmother’s funeral.

At this point, Tran’s narrative begins jumping back and forth between past and present as he contrasts the energetic optimism of his father’s youth with the dour, humorless man from whom he’s mostly emotionally disconnected.

And this is where the book loses me. There’s a lack of narrative focus and character development that occasionally makes it a chore to read, despite Tran’s evocative and occasionally cinematic visual storytelling. He’s a passive witness to history, and while it’s refreshing to read a Vietnam story told from the perspective of locals (rather than a psychologically scarred American military veteran), there’s virtually no connectivity between past and present. Tran does himself no favors by portraying himself as aloof and immature, and his parents as perpetually miserable.

The topic is fascinating and the journey, while interesting from a historical perspective, contains few characters in whom I was able to truly invest emotionally. The 192 pages felt twice as long, and the more I read, the more I wish Tran would have removed himself from the narrative and worked harder to tell a much more chronologically cohesive and emotionally resonant tale.

The elements for success (if not MAUS-level greatness) all exist within the pages of VIETNAMERICA, but they never gel enough to reach the level of storytelling this chapter of world history requires to be considered a seminal read. —Brian Winkeler

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With a spine as thick as your wrist and holding more than 700 pages, you have every right to be intimidated by Vertical Inc.’s hardcover reprint of Osamu Tezuka’s AYAKO.

Those who know the Tezuka name know the truth, and find such a high page count more as a reward than a challenge. It’s to his storytelling genius that this graphic novel, originally serialized between 1972 and 1973 in Japan, needs almost every one of those pages to be there.

So don’t give into fear! Dig in! Prepare yourself to spend some time with this one … and potentially to be quite disturbed.

It begins seemingly as a spy story, in 1949, with Jiro Tenge returning home as a prisoner of war with a patch over one eye. Behind it, sits a scroll full of presumed secrets, which he’s smuggled and delivers to the Japanese government. But AYAKO isn’t about Jiro. It’s about his entirely fucked-up family.

For patriarch Sakuemon, preserving the “honor” of the Tenge name is everything, which is why he rejects Jiro as a failure because he spent time in a P.O.W. camp. However, Sakuemon is not exactly a role model for the family, what with carrying on a forced affair with his daughter-in-law, whom he gets pregnant.

That ungodly union results in our titular character, Ayako, who is both Sakuemon’s daughter and granddaughter. There’s more, as Sakuemon shuns his own wife, Jiro’s brother is in denial for the love of greed, and eventually, murder rears its ugly head. All the while, Ayako lives in secret, locked in the family basement, so that the Tenge name remains unsullied in the public eye. (And you thought Tezuka’s MW and ODE TO KIRIHITO were tragic!)

With such an upbringing, of course, Ayako cannot develop normally, and that’s when the most unsettling aspects of Tezuka’s story take hold. It’s sick to think about, but the subject matter is not done for shock value.

Needless to say, AYAKO is an epic. Spanning the years of 1949 to 1973, it focuses on three generations of one dysfunctional clan, yet fires on all cylinders to address in depth themes that are political, sociological, psychological and sexual. If the ending seems a little too steeped in melodrama, at least its tragic nature is wholly appropriate. This is another stick-with-you masterwork from a man who produced more of them than should be humanly possible. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Scouring out the weekly singles scene … in comics!

It’s kinda ballsy, if you ask me, for an independent comic company to launch a quarterly anthology, since anthologies aren’t supposed to be big sellers. But Pop! Goes the Icon apparently doesn’t know and/or care, and we’re all the better for it, judging by the crime-oriented OMEGA COMICS PRESENTS #3. It’s not exactly something I’d buy in singles … but only because I’m a “wait for the trade” kinda guy. That may be the best way to read its only serialized story, “Omega,” the third chapter of which appears in the middle. There’s no “previously on” business to catch newbies up with what’s happened prior, but it’s not needed all that much when our Strike Force Omega heroes jump right into action to save the Hoover Dam from terrorists. Opening is “One of Us,” a police procedural heavy on grit and Zip-A-Tone; closing is “The Hero’s Journey,” a bleak number touching on the failure of superheroes to protect the public. More, please!

If you’ve read Joe Hill’s short story “The Cape,” from his 20TH CENTURY GHOSTS collection, you’ll want to see what writer Jason Ciaramella and artist Zach Howard do with it in IDW’s one-shot THE CAPE #1. Basically, they keep it faithful to the source material, as it’s still about a kid who flies — briefly — when falling from a tree, only to be injured and grow up a total loser until he regains his fleeting power. Naturally, its witch-wicked ending is intact, and just as brutal illustrated on the page as it was forged in your mind. For $3.99, it should fill the entire issue, but half a dozen pages are given over to promote John Byrne’s NEXT MEN and IDW’s other slate. Still, this handily beats the company’s last Hill one-shot, KODIAK.

