The Glorious Maple Vanilla of We Stand On Guard

A review of We Stand On Guard by Brian K. Vaughan and Steve Skroce

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O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

Apparently, We Stand On Guard is the best selling Image comic of 2015, and it’s by Brian K. Vaughan (BKV)—the one time wunderkind of comics, now settled into the title of most popular American comics writer of the 21st century.

Vaughan is fast and influential. Everyone wants to produce a BKV comic—the high concept comic script meshed to an acceptable art style; the artist’s aesthetic instincts harnessed to the singular vanilla purpose of the Vaughan except for some finessing of details. The artists are duly constrained by their schedules and perhaps the overriding understanding that BKV is the overlord. You don’t mess with a vapid script-layout that works and most importantly sells bucket loads.

One BKV comic reads like every other BKV comic. If you’ve read Y the Last Man or say, Saga, then you know what to expect from We Stand On Guard—uncluttered, peppered with generic dialogue, and bland. The now regulation BKV tic is typified by those ridiculous splash page “reveals;” the tiresome “Hey, look at me” pages which instruct readers to yawn with delight; like someone who produces an exclamation point every 5 sentences.

We Stand On Guard (like virtually all BKV product) is like an overly sweet milkshake which wants to be 50 proof whisky. Someone gets tortured for an eternity; another gets threatened with rape by father; yet another gets his guts sliced open; a whole family gets blasted to hell—and your eyes glaze over. Violence without emotion is the order of the day; the Holocaust as a footnote.

At this point, everyone knows that BKV is the master of the high concept pot boiler. Y was about the last man, Under The Dome was about a dome which prevented people from getting out, Saga is a violent comedic Star Wars-like space opera, and We Stand on Guard is about the U.S. invading Canada. Fun right? It’s all preceded by a terrorist attack on the White House which is either interpreted as a false flag operation or a pre-emptive strike by a wayward Canadian general. I mean who gives a shit about motivation, it’s called the Fog of War. The Americans proceed to bomb Ottawa starting with Parliament Hill.

The standard BKV comic tends to start with an intriguing premise, the kind of sales pitch you can sell in a boardroom. Y the Last Man has a sort of beguiling premise but then it starts to flail. Or maybe Vaughan just can’t be arsed after a while. You can just imagine him scribbling into his dream journal every night—and waking up just before the end. And the ending to We Stand On Guard is pretty terrible even by BKV standards (spoilers ahead!). The Canadian resistance poison the Great Slave Lake with arsenic thus chasing away the greedy American water sucking flying-supertankers hoping to steal its maple syrup (or maybe its mineral water or salmon?). Our beautiful, determined suicide bombing heroine wins the day by blowing up the American flagship. Cue dreamy flashback to happier times with her family.

And I guess – sequel!

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The popular media likes to tells us that Muslim martyrs dream of the houri awaiting them in paradise, I guess the lily white Canucks only dream of their moms and dads. Now it’s entirely possible that BKV had his finger firmly planted in his cheek and ass during the writing of We Stand On Guard. It’s entirely possible that We Stand On Guard is one gigantic, methane rich fart like Noah’s fantasy on a theme by the sociopathic Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. The Yanks are your regulation militaristic nihilists with conquering armies.  The entire comic is a sort of Red-White-Blue Dawn (a la Red Dawn). The invasion of Canada is the natural extension of the Monroe doctrine—get those dastardly Americans angry by shining a light on their real world nefarious actions. White suicide bombers! The Quebecois resistance babbling in that irritating French! The Thermopylae-like resistance against the barbaric American hordes with their fascist attack dogs! See how you like it when other people name their comics after their national anthems! I don’t care if you vomit! I get it! I get it! I suppose it’s all very noble in purpose and who are the Canadians to complain if BKV wants to give them a nice back rub in the vein of a Michael Bay aliens attack movie.

