Anyone who has ever shared their life and home with animals – dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, horses and many more – will already be aware of the enormous impact our furry friends can have on our lives, especially our emotional well-being, and how they become truly part of our families. And this is what Ottilie articulates here so beautifully and warmly that if had a tail I would be wagging it.
Gina is, perhaps, not the most likely hound for someone to adopt. In a world where there are so many animals in rescue shelters, desperate for homes, the cutest are usually the first to be adopted for their “furever home”. Gina is a dog who looks more like a fox, and in her picture Ottelie describes her as “half-blind, mangy. Your skin was black with dirt.” Yes, the cutest dogs and cats get rehomed more easily, but, thank goodness there are also many animal lovers who find critturs like Gina irresistible, in a way that’s hard to explain, they just feel the desire to give them a chance for a home, attention and love. And the thing about giving that love? You get it back. And then some.
Ottelie’s home already includes husband, young children and several cats, and it is into this mix that Gina arrives. Ottelie has a little case of the jitters – she wants a dog, she chooses Gina, but she also worries if she has made the right decision, if she knows what she’s doing. I think that’s familiar to everyone who has adopted an animal, I know I experienced it several times with different cats; the joy of bringing them home mixed with worry that we may not get along, or that I’m not the right person to look after them, the thought that I had taken on responsibility for the welfare of these creatures for their entire lives. It’s a pretty natural reaction, and if anything I think it’s a healthy one – it means the person is thinking about matters fully, the possible negatives and not just blindly thinking oh this will all be wonderful.
Things feel a bit odd at first – humans and dog and cats are not used to each other, and for poor Gina it is all new, and much sniffing around must be undertaken. There’s that slow process as they all get to know each other, the humans in the family to understand Gina’s moods and expressions (and, please, don’t tell me animals don’t really have expressions, that we imagine it all, because anyone who has lived for years with them knows they do, we can see them, and they can pick up on ours too). And Gina starts to become more comfortable, more relaxed, realising this is her home, she’s safe and loved here, she has a place in the pack – obviously the cats are higher up the scale, but then the cats are sure they are higher up the scale than the humans too, usually, and she realises the children are indeed children, “cubs” of her new pack, and she is loving and protective of them.
There’s a huge amount here that anyone who loves animals will empathise with enormously and recognise. The new reality for both human and animal as they first start to share a life together, then the growing comfort with one another, as they get to know each other, a comfort that turns into more than love, into a bond that goes deep into your soul and leaves you always better for it. There are delights – meeting new people when out walking Gina, Gina herself making new doggy friends in the park, playing with the kids.
Naturally it isn’t all happiness though, and again anyone who has lived with animals knows there are the worries – injuries, illness, and the sad, inescapable fact that most animals have a far shorter lifespan than we do. We know when we take them into our lives and into our hearts we will face hurting those hearts somewhere down the line, there’s no avoiding it, no avoiding the pain, the loss, the grief. And yet it’s still worth it, because they bring such light into our lives, warmth, love, lift us even on the darkest days. And astonishingly they continue to do that even after they’re gone – yes, there is pain, but mostly there’s a warm place left inside us that they touched that stays with us forever, it’s a truly remarkable gift.
Ottilie brings this out with very simple but highly effective cartooning – this is more illustration than actual comics, an image per page with text – and her style works perfectly for the subject matter, deftly catching the emotions in expressions, the body language of both humans and animal; where a more detailed, heavier style would simply not carry the emotion so well as it does here. This is a very warm, honest and touching book, and anyone who loves animals will recognise much here, the moments that make you laugh, the moments that make you mad, the moments where you just want to melt into a warm, fuzzy ball of happiness.
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
“I’ve been contemplating suicide, but it really doesn’t suit my style…”
I’ve been a huge admirer of Reinhard Kleist’s work going right back the best part of a decade, before it was even translated into English, impressed with a German journal’s spread on his Johnny Cash graphic biography, I See a Darkness (reviewed here). I was delighted when SelfMadeHero published the English-language edition, their first European translation, if I recall correctly, and happily the first of many since. Over the years since then I’ve read several of Kleist’s books, all published by SelfMadeHero, and even had the pleasure of chatting to him for the Edinburgh International Book Festival. And, like many of you, I suspect, I’ve been a Nick Cave fan for, well, most of my life. Singer, writer, poet, actor, an artist that doesn’t fit easily into any generic boxes, creator of works, some of which you can explain why you like, some of which, you can’t articulate, you just feel and know.
So finding out Reinhard’s new book was about Nick Cave? Oh yes, you better believe I’ve been more than eager to read this. I’ve been waiting months for it to arrive on my desk. And was it worth that wait? Oh yes. In fact I would say this is Kleist’s finest work since Cash: I See a Darkness.
Nick Cave seems like a perfect match for Kleist’s approach to graphic biography, much like Cash. And in fact some elements here – quite deliberately, I would think – echo parts of his approach to that earlier work on the Man in Black. Cash started with Johnny hunting down a man, shooting him, acting out “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die”. Nice Cave: Mercy on Me begins with a young man, stifled in his small home, running away to explore the big, wide world, but coming into a town where a dark-garbed man simply shoots him – strangers not welcome. The shooter resembles a certain Australian singer, but it’s fair to say the young, wounded man is also an avatar of Cave’s personality. Later on Cash will be referenced more directly, as an influence in Cave’s artistic evolution. It feels highly appropriate, two very different musicians, but both of them with much overlapping in common, both driven by inner demons as much as creativity, both with the urge to perform, both of them ultimately larger than their music, becoming cultural icons, crossing genre boundaries.
