Book Review - Ilan Manouach in Review – Critical Approaches To His Conceptual Comics

Reviewed by Gareth Brookes, AHRC Techne funded PhD Candidate at UAL, https://orcid.org/0000-0001-7167-8255

 
Pedro Moura (ed.) Ilan Manouach in Review – Critical Approaches To His Conceptual Comics. London: Routledge, 2023. $170. https://www.routledge.com/Ilan-Manouach-in-Review-Critical-Approaches-to-his-Conceptual-Comics/Moura/p/book/9781032399713

The artist Ilan Manouach has come to occupy a unique place in European comics. To some Manouach is a controversialist, provocateur and plagiarist, to others he is an artist working in the traditions of conceptualism and situationism to reveal concealed power structures ingrained in systems of publishing, distribution and in the reading practices of comics.

It is highly unusual for any artist to be the subject of a book such as this, particularly for an artist at the mid-point in their career (Manouach was born in 1980) with a relatively small, and, for the most part, relatively recent body of work. There are 21 books listed on Manouach’s website and there are 14 essays here, which, including introduction and afterword, amounts to eighteen contributors.

Any reader approaching Ilan Manouach in Review with only a passing acquaintance with his art will leave suitably enlightened. With so many chapters surveying a limited body of work, there are necessary repetitions. For example, the details of the publication and reception of Manouach’s controversial work Katz (2012) - a reworking of Art Spiegelman’s Maus (1980-1991) in which both Nazis and their Jewish victims are depicted as cats - are repeated a number of times. This is also the case with Riki Fermier (2015), a work in which all characters in the children’s comic Rasmus Klump are carefully erased save the periphery character of Riki the Pelican, who wanders around a depopulated farm, occasionally responding to disembodied voices. Noirs (2014) is also dealt with several times, in this work colour difference in the racially problematic 1963 comic Les Schtroumpfs Noirs/The Purple Smurfs is eradicated by replacing all print toners in the printing of Manouach’s version with cyan. In many cases these repetitions complement one another, and the reader is able to trace analytical resonances not only between scholars, but between fields. At other times reading repeated descriptions of a single work can feel like a chore and make this a volume best enjoyed chapter-by-chapter over a number of weeks.

The book is organised into three parts: Part 1 – Textuality and Surfaces, Part 2 – Reading Practices, Part 3 – Rethinking the Past and Futures of Comics. The strongest chapters are those in which scholars bring their specific research interests to bear on a focused area of Manouach’s practice and analytically respond to the erasures and reversals he performs. Reading Childly by Maaheen Ahmed considers ‘childness’ and the construction of the implied child reader as a tool to critically approach Manouach’s interventions of erasure in Riki Fermier and Cascao (2019). Ian Hague’s critique of the tactile project Shapereader (2015 - Present) designed for comics readers with visual impairment, is disrupted by Covid-19 in a way that proves enlightening. Simon Grennan tests his formulations of ‘graphiotactic saliency’ and the notion of point of view as definitive component of storyworld through a consideration of Abrégé de bande dessinée franco-belge (2019). Barbara Postema discusses history and nostalgia with regard to the Bande Dessinée format and traces relationship of this to Manouach’s work. Benoît Crucifix considers ‘rogue archives’ in the context of Manouach’s online Conceptual Comics Archive.

In most cases the chapters I connected with were by scholars with whose work I was already familiar, and I found my interest most engaged by observing the different ways these scholars approached Manouach’s comics. Through their accumulated responses I found myself considering Manouach’s work in terms of a practice-based body of research, intended to provoke theoretical response, and perhaps completing itself through analysis of this kind.

Of all the contributions I found the chapter Can Comics Think by Daniel Worden to be the most interesting and original, adopting what one might call a practice-based approach to the analysis of the huge volume Crucible Island: Pirates, Microworkers, Spammists, and the Venatic Lore of Clickfarm Humor (2019). In this comic Manouach outsources the captioning of 1,494 desert island cartoons to micropayment contract workers through the Amazon owned microworker platform Mechanical Turk. In the final section of his chapter Worden outsources the analysis of Crucible Island to microworkers who are paid $5 to produce a 100-word response. In both Manouach’s outsourced comic and Worden’s outsourced analysis, the disconnectedness of this digital industrial approach is mixed with moments of humour and humanity often reflecting the desires of the precariously employed microworkers. Worden’s approach does a great deal to illuminate the tensions and intentions active in Manouach’s engagement with these exploitative industries.

