The Adventures of the Superfisters: The Dramatic Conclusion

Three parallel plots probe the Asian-American experience, from an ancient text to a ridiculous sitcom to a kid who wants desperately to fit in. And then, just when things look dire: a surprise catharsis for the protagonist! You may not have seen it coming, but the three tales suddenly walk arm-in-arm, and a book that moments ago was just a fun read is now suddenly character-building.

That's the kind of experience we're hoping for in Bryan Lee O'Malley's Scott Pilgrim series. For far, the books have come out with an agonizing multi-month slowness -- they're the kinds of stories that you want to devour whole, in a single afternoon, repeatedly.

What we love about these books is that they're a perfect example of how an awesome story is universal, even when it's dressed up in very local clothing. Scott's a very of-the-moment twentysomething: sensitive and emotional, not quite sure that he's ready to grow up but doing his darndest, and consumed by 80's pop culture ephemera. When we read these books, we like to imagine trying to explain them to someone who just journeyed here from the 1800s: we'd have to start by explaining what a "bob-omb" is, and how modern sexual morays have evolved, and why Scott gets excited about a soft drink that adds +4 to speed.

But! As weird and specific as that stuff is, the story's appeal is utterly penetrating. It starts with Scott's goofy accidental charm -- at times, he reminds us of the sort of shy lad who might live in an old-fashiony novel. And then there's his friends, whose discoveries about young adulthood can be beautiful and mundane as My So Called Life. And then there's the spectacle of Scott's battles with his girlfriends' exes -- those leap off the page so hard they're simply jaw-dropping. We like to compare the stunning confrontation at the end of book one to The Time Warp in RHPS: you are simply powerless to comprehend what is being done to your brain, and you are exhilarated.

It's those battle sequences that really hit the home-run for us -- specifically, the way that they feel like an old-fashioned musical. You're tooling along with a narrative story and then blammo, suddenly the world is impossible and amazing. In twenty years, kids might not get Scott's specifics, but they'll get the elements. We envy the perspective that future readers will have when they come to these books, their cultural relationships lashed to entirely different symbols than those on the pages. Opening Scott Pilgrim will be an amazing discovery.

Polly and the Pirates, by local artist Ted Naifeh, lives in a world that's similar to Scott Pilgrim's: it bends genre so obliquely that it may actually be snapping off a piece that is totally new. Young Polly lives in a fantasy land that's not entirely fairy-tale but not entirely historical; it seems to be roughly two hundred years ago, with cobblestones and Victorian hats. Polly's land is decidedly nautical-themed: rather than aspiring to urban density, her society is building floating mansions and casting a collective eye to life on the sea. Polly, a meek young girl, has no interest in that sort of thing until she is abducted by pirates.

What's so wonderful about Polly is that it's arguably a feminist children's story. The book is age-appropriate for just about anyone, and features about as strong a female protagonist as you could hope for. (Ted's other awesome series, Courtney Crumrin, has a similarly powerful girl in the driver's seat.) And again, this isn't just a comic -- it's literature, with Polly developing a relationship with her deceased mother that is very complex indeed.

And while we're on the subject of kid-friendly comics, let's mention Bumperboy, by local artist Debbie Huey. One of the very first comics we reviewed was a chapter in the Bumperboy saga, and we remember thinking at the time, "well, this is certainly going to be a fun job." Here's a world where you can feel entirely comfortable, like the most cozy couch ever made, and that's all there is to say about that. We can't bear to plumb Bumperboy for multi-textual depths, any more than we would inspect the stitching on our favorite socks.

Do not give James Kochalka's Superfuckers to children, because they would probably not enjoy it and their parents would definitely get mad. With its breezy-fun art, it looks like a book for kids, but oho, it's so not. Here's a book that takes the genre-bending of Polly and Scott even further, with a deliberately ungrokkable story of foul-mouthed teenagerish superheros.

"Hey kids!" the book begins, "take your dicks out of the Playstation Three for one god damn minute and read some fucking comics." It's all uphill from there. Are naughty words and non-sequiturs enough to make a story awesome? Probably no. But Superfuckers has, amazingly, charisma by the bucketload. It's nearly impossible to resist getting drawn into the lives of these characters who speak crudely, are rendered with just a few swift lines, and have acres more depth than an average Marvel or DC character.