Regulars to this site know I’m a sucker for Arthur Conan Doyle’s great detective, so plunking over $4.99 for WildStorm’s VICTORIAN UNDEAD SPECIAL: SHERLOCK HOLMES VS. JEKYLL/HYDE #1 was a no-brainer. Despite the numbering, this is also a one-shot, picking up where the recent VICTORIAN UNDEAD miniseries left off, with Holmes and Dr. Watson having saved London from a horde of zombies. Now, they’ve got a new threat to deal with, in the form of a schizophrenic doctor. (Oh, did the title spoil that?) I enjoy such Holmes pastiches, particularly those with a horror bent, so Horacio Domingues’ art would be more effective if less cartoony. Ian Edginton’s script is up to snuff, though, making me eager to dig into the UNDEAD trade.

A spin-off from the regular HACK/SLASH ongoing series of the Goth girl who kills serial killers and her hulking monster sidekick, Image’s HACK/SLASH: TRAILERS #2 is an oversized special containing “13 tales of naked fear.” Supposedly, these will never be collected in trade, but I don’t buy that … yet I fell for the claim anyway. These quick stories, each from different creative talents — Gail Simone and Scott Allie among them — play in the H/S universe, mostly to comic, even self-parodying effect. Thus, we get camp slaughters, CRITTERS-esque creatures, a trip to a rave, a Western, a PSYCHO homage and some good ol’ fashioned blood ‘n’ guts ‘n’ sex. It’s all for fun, and fun, which is good considering one of the series’ more recent story arcs went off the rails.

Mark Millar’s UK glossy, full-color monthly magazine CLINT #3 continues a strong showing, anchored by six ongoing comic features — half of them Millar’s: “Kick-Ass 2,” “American Jesus” and “Nemesis.” The others are Jonathan Ross’ period vampire war “Turf,” Frankie Boyle’s R-rated superhero parody “Rex Royd” and the tongue-in-cheek, sci-fi humor of “Space Oddities.” In the print pieces, Quentin Tarantino discusses potential projects (yeah, right, QT), some viral video stars are profiled, and the heir apparent to Joe Bob Briggs — Vern, of course — begins a new movie column, “Badass Cinema 101.” CLINT is tough to hunt down, but worth doing so, and makes for a joyous, cover-to-cover consumption of its 100 pages.

Finally, it seems pointless given the holidays are now behind us, but I also enjoyed reading — if sometimes only mildly — the following seasonal one-shots from Marvel and DC:
• DC UNIVERSE HALLOWEEN SPECIAL 2010 #1, starring Batman, Frankenstein, Deadman, The Demon and Klarion the Witch Boy, among others;
• TOMB OF TERROR #1, featuring black-and-white stories of Man-Thing, Son of Satan, Werewolf by Night and The Living Mummy, with the last penned by Joe R. Lansdale;
• SPIDER-MAN VS. VAMPIRES #1, guest-starring — who else? — Blade;
• DC UNIVERSE HOLIDAY SPECIAL 2010 #1, with the “whodathought” inclusion of a Hanukkah tale with Jonah Hex; and
• VERTIGO RESURRECTED: WINTER’S EDGE #1, a 100-page anthology reprinting chilly works by the likes of Neil Gaiman, Garth Ennis, Paul Pope, Brian K, Vaughn and Dave Gibbons, including those featuring characters from THE SANDMAN and HELLBLAZER. —Rod Lott

Buy them at Amazon.

The world of modern manga could learn a lot from Felipe Smith’s PEEPO CHOO. For one thing, going out on top. See, VOLUME 3 is the final bow for the series; by comparison, this spring brings books 50 and 34 for NARUTO and BLEACH, respectively, with no end in sight.

Okay, okay, so Smith’s story is miles away from the likes of those other series, which is another point altogether they could absorb: being original, creative and daring. And not sucking. Unless said sucking is depicted in a panel as an act of unbridled lust between two characters.

I’m not rehashing the storyline thus far for the PEEPO CHOO uninitiated, so if you’re among them, just trust me and buy all three volumes. And if you aren’t, you may already have purchased this, so my words mean naught … except to reinforce your splendid taste in graphic fiction imported from the Far East.

From the beginning — featuring a headless, naked man — to an end I won’t reveal, this final piece of the prurient puzzle brings all the narrative threads together in one tight, terrific quilt of craziness. Its squares are comprised of guns, blood, big tits, gang violence, ill-advised fashions, LSD cartoons, porn, fast food, homophobia, puke, rap, fat kids, leather fetishes, elaborate tattoos, bigger tits and all-around awesomeness.

Read it, admire it, love it, and read it again. But for humanity’s sake, dear God, just don’t live it. —Rod Lott

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Whether you’re 35 or 75 or somewhere thereabouts, you’ll feel like you’re 5 years old all over again with THE GREAT TREASURY OF CHRISTMAS COMIC BOOK STORIES. Comics historian Craig Yoe does it again — seriously, how many great books did the guy edit this year? — with this hardback collection of four-color fun primarily from the 1940s and 1950s.

Among the contributors are kids’ comics mainstays John Stanley and Walt Kelly, each making several appearances, and Richard Scarry is represented with a retelling of “The Shoemakers and the Elves.” All are delightful.