I referred to this as a graphic biography earlier; that isn’t quite correct, that’s not exactly how Reinhard brings us into Cave’s world. He doesn’t go for the normal approach of a prose biography, the simple, chronological narrative of birth, youth, adolescence, adulthood and their respective events and influences on later life, neatly tabulated. Nor should he – we have prose works for that sort of thing. What Kleist does is more delicate and intriguing and ultimately highly effective: he takes moments from different points in the musician’s life – from his youth in Australia, travelling to Britain, the time in Berlin, the desperate, sometimes self-harming, self-destructive push to be different, change, do something new, through to the modern day, throwing in a burning road through a Hellish landscape, a certain Bluesman from a certain crossroads and even the great particle accelerator in Geneva. Wide-ranging doesn’t begin to cover it, and the use of his own words, Cave’s own writing and Kleist’s artwork all serve to give a perspective only comics can offer.
The insights into parts of Cave’s life we see here intertwine with his work – his music and his writing and even nods to film work like 20,000 Days on Earth. It’s rarely easy to separate an artist from their work, and when it is an artist like Cave, that’s even more true: Kleist doesn’t even try, he understands that both his normal life (if there is such a thing, especially for Cave) and his art and his creative process are all blended at the molecular level, symbiotic, each a part of and informing the other. And so instead with references to his songs, his novels and more and moments from his life against those lyrics – or sometimes the life as part of those lyrics – give us a flavour of the man and his art. This isn’t a chronological exposition of a man’s life and career, it’s more of an attempt to allow us to experience some of his creative process.
There are so many wonderful touches here, Kleist’s art creating many different versions of Cave – not just the obvious ones of younger Cave, older Cave, but the fictional Cave, or the semi-fictional, or perhaps sometimes the totally imaginary, the real man and the avatars from his music and writing blending, interacting. The art goes from depicting the everyday reality – a cold, winter street in Berlin or London, a dive bar in a small Aussie town – to flights of creative imagination, scenes from his songs, or characters from his books and lyrics not just coming to life, but talking to Cave, to their creator, asking why he does what he does to his creations. There are simple but highly effective moments, such as being picked up by his love, Anita, perhaps the only one who can reach him, from an addiction clinic, the back seat of the taxi growing wider between them from panel to panel in a move that visually recalls Citizen Kane’s breakfast table scene, or Cave lost in space, sending a message back to home.
“If you wrote a song about us, now, would it be a love song?”
“Yes, but love songs don’t always end well.”
Throughout it all is a sense of struggling, right from the childhood in a stultifying, boring, buttoned-down small town and the desperate, angry desire – need, really – to push against the norm, to kick it up, to change things, to evolve, mixed with frustration with himself at perceived lack of ability and direction and those around them (often in very self-destructive ways). During his time in Berlin – the Cold War, West Berlin, still divided – a musician friend tells him “if the wall wan’t there, then West Berlin would be as boring as the rest of West Germany.” It’s a remote island surrounded by a savage sea, the first to be overcome should the worst happen, and yet sometimes the edge of the volcano is where some kinds of artists need to dance, they need that sense of danger and urgency, they draw on that energy and channel. Kleist brings all of this over superbly.
This is a book I honestly can’t totally get over in terms of a review, this is, like Cave’s music, something that you can only explain so far, the rest, it just has to be experienced. Stick your best of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds on the stereo, then sit back and let yourself sink into this headtrip into the creative being of one of our most unique artists. This one will be going straight onto my Best of the Year list come December…
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
Oh now this was an absolute delight to read. There has been a large trend in the last couple of decades for urban fantasies, depicting a world that is recognisably our own, everyday realm, but where, usually in the shadows, unsuspected by most people, fantastical elements secretly exist. Charlaine Harris with her Sookie Stackhouse Mysteries (True Blood as it was for the TV version), Jim Butcher’s brilliant Harry Dresden novels (a gumshoe in Chicago who also happens to be a wizard), there has been an explosion in this area of fantastical fiction. So much so that these days I find myself a bit wary of new ones sometimes, but I had my bookseller’s Spidey-sense tingle when this arrived from Orbit, and I trust that little gut instinct. And I think Will Staehle’s cover (and some nice matching interior illustrations with a wicked sense of humour) had much to do with that too, a nice mix of woodcut style, with contemporary elements that also nods to those wonderful old Penny Dreadfuls.
And I’m glad I listened to those instincts, otherwise I would not have met Doctor Greta Helsing (her medical family long since dropped the “van”), a GP in London – in the famous Harley Street locale, no less, although unlike most their Greta is not exactly well-heeled. Except Greta’s practice takes in a very unusual set of patients – she, like her father before her, offers medical care to London’t community of preternatural creatures. Vampires, ghouls, were-creatures, vampires (and indeed vampyres, slightly different blood drinkers), even creating prosthetic bone replacements for elderly Egyptian mummies or treating a ghoul leader with clinical depression problems, it’s all in a day’s work for Greta. It’s long hours, like any GP, but it is very satisfying to her that she is not only helping people, but helping creatures that would never otherwise be able to access medical care.
