Earlier in the month, down on Portobello Beach on a very blustery, cold day, wind howling in off the Firth of Forth. I was having a walk with my chum and his hounds when we saw this group in white robes, who got out of their car, walked down to the beach then facing out to sea they began to sing. We couldn’t understand the words, but it had the feel of a religious ceremony, and although we didn’t know the words (and despite the biting, cold wind!) their song sounded joyful. My friend had seen them in previous days that week doing the same thing, singing out to sea. We still don’t know who they were or what the significance of singing towards the sea was. A friend online said he saw a religious group do something similar when working in Africa, but he didn’t know why they did it either. Anyway, it was an unusual and intriguing thing to see…
Since I have a few days off to use up, I took the train up the coast, crossing the mighty Forth Rail Bridge and round the coastal rail route to get off at Burntisland for a wee while. The railway runs right by the beach there, on a raised embankment above the promenade and the beach (quite a bit of this line hugs the Fife coast so you get some good views on your trip). There are tunnels under the line leading from the parkland behind it to the promenade.
Being early afternoon on a weekday in March it was pretty quiet, mostly either parents with very young kids or senior citizens and the odd dog walker – tends to be a bit busier in the warmer weather of spring and summer!
Standing out (braving some seriously heavy wind, especially in an exposed position!) on a jutting bit of headland that projects out by the bay where the beachfront is I could just barely make out the volcanic bulk of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh across the Firth of Forth, but it was too hazy to get a decent shot. Looking up river the haar had settled in too, and the bright light had turned grey (one of those days of sun, overcast, sun, overcast, always changing), and the bridges were barely visible through the mist and haze, although the iconic shape of the Forth Rail Bridge (often just referred to around here as “The Bridge” and everyone knows you mean the rail bridge and not the nearby road bridges) was just apparent, the diamond-shaped cantilever section like the humps of some vast sea serpent rising from the waters. Here you can see it and the 20th century suspension road bridge a bit further behind it, although the new Queensferry Crossing, now almost complete, is hidden by the mist. In the foreground you can just make out Inchcolm and the shape of some of the buildings on this island’s 12th century abbey (which you can visit via a Forth cruise – well worth the trip):
On the ride home I decided to jump off at North Queensferry for a while before heading back across river to Edinburgh, and walked down the steep slope to where the village nestles around the northern base of the Forth Rail Bridge, right by the banks of the Forth.
At this side of the river you can walk right under the end of one of the vast “diamond” shapes of this massively over-engineered cantilever structure, and despite the now bitingly cold wind it was worth the chill to walk down by the lapping waters of the Forth past this iconic piece of engineering that has become a landmark.
This was the view standing right under the northernmost diamond, looking straight across the river through the Meccano Set of girders – you can see the next diamond shape behind it through the forest of red steelwork:
It’s a massive Victorian structure, hugely over-built (a reaction to the earlier failure of the Tay Bridge), and you know it is large, I mean you can see if from parts of Edinburgh for goodness sake, you can see the top parts of the diamond shapes from the main Edinburgh-Glasgow railway line. But there’s nothing quite like going underneath a structure like this to really get a sense of the sheer size and strength of it. It’s like standing under the Eiffel Tower, but turned on its side. Magnificent piece of history and engineering.
Quick shot from the family mansion yesterday while I was through visiting dad. Sun declining rapidly, the vast geological bulk of the Campsie Hills already fallen into deep shadow, only a single bar of copper light from the setting sun across the summit line of the hills, the low clouds curling over the top and glowing in the last few moments of light. Only lasted a short time, light, hills, clouds just so, ever so briefly, glad I managed to capture it:
“It was the end of the Swinging Sixties. That day, like so many others, the London sky was sad, like a cold cup of tea. The nasty rain rattled tediously at my windowpane. I was waiting for my new tenants to show up and inhabit me.”
