Tag Archives: Books

March 1, 2025 · 11:00 am

Surrealism, Bugs Bunny, and the Blues by Franklin Rosemont book review

Surrealism, Bugs Bunny, and the Blues: Selected Writings on Popular Culture. Franklin Rosemont. Editors Abigail Susik. Paul Buhle. PM Press. 368pp. 2025. $26.95
The art of the essay provides a platform for writers to share their subject and perhaps a bit about their worldview. We read essays all the time, usually as reviews, mainly on books, movies and music. And there are notable collections such as Pauline Kael’s oeuvre. A writer who likes to write such essays tends to like a lot of things and Franklin Rosemont (1943-2009) was no exception. Rosemont was passionate about the masses, mass media and how it all interconnected. In this collection, the reader is swept up by Rosemont’s thoughts and vivid writing on the inclusive power of entertainment, particularly, cinema, comics, Surrealism, and popular music.
Beginning in the 1960s, and for the next thirty some years, Rosemont wrote and edited for progressive magazines, the two main ones being Cultural Correspondence (1975-1983) and Radical America (1967-1999). It seems only natural that Rosemont made connections with the Left, especially the Labor movement, and the democratic nature of mass entertainment. Anyone is free to enjoy it, to contribute to it, to be transformed by it. As I read one essay after another, I was moved by the cumulative effect of Rosemont’s arguments, his deep belief that everyone has a place at the cultural table.

“The Dream That Came True,” by Dust Wallin, One Big Union Monthly, May 1920.

 

Mad Magazine, May 1, 1954. Basil Wolverton. As subversive as he needed to be.

The more I read, the more I gave myself over to the people power theme in these essays. It certainly fits in well with Rosemont’s writing on cartoonists for Wobbly newspapers, like Industrial Worker (1909-1931). But can one be certain that Basil Wolverton (Mad Magazine, 1950s) was so closely aligned with the proletariat, as Rosemont seems to imply in another essay? Well, maybe so but you just never know for sure. The greatest satirists will leave you wondering which side they’re on, if any. Of course, one can argue that anything unusual in the 1950s potentially carried subtext. It is a different case with the Surrealist movement which, beginning with its founder, Andre Breton, made clear it was indeed an anti-fascist movement. It’s interesting to consider Surrealism’s history, starting in 1924 and into the 1950s. What began as an art and political movement, in response to the aftermath of World War I, was constantly pushing against authority. In this context, it is not surprising to bring in the subject of anarchists. One of Rosemont’s most insightful essays discusses how the anarchist political and philosophical movement, focused on the viability of stateless societies, came to be maligned in the United States and caricatured as bomb-toting terrorists.
It’s the 1920s, the era of silent movies, where I will conclude my review. If we are looking for connective tissue to Rosemont’s writings, we need look no further than dreams. It is in the land of dreams, after all, that we can all indulge our most subversive desires. We can all return to our youthful ambitions of leading the charge in the subculture! It is the world of silent movies, with its play of light and shadow and uncanny expression that we enter a netherworld closely aligned with our own private slumberland. In this world, such figures as Buster Keaton, the Great Stone Face, reign supreme. No wonder such a world would utterly fascinate Rosemont and lead to some of his most compelling writing. Here is an excerpt:
These two films (Sherlock Jr., 1924; Cameraman, 1928) best exemplify Keaton’s revolutionary/poetic worldview. When he passes through the looking-glass, he is not content merely to see what is on the other side: he braves his way through a whole succession of looking-glasses, each behind the other, and each reflecting only the meagerest hint of what we call “the real.” And what motive could possibly underlie such feverish wanderings back and forth through the interpenetrating spheres of the pluriverse? The answer is crystal clear: Keaton’s audacity is in the service of sublime love. His agility is always radiant with a lover’s grim determination. There is no risk that he will not take for the woman he loves. Only Buster Keaton, moreover, can sustain a single kiss for two years (The Paleface, 1921).
We can always return back to Keaton, with that iconic poker face, champion of subversion but always leaving you to wonder as to what side he’s on, if any. When I simply consider Keaton’s artistic considerations, I feel confident he was seeking a more universal tone with whatever he did. Let his movies speak for him, he would say. Ah, there’s that one scene with Keaton (Cops, 1922) when he takes a bomb, by then popularly accepted as the symbol for the anarchist or, more plainly, widespread mayhem, uses it to light his cigarette, and then throws it back to the police. A great political statement? Hmm, how about just a funny visual prank? The Great Stone Face would never tell.
Like any great collection of essays, there is something for everyone in this book. Give yourself over to the vast array of subjects discussed here, and you’ll be the richer for it. I can imagine Rosemont going from one cultural signpost after another and reaching his own conclusions such as embracing Bugs Bunny as a folk hero for the masses. Well, more than fair enough. And he takes it one step further and implicates Elmer Fudd. Again, more than fair enough, as well as relevant for today. Yes, be wary of the Elmer Fudds of the world, those who only think in terms of transactions. The Fudds of the world are the conformists and the sell-outs. But, with will and determination, the Bugs Bunnies of the world will prevail!

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February 10, 2025 · 10:30 am

Anders Nilsen Interview on TONGUES and the Art of Comics

Anders Nilsen is on a quest as a comics artist to deliver his vision as well as he can to the reader. That’s saying a lot when it comes to Nilsen as anyone who is familiar with his work can attest. The new collection of his work is Tongues, Volume 1, published by Pantheon Books, a division of Penguin Random House, pub date is Mar 11, 2025  and you can pre-order. My review here. Once you enter this book, from the first page onward, you are transported to a sort of netherworld that leads you from one realm to the next, the worlds of gods and humans. Questions regarding existence and divinity are asked and answered as a common exchange.
We ran into a bit of technical difficulty and naturally opted to pursue an email interview. Basically, this is one of those interviews that allows for so much latitude in regards to approach given all the material that can potentially be covered. For this one, I thought it might make sense to do a bit of comparison between the two big books in Nilsen’s career with greatest overlap. And so we came up with what could have been over an hour of chat, perhaps over a couple of cups of coffee, distilled down to what you read below. I don’t take anything for granted and I’m very grateful for the time and care involved in Anders’s thoughtful responses.

Page excerpt from Tongues.

HENRY CHAMBERLAIN: Thank you, Anders, for doing this interview. I can only imagine things remain chaotic, one way or another, for everyone in Los Angeles.
ANDERS NILSEN: Yeah, it’s been a weird time. My wife and I did actually evacuate briefly. We lost power and internet on the second day of the fires, and then a new blaze popped up that evening in the Hollywood Hills, which is only a couple of miles away from us. So we went to stay with a friend in the far south end of the city for three nights until the power came on again. In the grand scheme of things it was a small disruption, but it’s definitely a weird feeling to have to decide in an hour or two what stuff you value most in the world. And our cats were very grumpy about it.

