In the first issue of Paranoid Gardens, a panel is opened in a broom closet of the titular retirement home, revealing the warped flesh of a living thing. The building, recently damaged by the stray heat vision of a confused and panicked superhero, is as in need of care as the home’s aging inhabitants. That the fleshy patch is being tended to by a monstrous head nurse – a sort of extraterrestrial Nurse Rached – is, by the end of the issue, old hat. The world of Paranoid Gardens is the surreal made commonplace. Ghost janitors, aging aliens, and attendants with mystical healing powers, all calmly set against the mundane trappings of a convalescent home.
Dark Horse
The book, like much of the comic book work by writers Gerard Way and Shaun Simon (with Doom Patrol and The Umbrella Academy, Art Ops, and The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys between them), is a barrage of big ideas that can be seen in glimpses, as if seen through the gaps in a fence; tantalizing, bizarre, begging to be uncovered. As the book presents its central mystery surrounding our healer and the origins of Paranoid Gardens, it also presents a dozen smaller, absurdist question marks. Who are the cosmonaut-like beekeepers, silent sentinels who descend on the property with rainbow-spewing smokers? Why was the panicked superhero brought into the home against his will, wheeled in on a gurney? Most importantly, what’s the deal with the cartoon monkey cult?
Not all of these mysteries get solved – some don’t even come into the range of understanding – and neither does the central mystery of Paranoid Gardens, not quite. As the story progresses, that barrage of unnerving concepts begins to feel like stylistic flair, half-considered window-dressing meant to spice up the place rather than meaningful clues to the world’s confusion. If Paranoid Gardens is anything, it’s delightfully and absurdly stylish.
Uncovering the truth is only half the point.
Much of the book’s style wouldn’t be possible without the indelible work by artist Chris Weston, who renders each aspect of the world – absurd and mundane – with equal, lucid care. The world feels truly realized, flawlessly rendered, and impossibly true, no matter how off-the-wall. All of this is assisted by colorist Dave Stewart’s grounded work; the facility of the Gardens feels pulled from life, even as grotesque pinks and psychedelic fogs break up that reality.
The end result of Paranoid Gardens might not seem narratively satisfying – there are a lot of half-revealed truths blended together into a jumbled whole – but the effect of the book is one much larger. The reader doesn’t leave the six issues without feeling somehow changed, as if the absurdity had a touch of LSD to it. It’s beautifully mind-altering, and those massive concepts coming together feels, however disharmonious, like a wonderful musical swell.
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