It’s 1969 and dawning into the early 1970s, and it feels like things are changing, socially, politically, artistically. A young couple have come to view a huge old mansion on the outskirts of London, a vast old property well outside their then fairly slim means, except that they intend to share it with a whole bunch of their artistic friends, almost like a bohemian commune. That couple comprises a very young David and Angie – David Jones, with a genuine hit under his belt (Space Oddity) but not yet broken through, not yet Bowie. The talent is there, the love of all sorts of music, the artistic sensibility, but something’s not quite clicked yet. And that’s what this book is about – not an exhaustive biography of the Thin White Duke, but a look at a crucial short period in which the artist who would become the master of reinvention first truly invented himself for the stage. And the worlds of music and arts were never the same again…
Interestingly Nejib avoids the normal biographical form of recreating known events in a person’s timeline and illustrating them one after another. This is telegraphed right from the start as we realise that we are seeing these artistic young people – and they are oh such bright, young things here – from the perspective of Haddon Hall itself, observing these strange, new, young people living in it, not put off like others by the “discreet decrepitude” of the old mansion but instead amused, delighted, charmed by its idiosyncrasies. It’s not long before they and a group of friends are sharing this huge home – at the house-warming party a long-haired David happily showing Marc Bolan around, the house so large they even have space to turn one big room into a rehearsal space. Every musician’s dream, surely, your own space in your own home to play and record and jam…
“But when the Last Judgement comes around for pop stars, I shall willingly testify in favour of our two wild blokes, for behind their outsized egos hid two true loves of music. The could talk shop till they were blue in the face.”
There’s some tension between them, a little professional and artistic jealously perhaps, as they both struggle to make it, to stand out from the musical crowd and leave their mark, but mostly what comes across here is a camaraderie, a friendship, and a deep, deep shared love of music. That sense of warmth and the love of music in so many forms suffuses Haddon Hall. There are other events going on at the same time as the struggle to make it as a musician – relationships, children, family. There’s starting a family to think of, and David’s brother Terry is in a care home because of mental health issues, while David is one of the few people he can connect with.
There are some beautiful scenes, like the brothers settling down, just the two of them, like they did when they were younger, to play records together, Nejib delicately illustrating the almost ritualistic form of this, the choosing of the albums, slipping them out of the sleeve, needle on record, perusing sleeve notes, blissing out to good music shared with someone who means the world to you, your own personal little world for a blessed few moments. It’s a scene so many of us can empathise with because most of us have done the same with friends or siblings; it’s a blissful shared moment of music and art that can bond us emotionally with someone else forever so much that each time we hear a particular song on the radio we think on that moment, laid back in our room with them and the music playing and how for a few moments everything is just right (and how even in bad times later those moments come back to us and help us cope).
Those little, very personal moments counterbalance the larger moments in the evolution of David, as he reaches towards what will become Bowie. The BBC is showing the coverage of the first Moon landing, and there’s his Space Oddity being played to the nation’s television sets as one of the most remarkable feats in human history is finally achieved. There’s the need to focus more, to stop spreading himself about, to concentrate on this next album – perhaps his last chance to make it or else be dropped by his label (and this is an era where labels largely rule the roost, very different from today’s music scene, great if you have a contract and success, nightmare if you are a struggling musician trying to get in the door, no YouTube, SoundCloud or Twitter to build a rep with for the struggling newbie). There’s a tension in the air, like the pressure just before a thunderstorm, except here the prayer is for lightning to strike.
Nejib avoids going for a realistic look, sticking instead with a much more cartoony and loose style here (not even panel borders between scenes on the pages), using only a few colours per white page. It works stylistically with covering this story in a less traditional biographical manner (and face it, Bowie is a subject that deserves a non-traditional approach), although one slight problem is there are a few times where it takes a moment or two to work out who is who in some scenes! That’s not too often though and on reflection it may also be slightly deliberate, a visual way of referring to the androgyny of some of the styles of the period.