Given the oblique nature of the subject matter, it is inevitable that this book says as much about comics studies as a practice as it does about the practice of the artist under consideration. There is a sense of comics studies trying to come to terms with a creator who is really a conceptual artist making self-reflexive work about comics. Manouach’s interventions undoubtedly represent an important contribution to comics, critiquing the hidden power structures embedded in the form, but the strategies he employs are drawn from a post-post-modernist, post-internet stance which holds that the only sensible response to the monstrous number of comics available in the world is through recycling, reappropriation and reframing. Comics studies has barely begun to consider these ideas. Benoît Crucifix’s recent study Drawing From the Archives, Comics Memory and the Contemporary Graphic Novel (Cambridge University Press, 2023) is a notable exception, and Crucifix’s contribution to the volume under consideration extends the scope of his work.

Another interesting question raised is how comics studies goes about accommodating a practice in which so much is based on erasure. Drawing theory usually considers trace, or the index of the body making marks on paper. The authorial presence based on removal represented in the negative trace of Manouach’s diverse dismantling practice presents an analytical vacuum to be filled. The book could very well have been titled ‘Where is Ilan Manouach?’ and the great pleasure of these essays lies in the various ways comics scholars go about finding him.

One can’t help but wonder what Manouach makes of all this. The impulse to respond to work that approaches fine art practice with what some may consider a disproportionate amount of analysis, in order to either accommodate Manouach’s practice in comics scholarship, or rise to the challenge of his conceptualist gestures, perhaps betrays a shift in comics studies toward contemporary art theory. The reification that comes with this is something that Manouach both critiques and invites through his work, and I suspect that the reifying power relationship between comics practice and academia may be too tempting a subject for Manouach to ignore. Will this volume at some point become the subject of one of Manouach’s conceptualist reversals? If so, I look forward to it.

Book Review - Forgotten Disney: Essays on the Lesser-Known Productions.

 Reviewed by Cord A. Scott, UMGC-Okinawa

Kathy Merlock Jackson, Carl H. Sederholm, and Mark I. West (eds.). Forgotten Disney: Essays on the Lesser-Known Productions.  McFarland Publishing, 2023. $49.95. https://mcfarlandbooks.com/product/forgotten-disney/

By the early 21^st century, Disney became a dominant media force in many regards, controlling the rights to Star Wars, the Marvel Comics, Pixar, and the traditional Disney IP, as well as various amusement parks and broadcast stations that span the globe.  While Disney has always had controversial aspects, it has usually been considered a successful and well-run company. But there have also been some lesser-known aspects of collaborations and projects that have not fared as well.  The essays in this book offer an insight into the “House of Mouse” and how it has not always had the “Midas touch.”  As noted in the introduction to the book, the editors pointed out that some of the projects were never meant to last, while others morphed from their original form into something else.  In all, the twenty-two essays offer glimpses into the Disney realm, and are at times, surprising.

The essays cover specific, chronological projects and times in the career of both Walt Disney, as well as the corporation after his passing in 1966.  The first essay focuses on Walt’s last directorial attempt, with The Golden Touch, a 1935 short animated adaptation of the King Midas story.  As with so many fairy tales, this adaptation had promise, but did not have the lasting effect that other original works such as Steamboat Willie had.  The story is a morality tale, much like the reality of wealthy Americans at a time in the 1930s, when most average were suffering from deleterious effects of the Great Depression.  While Disney tried to rail against the elites of America, the overall story simply did not hold the attention of the general public.  The author argues the failure of The Golden Touch served as a lesson learned for Snow White when it was produced later that year.

Other essays discuss not only the attempted adaptations of Alice in Wonderland, but also the works of Frank Baum and the Wizard of Oz series of books.  While the first book was made into short cartoons before the major release of the Disney adaptation in 1951, the idea of the “plausible impossible” was introduced in the 1939 cartoon Thru the Mirror, and the concept became a feature of the Disney films.  For Baum’s Oz, the opportunity came in the late 1950s when Disney was able to purchase the rights to all of the books.  The project never really came to fruition however, but the legacy of how Disney wanted many popular books or fairy tales adapted into his realm was written into the company’s DNA.