Oh, and speaking of the big names in comics -- you might've noticed that we tend to shy away from mainstream titles. (Doctor Strange is the fellow for whom we are always ready to make an exception.) That's because the whole Traditional Superhero Comic Book game has been going on for something like eighty billion years without a time-out, and almost all a gooey gray buzz to us. Oh, Superman is feeling mighty? Batman is dark and disturbed? The X-Men are outcasts? Oh. Neat. Whatever.

But let's make an exception for Superman Confidential, by Darwyn Cooke and Tim Sale: this is the book that'll make you learn to love superhero books. Okay, it suffers a bit from standard-issue superhero pretension -- crumpled lines like "the elusive whisper of atoms relaxing out of a violent thrall" make us snicker with shadenfreude. Thankfully that sort of thing gets swept away quickly enough, and then it's Superman like you've never seen him, for real this time.

They keep trying to re-invent the superheros to make them relevant, but this is the first time we've ever seen it done in a way that could actually appeal to non-comic readers. Superman's only been in Metropolis for a few weeks; he's Scott Pilgrim's age, and he's got some of Scott Pilgrim's problems. Smart, shy, aimless, and scared of life, it's the most emotionally vulnerable we've ever seen him. He's more a boy than a man -- in fact, even Superboy is usually written as a more mature character.

Lois and Jimmy are there too, of course, and Lex, and hey what's that sparkly green gemstone oh no! Adventure is assured, as usual. But what's so unusual here is Superman's thrust-out lower lip, on the verge of tears because Lois went on a date with another man. And then there's his terror: as each new cataclysm bombards him for the first time, I wonders, "will this kill me? Am I dying right now?" It's a good question. Remember when you left college and had your first grown-up job and nobody really cared if you succeeded or failed? It's scary.

And that brings us to our other favorite alpha-male comic, The Lone Ranger by Brett Matthews, Sergio Carriello, Dean White, John Cassaday, and Simon Bowland. It's rare that we like that gruff manly stories -- for all their masculine pretensions, they can usually be boiled down to narcissistic strutting and preening with gritted teeth and trench coats and guns held sideways in both hands. But although this book's laden with grit and guns, they're just the means to an end.

Within the span of just a few pages -- hardly more than a 10-minute read, and five if you're quick -- John jumps between boyhood and adolescence and seemingly-eternal minutes in his young adulthood as his family is gunned down in front of him. Like Superman, this book suffers from some kitsch: "You did it. You caught me," "That's what brothers do. They don't ever let each other ... fall." We hope we're not ruining the surprise by revealing that inches later, the speaker of those words does in fact ironically fall.

What keeps us returning to this book are the relationships between its characters. Mens' relationships are tough, especially when they're family; and especially especially when it's the wild west, and men are Men with a capital everything. The appeal of Lone Ranger is almost entirely subtextual, since these characters are by their nature forbidden to talk about feelings. Their emotions must materialize in a squint, or a pause, or the furrowed brow from under which John's dad makes him a Ranger. It's like seeing a shape in clouds, and then you look again and it's actually real.

And did we mention the beautiful art? It really is lovely. We find ourselves wanting to paw at the page, the textures are so inviting. Yum.

And now last -- and certainly least -- is our favorite comic of all time, The Blonde Bombshell Millie the Model. We don't feel guilty criticizing this particular atrocity, since everyone responsible for its perpetration is hopefully either dead or in prison. Imagine, if you will, an Archie comic .... only stupid. Stupifyingly, horrifyingly, gratifyingly stupid. The premise: Millie, a pretty young girl, LOVES to look pretty. And that's about it.

What's wonderful about the comic book format is how easily it lends itself to denigration. Being illustrated, mockable elements are easily accessible; and being printed on the page, it's easy to pass around to friends. Millie is best enjoyed as a participatory experience: you must read it with company in order to fully enjoy it. Hoot with delight over the recycled postures; chant the dreadful dialogue to each other in insulting voices; and gag delightedly at the jaw-dropping misogynistic storylines. Millie the Model is the most participatory social experience since Wii Sports. We keep ours in plastic sleeves so they'll last for ever. Never forget.

And that, we're afraid, is that. Thanks once again for reading along with us on the comic reviews -- we can't wait to get a fire going under lengthier discussion over at the Chron. Until next time.