And there are some lovely moments worked into the art using that loose, cartoony style and limited colour palette, such as David and piano, all in blue, several scenes of working away hard, struggling knowing there is something there, not stopping for a break, pushing, frustrated, the litter of empty bottles and fag ends building up around him as he pushes onwards doggedly and… And then that wonderful moment when suddenly it clicks, the Muse flows, the colour of the figure changes from blue to green and from the piano erupts, a visual flowering of colourful music growing from his fingertips to the keys and out of the instrument to fill the house: it’s the birth of Life on Mars. There are several other scenes which capture that lightning in a bottle moment of creation beautifully, the real emotional jolt and deep satisfaction that comes with creation, be it music, painting, writing, that moment when it suddenly flows and you know you’ve got it. It only lasts a short time before we have to chase it again, but just for those moments it’s like communing with the gods …
This is a beautiful homage to one of the great musical and artistic influences of the last half century of pop culture, one many of us adored and one whose loss we felt deeply just last year. And here he is, on the cusp of it all, young, trying it all, reaching out for that future, among friends, family and the music. Nejib doesn’t exhaustively document like some biographies, instead crafting the style, the taste, the flavour of the era, of changes (pun intended) of zeitgeist and possibilities and magic in the air, if only you can grasp how to control and channel that magic, and how that magic is shared with the rest of us, incorporated into our own lives and moments (can you imagine going through this life without it?). Stick on some classic Bowie on your stereo, and then lie back with Nejib’s lovely book and just groove.
This was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
Recently on a day off the sun came out to play – a low-in-the-sky winter sun, soft and golden light and long shadows. So I decided instead of going off to the cinema I’d go for a photo-walk, originally planning to walk up Calton Hill (which Robert Louis Stevenson wrote was one of the finest spots to take in views over our city) to take some photos looking out over Edinburgh. But on the way there, on a sudden whim I diverted into Princes Street Gardens and did something I haven’t done for years – climbed the Scott Monument. Several hundred narrow, spiral stone steps winding their way up over two hundred feet. Pretty exhausting, and, especially in the final third, pretty claustrophobic – the final couple of twists of the topmost steps is so narrow I couldn’t fit unless I turned side on! Not for anyone who gets dizzy easily, or fears enclosed spaces (and obviously not for anyone with no head for heights). But worth all the effort and discomfort, because two hundred feet up you get tremendous views over the ancient, volcanic geology and cityscape of Auld Reekie:
Jenners old department store with its richly carved facade normally towers over me as I walk along the street, peculiar to be looking down on it, rather than up…. As ever, click on the pics to see the bigger versions available on my Flickr page to see more details.
Looking towards Saint Andrew Square and the tall column of the Melville Monument – normally I have to look up at this, but from the top of the Scott Monument I could zoom in and take a pic of the statue at the top from a straight-on perspective rather than angled up from the ground. In the background in the distance you can see some of the modern apartments which have sprung up in parts of the old dockside areas down in Leith, by the mighty Forth.
Looking eastwards towards the huge Scots-Baronial architecture of the Balmoral Hotel, which started life as one of the great Victorian railway hotels. The clock tower, a landmark on the Edinburgh skyline, has a timepiece which is actually set a few moments fast, by tradition – to encourage travellers to hurry down the stairs in front of it in time to catch their train in the station below. As with the Melville Monument I normally have to take pics from an angle looking up from far below, but from this vantage point I could zoom in and take a photo looking pretty much straight on for a change.
The great bulk of Arthur’s Seat, the enormous extinct volcano which sits right at the heart of the city, with the palace and parliament nestled at its feet, the whole lying in a royal park – you can go not just for a “countryside” walk but a decent bit of hill-walking here without leaving the city centre! And the views from the top are pretty spectacular too. Part of the ancient volcanic topography which gave Edinburgh its unique cityscape, it is also one of the places which inspired the modern science of geology, with Hutton wandering around Arthur’s Seat as he began to form some of the first understandings of how our planet is shaped over vast eons of time. And it’s a pretty spectacular piece of scenery to have right in the middle of a capital city – I rather enjoy looking at it each day on my way to work.
The low, now rapidly setting winter sun casts shadows and warm tones across the western side of the New Town, with the tall, triple spires of Saint Mary’s Cathedral, more landmarks on the city’s skyline, almost silhouetted in the declining sunlight.
And the view looking downwards towards Princes Street below!
