Referencing Dreams

I liked the feel of the eight chapters in Preludes and Nocturnes even before I read that Norman Mailer called Neil Gaiman’s work “a comic strip for intellectuals.”  Imagine my amazement when I realized Gaiman was the kind, precise voice challenged in the most controversial petition ever considered by the American Library Association.  When asked to purge a children’s book of a prestigious award, common sense and appreciation for literature prevailed, and Gaiman’s 2009 John Newbury Medal-winning The Graveyard Book was allowed to keep its gold seal of approval.  Now the author had my attention, admiration, and sympathy.  After all he is considered a hero in the world of education.

This work is thick with classical references.  Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams, alternately know as Dream, is captured and imprisoned in a plot twist of mistaken identity.  Imprisoned in his crystal cell for 70 years, Dream first appears to be a space alien with a skull, spinal column, and yards of flowing royal blue fabric.  Gradually we see that he is a thin, attractive young man with longish black hair and determined eyes.  Yes, I’d say that is a good depiction of the Greek god of dreams.

Alluding to Greek mythology of the Fates, Gaiman introduces three women who appear as Hecate:  maiden, mother, and crone.  These characters are also prominent in the opening scene of “Macbeth” as the weird sisters; they are central to the actual play as well as to the supernatural element that is disturbingly able to bridge both worlds: “Fair is foul, and foul is fair” (1.1.11-12).   Preludes’ Fates present as confusing a motif as does Macbeth’s sisters.

Again classical mythology is referenced when the King of Dreams finds himself in Hell.  He had earlier carved the gates of Horn and Ivory.  Dream tells us that “DREAMS that pass through the gates of IVORY are LIES…The OTHER admits the TRUTH” (65/11).  This Odyssean imagery refers to Penelope’s dream in which false dreams pass through ivory gate and the true “ones that come to pass” enter through the gate of polished horn.

Avant garde poetry is the source for the Sandman’s prophetic line “and I have shown him fear” that references T.S. Eliot’s poem The Waste Land, Part I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The origin of this fear in Preludes and Nocturnes combines with actual sand and relates to the method the King of Dreams uses to escape from imprisonment.  As his guards dream of girl-filled beach volleyball vacations, The King reaches into their dreams, scoops up a handful of sand, and, at the crucial moment when the crystal cell is unlocked, blows a puff of sand onto the guards (39.5-7).  They never knew what hit them and Dreams is released to show fear to the unjust and grant sleep to the just.

Death, live and in person

Sandman is a series where death is frequent, horrifying, casual, shocking, and yet strangely benevolent.  The obsession with the event or action of dying begins in the very first issue, “Sleep of the Just,” in which selfish magicians attempt to capture “Lord Death” – rather humorously believing that Death is both capturable and male.

Dream, rather irked after his seventy-year captivity, politely informs his gaolers that they should “…count yourself lucky for the sake of your species and your petty planet that you did NOT succeed…that instead you snared Death’s younger BROTHER” (49).  Such a forboding connotation attached to D/death seems confirmed by the next arc, in which the demented Dr. Dee casually, horrifically, and frequently murders many, many people, only to be stopped by his own greed (and perhaps Dream’s cleverness – an ambiguity taken up in the final arc of the series, The Kindly Ones).

And yet, when Death first appears, live and in person instead of the fearsome reputation, she is but a chalk-skinned, wild shock of black haired, ankh-wearing girl, seemingly in her late teens or early twenties.  Her body language is casual, and she frequently smiles.  Though she angrily informs her brother that he is and idiot for trying to solve his problem alone, her temper stems from her deep love for him.

All in all, a rather interesting portrait of the anthropomorphic personification of Death.

Terry Pratchett, collaborator and friend of Gaiman, created a similar conceptualization of Death, sticking to the traditional image of Death as a skeleton on a pale white (bony) horse (though named Binky).  Like Gaiman, however, Pratchett’s death displays intense care for those under his care – often battling against the forces of indifference, bureaucracy, and auditing for the value of the small, the useless, and the chaotic – in other words, for the value of life and meaning.