All apologies to Bay on this last point since the action scenes in We Stand On Guard are probably more dumb and generic than those in the Transformers movies. I would like to say that Skroce’s giant mecha and flying ships are well designed but they suffer greatly when compared to the all enveloping imagination of works like Bryan Talbot’s The Adventures of Luther Arkwright.  There’s certainly lots of blame to spread around. Vaughan is just churning it out at this point. And who can blame him? The shit sells and he needs to spurt it out as often as possible. He’s just constipated with the dreck, and now even the Canadians won’t stop him.

Utilitarian Review 1/30/16

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On HU

Me on Moto Hagio’s short story A Drunken Dream.

Chris Gavealer on closure, framing, and the Walking Dead.

Me on As Good As It Gets, love, healing, and bullshit.

Me on Jen Kirkman and condescending to mothers.

mouse on furries invading the mainstream on the cover of Island.

Robert Stanley Martin with on sale dates for comics from Jan/Feb 1952.
 
Utilitarians Everywhere

At Quartz I made the case for disarming the police.

At the Guardian I talked about Oscarssowhite and how Pam Griet, not Helen Hunt, should have won the 1998 Oscar for Best Actress.

At Random Nerds I wrote about male victims and female rapists in Jessica Jones.

At the Establishment I wrote about

Alexander Hamilton and the history of immigrants bashing immigrants.

—why using hackers to disrupt sex trafficking is a bad idea.

At Splice Today I wrote about:

—how Bernie Sanders thinks socialism will address racism, and why it won’t necessarily

—Patrick Breen’s Nat Turner biography and how his story doesn’t fit into Hollywood tropes.

At the Chicago Reader I wrote about retro thrash band Warhead.

Other Links

This is a thoroughly depressing story about a woman who was trafficked, “rescued” by police, and then ended up being arrested and put on a sex offender registry.

Love and Healing and Bullshit

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At its core, Hollywood is an engine for turning pain, hardship, and trauma into shallow inspiration porn. From paralysis to the Holocaust, slavery to cancer; Hollywood cheerfully takes these blood soaked lemons and makes you drink blood soaked lemonade, albeit with lots of sweetener.

As Good As It Gets is firmly in the tradition, though the cocktail in question is perhaps more repulsive than most. Part of that is thanks to Jack Nicholson, whose smug self-regard can barely be contained in his constantly arching eyebrows. Most of the blame, though, rests squarely on the script.

For those lucky enough to have avoided the film since its release in 1997, I’ll briefly recap what I suppose I’ll have to refer to as the plot. Nicholson plays Melvin Udall, a fabulously wealthy romance novelist who suffers from some undefined form of OCD; he won’t step on cracks in the sidewalk, he locks the door five times every time he walks into his apartment; he opens a new bar of soap every time he washes his hands; he’s germphobic. Oh, and he’s also homophobic, racist, and deliberately abusive and cruel to everyone. But then he gets a dog, and a woman who looks like Helen Hunt and is 20 years younger than him decides inexplicably that he’s the guy for her. He gives her money to help her asthmatic son, life lessons and becomes a better person. The end.

There’s basically nothing to like in this film, but the bit that sticks out as particularly, drearily awful is the treatment of Melvin’s disability. At the Dissolve a while back, a commenter with OCD named Chapman Baxter argued that the film was correct in that people with OCD can engage in assholish behavior; “Although I’m not proud to admit it, I know from experience how a constant compulsion to do methodical rituals and the perpetual anxiety of intrusive thoughts can make one behave in quite an irritable and anti-social manner.” That seems reasonable…but I think it misses the main problem with what the film is doing.

The movie doesn’t just suggest that Melvin is a jerk because he has OCD. It suggests that the OCD and the jerkishness are essentially one and the same. When Melvin calls his gay neighbor a “fag”, it’s a sign of his quirky woundedness, just like his nervousness about stepping on cracks. And, similarly, when Melvin needs to eat at the same table in the same diner every day, that’s a character flaw on par with insulting a Jewish couple for having big noses. Melvin’s cruelty and his illness merge together, he’s at one and the same time responsible for both and for neither.