Page excerpt from Big Questions.

At the time of this interview, we’re about a month before the release of Tongues, Volume 1 (03/11/2024). Looking back at the time of the release of your other work of comparable size and scope, the collected Big Questions (08/16/11), how would you compare these two milestones in your career?
They are very different moments for me. Big Questions wasn’t the first book I published, but it was the project that got me started being serious about making comics, and I think of it as being my, like, 12 year graduate school in comics. That’s how I learned how the medium worked, basically, and how I figured out how I wanted to approach it. You can see it in the book itself – the early pages are sort of roughly drawn – partly on purpose, but not entirely. I was figuring things out as I went. Tongues on the other hand felt like “okay, now I know what I’m doing, more or less, here’s a chance to start out with something like command of my medium. I’ve still learned a ton working on this book, but I was a much more capable artist from the start of it.
Tongues is also a culmination for me. Every other book I’ve done has grown out of small experiments and messing around in my sketchbooks. Tongues didn’t. It grew out of those other finished works. There’s a way in which it feels like everything I’ve done in comics to this point has led me to this project. Everything has built up to this. So that’s also very different.

Poor Prometheus.

Prometheus is a titan in Greek mythology who commited the sin of helping (or creating) humanity with the gift of fire (knowledge). This provides a jumping off point for Tongues as you have a Prometheus story that continues and branches off from the original. You explicitly have humanity gain the gift of language; and you have a Prometheus moving beyond his imprisonment from the gods. Would you share with us a bit about how you play and interact with the story of Prometheus?
Sure. I love that story. I know the basic version from reading that mythology as a kid, pouring over it. So the basic outline is sort of burned into my head. I did a short story several years back (in Rage of Poseidon) playing with the idea of his ‘eternal’ punishment extending into the present, as it reasonably would. And it touched on his relationship with the eagle that is sent every day to eat his liver. The eagle is his tormentor, but it’s also his only friend, the only other mind he interacts with. And in my work birds usually talk. So I was interested in that relationship. What would it be like? What a weird tension, right? Full of possibilities. And his traditional role as creator of humanity also allows me to get into human nature and evolution which I have a longstanding interest in. And then when I actually read more deeply, Prometheus’ story only got more interesting. Our basic conception of the story comes from the playwright Aeschylus in 480 BCE (or thereabouts). But his play, Prometheus Bound is only one of a trilogy – the other two are lost, we don’t even know if Prometheus Bound is the first or the last in the series. They are very sketchily understood from other contemporary writing, but again, what a great sandbox to get to play in, and to get to fill in the blanks with my own bastardized version. And then, lastly, there’s a tension with Zeus, the king of the gods, who arranges the punishment. Prometheus literally translates as “forethought” – he can see into the future, at least some parts of it. And so he knows which of Zeus’s offspring will come to overthrow him, and when – as happened to his father and grandfather before him. But he hates Zeus, and refuses to tell him, despite being tortured for eternity. So… yeah. Great material to muck around with.
If I tried to give a brief explanation/comparison of Big Questions (658 pages) and Tongues (368 pages), I would say that one book has the creatures of the gods looking up, trying to make sense of the gods; and the latter book has the gods looking down, trying to make sense of the creatures. Did things just work out that way or do you think your ongoing storytelling was leading in that direction?
Wow, that’s great, I actually hadn’t thought about that inversion in that way, but yes, that completely makes sense. Although in a way in Tongues, by the present, the humans have, in a way, surpassed the gods. Though only in a way. But yes, I think both books are trying to play with, to conceptualize a relationship to divinity, to the universe, to the very strange fact of being alive in the world. And it only makes sense to come at it from both directions, eventually. And I guess in Tongues, one of my favorite characters is the Eagle. And she’s trying to understand both.
Of course, Tongues has been brewing and evolving, in one form or another, over many years, back to, in small part, Dogs and Water (2005) and, more explicitly in Rage of Poseidon (2013). Would you share with us a bit on the building blocks that you were working with back then and how they proved to be part of something bigger?
The connection with Dogs and Water is a good story. So D+W was my first published book, and out of everything I’ve done, for some reason it has had the most random interest in the film rights. For several years after it was published I would get random emails from rock stars or people in film about turning it into a movie. Usually it would be one or two emails and then they would disappear and the idea wouldn’t go anywhere. But in 2009 or so a Canadian production company got in touch and it got far enough that I agreed to write a script for a feature. The book is honestly not that substantial, so it involved adding some new material. There’s one scene in the book where the main character, a young man with a teddy bear strapped to his back, lost in the middle of nowhere, is passed on the road by a sort of military caravan. These Canadian filmmakers suggested expanding that scene, maybe having one truck stop and having some sort of interaction. Which I was interested in. So I wrote that scene into the script. Well, the movie went nowhere, but that scene stuck in my head. I really liked it. And disliked that it would never see the light of day. So years later when I was beginning to think about a new long-form graphic novel I decided to incorporate that scene. It’s the first thing in Tongues that I actually drew. It’s funny, though, it’s the same character, but in a sort of alternate world. And the bear on his back is not the same bear. 
Part of assembling the elements of Tongues was very much a process of throwing obstacles down in my path to just see what would happen. I was specifically interested in dumping this D+W thing in with Prometheus, and human nature and the tensions of the middle east, etc etc. They didn’t really make sense together, but it felt like something interesting might arise out of that tension.
Incidentally a short film was eventually made from the final quarter or so of Dogs and Water by a director named Randy Krallman. But again, basically no one has ever seen it. It’s beautifully shot. But will probably never be seen, sadly.
Reading Tongues is such a pleasure. It is an understatement to say that it brings together all of your strengths in comics art. Looking over pages, I want to point out a few like the two-page spread (p116-117) which depicts Astrid and her father walking around the mall and engaged in a very serious conversation. Recently, I stumbled upon the comics term, the De Luca Effect. Is that familiar to you? I’ve discovered that some of the greatest cartoonists using this technique are not familiar with the term. Basically, it’s a way to have one (or more) characters inhabiting different moments in the same space. My guess is that this is simply something that emerged during your process. In fact, your use of it includes “panels,” which technically would not be used in this technique. All very theoretical stuff!
Oh, that’s cool, no I don’t think I’ve ever heard that term before. But I love doing that in certain places. It feels like it breaks up time in a slightly different way than normal panelling. Slows it down, or makes it slightly quieter, or more meditative, potentially. Although I’ve probably used it in other, more kinetic ways, too.
That brings me to your own very distinctive use of panels. Heck, I would call them the Nilsen Effect! Would you share with us a bit about your use of polygons and the like?
