Book review: V for Vendetta
Was it only a couple of years ago that my bookshelf had a mere one or two comic books among all the holdovers from my Russian literature degree? Now there is at least one foot of shelf space devoted to the things. If I had to characterize turning thirty a few years ago using a single metaphor or meme, it would be that of Humility: realizing that all kinds of things I used to scoff at (flared-leg pants, comic books, fitted t-shirts, Kashi cereal, Green Day) are worthy of respect. I’ve even confessed in the dark of night that there are songs by Steely Dan and Elton John that don’t completely suck. Did I just write that?
So anyway, comic books. Or graphic novels, if you like. Something I always considered to be the domain of lonely teenage boys who were compelled to draw or just gaze at the impossible women that they could never date. (Never mind the fact that stereotypical comic-book women are probably structurally unsound to begin with, and therefore inherently undateable.) So what happened? The aforementioned Humility, I suppose. Well, that and Bryan Singer. Despite all of my mixed feelings about 20th Century Fox and their handling of the X-Men (I’ll save that for another rant, as it’s a lengthy one), I’ll say that Bryan Singer directing the first X-Men movie was a smart, smart decision. And it was a brilliant move to make an X-Men movie that stripped away all the candy-colored comic silliness of the X-Men, much like ST:TNG rose so far above the campy beehive hairdos of the original Star Trek. It meant that I, a self-confessed female, actually could get into the movie and the characters, and come away without feeling too geeky. (Of course, I recognize that using Star Trek metaphors is the apotheosis of geeky and I should just shut up and face the music, but never mind.) Plus, Hugh Jackman is a damn good Wolverine, even if he’s several inches too tall (I leave it to the hardcore fanboyz to give a damn about that kind of crap.) And for the lova Pete, you put Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian in a movie and it more than makes up for the non-acting of Halle Berry! So the X-Men movie made me think, hey, there are decent stories behind all that cheesy spandex and HH chest measurements. And so comic books, and graphic novels, began to trickle into the house.
I should also give credit to Frank Miller’s Sin City, whose artwork and anti-superhero characters showed me that there was more to the genre than good vs. evil and fights on the moon. So he gets a paragraph all his own.
Then Raoul gave Steve Watchmen by Alan Moore. Goddamn. The book threw me into a depression for weeks (nothing like bleak, late-1980s cynicism to make you feel like hanging yourself instead of celebrating the holidays—I recommend reading it in, say, June), but the complexity of the story and the characters earns it the coveted label of literature. Never mind that the thing is done with pictures—excellent, cinematic pictures—if that’s going to cause you to write it off, then your mind is closed, baby.
After that, the small trickle of pebbles became a real rockslide. I started picking up some X-Men trade paperbacks, although I have yet to find a series that doesn’t smack too much of The Silly, or have lousy artwork, or some unholy combination of the two. Then League of Extraordinary Gentlemen invaded the house and kicked all sorts of ass. Let’s all pretend that there was no movie made of that masterpiece. Bone even showed up, my reading of which is the only thing that has prompted strangers to speak to me on the bus (despite my strong vibe of leave-me-the-fuck-alone).
And now at last I’m ready to talk about V for Vendetta, which I just finished last night. As with Watchmen, it’s a thick slice of 1980s-style paranoia, which is all right by me. In my universe, post-nuclear fascist dystopia is always in style. And speaking of style, despite the book being over 20 years old I don’t find too much that’s dated about it, except perhaps the art. The colors are very weak, like a faded page of comics from the newspaper, and lines are not particularly sharp. I don’t know if that’s because it was done on softer paper or not, but it’s striking if you’re used to the sharp color and smooth paper you find in recent trade paperbacks. The art also often feels quite cramped, and you do often find yourself straining to see more detail in an individual panel to figure out what the heck is going on. I don’t know if the art was shrunk from a larger size, or if the claustrophobic panels are supposed to metaphorically reflect the stifling fascism of the society portrayed within, but either way it’s not deal-breaking. (Dig my rationalization, though.)
Regarding substance, I was curious to see how the book differed from the movie, which I saw first. (And by the way, thanks to Vendetta the Wachowski brothers have regained a small measure of respectability, all of which had been lost as soon as the second Matrix movie came out.) There are certainly differences, and in many cases the movie is an improvement. Regarding the book, the character of Eve is problematic, in my opinion. She’s profoundly weak; even after her transfiguration into V’s protégé she doesn’t come across as possessing the brash spirit or intellectual promise that you’d think V was looking for. I’m glad that Natalie Portman’s Eve had more going for her. In the book I found myself wondering why V bothered with her, since it didn’t appear at all certain that she would ultimately have the strength to do what he needed her to do. And one must recall that it was complete chance that she was the one whom V rescues at the beginning of the story—I suppose that’s where suspension of disbelief comes in, to ease the jarring shift of her character’s development.