And here’s what I had to clamber up to take those pics – over two hundred feet of a Gothic rocket, like a stone version of Thunderbird Three. I have always thought it exceptionally civilised that this enormous monument – the largest monument anywhere in the world to a writer – is not dedicated to some king or general, but an author, a teller of tales, of stories and books. Given that my Edinburgh is built as much of the printed pages as it is history and geology and architecture (look here, Robert Louis Stevenon’s home, there the Sherlock statue marking where Conan Doyle’s family house was, there the pub where Inspector Rebus drinks in Ian Rankin’s novels, there the spot where the early encyclopedias and dictionaries were published, there a cafe where a then impoverished single mother huddled for warmth and wrote her tales of a boy wizard, here the Writer’s Museum, there the Storytelling Centre, over there the largest literary festival on the planet). The Scott Monument itself boasts dozens of sculptures from top to bottom, characters taken from Sir Walter Scott’s many books. Literature in stone.
The vile Farage, within a short few hours from the vote in the Houses of Parliament on allowing the government to trigger Article 50, has pointed his followers to a list of the minority of MPs who voted against it, branding them all “enemies of the people” and demanding they pay for their temerity in not agreeing with him and his friends at the next election.
So basically this little creep, who already branded high court judges as enemies because they dared follow the law and say yes, parliament has to be consulted on constitutional changes like Brexit (how dare they do their job!) now tries to publicly bully the small number of MPs who don’t agree with him and his chums. Even though they didn’t affect the outcome, they must pay. No, not divisive or vindictive at all… Oh, no, wait, it is, it’s also threatening and bullying, an attempt to intimidate anyone who might speak out with a contrary view because when he and others screamed rabidly about “taking back control” of UK affairs they meant as long as we all did what they wanted – anyone wishing an actual democratic right to debate opposing ideas is an “enemy of the people”. This is how dictatorships are born.
Oh and Nigel? Nearly half of those dissenting MPs were from the Scottish National Party, the party which took almost every single Westminster parliamentary seat at the last election, in the country that voted overwhelmingly to remain IN the EU. So how can they possibly be “enemies of the people” when they were standing up for exactly what the people of Scotland who elected them wanted them to do??? If you think they should have voted differently from what their electorate wanted then by your own twisted logic you become an enemy of the people, you vile little hate-monger.
As Brexit Britain and Trumpian America seem hell-bent on descent into bigoted, hate-mongering, ignorance-fuelled darkness, not for the first time I find myself turning to dear, old Tom Paine.
“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.”
This has never meant the simple analogy of military service, but the standing up for the values that your nation and society is meant to represent. It can be a march like the million of women we saw protesting in cities in the US and around the world last weekend (sorry, Piers, I know that offends your pathetically inadequate masculinity, you poor wee ball-less thing) or something as simple as standing up against targeting ethnic and religious groups and saying no, you’re not treating my fellow citizens that way, it’s unfair, it’s illegal and morally wrong.
Also I suspect Tom would have given Trump a kick in the arse if he’d met him…
Hugely amused to see that the crowds for the massive women’s marches in Washington (and all round the world, including Berlin, London and my own beloved Edinburgh) vastly outnumbered the crowds the day before for the inauguration of Trump. And then Trump, after ordering the gagging of the park ranger’s twitter feed which estimates crowd sizes, had his new White House press spokeperson Spicer, in one of his first briefings to the international press, tell them they were all liars and that the inauguration was the biggest ever. Period. Then stalk off before the world media could ask him why every news agency around the entire globe said otherwise. Mind you it is a common problem for sad, elderly, insecure white men to worry that their inauguration was a lot smaller than a cool, younger black man’s…
I await Spicer holding future press conferences where he reminds us that War Is Peace, Oceania and Eurasia have always been at war and that the White House Press Office was now being renamed The Ministry of Truth. I would like to try and be constructive and positive here, but there is now real way of getting round the fact these people are lying scumbags, with their “post fact” politics, who cannot accept actual reality or even the lightest criticism without a rabid response of nonsense and counter accusations. Somewhere in Hell the ghost of Goebbels is laughing his Nazi arse off – defeated in war by the heroic sacrifice of so many British, Americans, Canadians, French, Norwegian, Polish and others only to find several decades later their modern ilk grabbing power in Brexit Britain, Trump America, Erdogan’s Turkey, marching again in upcoming elections in Germany, France, even the long lovingly tolerant Netherlands. Those who gave all in the 30s and 40 to crush the evil of fascism must look at what is happening our modern democracies and wonder why they sacrificed so much. We need a modern version of the International Brigade.
