Power Panels 6

So in my comics reading these past few months, I've come to the rather startling discovery that I'm almost MORE interested in newspaper comics than I am in the four-color superhero books I usually babble on about. Sure, newspaper comics are just about as obsolete as fax machines, carbon paper, and the Republican party, but they're still fascinating. Mainly in the way they persist in being terrible.

It seems that most newspaper comics are boring retreads of ideas that died at the same time as their creators... thirty or forty years ago. These are your Beetles Bailey, your Cranky Winkershafts, and your Wizards of B.C. The "comedy" in these strips is safe, tired, and boring.

Even those comics that do push the envelope a bit have gotten stale *ahem*Dilbert*ahem*. And that's saying nothing about the artwork, which usually consists of simple photocopies of heads in profile with new text written in every day like some type of endless newsprint Mad Lib.

And then there's Liō...

Liō may be one of my all-time favorite newspaper comics. For one thing, it draws on some of the great old silent comics (like the original Addams Family strip) and makes the idea feel new and fresh.

And then there's the fact that cartoonist Mark Tatulli seems to be pretty dedicated to making sure his strip looks good. Take this example from the first few months of Liō's run:

The close shot of the papers in the teacher's hands obscure the punchline effectively until the fourth panel. It's a neat trick using POV - something you'd never see in a strip like Pearls Before Swine. Which, you know, is still a funny strip, but it's not as visually appealing as, you know, this one.

Even with the "crowded working conditions" of the newspaper comics page, there's still enough room to pull off some pretty fancy shots. The humor's not lessened by the cramped quarters. The cartoonist just has to learn to make do with the space he's got. And, boy, does he.

Power Panels 5

I didn't grow up reading superhero comics; I learned my love of the medium from the Sunday funnies. I grew up reading The Far Side, Bloom County, Peanuts, and, of course, Calvin and Hobbes. I often read within these cartoons the characters complaining about the shrinking space in the newspaper comics page. In fact, Bill Watterson's rebellions against the restraints put on the comics format are part of the reason I admire the man so much. Still, growing up in that age where newspaper comics had already been diminished so much, I don't think I realized what I was missing.

Then, a couple of months ago, I discovered Winsor McCay's Little Nemo in Slumberland.


I'd actually heard of the character as a kid - there was a video game made to correspond with an animated flick I don't think I ever saw, so I knew that something LIKE this existed. Eventually, I learned that Little Nemo was a comic strip from the early twentieth century. Beyond that, though, I never thought to look in to the character much.

I've since read several cartoonists who cite Winsor McCay's work as an inspiration. Eventually, I decided to check a book of the comics out from the library. I feel confident in saying that there's nothing else quite like Winsor McCay that sees print today.

McCay was given a lot of space to tell a brief story, and he USED that space incredibly effectively. He painted larger-than-life pictures of strange landscapes and peculiar creatures, the likes of which are only encountered in dreams. The lettering is less than perfect, sometimes bordering on the illegible, but, in the end, I never really cared what any of the characters were saying. I only wanted to see what dreams Little Nemo had, and I was seldom disappointed.


I've read similar attempts at using broadsheet-sized pages in contemporary comic storytelling (like in DC Comics' recent attempt - which WAS actually pretty good), but none of them come close to using that much space quite as masterfully as Winsor McCay did. Little Nemo is at its most awe-inspiring when its main characters are exploring peculiar dreamscapes. As you can see in the comic above, the panels in the comic aren't simply laid out from left to right, but they fold and warp around the central fantastical image, creating a kind of warped, surreal world.

It makes me wonder what we miss out on in today's comic environment with only tiny, six-panel Sunday strips to look forward to each week.

Power Panels 4

I've made my love for Grant Morrison's superhero work pretty apparent, so it should come as no surprise that I absolutely love the artwork that goes along with his stories. While All Star Superman is a genius piece of fiction, at least half the work is done by powerhouse artist Frank Quitely.

There's a lot of story told in the few panels Quitely's given to draw, and, somehow, he manages to cram a lot of information into just two or three pictures. Take the below sequence, for example:


I completely missed this little moment when I first read All Star Superman. It's pretty simple what happens, actually: Clumsy Clark Kent notices some falling debris, so he "accidentally" trips into a passing man, slowing him up and saving his life. All the while, he's carrying on a conversation with Lois Lane as if nothing is happening. It's a pretty standard move for the Superman character - in fact, there's almost nothing special about this sequence (other than how well it's rendered, of course).

