Forget the snobbery: comics are no con

If you can’t choose one, get the set

There’s little as irritating as snobbery – in oh so many walks of life.

Now to be absolutely fair, there’s also a form of reverse snobbery – or relativism, as it’s known – that asserts, for instance, that EastEnders is just as good as Shakespeare, NWA are genuinely the equal of Wagner, and Minions is as good a film as The Enigma of Kasper Hauser.

Now: time for the declaration.

I watch no soaps. I love Bill the Bard. I do listen to and enjoy some ‘popular’ music – but not NWA. I increasingly believe that Wagner wrote the most stunning music ever. I love Minions – AND I love The Enigma of Kasper Hauser.

Both are possible, without my remotely pretending that that means that the former is equal to the latter in critical terms.
 

I also like comics. And Thomas Mann. (And Günter Grass. And Gabriel García Márquez). 

That doesn’t mean a Superman story is the same as a Thomas Mann novella. But then again, what is? And indeed, few comics (well, certainly not the ones I read) are like a Superman story.

My introduction to comics as an adult came in 1990, when I was handed a copy of Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta to review, and had my mind well and truly blown.

There have been graphic novels on my shelves ever since.

Anyway, this weekend has been special: because yesterday morning, the first issue of William’s Gibson’s first ever comic slid through my letter box.

And Archangel is every bit as slyly engaging as you would expect from the founding father of cuberpunk.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Gibson is a superb and very grow-up sci-fi writer, whose dystopian novels gave rise to the label of ‘cyberpunk’. They’re literate and philosophically interesting.

So, what do we get from issue one of Archangel? Twenty pages in, I’m fully engaged. We have a tale of scientists from a dying 2016 Earth attempting to change history by sending people back to 1945.

I really want to know what happens next, complaining loudly upon reaching the end of the story after 20 pages. This is actually what you’d expect – and largely why the majority of my comic reading is done from trades (collections of several individual issues).

But then this is a comic Event.

Of course, as with Gibson’s novels, there’s far more subtlety involved than such bare phrases suggest. The characters are already clearly beyond mere symbols.

The art – by Butch Guice – is seriously good. Plus there’s a choice of covers for the first issue, just to increase the pleasure (and possible torture) for collectors.

A page of Jaques Tardi's work

And that’s all I can really tell you at this point. But beyond the opening of the actual story, the first issue has much to offer, with sketchbook pages of character development, as well as pages through the processes (both fascinating) and notes from Gibson himself.

That’s not, however, the end of this review. 

In recent weeks, my comic reading has also included the newly-published second volume of the trade of Descender by Jeff Lemire and Dustin Nguyen.

This is good stuff, taking us forward in a story about a sentient robot child, Tim, who is struggling to stay alive in a world where all androids have been outlawed and bounty hunters are constantly hunting for them.

It was pre-ordered for the simple reason that the first volume made me care about Tim, while Nguyen’s unusual (for a comic) art is also hugely appealing.

Also entered into the recently-read list is the first part of Jaques Tardi’s The Extraordinary Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec – Pterror Over Paris (which forms the basis of a Luc Besson film, in French with English subtitles, which is also worth watching).

Featuring the eponymous heroine – an archeologist and feisty creation of delightfully dubious morality – there are currently four stories available in English, so these are rare and great fun. 

It’s always worth pointing out to any snobs that the French regard comic books as the ninth art. 

Trees, by Warren Ellis and Jason Howard is another trade first volume (the second is out this summer), and is a complex interweaving of different stories from across the world, a decade after vast, alien ‘trees’ suddenly arrived and ‘planted’ themselves across the Earth – and then did nothing.

Another fascinating story that gives few clues as to where it is going to go, Ellis’s character and plot development are strong and the art from Howard is equally memorable.

A page from Fables 2

Rather older is Fables, a long series by Bill Willingham, working with various artists.

The overarching story deals with characters from myth, folktale, fairytale and fantasy literature, who are driven from their home lands by the violent Adversary and become refugees in New York, staying hidden from humans and running their own society.

The second issue, Animal Farm, with art by Mark Buckingham, Steve Leiloha and Daniel Vozzo, largely takes place in the community’s out-of-town hideaway for those who cannot maintain a human form or otherwise pass unnoticed among humankind.

And yes, those familiar with George Orwell’s novel of the same name will find links between the plots and ideas.