“And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed – if all records told the same tale – then the lie passed into history and became truth. “Who controls the past,” ran the Party slogan, “controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.” And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. “Reality control,” they called it: in Newspeak, “doublethink.”” George Orwell, 1984.
Probably one of the books Trump would like banned, just as he tries to remove funding for independent broadcasting like NPR and PBS in the US because, like most such ego-maniacs who spin their own version of reality, he is terrified of actual facts and truth and learning and reading, the pillars which underlie those faculties critical to democratic society, thought, consideration, learning, toleration and the ability to criticise. They are terrified of real journalists who check sources and facts, of teachers, of librarians, of educated people capable of considering reports and thinking for themselves. And they should be. We don’t carry guns. We carry sharper weapons within.
Meanwhile, do not surrender to despair as the Black Shirts march again, instead think of the Marseille singing scene in Casablanca, filmed in the middle of WWII when the outcome was far from certain, a defiant chorus declaring that in the long run the good guys would triumph. And also to all the women (and men) of all classes, creeds and walks of life who marched on Saturday, more power to you, sisters and brothers. We’re going to need that unity and strength, and we need to remind these people who have seized power that we too have a voice and we too have power. And that we remember the sacrifices of those who came before us to protect those freedoms, and by god we will not allow anyone to take them from us.
Bobby Joseph, Joseph Samuels,
Concise, spoiler-free review: insanely funny with a nice line in social commentary and multiple cultural references throughout. On and insanely funny. Yes, I know I said that already, but I haven’t laughed this much since I had a Space Hopper full of nitrous oxide to play with…
Okay, a bit more detail, perhaps? When I first heard this book was in the works I really wasn’t sure what to expect at all, I knew very little about it or the creators. But Knockabout has a long history of bringing some bloody good comics creators to UK readers, and anything they’re getting behind is always going to be worth checking out. And oh, I am damned glad I did, although I think colleagues are less than amused given it had me continually laughing out loud through my lunch break while they sighed and looked over wondering what was going on.
The main story is fairly straightforward – in a deal with Jamaican authorities Her Majesty’s Government has borrowed one of their top police officers in a drive to improve the Met’s historically poor race relations (ie their often abysmal form on that score). Well, at least the perception of trying to change and be more inclusive… As the rather bufoonish looking minister explains, this new initiative (naturally at great cost to the taxpayer) will give black people “the equal opportunity to arrest black people as well.” It’s just a bit of public relations exercise as far as the big bosses are concerned, there to make it look like they really care and no, they’re not all bigots or elitist, honest. They don’t realise Yardie has his own ideas about community policing and law enforcement… And does that minister look familiar? There are a lot more familiar faces to come…
Sent to the Brixton cop shop, Yardie is, of course, teamed up with the only other black officer in a sea of white, the overly assimilated, by-the-book Ackee-Saltfish. Who for some reason looks exactly like former newsreader Trevor McDonald. It’s made clear to both that they’re just there for show and to keep out of the way while the “real” work is being done – top example being their own pair of local supercops who have an astonishing record for busting drug sellers. Well, busting black drug sellers. Usually by killing them Strangely though, they seem unable to bring down a new Mr Big who has brought in a new and dangerous drug to the streets of Brixton. Could it be that these supercops aren’t all they’re cracked up to be? That there’s a dark reason for their amazing record? Somehow you just know that Yardie and Ackee-Saltfish are going to get tangled up in all of this further down the line…
But while the story is solid and damned good fun in its own right, it is only part of the story here (so to speak) – the narrative is also an excuse for Bobby and Joseph to pack in an absolute ton of puns and jokes, both with words and visuals. The frequent little daydream thought bubbles showing what’s really going on in their heads had me giggling early on, while the pair also poke fun at action comics and movie tropes, such as the fetish for unfeasibly large guns (leading poor Ackee-Saltfish to wonder just where the hell Yardie keeps these things tucked away under his uniform)
The amount of pop cultural references packed in here is amazing – there’s something in almost every page that really demands you pay attention to the background details (look at the image of a man similar to a certain former prime minister chasing a pig for, ahem, some reason) in the image above, for example. Film, TV, music, national and racial stereotypes (of all sorts, the boys lampoon overly-assimilating like Ackee-Saltfish – who of course gets no respect for his efforts – as much as they do the white is right numpties looking down on them) to media-inspired folk panics (such as seeing child molesters everywhere), all get worked into the flow.
