Author: jlowrey

Presentation of Politics in Shooting War

 

I found Shooting War to be a really interesting read on a couple of different levels.  Its pointed commentary on contemporary media and U.S. foreign policy doesn’t pull any punches, and makes Wilfred Santiago’s political condemnations from In My Darkest Hour look mild by comparison.  I tend to find myself in agreement with much of the criticisms the creators lob at the increasingly irresponsible, corporate media machine, and the neo-con politicians who pushed so adamantly for the war effort. These criticisms, along with the larger themes present in the text obviously make the story very relevant to ongoing discussions on the contemporary convergence of politics, war, corporate America, entertainment, and media.  With all of that said, I do feel the work suffers from being too overt in these criticisms. 
 
In general, I think the political and cultural criticisms of the text might have been more effective, or at least easier for the reader to take seriously, if they were presented in a more subtle fashion.  In particular, the climactic moment in which the terrorist leader lectures Jimmy in front of a huge screen of George W. Bush was so blunt and obvious in its political message that is seemed more like a Michael Moore documentary than a work of fiction.  I don’t want to characterize this moment as creatively lazy, the shock value of the over-the-top violence and true to life political criticisms is certainly intentional on the part of Lappé and Goldman, but a more subtle approach might have ultimately had a stronger resonance for me.  I think in most cases, the reading audience is smart enough to get the political message – the creators don’t need to hit us over the head with it.  
 
Changing gears here, but from an artistic standpoint, I really enjoyed the use of photographic images to create the background for the many of the full page panels that dominate the text.  This technique added to the gritty feel of the text, and strengthened the too-close-to-reality-for-comfort atmosphere.

John

Commercialization and pop-culture in IMDH

In My Darkest Hour is a pretty grim read throughout, but I did find many of the creative choices that Santiago makes in the text to be very interesting.  One thing that I noticed during my initial reading is the clear visual focus that Santiago gives to the mundane details of commercialized products and pop culture, and their overall prevalence in the story.  While this aspect doesn’t seem to be overtly thematic when compared to the larger issues of addiction, mental illness, poverty, race, and post 9-11 U.S. foreign policy, it was interesting to see how Santiago portrays the everyday aesthetics of mundane life. 

As has been discussed on Twitter, Santiago’s images seems to be presented in a more straightforward, almost photographic style whenever the focus is on something commercial like beer and soda labels, liquor bottles, and candy wrappers.  But this same “cleaner” style is also applied to many of the more personal aesthetics of individual identity for various characters in the text.  By this I mean the things in life the characters use to send a message to others about who they are, what they believe, what music they like, etc.  This was especially noticeable for me in the different tee-shirts we see characters wearing (Omar’s “NIN” shirt, a “Faux News” shirt, and even a “Billy Ray Cyrus” shirt), as well as in the various posters in Lucinda’s and Caroline’s rooms (perfume poster, Art Institute of Chicago, Rosie the Riveter). 

Santiago’s focus on presenting a clearer picture of these mundane details of life sets In My Darkest Hour apart from most of the other texts we’ve read this semester.  A part of this obviously would seem to stem from the fact that this plot is the most rooted/dependent on contemporary society from all the texts that we have encountered.  But I’m also interested in how Santiago may use this technique to make a more deliberate commentary about Omar.  Omar’s confusion/hopelessness/general mental angst seems to be constantly represented in the distorted styles that permeate much of the text.  Does the clarity given to the commercialized products of booze and candy signify how these items (also symbolic of his larger addictions) serve as his anchors in a tumultuous world?  Likewise – does the focus on the mechanisms of a pop culture centered identity point to Omar’s ultimate shallowness and lack of any significant identity himself?  The text seems to take on a more deliberate anti-corporate feel in the post 9-11 section at the end, with the corporate logos interspersed with the drawing of the pig slaughtering assembly line.  But to me this seems a little disjointed with the pop-culture, song lyrics, and commercial references that are placed throughout the text.

John

Narrative perspective in Fun Home

I really enjoyed looking at Fun Home as a counter-point to the two other memoir related texts we’ve read this semester, Maus and Alan’s War.  The dynamic between creator and subject is especially interesting for me in Bechdel’s work.  The narrative in Maus is often told in Vladek’s voice.  Likewise Alan’s War is exclusively told in Cope’s voice (at least from a verbal perspective).  Fun Home differs from these in that the creator, Alison, narrates throughout.  Even the visual moments in which Alison is absent from the page (her father writing love letters in the Army, her parents fighting on the honeymoon in Europe, etc.) are framed by her narration.   
 
Experiencing the entire work from Alison’s perspective certainly personalizes the story for me, but also prevents me as the reader from seeing Bruce in any other light than the one Alison herself sees him in.  Perhaps Spiegelman and Guibert employ this technique in their creative styles as well, but for whatever reason – it seems more overt in Fun Home. 