Because Melvin’s awfulness is an illness, he gets a pass; he can be spectacularly horrible, but still basically a good person underneath it all, since his behavior is essentially a medical condition, outside of his control. And because his illness is a character flaw, it is curable via the all-purpose nostrum of true love. Mixing flaws and sickness allows Hollywood to blend two of its favorite genres—the rom com and disability inspiration porn. The love of Carol, the waitress played by Hunt, makes Melvin want to become a better, less bigoted man—and that love simultaneously and spontaneously causes him to overcome his germphobia and other manifestations of his OCD. Mental illness and racism both evaporate with a kiss. Fall in love, and you can step on a crack.

This is supposed to be a happy ending for both Carol and Melvin, in theory. In fact, it’s impossible to imagine that this is a good long term choice for Carol, who, understandably, protests against her narrative fate, tearfully demanding to know why she has to settle for this decades older bigot who has just barely learned to form casual friendships, much less a serious romantic partnership. Carol’s mother is wheeled out on cue to tell her that nobody ever gets a perfect boyfriend—the uplifting message of the film being, you might as well settle, girl. We know you’re desperate.

Nor is this in any sense a happy ending for Melvin. Yes, Carol unaccountably decides to date him. But her love is precisely predicated on him becoming a better man–not just by being less of an asshole, but by being less mentally ill. There’s no sense that Carol is willing, able, or interested in dealing with Melvin’s illness; instead her love, the film assures us, will make that illness go away. What if it doesn’t, though? What happens to their relationship then?

As Good As It Gets, in short, is blandly contemptuous of both of its protagonists. Carol, with her asthmatic son, mentally ill boyfriend, and heart of gold, is a human mop, admirable by virtue of the selfless sopping up of her loved ones messes. When she suggests she might deserve more, her mother (presented as a moral voice of truth) tells her to quit kidding herself. Melvin, for his part, is presented as only worthy of love to the extent that love is a miraculous cure. Women are nurses who exist to make men normal. And if the woman doesn’t want to be a nurse, or the man isn’t instantly cured? Sorry, no rom com for you.

The forced happy ending is supposed to be inspiring; an unlikely boon to two wounded people. But instead it feels like an act of cynical, manipulative loathing. A working-class waitress with a sick kid; an aging man with OCD—without Hollywood pixie dust, no one gives a shit about you, the movie taunts. Follow the script for your gender and your illness, and all the normal people will maybe deign to sympathize. Romance! Cure! Come on kids; this is as good as it gets.

Framing the Dead

Actually, this post should be titled “Framing, Abstracting, and Closuring the Walking Dead,” but that’s way too many verbs, plus closuring isn’t a word. Or at least it wasn’t. Maybe it is now. This post is also a follow-up on three previous “Analyzing Comics 101” posts on, you guessed it, framing, abstraction, and closure.

I’m once again picking apart the corpse of Tony Moore and Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead #1 to show how these concepts can come together. This time, just the first two pages will do the trick.

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So framing first. The top full-width panel is symmetrical and misaligned, so the right side includes more than the primary subjects of Rick, Shane, and their police car which appear cropped in the foreground, plus the escaped convict and his truck in the middleground. The rectangular panel could include all of the rectangular police car, but instead provides surrounding detail, including a horse (the first hint at the Western motif), a Rotary Club sign (suggesting a small community theme?), and distant mountains in the background (further establishing the rural setting).

However, it’s the bottom panel that gives the initial framing its biggest meaning, since the open foreground space of that first panel parallels the page’s most important image in the bottom panel: Rick being shot. The bottom frame is symmetrical and proportionate, making the first misaligned framing a form of spatial foreshadowing. Moore also shifts the parallel angle of perspective, effectively rotating the shooter to the background, Shane to the middleground, and Rick to the foreground, the most significant visual space. Note also that Rick occupies the right side of the image, gaining further significance since as Anglophone readers we conclude the panel on right. We read top to bottom too, so Rick being shot occupies the concluding space of the overall page too (it’s also the peak image in an implied 4×2 grid, but we covered visual sentences and layouts elsewhere).