Which brings up a fascinating point: Gaiman’s death, for all her engaging personality (easily one of the most winsome characters in all literature, in this particular work sharing that title with her sister Delirium and the crow Matthew, both introduced in later volumes) remains a supporting character.  Is there something about the nature of a perfectly content, perfectly self-sufficient, happy character that makes them unsuited for a story’s central figure?  Though I find Dream an incredibly sympathetic character (an uncommon experience, apparently – I do tend to enjoy the duty-driven, introverted, complicated, emotionally stunted yet intense characters), I find myself intrigued by and yet unable to envision a “Reaper” comic.  I doubt Death has a lack of conflict – after all, despite the way all her meetings end with acceptance in “The Sound of Her Wings,” I’ve no doubt some people refuse to accept her comfort.  Not to mention the foolish magi who attempt to capture her.  But what would Death learn?  Unlike Dream, she has already changed significantly (as revealed in the short story volume of the Sandman series, she was originally an arrogant, detached character).  An intriguing possibility.

In hindsight, Death’s being perfectly suited for her job may be why Dream gave his tormentors his ominous warning – without someone to take loving charge of the souls of the departed, the world would either fall into everliving destruction, or the agony of lost souls would throw the world’s happiness completely away.  I’m inclined to think the latter is the case, since Dream and Death’s brother Destruction forsook his job, and the forces of Destruction continue without him.  But in either case, Gaiman argues (along with Pratchett) that our conceptions, our stories we make about ideas (for what is an anthropomoriphic personification based on collective consciousness/belief but an elaborate metaphor or story?) are what make life worth living, and in the end, dying.

In conversations, some people have mentioned that the artwork seems less important in this story than in Watchmen or The Dark Knight.  I’d disagree – without the varied yet centrally consistent interpretations of Death, she’d merely be interesting, perhaps slightly amusing.  But with her extravagant hand gestures, her casual body posture, mobile features, and distinctive coloring, I think she wouldn’t be the indelibly, incredibly winsome character Gaiman and his collaborators finally created (despite the significantly varied quality of the artists who contributed to the series).

The Matter of Consistency

Neil Gaiman’s Sandman brings to light a great comic hero from the depths of our minds. The Sandman comes with unique artistry, personification, and the stuff that to make dreams come true. Unfortunately, Neil Gaiman did not come with consistency, as “Dream Country” and “Preludes and Nocturnes” could not be further from each other. Fortunately, “Preludes and Nocturnes” portrayed such a beautiful, epic story that I maintain a hope for the remaining volumes.
“Preludes and Nocturnes” displays focus, solidarity, and an open-ended yet finite conclusion to a singular story. Although volume one contains numerous chapters, each chapter serves in the progression of the Sandman’s story. This singular progression is vital to maintaining the reader’s steady attention which is necessary to ensure the reader interprets and steady, methodical, and intelligent hero.
Gaiman’s “Dream Country” all but shatters this form; volume three contains four chapters, each of which maintains an independent relation from the next. This is not to say that the chapters are without purpose; each chapter illustrates pieces of the Sandman’s character and moral fiber which assist in the understanding of the Sandman’s character. However, I did not feel any great revelations in the Sandman’s character which were not obtained in volume one. The Sandman’s assistance with John Constantine showed us his kindness, which was further supported in Calliope’s story. The only knowledge newly revealed was another name “Oneiros” and the knowledge of a deceased son. We also learned that the Sandman is a great leader and shepherd, and he is very fond of his fairy tales. But the independence of each story prohibited the feel of a true drive in the work, leaving me with no sense of purpose, no fair desire for knowledge of the coming chapter.
Gaiman’s first volume shines above to provide the reader with a full purpose, a drive to engage our intrigue. Perhaps the only consistency Gaiman affords us, comes in the finality with Death. Death is at the conclusion of each volume, almost as the summation of our new-found knowledge and the instrument for which we learn a little life’s lesson.

“He is, after all, just a human… What could possibly go wrong?”

Years ago, when my brother finally got me to read the first volume of The Sandman by letting me know that John Constantine, a favorite comic character of mine, appeared early on in The Sandman‘s history, I was worried how Gaiman — typically a less dark writer than Preacher‘s Garth Ennis and some of the other writers who contributed to Hellblazer‘s pages — would portray Constantine. Then, as now, I was impressed.