Many of the authors write on a now lesser-known aspect of Disney: the live movies, as opposed to the staple animated features which have been associated with the company since the successes of the 1980s.  From the live adaptation of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues under the Sea to the movie Tonka (a Sal Mineo film centered on a horse that was a witness to the battle of the Little Big Horn), the authors look at how these films often carried a far more expansive view of Walt Disney and his approach to storytelling.  Even when the movies are (rightly) criticized for casting Anglo actors in minority roles, the overall theme Disney was trying to attain was that of tolerance. 

With the book arranged in a chronological timeline of the “forgotten” films, and the first half is about the time Walt Disney directly oversaw the creative process in some form or another.  For the last hundred pages, the essays center on the move forward after Walt’s death in 1966.  The book also goes associated spinoff ideas such as Disneyland, Disney World, EPCOT, and overseas ventures. 

Some of the information gleaned from the book was interesting, as seemingly odd for Disney as we know it in the 2020s: collaboration with Salvador Dali on Destino, a movie that was started in the 1940s but not released until 2003; the war films which had a shelf life of World War II, yest still offer insight into propaganda films made by the major studios in an era before television or the internet; association with seemingly ill-fitting Hollywood stars as Bette Davis and Bette Midler; and the adult-themed live-action films produced by a Disney owned and controlled company, Miramax films. 

The book allows the non-Disney expert a look at some of the lesser-known projects and how they served as a “here’s what NOT to do for next time”, such as the case of The Golden Touch or the lesser-known Oz works.  It also links together aspects of Walt Disney’s mindset about a return to values prized in more rural communities, and a connection to farming and nature that was being pushed aside, even by Disney, in areas where theme parks were situated. Disney’s natural and successful progression into comic book publishing was also noted, despite the company’s current disinterest.  The final aspects of the book discuss the preservation of defunct Disney attractions and their appeal to fans. 

One area that is ripe for future discussion is the corporation’s acquisition of Marvel and Star Wars characters and stories, and how that has already altered the entertainment industry, as well as stories Mickey Mouse entering the public domain.  In total, the book offers a revealing look into Disney’s output, and does give a reader a starting point to delve into aspects of their lesser-known projects, which puts their successes into a wider context. 

“The look of a ghost with ashes in her shoes.” Review of Leela Corman’s Victory Parade by Hélène Tison

Review by Hélène Tison

Leela Corman. Victory Parade. New York:  Pantheon Graphic Library, 2024. $29.00. ISBN 9780805243444. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/552601/victory-parade-by-leela-corman/

“The look of a ghost with ashes in her shoes.”

Leela Corman is a warm, lively, funny and very serious person – much like her work as a cartoonist, from Unterzakhn (Schocken/Pantheon, 2012), her Eisner-nominated graphic novel about life in New York City’s Lower East Side at the turn of the twentieth century, to her collections of short fiction and nonfiction You Are Not A Guest (Field Mouse Press, 2023) and We All Wish For Deadly Force (Retrofit/Big Planet, 2016), to her new graphic novel Victory Parade (to be published by Schocken/Pantheon in April 2024) which is described on her website as “a story about WWII, women's wrestling, and the astral plane over Buchenwald.” To which one could add such prominent themes as migration and diaspora, racism and antisemitism, brutal social hierarchies, authoritarianism, predatory patriarchy and sexual exploitation, and the many grey areas of life, including in the country that some consider to be “the world’s greatest democracy.”

Corman’s art is striking. She has been working with watercolor for about a decade now, a technical and aesthetic choice that underscores the sensory or haptic quality of this entirely hand-made graphic novel (apart from the lettering – cf. my upcoming interview). It creates a sense of intimacy with the characters, enables the reader to feel the tenderness of the author not only for her protagonists, but also for the survivors and the dead that haunt the concentration camp – and the Jewish American soldier who has returned to civilian life. Her work is beautiful, but not beautifying: as discussed in the interview, Corman presents us with a cast of de-idealized and highly expressive figures.

Corman does a lot of research for her graphic stories, and Victory Parade, which could be described as part fantasy and part historical novel, is no exception: it is full of references, both visual and narrative, not only to the events, but also to the culture and arts of the time, such as Germany’s Bauhaus and New Objectivity, the musicals of Busby Berkeley, propaganda posters or period beer cans. It is also informed by Corman’s family history.

