Welcome to another edition of Last Call Comics. Here, as we continually bolster AIPT’s weekly comics coverage, we catch any titles that might’ve fallen through the cracks. Or those books that we might not cover but still deserve a little spotlight. Either way, it’s a chance to explore more comics, generate some novel insights, and maybe add to everyone’s to-be-read pile.
Once more, happy New Comic Book Day to everyone.
Subgenre #4
Courtesy of Dark Horse Comics.
I get that this is still comics, but Subgenre continues to be all about the math. Because so far we’ve had three issues — one about our cyberpunk PI, one about our brutal fantasy warrior, and a third that was mostly about reconciling our universe-hopping story adventure. And despite an iffy start, the creative team (Matt Kindt, Wilfredo Torres, and Bill Crabtree) have crafted a wildly meta, utterly heartfelt celebration of comics, storytelling, and the magic of imagination.
But there’s still more parts of this “formula” to solve, and as we move into issue #4, the question becomes if this celebration extends to even greater heights, or if we’re left being bashed against the metaphysical walls of this leap-happy story that’s lacking enough true substance/magic.
And I have to say this is among the most complicated and perhaps rewarding chapters so far, and the book is all the more satisfying for its curiosity, creative tenacity, and gumption.
In issue #3, our PI hero, V, uncovered the larger truth about his life, and how it all boils down to being another story told by his “source self.” It was at that point that I think a lot of the story’s big thematic end goals became really clear: this was the team (but mostly Kindt’s) love letter to storytelling and the sheer potential it has to shape both people and the world.
But issue #4 takes it a few step furthers. As V interacts with his “source self,” a few important things begin to coalesce. For one, the whole jumping between protagonists becomes a bit less of an emphasis, and things instead start to connect in some really important albeit complicated ways. Sure, it makes tracking everyone’s movements a little harder, but then that’s sort of the point — it’s all about how stories are interconnected, and how it’s us as people that shape them and their utility in our lives. And so that means it’s all the same kind of grand narrative, with different worlds and inspirations blurring together into this medley about a man trying to figure himself out and what it all might really mean.
And the art team do a really good job of facilitating this balance with their overall choices. They’ve taken the various worlds here (cyberpunk, fantasy, and something resembling our reality) and situate them in such a way that there’s characters and design choices that can be translated in different ways to give us a sense of how these realms interact and what any changes might mean for our perceptions/understanding of these places. So, for instance, there’s an assistant for V, and while sometimes she may be a floating AI display or a magic fairy girl, those displays (and any gradation between) help track just how much things are moving together or apart to help us understand the path of things as V moves closer to discovering some grand, potentially unifying truth. Sure, it’s a touch confusing, but the art gives us major clarity with its bright, vivid choices and general sense of engagement.
Still, this story isn’t just about the coolness of comics and sci-fi. Kindt’s narrative also tries to set up something deeper as he explores a lifetime of making and loving these stories. Without needlessly casting blame, he uses issue #4 to start dissecting his life with these kind of constructs, and how and why we may use stories to understand ourselves and the world at-large. It’s clearly Kindt embracing middle age in a way that he still celebrates these works (and his own efforts in the same sandbox) while contemplating what might have happened if he didn’t tell stories (or maybe he told some different ones). But without revealing too much of the “source self,” Kindt takes some level of responsibility, accepting the arc of his life and doubling down to embrace all those doubts and uncertainties he tried to work through with art but could never quite fully vanquish.
He seems to see that all of life is a story, and when something doesn’t work or he needs something new, you just start another yarn. In that way, it’s the meta as truly and utterly personal — a device to explore past, present, and future as a creative entity and figure out how to continue the adventure with renewed heart and passion. It’s a love letter, yeah, but also a re-dedication of sorts and a lesson in how to grow older as a forger of worlds.
And this new “wrinkle,” as it were, does wonders for explaining more of the artistic choices and general look and feel of this book. There’s no denying that the art team have created something sleek and endlessly pulpy since page one, and that the look of this book is essential to its ongoing exploration of storytelling tropes and the larger process. But I see it now as something else as well —all of that style and the overtly shiny veneer seems perfectly suited for Kindt’s musings about the value and role of art as we age.
That, in this issue specifically, shots like that gaggle of ’70s starlets encountered by the “source self,” the extra seedy tinge of V tracking a stalker, or the extra sharpness of the “future” moments are just as much about telling this story as commenting on and extending Kindt’s own ideas about nostalgia and growing older, the way art evolves and shift, and how the stories we tell matter just as much to the audience as the creator. It’s a way to draw out Kindt’s perspectives in a new way, but even more than that, I think it adds another wholly meta layer to this book, and that makes it even more about this story than ever. (Everything is like this wondrous Russian nesting doll, and it just clicks on so many levels as this brilliant but unassuming construct.)