However, London is a city in fear – a serial killer is stalking the city, the body count is rising, each victim found with cheap, plastic rosary beads. And those are just the ones the public and police know about – there are other victims, victims hidden from society, supernatural beings also being stalked by strange, monk-like figures, seemingly human, but stronger, with oddly-glowing blue eyes and a burning desire to destroy anything “unclean” before their god. And that includes some of Greta’s patients and anyone who helps them…
I’m not going to blow any spoilers by going any deeper into this tale here – it partakes as much of the detective novel as it does fantasy, and as such I don’t want to risk revealing any of the twists or turns here before you get a chance to read it. But I will say this is – especially for a first book in a series – this is a remarkably well-realised world and cast of characters; it really isn’t very long before you find yourself not only enjoying the story but the world demi-monde Greta moves in, a world where you can take the regular London Bus or Underground but which also has ghouls in the sewers, or Lord Ruthven in his Embankment House grand home.
Ruthven is just one of a number of literary characters who populate Greta’s world (in face Ruthven is a close family friend), we also meet the likes of Sir Francis Varney – as in Varney the Vampire (aka The Feast of Blood), one of those great penny-dreadful schockers of the 1800s), although, pleasingly, Shaw doesn’t drop in such famous Gothic characters in the way say Moore would in League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, they feel far more realised and realistic as actual, believable people (who just happen to be centuries-old sanguivores). That’s not me taking a swipe at LOEG, by the way, I do enjoy those too. And if, like me, you have a long-standing fondness for old Gothic novels and characters, this is a lovely extra layer to Greta’s world and its details. Vivian also gets extra vampy brownie points for me for referencing the likes of the Croglin Grange Vampire,
There is also a nice strand of social commentary running through this book – the religious fundamentlism of the “monks” who think they are doing the will of god (while overlooking breaking important commandments like “thou shalt not kill”) has more than a few echoes in the real world, from terrorists to religious zealots who refuse equal rights for those they disapprove of, those who consider themselves so right that they feel they can use bloody violence to enforce their will. The supernatural community that Shaw sketches out nicely here also hints at social problems in the real world – the segments of society that are Different, Not Like Us, Other, and therefore feared, hated, often turned on as easy targets.
There’s a lovely moment where Varney asks Greta why she does what she does, even for beings like him, a monster, damned to the Pit should he be killed. And Greta tells him he’s not a monster, none of them are, she sees them all as people, and she thinks all people should be able to access medical care. It’s a nice pairing of messages, that being a person is more than simply being physically human, it is qualities of being that define someone, and that medical care should be something anyone who needs it can obtain. In a world where many give into the darkness of bigotry and see even other humans as less than human (and therefore deserving of awful treatment) and many can’t get even basic healthcare, these are very welcome, warm, human messages to weave into the story, and nicely done via the medium of non-human beings. They also made me love Dr Greta all the more. As I said right at the start, this was an absolute delight to read. I look forward to more time spent with Greta…
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
Genie Lo is a very driven, very organised fifteen year old Chinese-American high school student in the Bay Area. Like more than a few similar kids she’s ferociously organised and dedicated to her studies and coping with the pressure of exams, good grades and the even higher pressures of transmuting those grades into a good university (and then more exams, more organisation, more studies, more pressure to achieve the best grades there and then onto a career and…). Yes, it’s a hell of a lot of stress put on young shoulders, as anyone who has ever been a student will recall, and the target audience for this YA fantasy will be more than familiar with, I’m sure. And quite a lot of those kids will also empathise with feelings of being different, awkward. In Genie’s case this is exacerbated by being quite tall (although this has its uses on the sports field sometimes). Adding to the pressure of school, possible colleges and career choices (why do we expect someone to be able to deal with all of that at 15???) home life isn’t ideal either – her mother is uptight and precious about her achievements, her father is more easy going but now estranged from her mother.
And into this mix she’s about to discover something remarkable about herself, and find this surprise comes with even more responsibilities, the type she can’t tell anyone else about (even her bestest friend Yunie) and dangers. And she’s going to meet a boy, which sparks all of this change. No, not in the normal teen way of first finding out about the attractions of other boys or girls. Quentin may be handsome and terrifically fit (although short), but this isn’t some Romeo and Juliet deal. Quentin is… Well, he’s not human. In fact he is Sun Wukong – the fabled Monkey King of legend, as depicted most famously in Wu Cheng’en’s classic of Chinese literature, Journey to the West. I’m guessing that “Quentin”, the name he adopts as he pretends to be a new student at Genie’s school is a nod to Qítiān Dàshèng, one of the titles Sun Wukong took on in his many travels and adventures (meaning something along the lines of Great Sage). Born of a stone egg on a mountain top, who through many adventures (and misadventures) slowly became more of a hero and less selfish, more enlightened and a protector against evil. A character that those of us of a certain age probably first encountered in the bonkers 1970s TV series Monkey (“the nature of Monkey was…. Irrepressible!!!”)
What is such an ancient – until now mythical being, as far as Genie knew – Chinese celestial being doing in 21st century West Coast America? Well, he wants Genie. He thinks he knows her, knows her well of old, that she may perhaps be a reincarnation of a very important element of his own past, one that he has been watching the Earth for any sign of reincarnation in a new form. And it seems others too have similar ideas, a few good, emissaries from the Jade Emperor in Heaven, but most bad, demons escaped from hell and after power on Earth (gained through very nasty means). Many of these are demons Quentin fought and sent to hell himself centuries before as part of his penance for past misdeeds, and he is more than a little surprised to find so many of them back on Earth, a demonic jailbreak, it seems. And like it or not, Genie is at the centre of this. Just as well she’s clever and a quick study…
Teen girl finds herself chosen to be part of an eternal struggle between mythic or supernatural forces she hadn’t even dreamed were real. Yes, it does evoke memories of Buffy, of course it does, but the youngster suddenly exposed to a wider world and realising they are part of it and they have to take part in it even if they don’t want to has been a part of countless coming of age tales long before Buffy. And to be fair here, Yee does a terrific job of creating in Genie and Quentin something very different from Buffy, and indeed from a lot of the modern trend for urban fantasies where we have our regular, everyday world with some “magic is real” layer (some of which is terrific fun). Genie herself feels like a real girl, especially a real girl from that particular slice of Bay Area society, and Yee depicts her with a lot of sympathy and understanding; of course she has faults, but regardless it’s very hard not to become very fond of Genie quite quickly.