Sure, yeah, panelling was something I was very much interested in playing with in Tongues. I’m interested in panels in comics as ‘frames of experience’. So, like, the structure and arrangement of panels influences the way a reader reads a scene. And how the scene feels This is obvious in a way, but it’s not really exploited that much. Regular squares or rectangles are an easy way to break up action, but they also have an effect on the reader. In Big Questions I found that regular, repetition of evenly spaced square panels helped create a regular rhythm which was useful for, say, conversations between two birds, where there wasn’t a lot of action. They were great for that. In D+W I did the whole book without any panel borders. And that had a very different, very particular effect on the feel of the story. It emphasized the open blankness of that landscape, and it had an effect of making it feel (I think) a little less like your focus was being dictated by the author. It felt more open. For Tongues I wanted to try some other stuff. In particular I wanted it to feel like the structure of each page was almost an object unto itself. And to echo the unfolding feel of the ‘magic cube’ in the story. This becomes more explicitly about the structure of reality when Astrid has her ‘audience’ in the underground pit and the dream/hallucination that follows. And then there’s the Prisoner’s Dream sequence at the beginning of the book. One reviewer described it as the ritual reading of entrails. Which I love. I hadn’t thought of that, but I wanted it to feel like a kind of magical ritual state. And also like a dream. The framing of panels with animal forms, or the plant forms of Prometheus’ ‘garden’ feels to me a little like framing lyrics with music in a song. It’s a literal marrying of two different sides of the brain in that context. Which automatically is going to deepen things and give it texture and tone and weirdness. It’s a tool.
If you will bear with me, I also wanted to point out the fascinating progression of your comics art in Big Questions. You reach a point, where you start to make use of the two-page spread and never look back. I hope that makes sense. I’m just saying that, at some point in your evolving as a comics artist, you saw the full potential of the two-page canvas and made it your own. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.
That’s cool, yeah, I like to throw in a good two-page spread now and then. I feel like I should be more conscious than I am of the spread as a unit, rather than the single page. Because that is the visual whole that the reader encounters when they turna page, really. But it’s also good to be able to have the two-page spreads break up the rhythm of the sequence of pages. To establish rhythms and then occasionally break them. Just one more thing to play with.
Also, it appears that you made use of an original page size format that was about twice or less bigger than the printed page. Your originals are (or were) on 11″x14″ bristol. Do you still use that size or have you bumped up to something bigger? I noticed that, as you evolved, your lettering got a little smaller while the compositions and characters appear to take up more space than can easily accommodate your original page size unless, of course, you simply refined your process.
That’s incredibly perceptive. Yeah, my originals are bigger now. The first issue of Tongues was a little all over the place, but at this point my original pages are 12.5″ x 17″. So about 150% of the printed page. Roughly. Sometimes the page has to get expanded a bit. As for the lettering… don’t look too closely. The size changes a bit here and there. There are some things I could probably be more systematic about. But… maybe some day.
Another process question I must ask is all the production upgrades you made in Tongues, compared with Big Questions. That said, once you catch your stride in Big Questions, the improvement is apparent. Just the inclusion of those amazing geometric patterns alone indicates more and more dazzling art up ahead. And then you take things further with your own distinctive use of color. Not only is it a sophisticated color palette but you push boundaries, as on page 133, daring to have black text rest on such a dark purple background–and still be fully readable. I can only imagine that your own fine arts background compelled you to take on the role of a colorist, and at such a high level of complexity. What can you tell us about your coloring and production work?
Yeah, when I was getting started I had friends ask why I wanted to use color. Like, what’s the point? And… I don’t know, partly I just wanted to do something I hadn’t done before. And I did go to school for painting once upon a time, like you say. And color can convey a lot (obviously). I love doing the color, but it is also a TON of work. I’ve had folks helping out for most of the book, but that can get very expensive. It’s part of the reason I have only been able to do like 50 pages a year. But yes, I love the way I can suggest light and atmosphere, darkness and backlighting. It adds so much. And some of the artists that I admire most have been great colorists. Moebius, Herge, Chris Ware, CF, Sarah Glidden. After Tongues is done I might never do a full-color comic again. But I’m in it for now, more or less happily. 
You have said that you had to make a choice between “artist” and “cartoonist” and you chose the latter. That said, I wonder if you’ve come around to accepting yourself simply as an artist. Whatever the case, your work is extraordinary and you have every right to embrace the role of artist.
Thanks. Yeah, I do think of myself as both. I probably use the words depending on the context and who I’m talking to. Or who I’m trying to get paid by, maybe. I definitely see what I do as wider than just comics, but it’s the comics world that embraced my work early on, and I’m very happy with that label, and being connected to that tradition. But I also think of myself as a storyteller and a book designer and a drawer and… probably a few other things. 
I would add that I understand the hesitancy in calling oneself an artist. I also come from a fine arts background and I also reached a point where I needed to seriously pursue comics. And yet I still love to draw and paint, as I’m sure you do. We are both of a certain vintage where a fine arts major was the only game in town, no comics diplomas, and I think that’s all just fine. Who knows, perhaps younger art students will be secretly creating paintings outside of their comics curriculum! I believe things have sort of come full circle with the comics medium elevated well into the “art-academic complex,” as I sometimes call it.
Yeah, comics had definitely not penetrated academia when I was a student. I had to push upstream a bit to do them. Then when I taught for a couple of years I sometimes wished that my students weren’t quite so focussed on a single medium. And I feel the same way about the publishing industry at times, too, or maybe the market. But the world is what it is, and I’m happy to have found a place in it from which to occasionally push against boundaries.
I will ask just a couple of more questions and please feel free to add anything I might have missed. Essentially, what I get from Tongues is that the gods usually are not concerned with the humans unless the humans make themselves an inconvenience or outright danger. For me, the whole book is operating in this sort of timeless god-time. Of course, the “present time” rears its head, as in the mention of smartphones and social media.
Figuring out how to deal with the passage of deep time has been one of the really fun problems to play with in this book, for sure, specifically Prometheus’ long sleep. There’s definitely a certain suspension of disbelief I am asking of my readers in that regard. Our brains aren’t really built for geologic time, of course, or even the sweep of human history, which is a tiny fraction of it. Its almost a kind of absurdity to try and make a graphic novel about such things. But it’s been fun to try.
I realize that the evolution of the whole Tongues narrative has been years in the making. Are you satisfied with it so far and can see pursuing it further? There are certainly numerous reasons to continue, and at the pace you’ve been going too. That opens a whole discussion on creating work as a series. Basically, it seems the stage is set for you to do whatever works best for you.
Yeah, the story is only half done. Volume 2 is underway. So I’m committed to another few years, at least. Thankfully Pantheon has been very open to me self-publishing the individual issues as I go, which is a huge help. It’s such a lot of work, its good to break the deadlines up.
Lastly, as we embark on this year and beyond, with its many challenges, I find that seeking out the transcendent is a path that will recharge one with clarity and strength for the struggles ahead. If you would like to share any spiritual reflections, please feel free to do so.
Yeah, the next few years are going to be a lot. I don’t know that I have any special wisdom, but I’ve been paying attention to my breathing lately. Which is sometimes tremendously helpful. And I am very lucky to live near Griffith Park in Los Angeles. It’s a big semi-wilderness in the middle of the city. You can lose yourself there and cross paths with coyotes and deer and owls and crows. It’s a gift as far as I’m concerned. It has been a huge positive in my life, creative and otherwise. Watching the changes in light and weather and vegetation between day and night and season to season, feeling the deep quiet of the place… it helps make this insane world bearable for me. It’s finally been raining a bit here lately, after the fires. I’m excited to get to watch the park bloom and turn green again in the next week or so. I was up there last week after a difficult day and spent about 15 minutes watching two crows circle and chase one another in formation, continuously looping and surfing the updrafts. It was so beautiful to watch, and looked like such fun. I’m very grateful I have that.
Thank you!