As a reader, I can’t help but share in Bechdel’s complicated feelings towards her father.  It’s difficult to have any positive emotions towards Bruce when you see him at his controlling-worst early on in the text, terrorizing the children for simple mistakes around the house, forcing Alison to wear berets, and even changing her coloring to make it more aesthetically pleasing.  Yet there are also moments in the text where the overwhelming emotional response I have towards Bruce is pity for the self-loathing and dishonesty that seem to dominate his life.  As the book ends, I find myself semi-endeared to Bruce given his round-about support of Alison and awkward attempts at honesty with her.  I don’t think any of these feelings are a stretch on the part of the reader, as it would seem one of Bechdel’s primary motives in Fun Home is to paint a more complex picture of a man who can all too easily be labeled as a bad person, or terrible father.  
 
Changing gears somewhat, another aspect of the text that I really enjoyed was the way Bechdel explores the nature of art and the artist.  The various artistic and creative expressions that define the Bechdel household can be described alternately as compulsive, sexually repressive, empowering, and even therapeutic.  For Alison’s parents in particular, their respective “arts” of home restoration and acting seem to comprise the few moments of happiness they are given in their otherwise repressed and loveless marriage.  And as Freedman examines in her article, art in the form of great literature serves as not only the primary currency in the fractured adult relationship between Alison and her father, but also as a framing device for Alison to better make sense of her own complicated family structure.  

John

History and the Mundane in Jimmy Corrigan

Wow – there’s a lot going on in Jimmy Corrigan.  I really enjoyed the text, but with so many different themes, visual motifs, and parallel story lines – I’m sure this is a graphic novel where one constantly discovers new things on subsequent readings.  But one really strong impression the text left with me is the sense that history is all-pervasive, even in the most mundane aspects of life. 

Jimmy’s convoluted family history is at the center of the text, and the sections on Grandpa Jimmy’s childhood give readers a direct view into Chicago’s history and the World’s Fair.  But throughout the story, the more mundane aspects of everyday life also seem to be loaded with history.  The page about halfway through the text, with twelve panels of restaurants, stores, gas stations, etc. seemed to really hit on this idea.  The blurbs on the back of each image provide a roundabout history of Waukosha.  And while the images on the front panel are universally stark and depressing, the titles on the reverse of each panel are comically ironic.  The disconnect between the written words on the back of the page, and the images seems to serve as a commentary from Ware on our ability to distort history to make even the most mundane situations seem note worthy.

The veiled reference to Amy in the blurb on the reverse of the Pam’s Wagon Wheel panel directly connects Jimmy’s own story and familial history with the more general overview of the history of Waukosha.  This connection is seemingly reinforced with the scene directly following the “History of Waukosha” page, in which Jimmy and his father are also dining at Pam’s Wagon Wheel. 

I found this dining sequence between Jimmy and his father to be one of the most fascinating moments of the entire text.  Ware’s tactic of continually returning to the image of the table, with its changing dynamic of food, cups, and discarded wrappers was especially interesting.  The people responsible for creating the changes we see on the table (Jimmy, his dad, the waitress) are never seen in any of these panels.  It’s intriguing that during a moment of such seemingly intense personal drama for Jimmy and his father, Ware always circles back to the mundane image of the table.  The sequence of images for the table is cyclical – it starts with the uneaten food and dirty place setting of the previous customers, then shifts to a clean table, then slowly adds cups and food until it ends where it began, with uneaten food and dirty place settings.  Perhaps the focus on the mundane in this scene is meant to comment on the cyclical nature of history.  In a weird way, by acting as a visual contrast with the awkward conversation between Jimmy and his father, the image seems to reinforce the overall sense of alienation that pervades much of the story, further shattering any idealized notions of family life or father-son relations.

John

“Surviving” in Maus

Vladek’s reminiscing in Volume II contained some beautiful moments that I found to be both uplifting and emotionally devastating (I was particularly moved by the scene where Mandelbaum is given the shoes and belt, and the story of Vladek being comforted by the priest).  Yet while these touching moments certainly helped me emotionally connect with Vladek’s experiences, I would contend that the therapy session at the beginning of Chapter 2 may be the most telling moment of either volume. 

With the phrase “A Survivor’s Tale” serving as the tagline for the entire text, it’s evident that exploring different forms of survival will be a recurring theme for Spiegelman.  The dialogue between Art and his therapist puts this idea at the forefront and poses some interesting questions on not only what surviving entails, but also how the act of surviving is viewed by others.  Of course Vladek and Anja are literal survivors of the Holocaust.  But Anja’s suicide and Vladek’s off-putting behavior and personality show they may not have survived the event from an emotional perspective.  Likewise, Art serves in one sense as survivor of his own troubled upbringing, yet also carries severe emotional baggage with him pertaining to both his strained relationship with his father and guilt over his mother’s suicide.  I would suspect Spiegelman uses the tagline somewhat ironically, suggesting that something as massive and as horrible as the Holocaust will scar all who are involved, even those whose contact with the experience is only second hand in nature, as is the case with Art.  