And then there is the choice of mythology deployed here, the fantasy dropped into the otherwise realistic family and school and social life of a teen Chinese-American teen. Although Journey to the West is one of the great treasures of world literature, a classic alongside Beowulf or the Iliad or Gilgamesh, it hasn’t been used as much in Western fantasies, making it ripe for drawing on its rich tapestry of characters and adventures, not to mention the coming of age element of Genie’s story being reflected in Sun Wukong’s own (rather slower!) learning curve towards being more enlightened. I was reminded a bit of Ashok Banker’s fascianting Ramayana series, which drew on the great Indian myths and tales and reworked them into a rich fantasy that Western readers, even those with little or no knowledge of the Ramayana cycle, could easily understand and enjoy.
I read this book with a huge smile over my face for most of it. Quentin is cheeky, full of himself but also heroic, funny and capable of sudden understanding and compassion, the Monkey King. Genie is self doubting, troubled but also determined, very clever and she’s not going to be pushed around, especially as she learns more about this hidden world around her, because when a student like Genie learns, she realises she can control more, and Quentin may have met his match. As an adult reader I enjoyed the heck out of this and adored mining the Sun Wukong tales for inspiration and details (sudden urge to revisit my Penguin Classic edition of Wu Cheng’en), it felt fresh and colourful. The target Young Adult audience will, I think like it even more. Yes, there are some standard elements of the Journey of the Hero in there, but those are there in so many tales over the centuries, it’s what you do with those elements that counts, and here Yee’s crafted an utter delight.
And just because I couldn’t get the “monkey magic” theme tune out of my head, the opening credits to that wonderfully madcap 70s TV version of Monkey (not as cool as Quentin tries to be but so much fun):
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
The latest volume in the brilliant Laundry Files arrives from the delightfully warped brain of Charlie Stross. I’ve enjoyed Charlie’s books for many years, but I have an especially soft spot for his Laundry novels; in fact they’re a particular favourite of mine, a delicious mixture of fantasy-horror, laced with dark humour and some fine satirical sideswipes at society and organisations, and, in the form of husband and wife team Mo and Bob, characters that grow on you very quickly and who you become very fond of and invested in.
For those not in the know, the Laundry is nickname for a very special section of British Intelligence, with a very unusual remit – like MI5, MI6 and predecessors like the famous SOE they track and attempt to neutralise threats to the security of the realm. Except the Laundry deals with what most would consider supernatural threats – vampires, portals to other realms, mind-crunching extra-dimensional parasites and unspeakable Elder Gods.But this is no Buffy-esque secret Watcher society, the Laundry may be super-secret (even most of the cabinet doesn’t know about this, and they operate beyond even the secretive oversight of the other intelligence services (which is going to be one of the problems in this volume) but they are still a part of the civil service, and that means procedures, HR requirements and lots of paperwork in-between trying to save the world from soul-devouring monstrosities.
After an enormous incident in the preceding novel though, involving many deaths and an invading force from another dimension in a major British city, the usual clean-up protocols are useless – the Laundry has been exposed to the public and government scrutiny, and as we open poor Bob, who has faced everything from unicorns (nasty buggers) to the skin-crawling horror of the The Sleeper, has an even more terrible foe to face – a live interview on Newsnight. With the Laundry exposed the media is diving on this once secret division and of course the government isn’t too happy either, and in best tradition both media and government are looking for someone to blame for the previous disaster. The media scent blood and the embarrassed government wants scapegoats to blame. And there is outrage that the Laundy has been operating beyond the oversight of the parliamentary intelligence committees (and the legalities that constrain just what more regular services like MI5 can and cannot do).
This is just the start of a seismic shift in how this organisation has been run for many decades, and enemies can scent a sudden weakness and opportunity. The fact that the Laundry has held off absolute nightmares from devouring our Green and Pleasant Land (not to mention the rest of the world and humanity with it) seems to count for little in this atmosphere. And some enemies are prepared to use the devious weapons of the political-corporate elites as much as they will use more fantastical means. Why use up your supernatural energies when you can manipulate government ministers and get them to go along with your ideas – privatise and outsource many operations to a private security firm, it’s more cost-effective and market-efficient, don’t you know! And the group pushing the prime minister for this has already successfully taken over entire sections of the Laundry’s opposite numbers in Washington. Bona fide government contractors, what could be better???
Naturally there is much more going on here, the dark forces using ideas dear to certain sections of the political establishment (supposed free-market competition and efficiency that usually actually means even poorer service – usually bailed out by the taxpayers – and contracts given to firms which just happen to have friends in government, and where many politicians go on to serve after retiring from political life), to infiltrate and quietly take over whole sections of the fabric of our society we depend on, without anyone even knowing they have ceded that control. The huge upset in the operations of the Laundry are also mirrored in Bob and Mo’s personal life – in the most recent volumes both have been through enormous changes that have left their marks. They are both still in love but unsure they can be together (not just in the emotional sense after the traumas they’ve endured, there is an actual safety issue, not least because Bob is now also the Eater of Souls).