 

Fig. 2 - Victory Parade, page 95. © Leela Corman 2023

As in Unterzakhn, the female characters in Victory Parade are resourceful and impressively powerful – indeed Ruth, the wrestler, is something of a superhero – but as a social group, they are rather low in the hierarchy. This is reflected in the very structure of the book, which first focuses on women (Rose the welder and her colleagues; her daughter Eleanor; Ruth/Rifche, a young Jewish refugee from Germany who lives with Rose), who are central to the story as they are to the war industry for a while – until the soldiers come home, the women are sent back to the kitchen, and Sam (the husband Rose doesn’t love) comes home after having participated in the liberation of Buchenwald, and takes center stage in the narrative. With the exception of the several scenes where Rose and her lover George share intimate and tender moments, sexuality is generally conflictual or predatory in Victory Parade: the book opens on a scene of sexual harassment, and it is ubiquitous, violent and ultimately deadly for Roses’s friend Pearl – as it is, indirectly, for Ruth who was sexually exploited as a child in Germany.

It is fascinating to read Victory Parade in light of Corman’s autobiographical and nonfiction work, which brings to light the more specific and personal meaning of a number of details, images, and symbols. In her graphic narratives, trauma is embodied in the figure of falling, drowning or immersed women who are alternately crushed, distraught, sinister, or empowering – just as nature, the forest in particular, is an ambivalent space, “a place of trauma as much as refuge” (You Are Not A Guest, p. 3). Traumatic loss and multigenerational trauma run through Corman’s autobiographical stories, as in “Yahrzeit” (in We All Wish For Deadly Force, unpaginated), in “Blood Road,” where the figure of the artist braces herself for “an epigenetic storm” as she plans to visit Buchenwald (You Are Not A Guest, p. 22) and in the story that gives the 2023 collection its name, when she visits the Polish town where many of her ancestors were murdered in 1942. In those stories – as is the case for Victory Parade’s Ruth who is described by another character as having “the look of a ghost with ashes in her shoes” (36) – trauma is often impossible to articulate, but it doesn’t go away, it persists as hallucination, after-image, as specters or the undead, limbs and bodies hiding in the woods, coming out of the ground or the sky who accompany, soothe, or bully, Leela Corman’s characters. And so, in the last section of Victory Parade, she addresses, in painful and tender detail, the central trauma running through the generations in her maternal family, and in many others – the Holocaust.

The manner in which she chooses to address it, in a thirty-page episode focusing on the so-called “liberation” of a camp by young, unprepared American soldiers, points to a central trope in the book, indeed, in its very cover: the coexistence of two unimaginably opposed experiences, two continents, one ravaged by brutal, genocidal war and another whose people were far from unconcerned or uninformed, but where ordinary life did not change drastically. The superimposition is symbolized in the uncanny figure of the skull-faced pin-up in a pink bathing suit, legs dangling above a pile of corpses; smoking and blowing toxic, deadly-looking fumes that form the background to the word “Victory,” she puts its antiphrastic quality into relief.

The “victory” announced by Harry Truman on May 8, 1945 (we see Rose listening to his speech on the radio, p. 119) is bitter in the narrative as well: not only does it signal the end of Rose’s relative freedom, but it also heralds the end of innocence or ignorance, the revelations of the extent of Nazi horrors, the confirmation of the fates of relatives left behind in Europe… The antiphrasis is also a comment on political hypocrisy and cynicism, exemplified by that very same speech, in which Truman promises to “build an abiding peace, a peace rooted in justice and in law,” mere weeks before giving the order to launch atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Although that episode is left out, its “off-frame” presence is hard to miss, and is confirmed (again, elliptically) in the concluding quote by Japanese photographer Shōmei Tōmatsu.

After the preceding paragraphs, it may come as a surprise to read that Victory Parade is not devoid of humor – humor which is neither gratuitous nor mere comic relief, as when Corman offers her readers moments of unexpected, highly political and very dark comedy. She not only dares to tackle Nazi concentration and extermination camps, a topic which is notoriously hard to do right, without trivializing or sensationalizing one of the worst episodes in human history. But, in the mode of Roberto Benigni’s controversial 1997 film Life Is Beautiful, she dares to do so in a passage that she calls the “Busby Berkeley death scene,” (p. 172) superimposing the camp and the type of light, extremely popular entertainment that came out of Hollywood throughout the war years.