Like a far more hip and streetwise League of Extraordinary Gentleman there are also many famous cameos to be spotted in the background, with, appropriately enough here, quite a lot of fictional cops, from Starsky and Hutch to Luther to a trio of Sherlocks (Brett and Cumberbatch with a bemused Downey Jr in the middle in one scene). Heck, this even extends to animals – again look at the scene above and notice it isn’t just a group of dogs on the street, it’s a selection of famous hounds like Lassie and Scooby-Doo (and don’t we geeks just love a bit of “trainspotting” in our comics art?). And come to think of it there is something awfully familiar about the local Big Bad Drug Dealer…. Click the pics here to see the larger versions so you can drink in the detail a bit more.
2016 was a rough year, 2017 is just starting and doesn’t take a crystal ball to know there’s more problems ahead, but here’s a chance to at least take a break from thinking about all of that and enjoy some much needed laughs. And inventive, clever fun that does make some points, but chooses to avoid the soapbox and go for satire, punnery and a healthy dose of our old friend, the Absurd. And it remains just as enjoyable – perhaps becomes even better – with repeated readings. Terrific fun. Seen!
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
“I thought boys were great. I wanted to punch every one of their cheeky little faces till they bled. Well, that’s what I thought I wanted to do to them.”
Here’s a book I have been eagerly waiting to get my ink-stained paws on, the follow-up to the frankly brilliant Motherless Oven (reviewed here by Richard) by Rob Davis. Where the first volume focused on Scarper Lee, the schoolboy whose Death Day was fast approaching, this book gives us some of the answers behind one of Scarper’s questions about the strange girl who arrived in his school then, with his friend Cas, turned their lives upside down – “who the hell is Vera Pike?” We start with a younger Vera, who like Scarper and everyone else in the previous book, has a mother and father that she made. In her case, as you may infer from the title, her dad is a can opener. Her mother? Her mother is a terrifying looking being, an incarnation of the Weather Clock (the very one that caused events like the rain of knives we saw in the previous book). She is also the Prime Minister. And she drinks a lot.
But not of the Bear Park, that strange and compelling mixture of the everyday British suburbia and the often disturbingly bizarre. No, they live in Grave Acre, clearly a much more upmarket place. And as the kids here don’t make their mums and dads, she isn’t allowed to let anyone know that the weather clock is her mother. And as we slowly come to realise, she may not even be the actual weather clock but another version who has challenged her for supremacy. And like many hungry for power she’s increasingly paranoid, using and abusing anyone around her for her own ends, happily bringing forward people’s Death Days if they anger her or could possibly be a threat. Even she can’t do that to her own daughter though, so she does the next best thing to infanticide – she ships her child off to a boarding school, the wonderfully named Saint Sylvia’s School of Bleak Prospects and Suicide, peopled by horrid posh girls like Fonella Bonelli-Magee. Of course they look down on the new child, especially as she only has “half” a name and, shudder, she doesn’t have a name-plate…
“Ever the rebel, eh? Of course, everyone is a rebel when they’re young. Then they grow out of it. That’s because real change means taking power, and power makes monsters of us all. It requires that we do monstrous things.”