Gaiman’s attention to detail, his obvious love of characters from a number of genres, and his ability to fit these characters, even if rather briefly, into the development of his own character, Morpheus, is something to behold. Gaiman demonstrates a considerable knowledge of the characters he weaves into Sandman, one of my favorite instances being the humorous aside of J’onn J’onnz’s/the Martian Manhunter’s on p. 147: “Come, Scott Free; let us hit the kitchen. I have a secret stash of Oreos of which you are welcome to partake.” Throughout his take on Constantine, Gaiman references key parts of Constantine’s own history: on the first page we see Constantine, we first have a shot of a pack of Silk Cut cigarettes (82), the brand Constantine smokes roughly 30 a day of; Constantine’s “relationship” with London is shown on p. 83; Constantine’s old punk rock outfit, Mucous Membrane, comes up on 84; and, to avoid making too long a list, Newcastle — one of the major trauma’s that repeatedly haunts John Constantine early on in Hellblazer — is wonderfully woven into the final page of his cameo, 104.

More tellingly than the details sprinkled throughout Constantine’s role in Sandman is the use of Constantine himself. Not uncommon for John, someone has helped themselves to something of his, something often that Constantine himself has no urge to mess around with. And in complete harmony with Constantine’s dark world, it is an ex-girlfriend and a junky who has taken Morpheus’ bag of sand and is using it as a drug, killing herself in the process. The ending of Constantine’s chapter demonstrates Gaiman’s respect for the character: Constantine, bastard that he often is, cracks a little, demonstrating that there is a human heart (though with demon blood pumping through it) and human emotions (though wrought with trauma) within him. And, again a major trope of Constantine’s own title, he loses a friend; the best he can do for Rachel is ask Morpheus to allow her to die peacefully, not painfully.

Interestingly, even keeping with what Freud wrote, it is through John’s perspective that I felt anything close to the uncanny. Despite Morpheus’ and Constantine’s worlds being rich with magical, animistic elements, there are still things that frighten John, and when Morpheus tells us that Rachel’s father’s house is not safe for humans, we know he isn’t lying. By following Morpheus into the darkness, we get a fine take on Constantine — his love of his friends, ones he often puts directly in the way of danger, his past, and the adrenaline rush he often gets from being involved in dark matters — and we get a slight uncanny sensation: we may know there are monsters in the dark in Constantine’s world, this isn’t a feeling or thought process we’ve “surmounted,” yet we don’t know what these monsters will look like or what they can do. The shot of the house having become a living creature is well done, demonstrating something that perhaps we knew, but didn’t want drawn into the light.

Gaiman’s Illustrators

“Reading” Gaiman, it is sometimes difficult to say whether it is Gaiman himself that has the majority of the appeal, or if he should share top billing with his illustrator(s). The difficulty of separating the writer from the illustrator, or whether we should try to separate them at all, is one of the compelling questions of reading graphic novels.
Read “Coraline” and there is no doubt of Gaiman’s power to drive a narrative without the benefits of illustration (although there are illustrations on the cover and front piece and at the beginning of each chapter; 7 in all). When I read the script for Calliope for the first time, without turning back to look at the finished version, I was trying to picture the action, using only his description and blocking out what I remembered. It read like a script for a stage play or a movie, where the reader has the leeway of their imagination. I found myself wishing I had read the script for Calliope before reading the graphic treatment. Is the story affected by taking away our ability to use our own “graphics?” Is there enough of a story there to stand alone and be substantive?
Reading the script the second time as I flipped back and for between the two, I found a number of instances where the illustrators didn’t follow Gaiman’s script. The script of page 9, for example, seems to be completely disregarded except for the dialog. The panel layout, the shots of Calliope and the descriptions of the muses doesn’t fit what Gaiman asked for. Because it is labeled as the “Original Script of Calliope” there is probably a revised version that is more of a collaboration with the illustrators. There are a number of other scenes as well. I wonder how the story would have “read” if the script was followed exactly?
I think part of Gaiman’s ability to create such successful novels is in selecting the illustrator. “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” the only story we’ve read where he collaborates with Charles Vess, is a good example. Vess captures the bucolic, “Prince Valiant” quality of England that I have come to associate with contemporary illustrations of that period. They establish a mood that fits the story line, even the night scenes, where a more “gothic” vision of Sandman is portrayed.
Gaiman gets top billing for the Sandman series and he should. He created the character and ideas, but he needs his collaborators to bring the fullness of his vision to the page.