I don’t want to go to deeply into the unfolding narrative here, it’s nice, tight, packed with tension and turns, as you would probably expect from one of Charlie’s books, but this set-up with the Laundry now in the open and being menaced as much by government rationalisation plans as it is secret societies and dark gods, is one ripe with potential, both for satirical humour and for dramatic tension, and Charlie uses it perfectly, giving a gripping new installment and quite a major development in the Laundry itself. If you are already a Laundry fan you know you need this, and you know you are in for a treat, if you are new to the series then get yourself started with the Atrocity Archives and the Jennifer Morgue and I think you will soon be as addicted as the rest of us. Clever, funny, gripping, inventive and with more than a few satirical comments on the state of our modern world, what more can you ask for? Except maybe a TV series? Constantly surprised there hasn’t been a Netflix or HBO type series based around the Laundry novels yet…
You can read an excerpt from the Delirium Brief on the Orbit blog. Charlie will be appearing at the Edinburgh International Book Festival with Jo Walton as part of Ken MacLeod’s guest selector strand on August 16th. This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
A while back you may recall Wim in one of his Continental Correspondent columns discussing a series of travel comics commissioned by famous fashion house Louis Vuitton, each by a different and well-known creator and taking in a different global destination. One of those was by the late, great Jiro Taniguchi (whose work on The Summit of the Gods, also translated and published by Fanfare/Ponent Mon, was highly praised on here by Richard), and I’m delighted to see Fanfare/Ponent Mon publishing it in an edition which makes it much more easily available than the special editions created purely for LV. And it would be criminal if a work this exquisitely beautiful hadn’t been made available to a wider readership.
Venice sees the artist visiting the ravishingly beautiful La Serenissima, driven more by a recently discovered family connection to this historic city on the water than by any mere tourist impulse (poor Venice, a victim of its own success, is now so inundated with legions of tourists, while her own population declines, that it has become a huge bone of contention with remaining Venetians). Following the death of his mother, the artist finds a fine, lacquered box, and inside a series of old photographs, taking in a young Japanese couple, and some with a small child, snapped in Venice, and hand-painted postcards of the coty. One features the iconic Piazza San Marco, with the couple feeding the pigeons, and from the clothes and style it looks as if it were taken in the 1920s or 1930s. Was this his grandmother and grandfather in Italy? Is that his mother as a young girl alongside them? His mother never mentioned much about his grandparents and nothing about a trip decades ago to Venice. He decides to visit and try to retrace their steps, as best he can.
Eschewing a more common comics layout of sequential panels and speech bubbles, here Taniguchi instead opts for something more leisurely-paced, mostly taking the form of a series of individual paintings as he walks around this glorious, ancient city, ravishing watercolours that you can lose yourself in, with only a small amount of text here and there. The effect is like looking over Taniguchi’s shoulder as he strolls around, pausing to drink in the sights and sounds and scents of Venice, and there is, to my mind, something highly appropriate about this approach, given that Venice has, for centuries, drawn artists and poets to her canals and elegantly crumbling grand architecture to paint her, write about her, compose sonnets, it became an integral part of the Grand Tour.
Taniguchi, with his delicate style, gentle pace and eye not just for detail, but also, crucially for a location like this, for the quality of light, and how it changes, is simply perfect here. He’s not just depicting the city through his walks and visuals, he’s practically taking us there. You can almost smell the saltwater of the lagoon and canals, feel the texture of some of those centuries-old buildings fighting their slowly-losing battle against the tide of time and element. The ravishing richness of a marbled church interior is as lovingly depicted as the wall of a family home, you can see some of the old plaster rendering coming away and the bricks below, and you feel you could run your hand along the wall as you walk past with Taniguchi and feel its texture against your fingertips.
The quality of light changes as the skies brighten blue then cloud over, and Taniguchi’s gorgeous art reflects this, from the clear blues over the Piazza San Marco or an aerial view of the islands and lagoon, basking in the Adriatic sunshine, or the gloomier, watery grey light of a rainy day in the north of Italy. As we follow him around we get to see, as you may expect, many of the city’s remarkable landmark structures, but this is mixed beautifully with an artist’s eye for smaller details, from the swinging of bells in the church tower to close-ups of the people and wares in the local street markets, or reflections in a puddle of rainwater on a city square. It’s wonderfully immersive, the paucity of text leaving the visuals to carry us, and oh, that is such a good decision on Taniguchi’s part, because it allows us to be drawn in until the reader feels like they are walking with the artist alongside the canals, over the bridges, pausing for as long as we want to drink in the surroundings.
The fact that he is following a part of his family history he never knew adds a lovely, emotional element to this beautiful work, as he tries to recreate the routes his grandparents took through Venice, working from photographs but also hand-drawn art from the period, crafted by his grandfather. Past and present and family history connect through this ancient city and through art, old and new, and it simply wonderful to take in and lost yourself in.
I also found myself pondering family history, my own this time – quite a number of years ago one of my family visiting relatives in London looked at some very old postcards at a kiosk. Very old, black and white postcards, the types with the crinkly edges rather than straight, people feeding the pigeons, just like Taniguchi’s postcard, but here it was Trafalgar Square rather than the Piazza San Marco, and in the old postcard? My grandfather. Snapped unknowingly decades before, preserved in that instant on postcards and found decades after he was gone. A magical gift from the past, washed up on the ebb-tide of time. For me that added another, personal element to Taniguchi’s artist retracing old steps from the past, but in truth that was just an extra topping on the dessert of this delicious, lusciously-drawn work. Lose yourself in this book.