Yet it also feels like it’s just as much about honoring Kindt’s specific efforts and processes, and a way to make this book a kind of celebration of his singular creativity without losing its value and significance as a story proper. The art team’s choices uplift Kindt’s place in this story as much as they help the actual story, and through that we feel more connected to these abstract, sometimes nebulous (but always insightful) dissections of art and creation.
Maybe you’re not a math person at all, and that’s totally fine. (Even I’ve fully and seriously lost the ability to do that whole “law of averages” shtick from earlier.) But what this issue made clear is that everything is really starting to add up even as we move almost immediately from algebra to advance calculus or whatever. Because this book’s started with a mostly lofty idea, and through key creative decisions, robust collaboration/teamwork, and an overt passion, it’s executed that vision in a way that remains approachable even as it’s all the more intellectually “involved.” To put it more simply, you + this book = a great time.
Final Thought: You Me Them Everyone is the story.
Score: 8.5/10
Pine and Merrimac #3
Courtesy of BOOM! Studios.
The appeal of Pine and Merrimac across its two first issues has been the robust humanity of our leads. Parker and Linnea have such a profoundly funny and poignant dynamic, and it’s clearly colored this slice of noir in new and interesting ways.
But as issue #3 furthers the case of the missing girls, I just didn’t felt that same surge of humanity quite as intently, and that certainly hurt my immersion and this book’s larger sense of momentum.
I don’t want it to seem like this was an entirely lackluster issue or whatnot. Our crime-solving couple still proved to be wildly funny and endearing. We got a really great intro about Linnea’s old “life” as a homicide detective and how that led to the couple starting the agency. And that wasn’t just an interesting puzzle piece, but the art of Fran Galán shone a little differently to foster an interesting perspective on this scene, like the shine of a dear memory or a proper bit of nostalgia. And elsewhere, the couple were quipping at maximum speed — it’s a little function of this book, but writer Kyle Starks has such an ear for jokes and dialogue that it just adds so much to this book and makes this crime story all the more appealing and engaging than some other contemporary tales.
The issue is that we’re moving closer and closer to the core of this case, and that means a few different shifts in the overarching book. For one, it shows a kind of fish out of water mentality for the couple, and while that’s meant to be endearing (and in wonderful contrast to why they started this agency in the first place), it ended up doing more harm. It took a couple of capable people who wisecrack while doing their job and instead turned them into jokesters far out of their element. And while that seems like a subtle difference, it’s clearly one that portrays the couple in a more annoying light that casting them as proper underdogs.
Similarly, some of their jokes while on the case of this seedy cult of human traffickers just didn’t land as well — it felt like nervousness and tension had impacted their dynamic, and their usual sharpness somehow fall away to a more gimmicky shtick overall (and not a proper mystery). Their gimmick works by riding that fine line, and without skill and humor balancing one another, we’re not following some lighthearted good guys with personality cracking the case but a couple of less lovable losers bumbling to a conclusion. That has distinctly not been my experience of this book thus far.
And all of that raises the question: is it the actual case that’s to blame? The answer is a firm no — it ain’t exactly the most inventive case (at least I don’t think so…), and the appeal is 100% in the execution. So while it started out as one thing (a missing young girl), it’s blossomed into a possible cult, and that kind of spin — where we’re delving into humanity-questioning depravity — feels like a proper contrast to how our dynamic duo is so hugely affirming to our shared humanity. And the whole case is given ample time to unfold, and to let Linnea and Parker tackle it in a way that gets them using their best skills. It’s all about taking some ideas and tropes associated with noir and once again trying to repurpose them in a way that celebrates the personality of this story and how it tries to feel utterly engaging through these well-rounded characters.
I think the problem, then, is that the case still feels a little out of their reach. It goes back to wanting them to ride the line between the serious and the playful — there’s too many stakes and too many big ideas attached here, and their dynamic so far can’t quite reach the speed and intensity needed to meet this case where it’s at already. Especially when Galán’s depictions hint at some possible supernatural elements at the issue’s ending. Sure, that’s hella promising, but it just proves that some of their more Abbott and Costello vibes need more heft (which lacked in this issue) to respect that deep core of humanity and the power of true love that made me fall for this whole book in the first place. Right now it makes me think the possible supernatural bit may be all in my head, and it’s all slightly indicative that we’re not getting much force and direction beyond the hijinks of this issue. Good as said hijinks may be, they just didn’t land the way I’d really want them to at this essential story junction.