Rick is also emphasized because our perspective moves with him, beginning in panel five. These four middle framings are symmetrical while vacillating between proportionate and abridged, because the figures are sometimes cropped mid-chest, adding to the sense of Rick and Shane being trapped in a cramped space. Though drawn smaller than Shane in panels one and two, when Rick stands in panel three, he encompasses more space: his action literally makes him larger. Because the angle of perspective is the same in panels two and four, Shane remains the same.

Closure between the images is minimal. The first panel establishes the overall area, and the following five panels work within it, demanding little spatial closure. Though the time span of each panel and the gaps between them is inherently inexact, the first four transitions suggest no significant gaps, and so they imply a steady movement forward in time, requiring only basic temporal closure. The fifth transition, however, implies a gap in which Rick turns around to face the shooter. So in addition to temporal closure, the panel transition requires causal closure because the action of Rick turning is undrawn; we infer it in order to explain why Rick’s back is no longer turned to the shooter as it was in the previous image.

Finally, Tony Moore’s drawing style is roughly 3-3 on the abstraction grid, so it shows both a moderate amount of detail (translucent) and a moderate amount of contour warping (idealization). Arguably, the figures show a level of 3-4 abstraction, with intensified contours. In the second panel, Shane is impossibly wide and Rick impossibly thin, with Rick’s head roughly half the width of Shane’s shoulder.

shane and rick abstraction

The effect characterizes each through visual exaggeration and further establishes them as foils. Meanwhile, the shooter’s head contrasts the straight lines that compose Rick and Shane’s bodies with frenetic lines and lopsided features.

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Though the effect is more striking, the shooter’s lines contours remain within an idealized range. Rick’s bullet wound, however, is intensified or even hyperbolic.

rick's wound

Since no human being could survive a wound that extreme, the image creates higher closure demand after the page turn because we retroactively understand the image to be exaggerated. There’s an overt abstraction gap between what is drawn and how it is drawn. And because a literal understanding of the image contradicts the story, we ignore it (diegetic erasure).

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The leap to page two is major in other ways too. The image requires a great deal of temporal closure with details that also require a range of casual closure. After being shot, Rick was taken to a hospital–perhaps by paramedics in an ambulance, though most of the casual facts go unconfirmed. He is in a bed in a bedroom, not a critical ward or operating room, so presumably his wounds were successfully treated and he was left to recuperate. The time gap is ambiguous, but his beard growth suggest several days.

The framing marks a major change too. Though still symmetrical, the full-page panel is also expansive. Rick’s figure is the subject, but a great deal of the surrounding room is drawn for a spacious effect unlike the previous page’s variously proportionate and abridge panels. The angle of perspective shifts from parallel to downward, so we are no longer viewing the image as a character would but as if from a more omniscient vantage.

The style of abstraction has shifted too. While Rick remains at 3-3 (translucent idealization), the room is closer to 2-2 (semi-translucent generalization). The level of detail is much greater than on the previous page and the line contours are only warped slightly below the level of photorealism. Notice the line quality of the shadows and reflected chair legs on the floor.

The 2-2 image is also a full-page panel, giving it further significance. When the first zombie later appears on page six, we retroactively fill in additional closure into the temporal gap: the zombie apocalypse occurred while Rick was unconscious and safe behind his bedroom door. Page two is the most significant image in the issue, because it is 1) the most detailed and least abstracted image in a stylistic context of less detail and higher abstraction, 2) the first of only two full-page panels, 3) the most expansively framed image, and 4) the image demanding the highest amount and range of closure.

There’s plenty more visual analysis available on these two pages (haven’t even started to talk about the difference in Moore’s rendering of sound effects and speech yet), but you get the picture.

Utilitarian Review 1/23/16

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On HU

Featured Archive Post: Brannon Costello on Christopher Priest and Jack Kirby’s Black Panther.

Subir Dey discusses some of the most important publications in the history of Indian comics.

Chris Gavaler looks at Bill Sienkiewicz’s various levels of abstraction.

Me on Valerie June and better american music.

Me on progressives shaming people for their labor.

