Ragemoor #3

Ragemoor looms as the gleeful homicidal grandmother to the Overlook Motel, the psychotic aunt, once removed, to Hill House and the sadistic incest-reveling uncle to the House of Usher.

This ancient architectural nightmare engineered by Jan Strnad[1] and Richard Corben[2] has the foundation of gothic tropes and horror standards mortared together with sinister stylized black-and-white images to evoke an eerie innovative atmospheric comic book. In this third issue (out of four) the tension teeters on a battlement’s edge. The owner Herbert chases off his beloved’s lover, before his would-be lover tosses herself into a pit stating she’d rather die than bed Herbert. The butler Brodrick drinks a tincture brewed from flowers that only grow at Ragemoor and reports visions. Meanwhile, the baboons defend against the worms and the castle Ragemoor plots some sinister unspeakable but necessary-for-humanity’s survival scheme. While most comic series (or at least many of the series that I’ve read) tend to loose some momentum or creativity upon nearing completion, Ragemoor builds on its previous story arcs and enhances its superiority with each installment. 

Ragemoor possesses a unique retelling of the haunted-house story. The story, art, and dialogue combine to create a creepy and unsettling atmosphere through the pacing of the story, the information strategically held in reserve, and the implied secrets of the plot. If not the best horror comic book on the shelves, it certainly receives the distinction (for what it’s worth) of one of only two comics that gave me nightmares[3].

Ragemoor issue 2 revealed that Ragemoor, with hell-paved good (probably) intentions used a baboon brigade to protect its inhabitants from the vile clutches of the white worms. Adding this mothering urge to the killer castle provides readers the chance to sympathize with the stone structure that simultaneously defends and destroys those who populate its halls.  The tangle of emotions towards the structure tangles heartstrings (as if having feelings towards a fictional building in a comic book wasn’t strange enough) and casts castle Ragemoor in the role of a Byronic hero…perhaps allowing Manfred and the Cenci a summer home when they vacation from the Castle of Ooronoko.

The horror Corben and Strand deal in mine’s its fear beyond the psychology and humanity; instead they’re working in fields of fear that stretch to prehuman times, a time of titans and elder gods of a Lovecraftian cosmos. This casting to a cosmic scale adds to the terror of Ragemoor, even though the characters, and the readers, don’t know for sure what is occurring, it is known that the consequences will be severe and will stretch beyond a single person, family, and species to the very nature of all life and existence on a universal scale as we know it. That’s a lot of stress resting on the walls and support beams of Ragemoor.

The artwork of Richard Corben adds to this fundamental threat evoked by this story. His style is primitive in its evocation, not its execution. An aura of atavism suspends itself upon each of the characters through the minimization of detail and the broad lines and chubby stippling used to build the panels, often from a worm’s eye perspective. This base view implies the lowly reader, sharing the perspective with a worm, looks up to Ragemoor as something superior and beyond full-human comprehension for the continuity of existence. The smooth black and white (the perfect colors for the best horror tales) contributes to the eerie mood, especially when such varied shapes of uninterrupted black are employed. The dark shadows chiaroscuro with the stark white present in almost every panel and further stir and complicate the mixed emotions of conflicting extremes which Ragemoor as both mother and monster is cast.

Horror terrifies best in drams instead of quarts. Each issue of Ragemoor is self-contained and yet still contributes to the larger story. Corben and Strand vivisected the ideal essences of single issues and the larger story, and then melded these core traits into something worthy of evoking the admiration of Dr. Moreau. Reading Ragemoor in monthly installments allows time for speculations to seep into synaptic crevices and intensifies the anticipation for the next issue. This hesitation and rumination between issues matches the mood of the book. Characters too must wait for the castle to reveal its agenda. Characters too don’t know what will occur next. Characters and readers seethe in dread as they await the castle’s next decree.

Along with the haunted house, betrayal, greed, incest, physical pain, mental anguish, murder, and madness, Ragemoor holds secrets. The castle’s internal susurrations remain unknown to the characters and only become semi-revealed through drug use, though even with chemical assistance the revelations remain ineffable as the butler Brodrick confesses when asked about his drug induced dream:
            “I…cannot! It is but shadows and monstrous images…A fearsome nightmare that I cannot describe.  Perhaps I will have the words by morning…”

When language fails and communication breaks down, especially in a sinister haunted house, the isolation of characters further adds to the fear and oppression exuded from the structure Ragemoor. And really, what better way to keep a secret, than to have a secret that is utterly beyond formation or expression in words. Despite the dark streaks of madness within the shifting walls of Ragemoor, it remains one crafty sentient castle, distinct, yet in good standing within the family of architectural horrors.

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[1] An interview with Jan Strand awaits your perusal at: http://www.comicmonsters.com/features-1230-Ragemoor_interview_with_Jan_Strnad.html

[2] Check out Corben’s creative process chronicled at Comic Monsters:  http://www.comicmonsters.com/section-article-285-The_making_of_Ragemoor_by_Richard_Corben.html

[3] David Hine’s and Jeremy Haun’s Darkness 101 brought on bad dreams from its implied terrors.