In the obligatory feminist portion of this review, I must point out that the women come off very badly. There’s the calculating bitch, the spineless wife, and the helpless victim—not a lot to go on in the Fem Pride department. But truthfully, once I change out of my feminist superhero costume and return to my mild-mannered self I see that the men are just as petty, pathetic, and pathological. So I conclude that Moore’s not a misogynist—he’s a full-fledged misanthrope. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
So to sum up, I think if you are going to hold your nose and grudgingly read only one Alan Moore graphic novel, read Watchmen. If you’re more comfortable with your inner geek, or if you have a soft spot for dystopian novels, read Watchmen, but read Vendetta too. Ave atque vale!
By the way: Here’s a good biography of Alan Moore.
I should also give credit to Frank Miller’s Sin City, whose artwork and anti-superhero characters showed me that there was more to the genre than good vs. evil and fights on the moon. So he gets a paragraph all his own.
Then Raoul gave Steve Watchmen by Alan Moore. Goddamn. The book threw me into a depression for weeks (nothing like bleak, late-1980s cynicism to make you feel like hanging yourself instead of celebrating the holidays—I recommend reading it in, say, June), but the complexity of the story and the characters earns it the coveted label of literature. Never mind that the thing is done with pictures—excellent, cinematic pictures—if that’s going to cause you to write it off, then your mind is closed, baby.
After that, the small trickle of pebbles became a real rockslide. I started picking up some X-Men trade paperbacks, although I have yet to find a series that doesn’t smack too much of The Silly, or have lousy artwork, or some unholy combination of the two. Then League of Extraordinary Gentlemen invaded the house and kicked all sorts of ass. Let’s all pretend that there was no movie made of that masterpiece. Bone even showed up, my reading of which is the only thing that has prompted strangers to speak to me on the bus (despite my strong vibe of leave-me-the-fuck-alone).
And now at last I’m ready to talk about V for Vendetta, which I just finished last night. As with Watchmen, it’s a thick slice of 1980s-style paranoia, which is all right by me. In my universe, post-nuclear fascist dystopia is always in style. And speaking of style, despite the book being over 20 years old I don’t find too much that’s dated about it, except perhaps the art. The colors are very weak, like a faded page of comics from the newspaper, and lines are not particularly sharp. I don’t know if that’s because it was done on softer paper or not, but it’s striking if you’re used to the sharp color and smooth paper you find in recent trade paperbacks. The art also often feels quite cramped, and you do often find yourself straining to see more detail in an individual panel to figure out what the heck is going on. I don’t know if the art was shrunk from a larger size, or if the claustrophobic panels are supposed to metaphorically reflect the stifling fascism of the society portrayed within, but either way it’s not deal-breaking. (Dig my rationalization, though.)
Regarding substance, I was curious to see how the book differed from the movie, which I saw first. (And by the way, thanks to Vendetta the Wachowski brothers have regained a small measure of respectability, all of which had been lost as soon as the second Matrix movie came out.) There are certainly differences, and in many cases the movie is an improvement. Regarding the book, the character of Eve is problematic, in my opinion. She’s profoundly weak; even after her transfiguration into V’s protégé she doesn’t come across as possessing the brash spirit or intellectual promise that you’d think V was looking for. I’m glad that Natalie Portman’s Eve had more going for her. In the book I found myself wondering why V bothered with her, since it didn’t appear at all certain that she would ultimately have the strength to do what he needed her to do. And one must recall that it was complete chance that she was the one whom V rescues at the beginning of the story—I suppose that’s where suspension of disbelief comes in, to ease the jarring shift of her character’s development.
In the obligatory feminist portion of this review, I must point out that the women come off very badly. There’s the calculating bitch, the spineless wife, and the helpless victim—not a lot to go on in the Fem Pride department. But truthfully, once I change out of my feminist superhero costume and return to my mild-mannered self I see that the men are just as petty, pathetic, and pathological. So I conclude that Moore’s not a misogynist—he’s a full-fledged misanthrope. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
So to sum up, I think if you are going to hold your nose and grudgingly read only one Alan Moore graphic novel, read Watchmen. If you’re more comfortable with your inner geek, or if you have a soft spot for dystopian novels, read Watchmen, but read Vendetta too. Ave atque vale!
By the way: Here’s a good biography of Alan Moore.
3 comments:
I think the only graphic novel I've ever read was Maus. Which ruled. And I've also read a really good book called... The Art of Comics? Or something like that? Which very clearly explained why graphic novels are their own awesome art form and those who do not appreciate them sucked donkey balls, or equivalent.
Maus is supposed to be one of the greats—I haven’t read it, but Steve has. The question of comics and art reminds me of when I was waiting outside of the theater before seeing Sin City. Two young punks were talking to each other about Frank Miller, and one of them said something like, “Yeah, he’s so lazy, he didn’t even do it in color!” Holy, holy crap.
One more comic book to read is "Understanding Comics" by Scott McCloud. It goes into how comics > pictures + words. I still haven't read V though. Hmmmm. That gives me something to do this week. ;)
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