I don’t want to get too deeply into the narrative though – this is a book to get lost in, and I really don’t want to risk any spoilers here ruining your experience of it. As with Motherless Oven the book is suffused with some remarkable imagery throughout – the strange, recursive artwork of the “immortals”, the people who invented death, hanging up in the Prime Minister’s residence. In fact there is so much delicious detail throughout this is a book you’re going to probably want to re-read pretty quickly – I read this just before Christmas and planned to get a review up in time to include this in my Best Of the Year list, but I had to go back and give it another, slower read to let more of the details – and the atmosphere – seep in (so I’ll doubtless include this in my 2017 Best Of list now).
The use of the school is clever, giving us a chance to learn more about this strange, familiar yet alien world through the odd lessons Vera is forced to sit through. It also gives Rob a chance to work in some St Trinian’s homages, which is no bad thing. There’s a lot more world-building going on here – as well as exploring some of Vera’s back-story and the events that lead up to her coming into contact with Cas and Scarper which we saw in Motherless Oven we really get much more of a sense of this reality Rob has conjured up, and a much deeper handle on Vera, why she is as she is, perhaps we even get to understand her more than she understands herself, and with that understanding also comes an inkling of subversion and change to how that world has been ordered up till now, just waiting to happen, perhaps already starting to happen…
There are disturbing scenes – ruthless enforced “suicides”, strange creatures in the woods (an almost Terry Gilliam-esque moment), the vile, monstrous, terrifying Stour Provost, the literally jagged mother, but also lots of humour, much of it gallows-dark or deligtfully absurd. There’s the eternal push-pull dynamic between parents and child, of social class, of youthful fire and rebellion (and that rebellion where you know you want to fight against.. Well, not exactly sure, but you know you need to do it and it makes you angry), of the hunger for power and control and answers – but they may be answers you don’t like and that power you so covet comes with a hard price…
The art is superb, from the cheeky smirk frequently found on Vera’s face to the varied designs of the mothers and fathers, with so many fine touches like the heavy black background for scenes in a chamber of horrors below the police station (home of the awful Stour Provost) that bleeds out a feeling of wrongness and oppression, the comical statue gods in the gardens, or the haunting paintings of the immortals that are endlessly recursive, images repeating and looping back again and again on themselves.
This is some of the best contemporary British comics has to offer – clever, compelling, immersive, brilliantly illustrated, and it’s one of those books you will want to come back and re-read again and still find more details you didn’t spot before. Simply brilliant.
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
Out with dad a few days ago, overcast and grey, not ideal for taking photographs, but on the other hand this winter’s day saw the clouds come down low to curl around the the summit and the upper slopes of the Campsie Hills like a soft, silk scarf. And then a little later I saw this beautifully carved old Celtic Cross in the kirkyard of the old (sadly fire-damaged) kirk at Lennoxtown, and taking the right angle the cloud-shrouded hills in the background, and I couldn’t resist taking another photo…
2016 continues its seemingly relentless march to claim famous lives – actors, musicians, writers and now, today, one of my boyhood heroes, John Glenn. Early astronaut, early explorer of the Final Frontier. From fighting in WWII and the Korean War (where he was dubbed “magnet ass” for attracting enemy flak, more than once returning to base with a plane full of holes) to being selected as one of the Mercury Seven, those first NASA astronauts, to being the first American to orbit the Earth, a year after the great Gagarin’s astonishing flight amazed the world. It was an incredible era of heroics and achievement, comparable for me with the Great Age of Discovery and those remarkable voyages which crossed into the blank space of the maps marked only “here be dragons”, with only a glimmer of knowledge of what they faced, true pioneers and explorers.
And after a long political career in his seventies he would return to space, becoming the oldest person to orbit the Earth, going from the tin-can of the Mercury capsule (when you see one it is astonishing that it flew and brought someone back to Earth, more amazing that anyone trusted their life to such a flimsy vehicle) to the more complex and often shirt-sleeves environment of the Space Shuttle. I guess some people do indeed have The Right Stuff…