Conan the Barbarian #4: The Argos Deception Part 1 Review

Returning Beginnings: Conan the Barbarian: The Argos Deception Part 1

Despite the pacific nature of Buddhism, it violently accused as the source of all human suffering Ample sufferings storm down upon those desiring, yet amidst these pains, desire can provide focus. Protean by nature, desire varies in its degrees and manifests for a myriad matters.

Brian Wood, James Harren, and Dave Stewart create another new beginning for Conan with the “Argos Deception” In part one of this storyline, Conan’s relation with Bêlit extends to fresh facets of desire and trust. The plot has Conan conveyed to Argos’s authorities so they can be distracted while the pirates rob the town. After securing the treasure, the pirates promise to free Conan before they depart.

The desire of Conan for Bêlit’s acceptance fulfilled itself in issue three. When entwining arms around his desired, it transforms, just like the Proteous, old man of the sea. Once the initial acceptance between lovers consummates, what becomes of desire?  The desire shifts to another future wish: Will love remain and grow? Will love erode? Were those initial sensations even love? What will be the nature of a shared life with this person? Can this person be trusted? The answers to these questions influence the nature of the reborn desire.

For Conan, his desire seems to include making an extended new life with Bêlit. He continues to ingratiate himself with the crew through routine tasks aboard the Tigress. The narrator writes “He learns quickly. It is a good life.” This new desire echoes other new beginnings in this issue. Conan starts  new work as a sailor, not a defender of the crew or a co-commander who sets himself apart and gives orders. His relation with Bêlit starts a new course. Now they interact on a daily basis in mundane tasks. The Tigress embarks upon a new piratical plan for obtaining treasure. A new artist graces the book. Having finished adapting Robert E. Howard’s “The Queen of the Black Coast,” Brian Wood begins an original storyline. With all these new beginnings, it is perhaps fitting that the Tigress returns to where this entire series began, to Argos’s Port of Messantia.

Desire, while an endless quest providing a purpose, also holds its keeper in a perpetual state of lack, an absence from the desired. The peril of such absence is despair. In this issue, the creative team matures and deepens the desire Conan and Bêlit share and trumps despair with trust. Similar to many young new lovers Conan questions Bêlit’s intentions and sincerity. After surrendering to the Argos’s authorities, and imprisoned and sentenced to death, Conan asks the question his desire and delight have prevented him from recognizing until now, “He has placed his life in the hands of criminals. Murderers. Strangers. And his heart in the hands of this strong, powerful woman, who would do what she wants and answer to no one but herself. So what would bind her to Conan? How can he hold on to a woman like that?”

Conan despairs and dreams a frigid barren landscape where he traverses the cracking ice of a  broad lake (Why is Wood so often using dreams and visions so prominently in his run on the book?). While onboard the Tigress, Conan heard only sincerity and affection in Bêlit’s posed question, but alone is a cell condemned to death skepticism, treachery, and greed provide the overtones to the same question of Bêlit: “Do you trust me?”

The artwork mirrors Conan’s understanding of this question. The lush detailed port of Messantia, is how a trusting lover who is a true believer sees the world, in detail and striking beauty, in the company of other humans, as Harren rendered the scene. Wonder of the outré and thrills at what exists present themselves in this scene. But when despairing, Harren has close and cramped compositions. Conan slumps and remains alone. Even though guards are present, Harren hides their faces (with shadows from helmets, or by drawing the guards with their backs to the reader), which intensifies Conan’s solitude. Dave Stewart heavily employs greys, blues, blacks, and tans which mimic Conan’s absent spirit and crushed desire.

But thankfully Bêlit returns and justifies the risk Conan took in trusting her. Conan jettisons despair and again seizes confidence (as well as indulging in some jail-cell lovemaking) and readies himself for the brutality, prowess, and violence involved in escaping Argos, for the second time. The creators of this story deftly convey Conan’s new desire for Bêlit as it makes its initial moves beyond mere infatuation.   

Fatale # 5

Fatale 5: End of  Book 1: “Death Chases Me”

In film noir I once read that tender gestures don’t extend beyond lighting a cigarette. In this latest issue of Fatale, even this harsh kindness is traded for bullets.  But despite the soul grinding flinty despair, the mood and atmosphere of the comic conveys such a brutal beautiful nihilism that it becomes impossible to turn one’s back (never a good idea in a noir setting) and walk away. This comic  haunts readers.

I’d love to clearly explain the events of this issue, and the first part of the series, but Fatale has the straightforward clarity of Ezra Pound’s Cantos. Thankfully Brubaker, very kindly, offers a synopsis of what came previously, so please forgive me for utilizing  the creator’s version of issues 1-4:

"Hank Raines has been seduced into a dangerous affair by a woman named Josephine, who is not what she seems. Following the brutal murder of Hank’s wife, and the reveal of Jo’s strange effect on men, Hank goes in search of her…only to be caught by a deadly Satanic cult. Meanwhile, Walt Booker, a crooked cop and Jo’s former lover, has his own plans for Jo…”

Now, add a Lovecraftian pantheon into this modernist wasteland and you have one striking fatal comic book.