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January 24, 2025 · 10:12 am

Kay Sohini interview: New York City and Beyond

Kay Sohini is an artist, writer and researcher. With this debut graphic memoir, This Beautiful, Ridiculous City, published by Ten Speed Graphic, Sohini provides a fun and highly accessible look at New York City from a number of vantage points–and it is even more than that (read my review). In this interview, we unpack as much as possible. Sohini is known for distilling complex subjects through the language of comics, a more precise and concise format that combines image and text. Sohini’s coming-of-age graphic memoir is a delight to read. It evokes an effortless grace but it is actually built upon a very sophisticated framework. Sohini, after all, holds a PhD in English. Her dissertation, focusing on the comics medium, was created as a comic book, her first foray into creating comics. Sohini’s essays and comics have appeared in The Washington Post and The Nib, among other places.

Moving from academic scholarship to general readership. Excerpt from Sohini’s PhD dissertation, Drawing Unbelonging.

You can say that This Beautiful, Ridiculous City is a transition for Sohini from the academic world to the world of general readership. In that regard, the book proves to be a success. The specificity of scholarly pursuits can certainly get bogged down in jargon and navigate within a more narrow viewpoint but readers must find out for themselves. In many cases, there is plenty of common ground to be found. I think the through line in Sohini’s work is a drive toward clarity, a heart-felt desire to share observations and insights. Isn’t that what we hope to find in our best reading experiences, especially in nonfiction?

Our conversation is easygoing. I do my best not to fall into just talking about New York City even though that is at the heart of Sohini’s book. As Sohini states: “This book is about a lot of things. At its core, it’s about literature and being starstruck about New York. But it is also about abuse, inequity and social commentary.” And how appropriate to have New York act as a sort of container for further discussion.

Excerpt from This Beautiful, Ridiculous City.

And so we engage in a good bit of shop talk as well as share a love for the Big Apple. I must say that this love of New York City hits me at my core. I created a graphic novel about New York City many years ago and the sentiments expressed in that work still hold true. I sort of stumbled into creating that work without much of any plan on how to promote it but definitely with a deep desire to bring it to life. And that’s the stuff that dreams are made of. That’s the stuff that fuels one’s love for New York. That’s, no doubt, the stuff that led Sohini to pursue her own love letter to New York City.

Enjoy the video interview and, as always, I welcome your support in the way of comments, views and Likes. I don’t know exactly how we are to resolve the current troubled times we face in detail but it will involve voting. Beyond that, we can do many things out in the community and we can support each other’s good work. With that in mind, I highly recommend that you seek out Sohini’s book which is about a lot of things, most notably at this crisis point, it is about an immigrant’s struggle to achieve the American Dream.

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January 21, 2025 · 9:40 pm

This Beautiful Ridiculous City by Kay Sohini book review

This Beautiful Ridiculous City. Kay Sohini. Ten Speed Press. 2025. 128pp. $24.99.

If you are a creative person, you have most likely fallen in love with New York City and perhaps that feeling has stayed with you. In a city with an endless amount of stories to tell, it seems that everyone who dares to dream of an artistic life, and has the means or sheer will to do so, has taken a bite out of the Big Apple. Kay Sohini, a talented artist-writer, presents her take on her own love affair with NYC in her debut graphic memoir, This Beautiful Ridiculous City. The title says it all. This is the city that never sleeps , an amazing amalgam of high and low culture along with manic highs and lows. Everyone has their story to tell about this quintessential metropolis and Sohini provides quite a distinctive visual narrative.

Sohini has a way of inviting the reader into her world that is sincere and authentic. I felt quite at home as Sohini leads the way, setting the tone by sharing about her love for New York: the sights and sounds; the artists and writers; the euphoric feeling of being there. This introduction dovetails into a look back at Sohini’s childhood and upbringing in the suburbs of Calcutta: a slower pace; a smaller scene. I think therein lies the conflict: a need by Sohini to seek greener pastures while also coming to terms with and honoring her family back home once she does leave for New York. It won’t be a spoiler to say that Sohini does ultimately find a balance. What transpires within this delightful book is an utterly genuine coming-of-age story with all the insights and epiphanies any reader could want.

This book is filled with page after page of essential information for anyone interested in visiting New York, or just curious about what makes a great city tick. This is also a compelling story about one young person’s journey of self-discovery. And there are wonderful extended moments when it all seems to coalesce. One such scene is a two-page spread that well represents the soul of the book: a mother and daughter conversation about food. Sohini explains that she was kept out of the kitchen as a child. Now, as an adult, she hungers for every recipe detail she can get from her mother.

Another two-page spread provides a delightful insider guide to the best kept secrets on where to find amazing Indian food but you’ll have to leave Manhattan to find it. In the end, life in the big city is made up of a vast array of struggles, failures and sublime victories. Who is to say just how great a victory a favorite restaurant can provide on any given day? Sohini will help you appreciate New York City with her crisp and thoughtful writing and drawing. This graphic memoir is truly a victory.