Leela Corman’s graphic novels are both historical and topical – in Unterzakhn, before Roe was overturned, she reminded her readers of the reasons why access to abortion is a matter of life and death; today, with Victory Parade, she wants us to remember what tyrannical supremacy and the murderous maligning of the racial Other actually mean – and warns us against going on with our lives as though nothing were amiss while the humanity of others is being denied.

Hélène Tison is associate professor at the University of Tours (France) and is the author of

Female Cartoonists in the United States: Bad Girls and Invisible Women (Routledge, 2022).

 

Read Dr. Tison's interview with Leela Corman.

Book Review: Matthias Lehmann's Parallel

reviewed by Lizzy Walker, Wichita State University

Matthias Lehmann. Parallel. Oregon: Oni Press, 2023. 452 pages, $29.99 9781637151006. https://oni-press.myshopify.com/products/parallel

 

            Translated from German into English for the first time by Ivanka Hahnenberger, Matthias Lehman's Parallel presents the story of Karl Kling, a gay man living in 1980s Germany. He is struggling to reconnect with his estranged daughter through a letter he wants to send to her. Lehmann presents Karl's story in two timelines. One timeline is in the 1980s before the Berlin Wall coming down and Germany’s reunification, shortly after Karl had retired from his job. The second timeline is during 1950s postwar Germany, after Karl has returned from his time in the German army. The story presents Karl's struggle to conform to familial expectations and social conventions, keeping his sexuality hidden from everyone close to him, and with reason. Homosexuality was illegal until 1994.

            The graphic novel opens with elderly Karl and his friend Adam discussing his retirement, but Karl's demeanor does not reflect any joy at facing his "hard-earned" reward. His mood improves little at the celebration held in the local bar that evening. When Adam talks of the beaches of Italy, and of the gorgeous women he could meet, Karl does not say much. Later, when Adam inquires about Karl's estranged daughter, Hella, Karl reveals he has not heard from her in eight years. In a flashback, the reader sees that last fateful evening with Karl and Hella. She is angry with him, she yells at him, and she leaves. The story snaps back to the present, and Karl starts going through old photographs. His first memory conjured by these windows in time is from when he served as a cook in the German army in World War II. An innocent romantic encounter with his tent-mate gives the reader the first glimpse at Karl hiding his homosexuality.

            Karl's life in the 1950s is fraught with bad decisions and tragedy along the way. After Karl kisses a man whom he mistakes for his old tent mate in the restroom at a local bar, rumors start to circulate. This information makes it to his father-in-law who happens to be a prominent figure in the community. He issues a severe warning to Karl, who does not heed it. Instead, he meets a man at the local swimming hole, which leads to a sexual entanglement that costs him his marriage and his livelihood when his father-in-law intervenes yet again, via a group of men who assault the two lovers. When he leaves his first marriage, Karl finds friends and foes in his struggle to come to terms with his identity while still attempting to maintain a straight façade. Eventually, Karl marries a second time, which becomes a relationship also fraught with tragedy. At one point, a clandestine lover loses his housing, so Karl invites him to live with his family. Much to the surprise of Karl, and the reader, this ends terribly, but not as might be expected.

            Throughout this graphic novel, Lehmann depicts Karl with all of his flaws. Despite how much he says he wants a traditional family, Karl destroys them by hiding his extramarital relationships the best that he can, while denying his identity out of necessity. He could not live openly as he might have wanted because of the illegality and stigma of being homosexual. As infuriating as Karl's actions are, it is a struggle to remain angry with him. While his life story unfolds, the reader sees his second marriage fall apart, more relationships fall apart, and betrayal after betrayal. They are not all of Karl's doing, but come as the result of his actions.

            Lehmann's approach to themes of loneliness, confusion, deception, and how the decisions of one man's lifetime culminate in isolated introspection and coming to terms with his past both work to provide the reader with a whole person. Karl is not perfect. The reader can despise the character's actions in one panel, and have compassion and empathy for Karl in the next. Lehmann's use of nonlinear storytelling helps tell the complicated story of Karl's life, weaving back and forth between his past and present, interspersed with the letter he is writing to his daughter. Karl's story hurts and it is meaningful in that hurt. It is engaging in a way that makes the reader feel like they are witnessing a very human character. Lehmann does not sugarcoat anything here. The reader sees everything primarily from Karl's point of view. At first, I wondered why Lehmann did not spend any time from Hella's point of view, but this could be for various reasons, including that the story is based on an actual relative of Lehmann's.