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
I absolutely love the work of Jacques Tardi, from his crime tales to fantastical Jules Verne-esque yarns like the Arctic Marauder or the bitter, powerful anger of It Was the War of the Trenches (see here) and Goddamn This War (reviewed here), he is, for me, one of Europe’s great masters of the ninth art. I also have a fondness for a dash of Noir, so combine Tardi with a Noir murder featuring Leo Malet’s detective Nestor Burma and oh yes, you better believe I wanted to get my little ink-stained paws on it. And rather a handsome edition it is too, a slim hardback album, with some nice metallic highlights on the front and back cover (sadly not so obvious in the scan above, but quite striking when you see it with your own eyes), a nice addition to Fantagraphics’ Tardi library on my shelves. It even comes with nice end-papers detailing a map of the relevant part of Paris, marking the location of the main events; in conjunction with the actual comics art it gives a great impression of the place, you can feel your way around the mean streets.
Nestor receives a letter from Abel Benoit, claiming to be an old comrade who desperately needs his help, “a scumbag is planning something dirty.” He addresses Burma as both “comrade” and a “brother” and hints at their old days in their youth. There’s one problem – Burma doesn’t recall ever knowing an Abel Benoit at any point in his life, the name means nothing to me. But the detective is intrigued, and so he ventures off across a rainy Paris, the trademark trenchcoat collar turned up, heading to the hospital this Benoit is being treated in. And he’s being followed, by a mysterious, dark-haired woman; she’s behind him right from his office, on the train and the station, before finally approaching him.
It transpires she posted the letter for the ill Benoit and she tells Burma that he is wasting his time – Benoit is dead. This gypsy woman, Benita, refuses to accompany him when he insists on still visiting the hospital – he clearly doesn’t trust this stranger, for all he knows she was sent to divert him from his appointment with Benoit. But she does promise to wait across the road from the hospital for him. Benoit does indeed prove to have given up his breathing rights, just as Benita told him. And on being taken to view the body in the morgue he meets an old associate, from the police, waiting for him. Why are the police interested and why do they think Nestor know something that they want to know? It seems several people have an interest in this mysterious man and case, and they all seem to think Burma already has the inside track, while he’s left wonder who Benoit is, why he thought they knew each other and why the cops are staking out the morgue waiting on his visit…
I don’t want to get into much more plot detail – I’d rather not potentially spoil any twists and turns, after all those are part and parcel of the fun of a good crime story. I will say that it involves elements from Burma’s own mis-spent youth, and mixes in the police (who have a fairly chequered past with Burma), an old case, a femme fatale (naturally) and more, in a very satisfying ratio. And this being Tardi, the visuals and layouts are just utterly superb. 1950s Paris, the streets tramped by our rumpled detective, usually in the rain (of course), the streets of the rough XIII arrondissement – now a bustling place with a large Asian community and shiny new business cenres on the Rive Gauche, but in this period it’s a down-at-heels, tough neighbourhood that Burma sneers at (fancy street names can’t hide the poverty and shabbiness), and yet he also clearly has some dogged affection for the area.
Drawn in monochrome, which suits the very Noir atmosphere, there are some gorgeous visual throughout this book. Many scenes follow Burma in his trenchcoat, scowl on his face, through those XIII arrondissement streets, the “camera” angle often directly behind of in front of him – the effect is reminiscent of those cool and stylish handheld camera shots through the Parisian streets by film-makers like Goddard, and makes the reader feel as if they are walking those street with Malet’s detective. The rain-lashed 1950s streets are grey and chill, the pacing and sizing of the panels changing to reflect the story, smaller, more frequent during sequences where Nestor is being tailed, larger and slower for more dialogue-heavy character moments, while Tardi uses variable lettering sizes to convey emotions, shouting and other effects, a device he’s used very effectively before.
An afterword by Malet confesses he was never a fan of comics, but he saw one of Tardi’s Adele Blanc-Sec books in the Casterman shop, and was taken by it, and then later by Tardi himself, leading to their collaboration, with Fog Over Tolbiac Bridge first appearing in serial form in A Suivre. Malet was impressed, he describes Tardi as approaching his novel like a film director (which I found interesting as I had the same impression prior to reading the afterword), and how he felt disappointed in attempts to make a film of Fog, but he had better than a film he had Tardi: “No one else can so perfectly enshroud the setting with such a dampness and thickness. No one else can bring the underlying depression to the surface.”
A gripping mystery, executed with some of the finest comics art Europe has to offer, mysterious dames, tough guys with a moral centre, an old case knocking insistently on the door of the present, and an atmosphere that oozes Noir so much you’d think the fog itself could wear a Fedora. This is one to curl up with, and like a good Raymond Chandler, or Malet for that matter, this is a book that you know you are going to go back and revisit.
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
I’ve been waiting to see Ceyda Torun’s Turkish documentary about some of the many feral cats in Istanbul for some time, and finally caught it this evening, my end of the work week treat on the way home after work. The film follows a number of local characters in an old neighbourhood in Istanbul, although the legions of cats living wild in the city goes way, way back, well before Istanbul, before Turkey was Turkey, when this was Constantinople, the continuation of the Classical Roman world. As one local comments, ships have always visited this great crossroads city between East and West, even centuries ago, from as far as Scandinavia; many of those ships carried cats, popular with the sailors for both their company and their rodent-cleansing skills, meaning the city’s wild feline population includes a variety of breeds, even Norwegian forest cats.