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January 12, 2025 · 11:00 pm

Tongues by Anders Nilsen graphic novel review

Tongues. Anders Nilsen. Pantheon. 2025. 368pp. $35.

Among the most anticipated works in comics for 2025, the collected Tongues (368 pages) by Anders Nilsen rises to the top. The other work by Nilsen that is similar in scope and content is the equally mammoth collected Big Questions (658 pages), published by Drawn & Quarterly in 2012. Both books are profoundly philosophical. While Big Questions is, more or less, pared down to focus on the entanglements of a few small creatures, Tongues bring in gods to ponder, and engage in, the fate of humanity. We may feel in our own time that we are at the mercy of the gods and so all the more reason to engage with this monumental work in comics.

Settling into this book, it charms you right from the very first page and I was instantly lost within its rhythms. While based upon three tales from Aeschylus, there is no need to fear any required prior knowledge. In fact, you may know more than you realize. Perhaps Leda and the Swan rings a bell. But, no matter. These are timeless, primal and utterly accessible stories. What does matter is simply allowing yourself to be swept away by Nilsen’s masterful storytelling: smartly-paced narrative inextricably linked to beautifully rendered artwork.

Nothing is quite right in Tongues. It is as if the world has been tilted off its axis just enough to cause recurring imbalance. The bad guys always have the upper hand and yet, as one god concludes, patience is a virtue. That is if you’re willing to wait around for at least a thousand years. Everything is relative. And so it goes as the narrative alternates between human scale and god scale. What is one death in the big scheme of things? And then another and another? One war bleeds into the next. Will a child lead the way? Ah, perhaps nothing so obvious. Again, it all comes back to the mysterious and enigmatic way this story unfolds.

Poor Prometheus.

Anders Nilsen’s career as an artist has been a gradual and steady progression. He first got on people’s radars in 2005 with his long-form comic, Dogs and Water. This was followed in 2007 with his heart-breaking account of the life and death of his partner, Cheryl Weaver, Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow. Look at the work going back to the early years and you find very simple drawing, even stick figure characters. The first section to his monumental Big Questions has its relatively rough patches with very simple drawings, yet always hinting at deeper sophistication. Today, Nilsen is at the very top, among the best artists working today, whatever the medium, without a doubt.

That brings us back to this latest book and Prometheus with his perpetual patience, sure that one day an eagle will suddenly tire of the daily punishment it has been tasked with of gutting him open and flying away with his liver. Specifically, Zeus punished Prometheus for giving humans the gift of fire. All very profound and fanciful stuff to be sure. Nilsen has an uncanny way of being able to evoke complexity, both human and godly, mired in a thousand contradictions. At his best, Nilsen manages to shed some light on the virtually incomprehensible. The fires raging in California can’t help but, at least for me, come to mind. Profound to the point of unbearable. Nilsen’s creative journey has been one of distilling the greatest pain and finding some artful consolation.

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January 2, 2025 · 8:48 am

BALD graphic novel review

The alopecia comic.

Bald.  text by Tereza Cecechova, art by Stepanka Jisbova. Translated from Czech by Martha Kuhlman. University Park: Penn State Press, Graphic Mundi imprint,  2024, $19.95.

Guest review by Paul Buhle

The spread of published graphic novels across the planet is already outperforming the expectations of a couple of decades ago, not to mention the volume of non-printed materials on the web. This volume can only continue, and perhaps marks the presence of a particular bent of a generation armed with skills in software and in need of self-expression.

Generalizations risk anything from mild inaccuracy to total idiocy. But the work of young to early middle age people, 20s to 40s, very often reveals the search for personal meaning. The world is falling apart, the future looks pretty grim, but it is more than possible to evaluate and re-evaluate interchanges of relationships, especially friendship and love. To suggest that women artists have a special interest in these areas is not to draw any firm conclusions but to note how frequently these topics turn up in the lists of bigger comic publishers like Fantagraphics. Adventures, including fantastic adventures that somehow still involve relationships in crucial ways, only reinforce the suggestion.

And then, there’s the medical angle. Comics about youngish people facing all kinds of physical problems, living through extended treatments for cancers in particular, open up comic art to the most intense personal examinations. These days, the details have become available and susceptible to pretty clear explanations. Perhaps the moral here is that people can live through assorted woes, thanks to advanced medical practices. Or perhaps the intensity of environmental stresses, not to mention the sinking job market/living conditions of the young in particular, make the medical angle more intense. “Living With Disease” might just be one of the central experiences of our time.

Bald involves a young woman’s experience and pursuit of strategies. She goes on a camping trip to Iceland with an attentive boyfriend, almost an ideal miniature love saga with fantasies of a future wedding—a story a little too perfect—when she observes that her hair is falling out. Here the narrative takes shape.

Much of the GN takes place in her search to understand the problem and various, posslbe solutions. Nobody quite knows what causes alopecia, loss of hair in part or enitrely, in assorted areas of the body or the entire body. And no one, apparently, understands how it may be cured, although there are many treatments, opening a great opportunity to spend a lot of money and be bitterly disappointed.

That Bald was originally published in the Czech Republic, and that the artist and writer seem to have spent most of their lives in Central Europe, seems to make no difference: they could be anywhere in Europe, Asia, Australia, Africa or in the Americas, without much altering the plot. That the experience of young women in many parts of the world is likely to similar tells us something about the issues of gender in today’s society. They are not being held in place anymore, and they are not overwhelmed by setbacks.

Thus our protagonist and her saga. Her boyfriend/lover is not always in the same geographical spot as her, but remains unformly supportive. He admits the situation will take some getting used to—and this is the closest he approaches anything like rejection. So she must solve the problems of workmates and social occasions.

Perhaps the worst is the casual but reasonable conclusion that a young person and especially a young woman without hair may be receiving chemotherapy for cancer. A certain telegenic, African American congresswoman of Massachusetts with the same ailment, Ayanna Pressley, may actually offer more accurate public perceptions for US audiences in particular. But the stereotype remains, and our heroine need to get past all this.

She is realistically, perceptively drawn trying all kinds of things but especially a variety of wigs, before realizing that the expense is ridiculous and she could use the  money better. She finds her narrative at a storytelling conference, and perhaps the real idea is that we learn in groups, especially learn how to accept ourselves. And this does not apply only to personal life: one of the supportive women’s comic art groups,  Laydees Do, offered her an opportunity to share experience after she attends the conference in Scotland where she gains some invaluable moral support. The artist herself has since helped organize such an artists’ group in Prague.