            It is worth taking time reading through Parallel, both to digest Karl's whole story and to take in the artwork. While there are many secondary characters, it is not hard to remember who they are and what their roles are in Karl's life, both those he harms but also ones with whom he shares genuine friendship. Lehmann's chosen palette for this graphic novel is black and white, and he makes good use of light and shadow. The backgrounds are worth taking extra time to peruse. Lehmann effectively matches the environment with the mood of particular scenes well.

 

Book review: Washington’s Gay General: The Legends and Loves of Baron von Steuben.

reviewed by Cord Scott

Trujillo, Josh and Levi Hastings.  Washington’s Gay General: The Legends and Loves of Baron von Steuben. New York: Abram’s Surely Press, 2023. $24.99 ISBN 978-1-4197-4372-6. https://www.abramsbooks.com/product/washingtons-gay-general_9781419743726/

 In today’s politically charged cultural atmosphere, the argument that history is often written to fit social events of the day is one that resonates.  Permeating aspects of current society across the board, many Americans are uneasy with thinking of national heroes having what they perceive as less than desirable traits. This sort of argument could, and most likely will, be made by anyone trying to ban this book from libraries.  However, Steuben’s life is a great example of how complicated the stories of the Founding Fathers truly are.

The graphic novel centers on Trujillo, the writer, finding out about Friedrich von Steuben, a Prussian soldier who was brought to the American colonies to help train George Washington’s forces.  Von Steuben was instrumental in creating a training regime for the colonial army, was the first Inspector General of the US Army, and created the “Blue Book” a training manual that still has relevance to the modern US military. Trujillo was drawn to von Steuben as an openly gay man in a time of history when it was literally a crime.  While his affectations were widely known, there are few firm pieces of direct evidence, as many personal references or thoughts on homosexuality would be destroyed (p. 15). Narratively interesting is that Trujillo readily identified his own shortcomings in terms of scholarship, interest in history, or proximity to the actual areas where von Steuben lived. But this is something that historians often must face: how does one make a story complete, warts and all?  To that end, the result was commendable.

Friedrich von Steuben was born in Prussia in 1730 and had wanted to pursue a military career.  He was a shy child, and not above exaggerating stories or his own feats to get ahead in life.  As Trujillo wrote (p. 24) von Steuben often embellished stories to attain promotion or higher status.  He felt that he deserved such things as he was professionally that good, but this was a lifelong trait.  Von Steuben came to adulthood at a time when the Prussian military was used as the model for training, discipline, and strength in battle.  King Frederick I (Frederick the Great) of Prussia often outfitted his soldiers in smart-looking uniforms and had requirements for height.  Trujillo argues that Frederick was also gay, and so the “Prussian Giants” (p. 73) appearance may have been for his own proclivities as well as that of military prowess.

He had made close connections with Frederick, Frederick’s brother Prince Henry, and Claude-Louis, Comte de Saint-Germaine, a noted mercenary general from that era.  While von Steuben was known for his dalliances with men, it had never been overly dangerous as his military standing shielded him to an extent. Following the Seven Years’ War in Europe (known as the French and Indian War in America), von Steuben was virtually destitute, and living on the kindness of others.  Due to military cutbacks, the costs of war, and his own indebtedness, von Steuben had constant worry about money.  However, his reputation as a rake was becoming more of a liability and that is when he was introduced to Benjamin Franklin.  The reputation of both men for preferring younger lovers was well known, in Trujillo’s narrative.

Hired by Franklin, Von Steuben was part of a foreign contingent of military officers who rallied to the American cause. Trujillo noted that the stories of von Steuben appearing at Valley Forge in a flamboyant uniform were not true, although he did often have uniforms that were made to impress his importance.  His aides who were often very young (in their teens and early twenties while von Steuben at this point was in his fifties). These aides helped with the problems with his lack of English. When training soldiers, he was having to rely on one or two languages as well as interpreters which made immediate training corrections a bit strained, but his men liked him for the care he took of them.