The film talks about how many of these cats live in this region of Istanbul, each with their own characters, as all animals have, interacting with their chosen humans but still mostly living free and wild. Some come right into human homes and businesses for periods, for food treats, for company and attention and affection, then back out on their rounds across streets and rooftops. Others obviously don’t mind people but don’t get too close, like one who turned up at a seafront restaurant one day and settled in, taking care of any rat problems at night. Another regularly attends a pretty upmarket deli/cafe, but he knows his bounds (he has manners, the cafe owner says), he doesn’t come inside, doesn’t bother the customer for tidbits, he waits and then puts his paws up on the glass to draw attention to let them know he is hungry.
The amount of people who interact with the cats is huge, from just giving them some attention and under the chin scratches to those who go out with bags of food to feed them, seeking out their regular spots, looking out especially those mama cats with young kittens (or in one touching scene a man feeds abandoned kittens milks with a syringe, no idea where their mother is, but he has help, a large Tom who tries to look after the kittens after finding them). Most of them talked about how the cats made them feel, how the interaction with the animals helped them, brightened their day and made it better, more than a few who had suffered some crisis in their lives found interacting with the animals healed them inside, which will surprise no-one who has ever lived with animals. Cats, dogs, horses and more, they touch a part of us deep inside, even when we’re badly hurt; there’s a reason why therapists often recommend living with animals to those with emotional trauma, and more than a few PTSD sufferers are on record as saying that the companionship of an animal saved them from the black pit when they were at their worst.
But this isn’t just a film for moggy lovers like me, it’s as much about the people and the place and the community. The camera moves around in drone shots over the roofs (where the cats walk as they please as easily as they do on the ground, for a cat’s paths around a city are whichever it chooses, not restricted to mere human passageways like us clumsy upright apes) and down at cat-eye level too. Around this old neighbourhood, as in many cities around the world, the movers and shakers are building towering bland palaces of glass and steel, structures on an inhuman scale, built on the cleared remains of communities like this, and they worry that their old neighbourhood will be next.
Where will the people go, where will the cats go in such an environment? What will happen to the community felines and homo sapiens share so beautifully there? Cleared in the way of “progress” (normally defined here as giving rich speculators more room and power at the expense of regular people), a way of life and community scattered to be replaced by isolated high-rise blocks for the rich, the houses, small businesses, cafes and flats and people and cats all gone? It’s a pattern familiar from many cities over the last century, here given added pathos because of the animal element.
The roving cameras following the cat also give a flavour of the city – not the tourist parts, the real city, where people live and know one another, in their local cafes, fishing by the seafront, the bustling local markets (a regular haunt for many of the cats!) and lets you feel something of the beat of the city, its rhythms and life, in a place which has been a bustling hub of life for so many centuries of history, a history the cats have shared with them; empires have risen and fallen, religions come and gone and been replaced, new countries born, and the cats have been there through all of it, happily training the local humans as cats do.
One local comments cats are aware of god, dogs are not, they think humans are god, cats know better, humans are perhaps middlemen. Actually I suspect cats don’t see us even as middlemen to god, they may be aware of god, but they probably don’t care, because they know that they are the centre of all things in the universe (gods included, excepting perhaps the lady Bast, since she is a feline goddess) and god is just someone else they can get a tummy tickle from, and perhaps a bit of ham or chicken.
Overall it’s a charming, funny, warm film though, smiling humans and purring pusscats, it’s touching, inspiring and lightens the soul, god knows something we could all do with.
Another of my slate of screenings at the recent Edinburgh International Film Festival was this gem of a science documentary from Irish director Emer Reynolds, on one of the greatest feats of exploration – the Voyager missions. I’ve been a space geek for as long as I’ve been a science fiction fan, the two interests often cross-feeding one another (the great Arthur C Clarke incorporated new knowledge gleaned from Voyager and other missions into some of his science fiction writing). And I grew up with Voyager, launched in 1977 when I was just a kid, I followed the missions, in those long ago, pre-internet days through the old fashioned media of documentaries on the BBC, the Sky at Night and journals like New Scientist, right through to my teens and early adulthood as this long, long mission progressed, taking us on a “grand tour” of the outer planets and showing sights no human had ever seen before.
The history and the science will be familiar to many who have an interest in space exploration, but this is a story that is well worth revisiting, because it is a magnificent triumph of ideas made real by clever engineering, and that human urge to explore pushing us further than ever before; our ancestors, be they European seaman or the great Polynesian navigators on wood and reed rafts, sailed vast oceans of the Earth, exploring, and with Voyager we sailed a sea of stars to the distant planets… And then beyond.
The two Voyagers took in giant worlds, including a couple we didn’t even know existed until a couple of centuries ago and revealed more complexity and wonder than anyone dared hope for, from the searing radiation around mighty Jupiter and its moons, those wonderful rings around Saturn, those cold, remote outer giants of Neptune and Uranus. It showed us volcanic eruptions on a world other than our own for the first time, and these probes traveled billions of miles from our home, reprogrammed from the increasingly distant Earth for each mission, clever maths taking them on a course not just to worlds, but using the gravity of those worlds to “slingshot” onto their next trajectory (receiving a speed boost into the process). Kepler and Newtown would have approved. All this with 1970s technology…
NASA and JPL opened their archives to the film-makers, and while anyone with an interest will have seen some of this, there is much here that has rarely, or never, been shown. A small amount of CG compliments the real Voyager footage to give us views of the craft themselves, but the images Voyagers 1 and 2 brought us are the main visual focus here; a beautiful scene shows a time-lapse montage of a planetary approach by Voyager, from its perspective, from distant disc to close-up details, even clouds. The clouds scudding across the skies of another world. Astonishing.