Bald is not an adventurous adventure. Or perhaps it is, or at least as adventurous as a princess in an ancient realm surrounded by dangers (and suitors), coming to realize herself, her destiny. Perhaps this is not even a young person’s story, as a balding critic writes.

Paul Buhle

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December 26, 2024 · 2:00 pm

ANATOMY OF COMICS book review

Anatomy of Comics. Damien MacDonald. Flammarion. 2022. $40.

This is a companion book to a touring exhibition honoring the comics medium from the La Caixa Foundation in Spain. I came across this a while back and I’d meant to write a piece about it. I was instantly drawn to the striking cover. If you’re a fan of comics, do you recognize the artist? Given the nature of pop culture and media, it doesn’t matter if this image was, at one point, in wider circulation. Today, it needs to fight for attention with everything else. This is, in fact, by world-renown comics artist Charles Burns. It was originally a silkscreen print published in a limited edition by l’A.P.A.A.R. in 1985 and printed by Frederic de Broutelles. It has graced the cover of Metal Hurlant (Issue #120, 1986) as well as Dope Comix, Juxtapoz and El Vibora. But, I think it’s safe to say, it has gained a new life as the cover to this collection of exemplary comics art. As I suggest, this work of art, alas, is not the Mona Lisa of comics (not in terms of wide recognition) but figures mostly within the world of the comics cognoscenti.

Anatomy of Comics (2022) and PeePee PooPoo #1 (2024).

So, I take a bit of issue with up-and-coming cartoonist Caroline Cash for taking this Burns work and making it her own, with a few of her own flourishes, for the latest issue of her comic book series. No doubt, it’s a very clever tribute but she provides no attribution. The average reader will simply assume it is her own work. And, sure, it has become a mantra to “steal like an artist” and perhaps Burns is okay with the homage. The longer view is this: an artist is always aiming for artistic integrity and that takes time, perhaps a lifetime, to truly find one’s way. That brings me right back to this collection of comics art that honors that creative process of finding one’s way.

Catalan cartoonist Ricard Opisso Sala (1880-1966).

The act of creating comics that will stand the test of time is not a sprint but a marathon. The name of this exhibition is “Comics, Dreams and History” and what it makes clear is that there’s no room for pretense, not when you’re creating dreams. Damien MacDonald, a cartoonist himself, provides five essays, or monographs, to accompany a mix of short notes on selected pieces in the show. MacDonald sets the tone by stating he’s taking on the role more of an avuncular guide than an academic.

Saint Winsor!

Winsor McCay, it is safe to say, has reached a special and undeniable immortality and so it’s no surprise to find him included, and celebrated, in this book. His work will forever be spoken in the same breathe with any dissertation on the comics medium. It’s interesting to note that there is barely any mention of Art Spiegelman. Many of the other all-stars make a splash in this book: Winsor McCay, R. Crumb, Jack Kirby, Milton Caniff, but no Spiegelman tribute. And perhaps this is an example of the fluctuating waves of the never-ending assessments still being made on a relatively new art form. Basically, I don’t think it’s a deliberate slight at all but it does go to show that there’s always room for rethinking until you finally reach a certain undeniable apex, such as Saint Winsor!

Spanish cartoonist Antonio Hernandez Palacios (1921-2000).

The one mention in the book of Art Spiegelman is worth a mention here and that is in regards to a manifesto that was signed by Art and other notable comics artists. The following appeared in 1973 in Short Order Comix #1:

“It is the artist’s responsibility to hate, loathe and despise–fromica! Comics must be personal. The artist must strive to create quality product. It is our fervent belief that certain comics should still be trees! It is the reader’s responsibility to understand the artist. It is also the artist’s responsibility to understand the artist! Swiping is bad, experimentation is good!”

Milton Caniff (1907-1988).

Since we’re dealing with quotes, let’s try another. This one is by Will Eisner and is also included in this book. Perhaps in a mix of honesty and self-deprecation, Eisner summed up the cartoonist’s lot this way:

“I was a frustrated writer, a frustrated painter. And here, for the first time, was this marvelous opportunity that happens to any creative person once in a lifetime. Suddenly, there appears a medium, a receptacle, that takes your inaptitudes in both fields, puts them together, and comes out with an aptitude.”

— Will Eisner

That brings to mind a similar quote by Charles Schulz, this one is not in this book but from an interview with journalist Michael Johnson. I recall reading another version of it somewhere else too, as it’s basically a stock answer. This is not something you’ll easily find referenced anymore. Schulz is now Saint Charles, after all.

“My life is a story of almosts. I am almost a writer and almost an artist, so I do this for a living.”

— Charles Schulz

The flame keeps flickering, in and out, until either it dies off or it shines on, depending upon who leaps in to advocate for a legacy. Young people promote other young people, from one generation to the next. Right or wrong, one’s peers always seem to be of utmost importance. Only time will tell. One star’s once bright future may face a correction, flicker out and evaporate. There was a time in the wilderness even for undisputed icons, from the Mona Lisa to The Great Gatsby. Perhaps this book’s greatest purpose is to bring back a relatively obscure work by Charles Burns by having it on its cover, a way to cast a spotlight on it. And then unexpected things happen: like a newcomer upon the scene sees it and takes that same image for her own purposes. So, not trying to step on anyone’s toes. This is a tricky business when it comes to creating images and worthy of further discussion, which is an ongoing exploration for us folk interested in the study of comics and actually making comics.

If you have read any book on the comics medium, then you go to the head of the class. This one I found refreshing in its conversational tone and decidedly European vantage point. It’s a good solid overview and MacDonald provides many interesting observations. He provides an extended relaxed style that he pursues to good use as when he tackles the subject of secret identities or the power of comics to inform. Someone new to comics will find this very helpful and there’s enough nuance to keep more serious readers engaged.

John Romita (b. 1930).

The main goal here is to appreciate the comics medium and get a sense of what it takes to create something as inventive and original as the frenzied character observing his own eyeball from deep within his own skull. Charles Burns was a plucky 30-year-old artist in 1985 when the art on the cover of this book was first published. Burns was well on his way and listening to something telling him to step on the gas and create mind-blowing comics. This book is for everyone who enjoys mind-blowing comics and aspires to create some of their own. Good luck! It won’t be easy but it is well worth the effort no matter how long it may take you.

Charles Burns with PeePee PooPoo #1.

But, hang on, we’re not done yet. I am not one to ever leave well enough alone in the pursuit of attempting to get the full picture. My guess was that Charles Burns was fine with Caroline Cash’s tribute. As the above photo demonstrates, the maestro is more than fine with it.