Two aspects extend beyond the horde of charms this comic delightfully delivers. It weaves an effective transporting atmosphere and it works well in serial format.

The sinister bristles on the brush of Sean Phillips works marvels at conjuring skylines, and figures and buildings where Yog-Sothoth would feel comfortable. Swaths of black impart a grim atmosphere to the work. On the opening page we see Booker walking to a coffee shop interspersed with two scenes of him carving magic sigils into his arm. The second and third row of panels function as stairs that allow descent into this fictional world. The features of Booker’s face as he carves into his arm are mostly black. There are hints at a nose, a check bone, and an ear, and a thin stretch of short blonde hair perched on his head. The rest of the face was rendered in solid blocks of black. In the panel showing Booker, after the arm carving and walking to the coffee shop, wearing a brown jacket over his white shirt and red tie, the folds on his jacket are rendered like crevices with Philips’s brush. The spotty finish and writhing lines that only a brush can create give an extra element of graininess fits with the mood of this work. If such a style appeared in a superhero comic, I imagine I would hate it, and it would seem out of place in a work about superior beings performing altruistic deeds, but in Fatale such inking not only fits the book, but is essential to the book.

And the colors! Dave Stewart (this chromatic wizard apparates everywhere!) renders a dull palate of colors that sinks the reader into a grim black and grey world. The purple sky, the dull matte paint on the automobiles, and even glass and chrome reflect shadowy suggestive shades of brighter tones long past. The results of these factors let the reader, in step with Booker, enter the story from their hopefully brighter and less Cthulhu-cult haunted world.

The frequency of the issue fits well with the noir plot string. When first viewing The Big Sleep, a professor challenged the audience to clearly explain the plot of the movie, all were baffled. The sudden jumps, the strange connections, the unexplained events all go towards stirring the idea of a random universe; Fatale seizes and molds these themes. While being taken down from a wall, Hank Raines is lead my the manacles by a cult member who tries to explain that Mr. Raines will be their next sacrifice, he speaks the sentiments of the readers:

“What—wha—what--?...Wh- Where…Where are we…?...I don’t…you said…1906? Who… Who are you…? What’re you talking about…? My…? …who are you? Stop! Stop! Let me go!”

If Gertrude Stein wrote detective horror fiction, the dialogue would read like the above.

And, the reader might echo the pleas of Rainer to have the horrors of the story cease and release them from the tale, but it doesn’t. The elements of the book blend too well together to allow a clear conscience to turn away, but simultaneously these elements allow for easy breaking points for each issue. With such sudden shifts in plot, and strange reveals of characters and their motivations and desires, an abundance of cutting and stopping points for each issue exists. While not having the circularity and jump-on-at-any-point feature of Ulysses or Bulletproof Coffin #4, the plot possesses shadows of randomness that allow multiple choices for which plot line the issue will pick up and focus on before moving to another element of the story he established. With each issue including multiple aspects of the story, the time span between each release matches the shifting in the issues. The result is a comic book that would make me happy to light cigarettes for Ed Brubaker, Sean Phillips and Dave Stewart.

Bulletproof Coffin: Disinterred #4

BULLETPROOF COFFIN: DISINTERRED

BULLETPROOFCOFFINDISINTERRED 

BCDEFILNOPRSTU

Bull Lee spouts loose nouns in Tennessee, condones lore for Bulletproof Coffin: Disinterred.

Fie on order!

Cut,

Cut,

Cut bold!

Plot is lone sore bone-prone flop-rusted dusted corpse on snot corpuscle bier rots. Pure ordered prose foul fools, ruins fun since bop-optic prose is snubbed.

Burn forced filters!

Cut.

Cut.

Cut.

Bop-optic color prose finds prophets!

Dual-dopes score profits, but strip, bind, pin, slit, slice burn, pound, club, bend, belt, rend, spin, stub, rip, bleed to stifle-snuff not-old optic tropes so to send flood of foul tides of bored bile soup snore stories.

So,

Scuttle double estates’ four color snore lore! Topple forlorn Stan Lee’s past epics, torpedo DC, side step spider titles, bust dull Robin’s dudes.

Instead distill pure bold pure color bop-optic lore. Riff on blood. Build better plots of unplots, ironic tells, don’t settle for bored sort or stupid tales. Undo dire duo! Let tepid stern bulletproof lust nurse flirt free in rubber corset until led to cloud bed to pounce for Bulletproof Coffin bounce! Undo blouse, bustle, robe, doublet, tie, tubes, bib, purse, belt, binds, ropes, to be free free free! Rouse plot fires! Bolster fine tonic fonts! Toss dice! Stir oddness!

Lift fists for Independents!   

Sin Bold!

Cut!

Cut!

Cut!

Listen.

Find Bulletproof Coffin! Pull Bulletproof Coffin. Opt for Bulletproof Coffin. Build odes to Bulletproof Coffin. Scour Bulletproof Coffin. Sift Bulletproof Coffin. Ponder Bulletproof Coffin. 

Bulletproof Coffin fine food for soul.

Spirit of Bull Lee slides out, but resides infinite in bulletproof coffin.

‘nuff said.

End

(but not end)