Again, none of this means I’m somehow over this story, or that I’d give it up. Rather, I think we’re at the point that, if we were detectives in our own right, we might have hit some dead end. All it takes is one clue — maybe a little display of effective policing or a serious turn in the Linnea-Parker dynamic — to get us right back on case. I believe in this book to execute just such that (or anything else, really) because of how it approaches the genre with depth, creativity, and profound humanity. Now, get back on the case or I’ll have your damn badges!
Final Thought: The case ain’t cold but I can’t say the same for every joke.
Score: 7.5/10
Kneel Before Zod #3
Courtesy of DC Comics.
In my review of issue #2 of Kneel Before Zod, I wanted to really nail the core humanity within this book. Not the kind that’s uplifting or whatnot, but that the creative team (Joe Casey, Dan McDaid, and David Baron) had put in real work in trying to cut deep and explore the complicated inner machinery of Zod himself.
And in issue #3, that dissection goes even deeper still — for better and worse.
On the upside of all of that, the creative team used issue #3 to really explore what happens when Zod and his ilk face a potential loss in their battle with the Khund over the fate of New Kandor. On the one hand, this little turn does feel disconnected from the events at the end of issue #2, in which Ursa and Zod mostly had it out in a powerful display of just how much this book is calling Zod’s authority into question (and some larger ideas about interpersonal relationship dynamics to boot).
But I can mostly forgive that given that the issue gives us a really effective device to strip away Zod and Ursa’s powers/abilities at peak battle. (A battle, by the way, that is so flippant in its violence and savagery, which is the kind of sci-fi extremeness that has defined a big part of this book’s visual identity thus far.) It’s a really great chance to see Zod grapple with his growing unease and fears of powerlessness in a really real way, and to show him how easy his luck and fate can change at a moment when he’s so deeply dependent on his powers.
We see him scramble in a way, and to feel the weight of how much he needs his core strength and prowess to feel in control of himself and his life. It feels like a really effective metaphor for not just aging in general but something very real about aging right now. (I’m looking at you, certain Boomers.) But even without that specificity, Zod’s whole mix of arrogance and being forced to learn hard lessons has enough universal appeal — it’s the story of a man who could never fail, until he actually did.
At the same time, though, I think there’s an issue with this prospect of exploring Zod in a decidedly robust and meaningful way. Without revealing too much, his de-powering feels all too abrupt, and more like a brush with powerlessness than any sort of extended lesson. Sure, the art is great here in facilitating that — the use of pointed violence once again (Zod and Ursa are pummeled in the most disarming and unsettling way possible) — helps us readily connect with that process and to maximize its reflections onto our own lives.
But, again, it’s almost too brief, and it’s clear that the story the creative team are attempting to tell is at odds with or bumping up against the structures of comics storytelling and Zod’s role in the DC Universe. There’s this sense that for this book to really work, we’re going to have to see Zod at his absolute lowest — maybe even lower than that. But this is a specific kind of DC Comic, and while the line does important and progressive storylines on the regular, I get the sense after this issue that there’s some “confusion” around Zod.
Which is to say, it’s hard to tell a story that focuses on his reconciliation with aging, weakness, uncertainty, etc. if he has to maintain some strength and edge to be an effective villain. Sure, this could have just been a “tease” for more de-powering to come. And the rest of the book has already done a great job facilitating that dynamic (again, see issue #2). But it just feels like the whole premise can’t exist in the way this book needs it to in full. Or, that there’s guidelines or restrictions (however you want to see them) that could hinder this book from really nailing the “Zod must suffer to grow” thread that’s at the heart of this book.
Again, it’s certainly there from a visual standpoint — there’s heaps of moments where Zod emotes in a way that bashes up against the feelings and events here, giving us the struggle we need to really see the conquering one in a new light. The issue, then, is that doesn’t translate in the most meaningful ways, and there’s a divide of sorts happening at the very center of this book.
And I really want this process to land with its full weight. Because it feels like we’re trying to take a firmly old-school DC comic (over-the-top sci-fi with Swiss army knife powers and invading alien hordes) and trying to re-contextualize and/or update it for now. I don’t know exactly why we’d need that, but I certainly think it’s a cool way to reconsider these kinds of stories and the value they hold for ideas of nostalgia and genre.
But there needs to be a re-doubling of efforts to not just tackle the idea, but execute Zod’s downfall/rebirth/etc. in a way that feels truly and utterly revealing. I think the book can do it, but it’s going to take more time, a greater focus on Zod’s family life, even more targeted violence, and the ambition to pull the damn trigger.
Final Thought: Hover over Zod and ask him to fully commit.
Score: 6.5/10
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