Another question that Spiegelman seems interested in exploring from the therapy session is: what is the ultimate benefit of the survivor telling his or her story?  Art admits to admiring his father for his survival, and from a reader’s perspective, I can vouch for feelings of admiration for Vladek for his will to live, his tenacity, and his kind acts for others in Auschwitz.  Yet the therapy session also brings up the futility of the survivors’ stories, and asks what, if any, lessons we can learn from them.  As Pavel accurately points out, despite all the books written about the Holocaust, intolerance and genocide continue around the globe.  And we seem to even see a microcosm of this futility represented at the individual level with Vladek’s own racism, despite his very personal experiences as a victim of ethnically motivated hate.  I’m not sure if Spiegelman gives the reader any clear cut answers to let us know why it’s important that these stories are told.  But given the dedication that Art (the creator) puts into detailing his father’s story and his own quest to get the story from his father – it would seem to point to an inherent catharsis in the act of storytelling for both father and son.     

John

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

Family Dysfunctions and Lack of Connections

While Watchmen can never be accused of painting an optimistic picture of humanity, one thing that kept coming back to me during this reading was just how flawed virtually every type of human relationship is shown to be throughout the text. 

Moore is absolutely unrelenting in his portrayal of marital and parental relations.  Rorschach’s childhood is a nightmare of physical and verbal abuse, and Laurie’s strained relationship with her mother leads to resentment and a life of half-truths.  Likewise, the vast majority of marital-type relationships in the text are shown to be deeply flawed (Jon and Laurie, Jon and Janey Slater, Sally Jupiter and Larry, Dr. Long and his wife, Joey and her girlfriend).  These dysfunctional portrayals of family life fit well with Rosen’s reading of Watchmen as a very blunt critique on nostalgia, and it seems Moore is intent to hit his readers over the head with the message that family lives don’t always live up to the idealized views that society can present.

But Moore also seems to be making an interesting critique on humanity and the general inability in contemporary society for people to form connections with one another.  As the true “superhero” of the text, Dr. Manhattan struggles between the roles of protector and threat because of his inability to connect with humanity.  Likewise, two superpower nations are on the verge of nuclear annihilation, without seemingly any sense of their shared humanity.  Rorschach’s sense of isolation is so extreme that he chooses to lead a life as a deranged recluse.  And the physical failure to connect with another person is present on a sexual level in Dreiberg’s impotence. 

While much of these failures of connection are righted by the end of the story, it’s also interesting to look at just how these resolutions are brought about.  The fate of humanity is saved (at least temporarily) as Americans and Soviets can come together to fight a perceived common threat, but only after millions die.  And Dreiberg consummates his relationship with Laurie, but only after putting on his mask and costume.

Moore is certainly making some heavy political statements in Watchmen.  But I also think he’s intentionally making some interesting human statements.  His goal doesn’t seem limited to simply subverting any idealized views of our relationships with one another.  He also seems to be focused in questioning the fabric that serves as the basis for these relationships to begin with.   

John

The Media in DKR

Miller certainly gives the reader a lot to discuss in The Dark Knight Returns, but one aspect of the work that especially interested me was his ongoing use of modern television media as a plot device.  While the constant flashing to Lola Chong and countless talking heads serves an expository purpose by giving the reader enough information to frame the story moving forward, there’s also a scathing undertone of social criticism.  The eyewitness interview accounts, along with the over-the-top behavioral commentators, point to the weakness, anger, and growing “smallness” of the public (as Superman describes it in Book 3). 

One of the reasons Miller’s use of the media really stuck with me is because I’m troubled by just how accurate his warped, sensationalist view of television news seems to be today, almost 25 years later.  While CNN was around in 1986, DKR was written in the days before the Internet and a multitude of cable news stations helped bring about the 24-hour media/spin cycle.  And while open access to information is obviously a good thing, I think Miller may have been keenly aware of the dangers we see in media today – when information is already so processed, manufactured, and commented on that it takes away all need for analysis or critical thinking on the part of the news consumer.  Who needs to go through the hardship of thinking about something for ourselves when we have Glenn Beck, Keith Olbermann, and everybody under the sun willing to tell us all we need to know? (Just my own two cents on how modern media may be contributing to our growing “smallness.”) 

Changing gears somewhat, I also really liked Miller’s recurrent use of the teenage gangs in Gotham.  What makes them so disaffected/alienated that they are willing to latch on to just about anything or anyone to create a sense of identity (the mutant leader, Batman, the Joker)?  Carrie’s leftover hippie parents are obviously not portrayed in a positive light, but that’s about the only insight the reader is shown into any problematic parenting.  Do the changing attitudes towards “heroes” that Miller portrays somehow take away from a collective societal identity?  Whatever the case, it’s clear that such extreme youth behavior is symptomatic of the troubled world Miller presents.    

John