In previous episodes: Mandorlaman spends a few months abroad and his return home he meets a montonazo accumulated comics. Disciplined compliance viñetera days reading, try to catch up and report their impressions in this blog.
not get it.
but persists in the effort, and though it might give the impression that since his return has only been reading American comics (see examples a , two, three , four , five and six ), it is not. As shown in this post will serve, where comics of diverse styles and themes are piled by the summary view that all come from France.
Let it, and not to delay the unpleasant things, start with the worst. In fact, God Himself (Nonsense, 2010), Marc-Antoine Mathieu, is not as bad as it seems, not even as bad as I was told. Yes, it's stale, eighties and more pretentious than The Sandman bound in leather, but Mathieu meets minimal narrative skill make, despite all the times that one falls off the book away, he still desire to make the effort to bend down to pick it up. Yes, the picture is vaguely reminiscent of the great Daniel Torres circa The Eighth Day, and the story is a matted version of La tournée God of Jardiel Poncela (just recently reissued by Blackie Books cover by Jonathan Miller), a true comedy , or funny, not like this, but ... will finally think I could have been worse.
Compliments to the unpleasant duties, let us joyful things: Friendship close (Diabolo, 2010), Bastien Vives. Yes, all who read Mandorla and discussions on this comic ago months, but now I'm off and I read it in the perspective of distance, without the anger of having to give my opinion before anyone else. In other words, coldly. And coldly say that if I fell under the spell of chlorine taste and In my eyes, close Amistad has left me stunned. The best of the three, by far, and it is clear that this kid has a talent that grows before our eyes. For me, this comic is large in the small gestures that come to play, gestures that are outside the normal scope of registration of comics, and that put him more in the vein of realism of the cinematography. That is, his characters are living beings, broadcasting in his breathing and his batting more than they can pass the best organized and written script in the world. I think Dash Shaw would kill to be as sensory as you live and get it so smoothly. Vivès travels to the bottom of masculinity with Fellini's own accuracy (I may come to mind for that reason I use unique Italian names for the characters), leaving only to give up and wait to see where he goes, how far. It may raise reasonable fear of being alive is lost in its success and end up as geeks love supermodels illustrator, portrait of a society mushy Calvin Klein ad. Others have been passed, Look at Manara. But it is fair to say that the repertoire of wimps / as gorgeous / as who populate his comics, and especially this one, "has meaning today for what you are telling now.
After the excitement that I was reading close friendship, I faced the second volume of For Empire, entitled Women (Diabolo, 2010), work done with Merwan Vivès with mixed feelings. For a hand, wanted-needed-more Vivès. For another, the first volume of the series seemed to me, speaking clearly, a world-class truño. Smug, unreadable and boring, almost had me doubting the capacity of the small wonder "(blame it all out Merwan was too easy). Well, I do not know if it was because I was still intoxicated by close friendship, but for the rule II seemed fantastic, light years from the first volume. Much more clear and concise, with an address and a personal style more mature, no nonsense exhibitionists, unpretentious of dazzling, concentrated on telling what who wants to tell and to tell the real thing, I returned to the last-but-recent golden age of nouvelle bd , when David B., and Blain, Sfar, partners or individually, but we were offered modern and classic series Hiram Lowatt and Placido , Socrates or semi-dog Isaac the Pirate and assured us more than what we have given then, he has been letting us hang with them all. For the Empire II renewed those promises and add some (I swear I've seen shadows even Breccia), we'll see how many plays in his third and final installment.
I'm already in the throes of the post of "sequels were good" (or third or fourth), also known as the best is as follows. One of the biggest hits of 2009 (at least among the critics) was of Winshluss Pinocchio. Well, I declare myself immune to it and now I will not go into details, but I liked it, despite all emperfumado came to like it. But, ours did not work. And now comes the last Smart Monkey (The Dome, 2010), Winshluss, with a much more modest housing, and I happened tit reading. Here, unlike Pinocchio , yes I see a great visual storyteller exhibited (the comic is dumb, except for an epilogue, by the way completely expendable) that Disney fantasies smeared with mud from the classic underground comix and renews us the eternal career of Coyote and the Roadrunner, but reversing the terms. That would probably be a crap (who wants to identify with the triumphs ready always?) But was saved because a letter Winshluss winner to finish off a final very bad temper. Very funny and very smart, should have heard of him more than I've heard, that's nothing. Maybe because I do not hear well, listen.