With an approach that owes more to the darker origins of folk and fairytales than Disney, Willingham’s series is a good illustration of just how grown-up comics can be and would be a candidate for any list of best graphic novel reads.

Volume one of The Autumnlands, by Kurt Busiek and Benjamin Dewey, is another rollicking read: a brilliantly envisaged anthropomorphic world where magic is dying and the elite are trying to save their society.

Unfortunately for them, the secret efforts of a group of wizards to save the situation plunges them all – literally – into serious danger.

Another that’s rated ‘M’ for ‘mature’, Busiek’s story unfolds darkly and brutally. Dewey’s artwork is simply brilliant.

I have no personal axe to grind about comicbook superheroes – I’m rather fond of Wonder Woman – but if you believe that the worlds of Marvel and DC are the only ones in the comic universe, then think again. 

• Archangel issue 1 is out now from idwpublishing.com. 

Descender, Trees and The Autumnlands are all from imagecomics.com. 

The Extraordinary Adventures of Adele Blanc-Sec is published by Fantagraphics Books. 

Fables is available from vertigocomics.com.

The Eagle has landed to leave the establishment flustered

For those of us who are long enough in the tooth, memories still exist of the career of Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards, Britain’s lone ski-jumping competitor in the 1988 Winter Olympics.

In most cases, that’ll not so much be for his actually managing to land some jumps – and set new GB records in the process – but more for his excited, flapping celebrations after jumping.

It might not be the main aim of Dexter Fletcher’s ‘dramedy’, Eddie the Eagle, to rectify that situation, but one of the things that the film does achieve is to remind us that Eddie (real name Michael) was not quite the sporting buffoon that most will recall.

In reality, this son of a plasterer and a factory worker was a good downhill skier, who had a number of medals and trophies to his name and had only narrowly missed selection for the 1984 Games.

The film makes sure we’re aware of this – and then takes us on a journey with Eddie as he converts to ski jumping and sets his sights on exploiting a loophole in British Olympic rules that means he only needs to compete in order to gain selection for the 1988 team.

That, however, is without taking into account the British Olympic Association’s stubborn commitment to avoiding having someone from such a background sullying the team.

As only a slight aside, it reminds me of people in Lancashire saying that the only reason that the likes of David Hughes and Jack Simmons never got called up to the England cricket team was because the sport’s rulers were worried ‘they’d eat their peas with a knife’.

How Eddie gets on in Calgary is familiar terrain, but the story that has been forgotten is just how he got himself there in the first place.

It took real guts – or a slate loose, as they say of goalkeepers: make up your own mind – to do what he did, with no funding and against a background of being considered a joke.

The films adds a character in Bronson Peary, a washed-up former US ski jumper who finally agrees to coach Eddie, but this is pretty much crucial to allowing the eponymous dreamer someone to build a relationship with and bounce off in the film, as well as providing a sub plot.

The pace is good and it offers the chance to revel in some wonderful Bavarian Alpine scenery – Garmisch-Partenkirchen is Garmisch-Partenkirchen, while Oberstdorf stands in for Calgary.

Taron Egerton does a fine job as Eddie – complete with all his little tics and quirks.

Hugh Jackman adds a bit of Hollywood glamour as Peary, with more coming from Christopher Walken as his former coach – and all of which stardust presumably helps broaden the film’s potential market (it’s already earned its money back, apparently).

Tim McInnery is superb as the odious British Olympic official who takes a particular dislike to Eddie, while Jim Broadbent lends some delightful warmth (if more were needed) as a British TV commentator at the Games.

Keith Allen and Jo Hartley are in fine form as Eddie’s parents, and Iris Berben adds further class as the bar owner who gives Eddie a job while he’s training in Garmisch.

It even has the advantage of a sort of ‘companion’ album (not the soundtrack, per se) of new songs from ’80s stars, including the likes of Midge Ure, Marc Almond and OMD’s Andy McCluskey – plus a duet from Egerton and Jackman.

All things considered, it is a heart-warming, life-affirming film – and that would be enough to make it worth an evening out.

But there’s a little something else here too – a bit of steel at the core of what could otherwise be viewed exclusively through a potentially sentimental prism.

In being on the side of the ‘little man’, it gives one big finger to the British sporting establishment; to the snobbery and arrogance not just of the officials, but also the sort of people who were acceptable competitors.