Where Trujillo comes into some minor historical issue is with descriptions.  He notes that von Steuben was considered an outsider as he only spoke German.  This may not have been the issue it appears as German was under consideration for the official language of the colonies.  Second, the commentary on Benedict Arnold was awkward.  Arnold is correctly considered a traitor, but he was never seen as inept, as Trujillo described him.  Arnold was a tested commander who is recognized at both Saratoga and West Point New York for his importance. He, like von Steuben, felt he was deserving of far more than he had received.  In Arnold’s case, it led to his betrayal of the colonial army.

The later part of the book describes von Steuben’s struggle to be recognized, and more importantly paid, for his contributions following the American victory.  As with anyone had kept personal aspects of his life from the public eye (and history), the book ventures into the realm of speculation.  However, Trujillo acknowledges that it is hard to be accurate when facts are unknown.  A strength of the story also lies in the creator’s relating it to modern hardships of those in the LGBTQIA+ community.  The story also doesn’t shy away from von Steuben’s faults, from excessive drinking and vanity, to his ownership of slaves, to the complicity of treatment towards minorities in America.  People often approach historical figures as perfect people, and either have issues with, or outright deny, any wrongdoing.  This is dangerous as it sets a false narrative, and the authors avoided it here.

The issue of homosexuality in the American military is still a confusing one.  On one hand, the modern military often tries to emulate the warrior ethos of the ancient Spartans of Greece, with motivational t-shirts such as “Molon Labe” (Come and Take them – them being weapons).  However, the Spartans also fought with their male lovers, which runs in opposition of mainstream America’s concept of Greek society. It may be worth noting that Abrams did not publish this under their ComicArts imprint.

This book can create an interest in history, biography, or the American Revolution, and be a good starting point for future reading.  As in other Revolutionary War comics (Rebels from Vertigo and U.S. the graphic novel come to mind), it is a bit muted in colors, as though the past was a less vivid place. There may be some issues marketing it towards teens, beyond the obvious one, as there are a couple of swear words.  There is no gratuitous nudity, which does not detract from the story, but some will no doubt still find it offensive, in the way they might object to Maus.  Any historical-based book should have a bibliography for reference, and it would benefit this book as well.  These are minor issues.  In all, it is a good starting point into the lives of the “Founding Fathers,” glaring issues and all. 

 

Book review: J. Andrew Deman – The Claremont Run: Subverting Gender in the X-Men - a review by James Willetts

J. Andrew Deman, The Claremont Run: Subverting Gender in the X-Men, Austin: University of Texas Press, 2023. https://utpress.utexas.edu/9781477325452/

 reviewed by  James Willetts

                 It’s rare that a work of comics criticism emerges that boasts both academic bonafides and the promise of cross-over appeal for general audiences of comics readers. The Claremont Run has the potential to be that, thanks to author J. Andrew Deman’s popular Twitter (now X) account – @ClaremontRun – which spent the past few years analyzing X-Men comics and became a critical part of both comics fandom and public scholarship on the platform. Boasting an introduction from Jay Edidin, the co-host of podcast Jay and Miles X-Plain the X-Men, Deman’s book is positioned squarely as a potential crossover work combining criticism with wider comic book audience appeal. As such it treads a difficult line between being engaging for those who are approaching it as fans of the source material, and those looking for deeper scholarly analysis on Chris Claremont’s time as lead writer on the X-Men comics. Fortunately, Deman is more than up to the task, presenting a rich dive into Claremont’s legendary run on the X-Men that will prove valuable for casual fans and academic audiences alike.

                 At the heart of this is Deman’s engaging prose and clear love for the subject matter. These allow him to move effortlessly back and forth between explanatory close readings of X-Men storylines and deeper dives into the technical craftsmanship of Claremont’s work. Deman utilizes a mixed-methods research methodology in order to bring in quantitative data to guide his readings and research, examining the ways in which Claremont presents characters, and exploring questions of team dynamics, changing representation, and portrayals of gender within the X-Men. This methodology adds what Deman refers to as a “holistic, evidence-based perspective,” missing from most examinations of Claremont’s work. Covering almost 200 issues of Uncanny X-Men across sixteen years, Deman’s methodology analyzes a vast range of metrics. This includes everything from the percentage of times characters appear on covers of issues they appear in (showing that Storm, Wolverine and Cyclops were the characters most likely to appear) to the number of times characters interact with one another and in what contexts. Interesting enough alone, this data-led approach allows Deman to make claims about commercial and storytelling concerns that might otherwise be overlooked.