The reason this sequence appeals to me so much is that, for three brief panels, we almost see two separate stories unfolding:

1. The story of Clark and Lois and their conversation.
2. The story of the man walking his dog

So, really, these three panels form an "X," with two different narrative lines meeting up in the middle for one brief exchange, then each story again going off on its own. Of course, we DON'T follow the man any further down the street, because no matter WHO he is, he likely won't be doing anything more interesting than, say, punching a robot sun so hard it explodes with a giant mushroom cloud.


Theoretically, though, this sequence makes me realize that, in the comics format, it is entirely possible to tell two different (though connected) stories AT THE SAME TIME without NEARLY the hassle that the same task would demand in a movie or novel.

And that, to me, is just plain cool.

Power Panels 3

Every comics fan out there should pick up the Flight anthology. Each volume contains a massive collection of short stories in comic form. Admittedly, not every story works, but the level of experimentation and creative energy that goes into these stories is admirable.

The second volume is probably my favorite of the bunch, and Sonny Liew's "Dead Soul's Day Out" seems to have made the biggest impression on me.

I've only read the Malinky Robot stories that appear in Flight. As near as I can tell, the stories center on two orphan boys, Atari and Oliver, who spend their days begging and scrounging up enough money to go watch their favorite science fiction giant robot movies.

Gripping, right?

Actually, these stories usually contain some surprisingly poignant moments. For a medium that allegedly doesn't do music well, "Dead Soul's Day Out" finds an effective use for musical lyrics. The story begins with Atari on the street, singing a song for coin:


Later, after finding some money on the ground and catching a giant robot flick, the boys find out their friend Misha is moving. Atari watches her leave just as the rain starts to come down:


In case you can't see it, the words to the apple song are hidden in the rain. The effect is surprisingly haunting - the music enhances the bittersweet atmosphere of parting with a dear friend. It's the closest I've ever seen a comics panel come to incorporating real background music, and it's surprisingly effective.

Power Panels 2

I've mentioned the book Asterios Polyp here before. Despite the fact that the book contains graphic depictions of sex and nudity (graphic enough, at least, to offend my delicate Mormon sensibilities), I can't seem to stop thinking about it. Asterios Polyp is definitely one of the more fascinating graphic novels I've ever read.

A lot of my fascination has to do with this page:


I checked Asterios Polyp out from the library. On my way back to the car, I opened up randomly to a page in the middle, read the above section, and immediately fell in love with it.

Really, the page is self-explanatory. Every time a person replays a memory, they recreate and subtly redefine the experience - a fact demonstrated by the picture at the bottom of the page.

The reason I LOVE this page so much is that it's a perfect example of something a comic can do that other forms of storytelling can't. The juxtaposition of words and static images in such close proximity allows readers to appreciate the subtle differences enough to really get the full impact of the idea being presented, and they can do so at their own pace. Absolutely brilliant.

Power Panels 1

Power Panels are, in my opinion, the most creative, best-looking, and overall most effective uses of panels and page layouts in comics. The great panels in comics are part of the reason I love to read 'em so much.

Probably my favorite artist of the current generation is JH Williams III, who just made a huge splash with Batwoman: Elegy.

The panel that first caught my attention showed up on several comic reviews pages:

That's actually a two-page splash of Batwoman taking out a group of armed thugs. It's pretty typical of Williams's work with fight choreograph - instead of showing a blow-by-blow breakdown in a series of panels, he breaks the fight down into its major components and frames the action around a larger picture of the main character - almost like a stained glass window. It's a pretty effective way to show the violence of the scene while still creating the type of gorgeous artwork most comic fans look for.

For my money, though, the best example of J.H. Williams's brilliance comes from this sequence here:

I frequently hear critics state that music is impossible to portray in silent media for the obvious reason that the reader can't hear it. As true as that criticism is, I think Williams captures some of the more important aspects of music and dance in the above sequence. There's a great rhythm to the panels, especially those smaller panels framed in music notes that capture the small details of the situation. The larger action is not broken up by panels, which helps convey that sense of timelessness that comes from getting lost in a dance. Finally, even though we can't hear the music, we can still "feel" it, as lines of music literally surround the characters and pervade every aspect of the scene.

It's an effective demonstration that wouldn't work quite the same in any other medium.