Another improved return: Sandcastle (Astiberri, 2010), and Pierre Oscar Frederik Peeters Lévy. I confess antifa (not masked) Peeters. From blue pill to Pachyderm through RG (what I liked about him, along with that of the plane) and Lupus provided I found more bark than bite. And that insufferable affectation to force the special gesture and revive the spirit of Alex Raymond for modern styling that comes to your ecstasy in the Pachyderm irritating frankly makes me nervous. Well, lo Sandcastle has all that and more and yet, it works. Nevertheless, it has weight and it makes sense, transmit and there is a feeling that, under the artful tricks, the authors really do have something to say. No need to decrypt the key, just knowing that the code contains a message, although we can not read it (in fact, always better not to read) . It is not only harmonious noise. I do not know if this effect is the result of a step of maturity Peeters, co-author of the influence of Pierre Oscar Lévy or that I was silly when I read it and I felt fine, but my friend, then left me waiting to see how it looks through the following curve. Curious, do less.
Of course, the titles had accumulated during my absence one of Trondheim and a Sfar, because, in any given period of six months during the last four years, Spain has always been published at least one title of Trondheim and Sfar one, and usually some more, especially, and increasingly the latter. The temptation is to talk more about this phenomenon of repeated publication of these authors' own works. Ie: their own productivity threatens to devour their production, as paradoxical as it may seem. That temptation is short as I start reading My shadow in the distance (Nonsense, 2010), Lewis Trondheim, the fourth volume of the series and The trifles. I think this series is, right now, what I like about what has Indeed Trondheim. And besides, I think every time I like. And no, not that I'm old. I have always been fascinated by the ability to turn on narrative-in magic, in entertainment, as tiny, banal and everyday. And nobody does it as well as Trondheim. Because in their tiny historietitas a page, which will inadvertently chaining in this great story without a story that resembles both our lives, not looking for epiphany Trondheim, emotion, mood or apology. Trondheim, we might say, it seeks, finds. And what we found falls on the full weight of lightness.
The old days. The king does not kiss (Ponent Mon) by Joann Sfar, is, meanwhile, another of the many titles that this contemporary phoenix mills every so often throws at us. And it very well, and until BENONE, full, as always, ideas and dialogue, situations and characters that will dazzle with their wit and originality. But reading it has happened to me a curious thing: I did not care. I did everything exactly the same, and I started to see less of the characters and situations and I started to see more wit Sfar and Sfar himself as if he were in front, like an apparition, standing in front of me and reading my comic book like a story and smiling pleased to see that I was fascinated or interested or captivated. Pleased with himself, or so it seemed. I fear that Sfar is a dialogue that Moebius to the drawings, and fall into the same evil incontinence, sustained genius (unsustainable), the overwhelming flood of unfiltered creativity. It is as if Sfar started writing-drawing from the top left of the page and continue to the bottom right without planning what you will do in the next bullet, and on and on until you run out of inspiration, he forces and last call you for tea. And when it runs out of paper, send the package to press and readers to distinguish the good from the bad, as God will distinguish the righteous from the unrighteous. While just read an album of Sfar, he's probably finished drawing three. It's a scary thought, right? Well, then how much more frightening to think that any of those three still one of the five series that has started and left hanging? I do not know, with all my respect, admiration and affection for this guy, one of the greatest of our time, sometimes I'm a bit with the desire to say, "Cut off a bit, Joann ..."
See? Here if I fell into temptation.
Finally, the coda, or epilogue to the post auction takes her something that fits me well with no speech, so I put it here goop because, well, at last After all is French, right? Practitioners horror (Stephen Bernard, 2010), Pierre La Police is a roll crazy, absurd story in spurts, which is so funny how as the what, ie the pace and tone as they say, and where the word hits the drawing to explain what is inexplicable, because it really has no explanation. Absurd humor, well, like a prolonged greguería an idiot would make sense and do not do more than increasingly muddy. And made me laugh out loud a few times, because surprisingly, you silly loose so great and so unexpected that applaud the bullfighter, he stops for a moment, greet, and then return to do a somersault over the bull's ridiculous. Because the bullfighter is not those who kill, is a bullfighter clown, and you just end the book and you say: "What a nonsense." And again: "Let's see when I take a while to re-read it." In short, Mortadelo for intellectuals, if it has not been invented ...
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