Sandman Takes a Back Seat

I find “Sandman” to be very intriguing and I enjoy many of the stories presented. I’m fairly indifferent to the Sandman/Dream/Morpheus himself, however. In trying to think about what to post on I thought about the many great stories, disturbing scenes (touched on in other posts), fascinating characters, etc., and I suddenly realized that none of what I was thinking about dealt with Morpheus himself.

So of course this got me thinking about why I wasn’t thinking about Morpheus, even though it is his comic book. But is it his book? Looking at pretty much any of the issues contained in the two volumes we read one finds that Morpheus is almost a side character. Even in the first volume “Preludes & Nocturnes”, the overall arc of which seems to be about his imprisonment, escape,  and his quest to regain his “tools” and reclaim his kingdom, Morpheus is hardly there. It seems like none of these episodes are his story, but belong to other people, like John Constantine, Dr. Dee, Richard Madoc, Caliope, the Cats, Death, and so on. Dream always plays some role (either remembered or active) but he really is not the focus of the series.

I think this is entirely intentional. Have you ever tried describing a dream to someone, only to realize halfway through the story that you cannot explain it properly and that the poor listener does not want to hear about how they were in your dream, but they weren’t themselves, but they were, but it wasn’t like something? Dreams do not work the same way as reality, and dream stories do not work like regular stories. Dreams are part of the effluvium; you are aware of them, but they are not real and they dissipate upon waking.

Morpheus is dream incarnate. He is not just the king of dreams; he is dreams.  As such, he is part of the effluvium at the outskirts of consciousness. How could he be the focus of a story? Instead, he is a vessel. His comic book is a vessel for these other stories to be told. He plays a part, in that his existence means the stories can exist, but he is not the story.

Nature of dreams in Sandman?

As ruler of the dream world, Morpheus may not be viewed as a totally benevolent character, but in most instances in Volumes 1 and 3, it seems like his motives are generally geared towards doing the “right thing” (punishing his captors, giving Rachel a humane death, stopping Dee, freeing Calliope).  Yet while readers can see Morpheus in a mostly positive light, the act of dreaming in and of itself is given a much more ambiguous moral treatment by Gaiman.  This sense of moral ambiguity in the text seems to grow even stronger if we are meant to read dreams as a reflection of society. 

In Volume 1, dreams are shown to be volatile and extremely destructive forces.  We see the devastation on an individual scale with Rachel.  Her addiction to dreaming destroys her physically and mentally, also leading to the death of her father (although I guess there’s something still alive in the dream-inducing goo?).  Morpheus and Constantine finding the Creeper being “eaten alive” by his dreams reinforces the negative implications of dreaming.  On a larger scale, when Dee unleashes the power of Morpheus’ ruby, the darker side of human dreams gives release to the “blackness from their souls” (pg. 188), overtly referencing the nastier parts of our human nature.

“A Dream of a Thousand Cats” was the only tale in Volume 3 in which dreaming plays a central role, and it presents dreams in a vastly different light than Volume 1.  This story was my favorite in either volume – partially because dreams are shown to have a dual role for the cats as both the reason for their oppression at the hands of humans, and as beacons of hope for a better future.  Certainly this episode has its darker elements as well, but Gaiman tells a more playful, somewhat optimistic story about the nature of dreaming here.  But maybe this optimism rests in the fact that readers are witness to the dreams of a cat, and not a human.   

The texts lead to some interesting questions about dreams, and also about what the nature of our dreams say about us.  Does Gaiman use dreams as a framework to make his own moral commentary on society/human nature?  Or do dreams serve predominately as the canvas for him to tell his stories involving anthropomorphic, biblical, mythological, and historical characters?  I would imagine it’s a little bit of both, but I wonder if those who’ve read a larger sample size of Sandman have any other insights into the nature of dreams in the texts?    

John

Masks and Disembodied Faces in Sandman Vol. 3

While reading Sandman Vol. 3 I found a repetition of masks and/or disembodied faces, which basically are masks.  These faces haunted me a little bit, and I noticed that in the artwork at least, perhaps accidentally, they are present in each and every story.  More than that, they seem to have a sort of power, or at the least denote power, sometimes too much power as in Facade.

In “Calliope” the faces are on page 23, panel 6:

These faces seem to represent the power that Ric Madoc has because of his new-found muse.  As the poster shows, Ric’s creativity has earned him nominations for 3 Oscars, best original screenplay, etc.  Beyond that, however, Ric’s true self was unable to create a second novel and so he uses his muse to become a successful novelist.  In other words, he uses the mask that he brutally forces from Calliope to pretend that he has talent.  The mask, then, gives him power.