Robert Stanley Martin with on sale dates of comics for nov/dec 1951, including lots of EC.
 
Utilitarians Everywhere

At the New Republic I wrote about how the biggest threat to minors who trade sex is the police.

At the Establishment I wrote about how nobody appreciates me enough.

At Splice Today I wrote

—about Freddie deBoer and the virtues of performing progressivisim.

the last David Bowie think piece.

At the Reader I reviewed the britpoppy Chicago band Kerosene Stars.
 
Other Links

Great Pitchfork interview with Dawn Richard, in which she name drops Shakespeare, Klimt, and Aphex Twin.

Kevin Drum on the problem with the NRO anti-Trump issue.

Charlotte Issyvoo on why as a trafficking survivor she found academia to be horrible.

Better American Music

 

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This first ran on Splice Today.
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At the dawn of mass-market commercial recordings in the 1920s, record companies divided race records from hillbilly music. The first were intended to target blacks; the second were marketed to rural whites. In many ways, this division was arbitrary; rural black and white music was not that distinct. Recent scholarship has, for example, shown that black musicians played on many hillbilly recordings, suggesting that integrated sessions were not that uncommon. Black and white collaboration has continued throughout American music — and yet, at the same time, that race/hillbilly distinction has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. R&B today is a ton different from country, in no small part because the marketing insistence that the two musics had to be different helped create two different, segregated traditions. What could have been one became two.

Valerie June’s album from earlier this year, Pushin’ Against A Stone, presents a possible version of what might have happened if that split had never happened. The first song, “Workin’ Woman Blues” is a barreling, bizarre, perfect mash-up of styles; June starts with a folk-blues percussive strum and then launches into a shattering nasal vocal that would do Sara Carter proud. “I ain’t fit to be no mother/I ain’t fit to be no wife/I been workin’ like a man/I been workin’ all my life,” she declares, as the music cockily struts towards, of all things, swinging funk — and then, right after she multitracks herself for a line, we get a full on Memphis horn line, which veer into jazz. That’s 90 odd years of music condensed into 3 minutes of seamlessly awkward awesomeness. The song is a Frankenstein monster of backwoods cool.

The rest of the album is somewhat lower key, but it’s never less than great. “Somebody To Love” finds the sonic link between doo wop backing “ooo”s and bare country fiddle while June plays ukulele and lets her vocals lean into Booker T. Jones’ (!) dreamy organ backing with those paint-stripping vocals, exquisite pain and pleasure. “The Hour” is straight up girl-group sung so hillbilly it makes you wish Hank Williams had done a session or two backed by the Shirrelles. “Tennessee Time” is slow-tempo hippie folk, complete with exquisite mandolin and a buddy good time chorus where June’s keening vocals jump ahead and soar above her male duet partner, raggedly perfect.   “Pushin’ Against a Stone” has a distorted wailing pyschedlic guitar set against a Stax rhythm backing while June does old school $&B that is actually old school — none of this neo crap. On “Shotgun” she sings a bloody minded blues country death song, her voice keening and wailing besides her remarkable slide guitar work. And then, improbably, the album closer, “On My Way,” lifts the tune from “Friend of the Devil” — which is, as it turns out, a great song if you can find a great singer to sing it.

You could argue that the inspirations here aren’t as diverse as I’m suggesting; the nasal Hank Williams vocals could come from Shirley of Shiley and Lee instead; the acoustic gospel of “Trials, Troubles and Tribulations” could derive from singing preachers like Washington Phillips rather than from the Carter Family. You listen to the tough blues of “You Can’t Be Told,” and June’s nasal voice seems to derive more from Howlin’ Wolf than Bill Monroe. But that’s what’s so glorious about the album; black/white, rural/urban — it all sounds like a single tradition. It’s almost as if Howlin’ Wolf and Bill Monroe both loved Jimmie Rodgers, as if the Carter Family and rural black singers shared a love of the same spirituals, as if poor rural whites played R&B instead of country. Pushin’ Against the Stone is just like the music we’ve got, only better.