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December 17, 2024 · 7:00 pm

The Complete I, René Tardi, P.O.W. graphic novel review

The Complete I, Rene Tardi, P.O.W. (Fantagraphics, 2024, $99.99)

Guest Review by Paul Buhle

To say that Jacques Tardi is a major figure in comic art and in the development of contemporary comic art, its meaning and its expression, is insufficient. To many thoughtful readers,  Tardi has not only the brilliance of the artist but also the courage and resolve of the resister within a world where “resistance” is often described as futile and its activists are derided as a public embarrasment when not a menace.

There is something about Tardi’s work that is, for many readers including this one, deeply personal. CLR James, the great Pan African historian but also world-historic writer on the game of cricket, remarked that a good writer can say “it happened” but only a great writer (or artist) can say, “I see it, myself.” And make that claim credible. Again and again, Tardi shows us convincingly what he has seen and by doing so, why it is important. That the son appears always young while talking to the father in various stages of 1930s-40s life is a convention to make this personal story possible.

If another prefatory remark to a review of this trilogy does not overburden the reader, I would add that Tardi is the master of oral history, a “field” so recent that it has never reached academic respectability and so rooted in human history that it surely goes back to the earliest tribal communal expressions. The trilogy is an extended oral history, easily one of the first nonfiction efforts in comic form and almost certainly the longest.

The first volume.

He has been at this work a long time. Back in the 1990s, Tardi produced a two volume comic about the massive truma suffered during the First World War. It Was A War of the Trenches, noted for its realism, was followed by Goddamn This War!, praised for its accuracy as well as its sardonic, “black” humor.

In this stunning new three volume set, with its art intermittently tinted, Tardi tells the story of his father but by extension, the story of many millions of participants in war, non-participant victims and those destined or trapped to see the horrors up close.

In the first volume of the trilogy,  Tardi’s wife and collaborator Dominique Grange offers five large  prefatory pages of photos and drawings. Tardi himself chimes in with three more, mostly an acknowledgment of assistance from various quarters. They are paying homage to a generation fast slipping away. They are also telling younger people about their own collective past, their collective responsibility to French history, sometimes heroic, sometime monstrous (think of colonialism), but real and continuing.

These books are, crucially, also a testament to oral history of a certain kind, in this case assissted but only assisted by diaries that Tardi’s father had kept. A handful of other artists working on subjects ranging from the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s to the Vietnam War and the Israeli Occuption of Gaza have run up against the familiar problems. “Truth,” if the word is useful at all, is the truth of the story, the vividness and detail of memory rather than its factual accuracy. The son asking his father about a past that would be more painful than pleasant to detail, adds himself to the story.

It is oral history, after all, that allows the depth of detail but also a running dialogue about the details and meaning of memory. At every stage, generational conflict is on display.

A son who becomes a father resents the tedium of small town life and the dull certainties of a civil service career. A grandson, obviously devoting years to collecting a story, nevertheless needles his father, especially but not only about recruitment into the military and repeated re-enlistment. How could one choose an authoritarian organization full of class privilege, romanticizing violence and practicing violence on colonial victims from Africa to Asia? These are good questions answered with the stoicism of the working class or lower classes anywhere to military enlistment: a feeling of few alternatives for young people, and the often-later-regretted impulse to get away from home and “see the world.”

But there is more here, of course. This is also the story of Grange, the scriptwriter proper, Tardi’s partner in life and the daughter of another veteran of the same war. Her father died too early for Grange to get a detailed reminiscence, but this trilogy is very much a partnership. A recent outing by the pair, Elise and the New Partisans, in another fine Fantagraphics production, tells the story of the courageous radicals from the new left era, seen through the eyes of a Maoist-feminist militant.

The “Partisan” label has remained since the 1940s a crucial sign-of-sorts in French culture and politics. For outsiders, the “Resistance” is the official narrative: Marshall DeGaulle and the Free French Army march on Paris and heroically end the German occupation. As the concluding volume of I, father Tardi notes with special bitterness, De Gaulle had been off protecting the French empire in Africa from anti-colonial rebels while the dangerous and heroic antifascist struggle took place within France itself.

That the influence of Communists weighed heavily among the Partisans, a key source of post-war Left political popularity, offered another reason for a contrary and “official” narrative shared most of all by Americans. Not so in much of Europe: even the horrors of Stalinism in the War and after could not abolish the heroism of Partisans across large parts of the continent. The artist titled his latest volume The New Partisans for a reason: the memory has not gone away, even as the last of the antifascist underground pass, receiving good obituaries as far from France as the New York Times. The memory of the Partisans is not only a celebration of life and commemoration of bravery. It is also a reminder of the cowardice of the collaborators.

Rene himself remains, however, distant from all poltiical parties, saving much of his bitterness for the phony heroism of DeGaulle. Likewise for the bourgeois French citizens who made fortunes on the black market, likewise for the French police who rounded up Jews for deportation to the Death Camps, joining the Resistance just ten days before the liberation of Paris.  A hard-bitten veteran of real war, he saves the rest of his bitterness, the largest part, for the French Army leadership and the politicians who might have crushed the Germans in their first violation of the Versailles Treaty of 1919, but waited and waited. By the time they mobilized, the Wehrmacht was overwhelming, while French officaldom stupidly counted upon their revised Maginot Line to halt the German march. And then, among the officer corps, fled the Germans alongside the refugees, throwing down their guns along the way.

All this reflects a bitterness that revives a bitterness that he feels by generational sensibility to the soldiers and civilians of the First World War, the grandparents of Tardi and also of Grange. They survived but many of their own relatives did not. The false expectations of glory and easy victory, the painful sense that the Germans had been pushed back only because the Americans entered the war, and above all the horrors of the trenches left behind a collective sense of exhaustion. Tardi’s parents grow up under this shadow, a postmaster and postmistress who are satisfied, more than satisfied, to be civil servants with a quiet life in small (and to him, boring) French village.

Thus Tardi’s father, restless in adolescence and feeling a sense of nationalism at the first stirrings of German revanche expressions, makes his great error (or so Tardi the son believes) enlisting in the army. Tardi’s youthful disdain in this decision is perhaps the only real moment of disagreement in the comic, reflecting conversations that might have happened or might have taken place mainly in the young man’s mind, finalized on paper.

A kind of generational peace is achieved, perhaps, when Rene recounts the only violence that he actually committed: in his day running a tank, he runs over German soldiers so thoroughly that only traces of body parts remain, a memory that haunts him for years. Still, even this apparently guilt-ridden retelling is an artistic re-enactment.