                Indeed, Deman explores some intriguing – and often surprising – avenues of research. The Claremont Run demonstrates that Cyclops, for instance, is a character who shows remarkable and consistent growth over the course of the Claremont run, developing into a character with both internal and external emotional depth. Under Claremont’s pen, Cyclops is thus one of the most physically expressive characters on the X-Men, despite a reputation for being stoic and closed-off. This is supported by evidence, thanks to the quantitative base of Deman’s research. A key benefit of this is that it allows Deman to push back against close readings which might otherwise approach characters based upon their broader histories. Deman is careful to note that because these characters operate in a shared universe, characterization is typically reverted to the most well-established archetype under other writers. By treating Claremont’s run as a singular piece of work, however, Deman demonstrates an impressively ambitious and cohesive set of story-arcs. He argues that Claremont’s work was defined by arcs like the Dark Phoenix Saga; “massive and ambitious storyline” (27) which formed a collective story told over dozens of issues.

While much academic scholarship on Claremont’s work has dwelled on the “Claremont women” – the strong, independent female characters that defined much of his run – less attention has been paid to Claremont’s male characters. Deman rectifies this, devoting the latter half of the book to an examination of the varied ways in which Claremont portrays masculinity, including the paradigmatic shift of Cyclops from patriarchal leader to supporting character in the stories of Storm and Jean Grey, to the hypermasculinity of Wolverine, and the emasculation of Alex Summers/Havok.

Deman’s work thus adds an important inflective to conventional narratives of gender and sexuality in X-Men comics. These typically dwell upon Jean’s journey, or the sapphic undertones present in Storm’s relationships with other women, or the importance of a teenage Jewish girl, Kitty Pryde, for expanding the readership. While these aspects are acknowledged in The Claremont Run, they are presented as both significant moments in their own right, but also as part of a broader examination of the ways in which Claremont undermined and subverted ideas of masculinity, femininity, sexuality, and gender roles.

The Claremont Run thus stands as an excellent extension of existing scholarship and a critical addition to the canon of Claremont studies. As a thin monograph it’s not comprehensive – there is still much to be said about how other X-Men characters are presented – but it’s an admirably thorough job in regard to the characters it does cover and is sure to be successful in expanding the field of comics criticism to a wider audience.

Editor's note: We'll be running two reviews of this book on the blog, as one of the editors (ok it was me) assigned it twice. However, I think there is enough room in the field for multiple reviews of the growing literature. 

IJOCA wants you! to help celebrate its 25th anniversary

 

 

INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF COMIC ART

John A. Lent

Founding Publisher/Editor-in-Chief

669 Ferne Blvd., Drexel Hill, PA 19026, U.S.A.

Tel:  (610) 622-3938    Email:  jlent@temple.edu

www.ijoca.net

 

PRESS RELEASE

 

November 14, 2023

 

The International Journal of Comic Art ("IJOCA") celebrates its twenty-fifth anniversary with Volume 25, Number 2, now in preparation. At the time of its first number in 1999, it was the only academic journal on comic art, preceded by INKS, which had folded, though later revived. IJOCA continues to be the oldest, continuously-published comic art journal.

 

Remaining independent of established journal publishers and academic institutions for funding and the tainted, conglomerate-owned peer review system for evaluation, IJOCA takes pride in not having been hemmed in by a prescribed quota of pages per issue, a limited number of illustrations, or long publication delays caused by peer reviewing.

 

The journal already has published about 1,470 articles with a total of 30,600 pages, encompassing 35 symposia on varied topics, in addition to approximately 300 each of book and exhibition reviews, all the time, keeping to its mission of being encyclopedic and interdisciplinary.

 

Quality, innovativeness, and variety have marked IJOCA's history. Most of the world's leading comic art researchers have published in IJOCA; on many occasions, the journal was the first to introduce topics, never shied away from broaching topics perhaps off-limits in other periodicals, and varied content on all aspects of comic art.

 

As we celebrate our quarter century, we invite comments from those familiar with IJOCA, to be included in Vol. 25, No. 2. Thank you.

 

And, our gratitude for all your support.

 

John A. Lent

Founder/Publisher/Editor-in-Chief

International Journal of Comic Art