We see disembodied faces again on “A Dream of a Thousand Cats” on page 54, panel 2:

In this case these are the faces of the people who dreamed a world where humans were larger than cats.  These are the faces potentially responsible for the current power humans have over the feline species.  It could be said that these are the faces that created the current mask of reality, and I couldn’t help but see a connection because of the disembodied aspect of them, similar to the poster in “Calliope.”

“Midsummer Night’s Dream” is full of masks, but perhaps the most telling panel seems to be on page 77, panel 2:

Here we see the true Puck looking down on the human who is looking down on the Puck mask.  In terms of the story, the masks are the reason the faeries and goblins came to Earth again.  The humans are pretending to be the creatures that they are performing for, and in so doing have power in the instance of the play.  While the hobgoblins and others want to eat the humans, or hurt them in some way, they are unable to while the masks are on.  It is only after the human-Puck takes off the Puck mask that the true Puck can kill him.

Finally we come to “Facade”, where page 90, panel 2 seems to be the best representation of the masks Rainie has used:

These masks are both show Rainie’s power in that she can create them in the first place, but they also show her weakness, in her inability to throw them away.  She wishes she could keep the masks on forever, but unable to do this she instead gives a little part of herself to each and every mask she creates.  In this case it seems that the sacrifice she unwillingly made for the power she currently has is one she is unable to accept.  She is completely alone in a room full of masks that unceasingly stare at her.

Throughout these short stories masks play an important role in showing the cost of power and perhaps also the flimsiness of reality.

Gaiman’s Script and Dr. Destiny Balloons

I thought the most rewarding part of reading these two volumes of Sandman was the fact that we got a script of Gaiman’s at the end of volume 3, for “Calliope” which is actually the particular story that I found the most intriguing of that volume. After reading the Comic Book Creators chapter for this week’s reading, I found myself even more interested in the process of collaboration that occurs between the writer and the artist(s). In Gaiman’s example, I found it refreshing that even though he had a full, formal-ish, script for the comic, there was still obviously room for the artistic input of Kelley Jones.

The structure of Gaiman’s script is fairly formal, in my opinion. He gives a panel by panel summary of what he expects to happen. When I had read up on collaborations, I thought the idea of a full script would be stifling for the artist, but as Gaiman’s script shows, his tone and execution of the script can be informal, while his expectations for the panel can still be fairly detailed. I think that has to be one of the most effective ways for a comic marriage to work between the creator and the illustrator, when these two are separate entities.

I also found the sequence of collaboration to be a telling element about how the story can come together. When you read the script, the explanation of the panels reads in the present tense, followed by the actual dialogue of the comic. Then, in red we see Gaiman’s notes on how Kelley took the script and penciled it. Yet, seemingly before the images are actually drawn, we also have Kelley’s notes on how the images should be handled when they actually are drawn. My understanding then of how the script becomes the comic would be that Gaiman writes the script, gives it to Kelley who writes notes about how the images should be accomplished, and then we have Gaiman’s notes about the process and how it is carried out by Kelley and then Malcolm who inked the artwork in. An example of this can be found on page ten of the script where we have the text of the script and Gaiman’s comments on the comic process for how Calliope is drawn when we are first introduced to her.

All in all, I found the script to be illuminating. I could see Gaiman’s appeal in the way he can make the script portray a visual that the artist can then execute, while also letting the artist have license with the work as long as the overall point of the panel is displayed.

As a smaller unrelated side post, I found myself liking Dr. Destiny from the first volume, which worries me some, honestly. Yes, he’s crazy and the things he makes the people do in the diner are haunting enough to stay in your mind long after you read/see the pages, but I still enjoyed him because he was memorable, problematic, and well…crazy.

I’ve come to terms with Gaiman’s Dr. Destiny though an analogy. It’s like he’s a balloon (a red one if I had to guess). Sure he makes kids run after him into oncoming traffic and he’ll pop in your hands causing you to lose both your eyes (Freud reference), but at the end of the day and at the ends of the deaths, Dr. Destiny is still a balloon, and he needs to be put back with all those other crazy balloons that could and would wreak havoc on humanity if set free.