The book also includes some illustrated adaptations of prose Christmas classics, like Mike Sekowsky’s “A Christmas Carol” and Dan Gormley’s “The Night Before Christmas.” The latter is followed immediately by Atomic Mouse’s own version of the venerable poem. For those afraid the collection ignores the reason for the season, the TREASURY closes with a straightforward comics depiction of “The Christmas Story,” baby Jesus and all.

With more than 21 tales, this is one book guaranteed to be brought out year after year. —Rod Lott

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It’s safe to say, without an ounce of hyperbole, that you have never read anything like THE HEAVY HAND by Chris C. Cilla. For off-center creativity and the kind of utter weirdness that has you first scratching your head but soon has you smiling ear-to-ear, there is nothing quite like it. Even those who have faithfully followed his earlier comics will find surprises.

The story (such as it is) is about Alvin Crabshack, who leaves his girlfriend’s place one morning to begin his new job as a research assistant for Professor Berigan, whose lab is located deep within a cave way beyond the outskirts of town, and Alvin goes through a few adventures before finally arriving there.

Other researchers — rivals of Berigan’s work — have already set up shop long before Alvin arrives. They are studying the reptile eggs found within the cave. No one seems to know what they are, or if whatever it is inside the eggs is alive. But something else lives inside the cave: strange, one-eyed, lima bean-shaped creatures floating in the underground stream who, without warning, pose a dangerous threat to the researchers.

By the time Alvin ventures deeper within the cave and catches up with Berigan, we discover that Alvin’s job was a lie. Berigan never intended to hire him, and really wants nothing to do with him or anybody else. Then, just as one of the professor’s experiments is about to explode, Berigan and Alvin load as much of the archaic equipment they can into their wheelbarrows and escape into the desert outside of the cave.

The two end up at the world’s most boring party at a house in the desert. That is, until a stranger wearing a hood — possibly inspired by the lima bean creatures — blows the place up.
 
Weird? You don’t know the half of it! For example, is Alvin’s girlfriend the dark-haired Heather, or the duck-billed Lily in an alternate opening chapter? Is that reptilian goat that hatched from one of the eggs in the cave the next important step in evolution? Who is that transparent guy in the lab coat who pissed on the equipment and in the coffee in the prologue? And what is it with that guy in the black suit and mask, and his patchwork donkey?

Right from the start, we know that Cilla’s skewed sensibilities are devoted to the traditions of his chosen medium. Several of Alvin’s associates have cartoonish long noses or huge ears. A few of them are Goofy-like dogs (or whatever). And on the title page, Cilla insists that THE HEAVY HAND is a comic book, not some highfalutin’ “graphic novel.”

His black-and-white artwork within shows influences of Robert Crumb and various Sunday comic strips. The narrative style varies from straight-ahead panels to explosive pages of action and impressions. Even his ear for dialogue is impressive, especially during boring conversations — not as easy as it might sound.

Portland’s Sparkplug Comic Books has established itself as the devoted publishing home for many inventive artists and storytellers, so the impressive printing and packaging they bring to Cilla’s latest is no surprise. Is it worth the $14 asking price? Easily! For all its mind-messing fun it delivers, even with repeated readings, it’s well worth the investment. Throw In The Towel (that’s an in-joke). —Alan Cranis

Buy it at Sparkplug Comic Books.

Shari Chankhamma presents a very potent and alluring story premise in the graphic novel THE SISTERS’ LUCK. About halfway into it, however, she loses track of the idea and the work veers off in a completely different direction.

It wasn’t until they became adults that identical twin sisters Umbra and Antumbra discovered their special powers. Umbra steals good luck from people; Antumbra is cursed with passing on bad luck to literally everyone she touches. As the novel opens, Umbra is living a life of success, luxury and good fortune with her albino manager/boyfriend. Antumbra, by contrast, has lived a life of lonely exile knowing that she is directly responsible for the death of her parents and most of her friends.

But Antumbra also knows that she must reunite with her sister in order for the balance to between good and bad luck to be maintained. Umbra knows this as well, so when she finds Antumbra suddenly at her doorstep, she immediately throws her out of the house rather than risk her comfortable life.
 
Just as Antumbra is banished, she is suddenly whisked away by a long-haired man on a motorcycle. The mysterious stranger not only knows who and what Antumbra is, but is also immune to her danger, and proves it by giving her her first real kiss.
 
We quickly learn that the stranger is the albino twin of Umbra’s boyfriend, and that they both know the power the sisters hold. The manager/boyfriend, however, is intent on stealing this power in his quest to become a god, but his twin wants to prevent this, and steals Antumbra away as the story reaches an abrupt end.
 
Needless to say, what started out as the story of the sisters suddenly becomes the story of the warring brothers. Too bad, as the concept of the twin sisters, with its implications and observations about luck, fortune and destiny, is by far more interesting than the brothers’ battle for power. What manages to keep us involved in the midst of this confusion are Chankhamma’s illustrations, with their film-noir frames full of shadows, dark backgrounds and stark contrasts.
 
Is THE SISTERS’ LUCK the first of a series? Possibly. If so, let’s hope Chankhamma figures out a way to dump the brothers and stay with the sisters. —Alan Cranis

Buy it at Amazon.