And perhaps that disjuncture between reality and retelling  is the last important conceptual point of this trilogy. The artist and his scriptwriter cannot really go back in history. And yet their effort to do so, based on an informal but deeply felt and ardently pursued oral history, father to son, is something remarkable, something still little seen in a comic art world where non-fiction remains a fairly small category with no rules.

What does the enormous achievement of Jacques Tardi but also Dominique Grange mean for comics in particular, for comic art and a fairly recent method of the telling of some large and complicated history? These are not likely questions asked by the casual comics reader or even the armchair critic. Or I should say: not asked easily.  The trilogy under review will be at the center of scholars and reviewers, also readers of French history in particular, for a long time. And for good reason.

Paul Buhle

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November 10, 2024 · 12:27 pm

Eric Drooker: NAKED CITY interview

Eric Drooker is that consummate artist, the ideal artist that young people generally aspire to be. Take a look at the short film below to gain some perspective on Mr. Drooker. This is a short film he did in New York in 1981, a tumultuous time with undeniable relevance to today; a timeless film. We will always need to remind ourselves we have nothing to fear but fear itself. I had the honor of putting together this studio visit with the artist. We discuss his latest graphic novel, Naked City, published by Dark Horse Comics. In it, we find a set of characters, representative of all humanity, who are basically reminding themselves that they have nothing to fear but fear itself.

Born and raised on Manhattan Island, Eric Drooker began to paste his art on the streets at night as a teenager. Since then, his drawings and posters have become a familiar sight in the global street art movement, and his paintings appear frequently on covers of the New Yorker.

Eric Drooker in his studio.

His first book, Flood, won the American Book Award, followed by Blood Song (soon to be a feature film). Naked City is the third volume in Drooker’s City Trilogy. His graphic novels have been translated into numerous languages in Europe, Latin America, and Asia. After designing the animation for the film Howl, he was hired for a project at DreamWorks Animation.

The City Trilogy: Flood (1992), Blood Song (2002), Naked City (2024).

Drooker’s art is in the permanent collection of the Whitney Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, the Brooklyn Museum, and the Library of Congress. He is available for speaking engagements and frequently gives slide lectures at colleges and universities. Mr. Drooker’s art is available for sale at his website.

At heart, Eric Drooker is a street artist with all the energy that comes with it: everything from his zest for creating work to his zeal for talking about his art. Just give the floor over to him and he’ll work his magic, maybe even play the harmonica if necessary.

The New Yorker, October 28, 2024, The Money Issue. “Crushing Wealth” by Eric Drooker.

“Troubadour” by Eric Drooker.

The New Yorker, March 6, 1995, “Under Bridges” by Eric Drooker.

“Tomorrow” by Eric Drooker.

While I was in his studio, he picked up a copy of The New Yorker magazine, with his art gracing the cover, an issue published just the prior week, and launched into a talk about how the magazine cover functions as a form of street art. While the magazine has a healthy readership, it also reaches a vast number of people who regularly consume just the art on the cover as they come across the magazine on display in various locales whether in a bookstore or in the dentist’s office.

The New Yorker, November 9, 2009, “Autumn in Central Park” by Eric Drooker.

The New Yorker, August 6, 2007, oil on canvas, 20″x16″, “Urban Jungle” by Eric Drooker.

Naked City got on my radar earlier this year and I’m so grateful that I got an advance copy. My friend, and colleague in the comics world, Paul Buhle, wrote the review for us here at Comics Grinder. Without a doubt, Naked City is a significant graphic novel with the added distinction of being part of a trilogy, part of a great artistic process. We, as artists, can and must do some planning ahead on projects while, at the same time, allow the art process to do its thing. Such is the case with Naked City. It is as much a graphic novel about being an artist as it is simply about being human and being true to yourself.

“The Argument” by Eric Drooker.

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October 30, 2024 · 1:00 pm

DEAD AIR: The Night That Orson Welles Terrified America book review

Dead Air: The Night That Orson Welles Terrified America. William Elliott Hazelgrove. Rowman & Littlefield. 2024. 280pp. $32.

For six seconds, Orson Welles held his audience in suspense with utter silence during the infamous 1938 Halloween broadcast of The War of the Worlds. This is the linchpin moment vital to this book’s argument that Orson Welles had a malevolent intention behind this most talked about radio scare. Was it a playful prank, an attempt at art, that got out of control? Most will argue that to be the case. William Elliott Hazelgrove, the author of this book, prefers to paint a much darker picture. Whatever the case, you can add this to the mountain of books on Welles and make a note of its intriguing details.

Orson Welles rehearsing War of the Worlds broadcast, 1938.

Orson Welles, given such a vast and complex career, continues to inspire great love and hate. Hazelgrove comes out of the gate exhibiting his scorn like a badge of honor with a bombastic description of what it must have been like for Orson Welles, someone wielding so much power as a star of the dazzling new medium of radio. No doubt, numerous casual listeners to a radio play of H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds, adapted to sound like a realistic news broadcast, were innocently caught unawares in 1938 and this resulted in a panic. Hazelgrove turns the screws with his suggestion that Welles should have known better and that a touch of evil must have been at play that night. Now, whether there is more or less truth to this analysis, Hazelgrove sounds very certain. However, keep in mind, that is just Hazelgrove’s suggestion. Smithsonian Magazine presents a case of Welles and his Mercury Players team scrambling to turn their adaptation into something palatable: “The elements of the show that a fraction of its audience found so convincing crept in almost accidentally, as the Mercury desperately tried to avoid being laughed off the air.”

Orson on Mars, sketch by Orson Welles, 1938.

Given that Hazelgrove clearly falls within the anti-Welles contingent, it becomes all the more interesting to continue to read onward as he paints as unfavorable a picture of Welles as he can muster. His next target is the Welles masterpiece, Citizen Kane, which Hazelgrove quickly dismisses as a “famous flop.” In Hazelgrove’s opinion, and this is only his opinion being quoted here: “Undoubtedly, people in 1941 left the theater scratching their heads. Some caught it. Most didn’t.” The popular belief is that Citizen Kane was misunderstood in its own time but that is, in fact, not the case. There are so many facts to work with that can be spun in so many directions. William Randolph Hearst got in the way of Citizen Kane succeeding at the box office but, without a doubt, Citizen Kane, in its own time, was a critical success. So, herein lies the frustration, and fun, in discussing Welles and his work. There is more than enough room to spin the facts and tilt your argument in one direction or another. All in all, Hazelgrove offers up an engaging and highly readable addition to Welles scholarship. I don’t have to completely believe him or agree with him and you don’t have to either but, like Orson Welles himself, Hazelgrove offers something lively and highly relevant for further discussion.

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