It raises the question of just what constitutes the Olympic spirit: an elite sportsperson, subsidised heavily so that they can train and compete all year round, or someone who has to sleep in a van just to be able to get on the snow?

And that’s without getting into the question, which the film touches on, of establishment hypocrisy over ‘amateurism’.

All in all, Eddie the Eagle is well worth a viewing.

Art in the banksy?

Bansky rat, Hoxton; sadly now gone

Banksy was on the charge in New York last month, with the aim of creating a new art work every day – although it didn’t start well, with the first one painted over within 24 hours.

But it provoked the usual sort of outbursts from some on news websites, calling for that city’s “finest” to arrest and deport Banksy (if they could find him) and then have him scrub any of his works off walls in the UK.

Goodness: how tedious some people can be.

You might not like street art, but it’s not the same as daubing ‘I woz ere’ on the local bus shelter. And neither are we talking about people stenciling something on the outside of St Paul’s.

In some areas, it brightens up rather drab and tatty surroundings. And it has the added economic advantage of being an increasing draw for visitors who want both to look and photograph.

Not that the objectors are just daft individuals trying to out conservative each other on a website.

ROA rabbit, Hackney Road

Two years ago, Hackney council decided that it would tell the owners of a building on Hackney Road to get rid of a piece of artwork from the side.

This was a rabbit by Belgian street artist ROA, who creates almost Düreresque pieces, and it was done with permission. He’s done a rat further down what is, in essence, a not very picturesque street, so such works help to give the area a welcome lift.

I actually emailed the council telling them to sort their priorities out – I like to think that that effort was influential, because the rabbit is still there, lighting up a street that is otherwise pretty dire on the eye.

In an interesting contrast to this particularly democratic art form, I’ve noticed in the last day or so that my Facebook timeline now getting spammed by Saatchi, which wants me to “invest in art”.

It amounts to them having decided what artists to promote, telling you that there’s a chance that these artists’ work might sell for lots of cash sometime in the future and wouldn’t that be a good investment?

Peeblitz; Blair – war criminal. Now painted over

It’s possibly a fairly good career move for the artists concerned, but it’s also difficult to budge the feeling that the prime motive of Saatchi isn’t one of promoting good art or actually convincing people to enjoy art more.

This is far more about Saatchi making money.

Of course, in the past, artists were at the mercy of patrons.

The 19th can 20th centuries saw the growth in importance of galleries and agents, and also of individual collectors who wielded influence – for instance, Leo and Gertrude Stein in Paris in the early 20th century.

But if we then return to street art, we can see that people can enjoy it and share it (it’s easy enough to buy Banksy prints for instance, or to print up your own photos), without some vast outlay.

Art sometimes seems to suffer from an idea of stuffiness and, of course, cost.

It’s worth noting that many of the UK’s major galleries are generally free, except for specific and temporary exhibitions.

This applies at such national institutions as the National Gallery and the Tate Modern, both in London, but also at plenty of regional galleries too.

But appreciating street art is not incompatible with admiring Rembrandt or van Gogh – and it could be argued that, as fine art has appeared to become more abstracted and, therefore, more difficult to read, the likes of Bansky fill a vacuum of artistic expression in a modern way.

Christ; crown of thorns. Brighton beach, artist unknown

Banksy isn’t alone in using street art to make political points – and street art as a whole hardly invented political and satirical art: think Hoggarth for starters (several of his works are on display in the National Gallery), but that probably upsets some of the naysayers, since the politics generally displayed in street art are hardly conservative or pastoral in nature – see the picture of Peeblitz’s Tony Blair stencil, taken on Hackney Road in 2007 and sadly painted over fairly soon after.

Although there are moments when those who are conservative about street art in general change their tune if it suits them.

My parents, for instance, thought that the Peeblitz/Blair piece was wonderful – and there was a companion piece featuring his fellow war-monger, George W Bush.

The inventiveness and quality of some street art is excellent. And to pretend otherwise is frankly churlish.

Mind, the entire New York outing included a stall set up in Central park selling original Bansky canvases for under £40.

Now that, Saatchis, is an investment. And so too are my Barry Blends – except that I have bought them for no other reason than pleasure and to lift my life on a daily basis.

And I would suggest that Banksy has far more in common, in terms of a philosophy of art as for everyone, with the likes of Matisse, who very much believed in art being for everyone, than do the Saatchis.

And that, my friends, is art.