But the real heart here – as with The Last Man on the Moon, which I reviewed here last year – is the human element. The people who worked on Voyager. The engineers who designed them, the scientists who worked on the missions, the people who conceived of and executed the famous Gold Disc both craft carry, with two hours of music from different eras and cultures on Earth, and greetings in many languages, including one by a young Nick Sagan, Carl Sagan’s wee boy: “hello from the children of Planet Earth”. A message in a bottle, afloat on a galactic sea. Coming through all of this film, Emer Reynolds draws out the science team, and brings genuine emotion to the film. There’s huge pride at what they accomplished, taking advantage of a rare alignment of the planets for this astounding mission, and how they made new discoveries and saw things for the very first time that no human had even known about, let alone seen.
There’s even a lovely bit of archive footage of a party after the final fly-by, when a special guest arrives to play music to the team – Chuck Berry. Of course he played Johnny B Goode, which is on the Gold Disc, and there among the celebrating science team is dear Carl Sagan, dancing happily to Chuck Berry. It’s unlikely any alien intelligence will ever find Voyager and get to play that disc, but as one scientist noted, it’s not impossible. And the very inclusion of it was a mark of enormous optimism, a reaching out, here we are, we’re just learning our first steps out of the cradle, but look what we have achieved already, please contact us. If it isn’t discovered by some other species in the future, the craft will continue on, possibly outlasting the Earth itself, a slice of human culture preserved among the stars.
And as the film notes, these remarkable wee craft are still working, forty years after launch. Their last encounter with the planets was long ago, but they still send daily data back home – one engineer commented that when they were launched back in 1977 the technology to receive signals from such a distant source didn’t exist, they made it while the probes flew on, to listen into a whisper in the cosmos. After the remarkable planetary encounters there was still science and wonder to be had, from the Sagan-inspired “family portrait” of the solar system (when he argued for turning the cameras back towards Earth, now not even a pixel wide to Voyager’s lenses, the “pale blue dot”), to seeking out the heliopause, the point where the influence of our sun ends, marking the boundary of the solar system. In 2012 Voyager 1, the fastest moving of the pair, finally detected the end of this influence; it officially crossed the boundary, leaving our solar system, the first human-created object into interstellar deep space. No wonder those scientists were so proud of what they accomplished.
(director Emer Reynolds and editor Tony Cranstoun talking about The Farthest at the Edinburgh International Film Festival, pic from my Flickr)
And one day, when the power finally fades, and those last reports dwindle into static, Voyagers will still have one mission as they continue on to the stars: the gold disc, humanity’s message in a bottle, that wonderful optimism that permeated the Voyager missions, that Reynolds brings out in her interviews with the science team in the film, will power that final mission, perhaps forever. This is a remarkable documentary, celebrating the ingenuity, the science, glorying in the wonders discovered, but above all it is about the people behind it, who built a dream and sailed it across the worlds. For anyone interested in science and space exploration this is unmissable.
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog; The Farthest will be released in Irish cinemas on July 28th
Starring Kiki Sugino , Munetaka Aoki, Mayu Yamaguchi
Another of the films I caught during the recent Edinburgh International Film Festival was Kiki Sugino’s hauntingly beautiful film from Japan, Snow Woman. Drawing on an ancient folkloric tradition of the Yuki-onna, a spirit, almost ghostly being who, like the vampire, has had many variations in the telling and re-telling of her tale across the year. Here director Sugino takes the eponymous role, first appearing in an opening prologue, shot in a silvery black and white as a pair of hunters struggle through heavy snow on the mountains around Hiroshima, the elder male clearly losing the struggle, his young companion aiding him into the relative shelter of an old hunting cabin.
Awoken in the middle of the night, the younger man, Minokichi, is frozen by terror as much as the bitter cold, for their rough shelter has been invaded silently by a pale woman with piercing eyes and long, dark hair, crouched over his companion, and as her chill breath passes over his face the older man dies. Turning her attention to Minokichi the Snow Woman looks as if she is about to do the same to him, but then she tells him she will take pity on him because of his youth, and spare his life, on the condition he never tell another person what happened (a detail nicely lifted from one of the more popular versions of the many stories of the Snow Woman in Japan).
Moving to colour, it is now much later, the winters have departed the mountains, and Minokichi is returning from a hunting trip when he finds a beautiful woman alone on one of the paths. She asks the way to the ferry, and he takes her, inviting her to spend the night in the home of he and his elderly mother. The woman, Yuki, is beautiful but quiet and mysterious – she seems not to know where she came from, or of any family, but she is pleasant and both Minokichi and his mother are happy for her simply to stay with them, Minokichi slowly falling in love with her and asking her to become his wife. And for many years they are quite happy – Minokichi is curious about his strange wife, but as they live and love together and even have a child – a girl, Ume – he swallows this curiosity and seems content to live his life with wife and daughter in their small, barely changing village.
Of course it can’t last – Yuki has a familiar look to her and it is clear Minokichi has wondered if she is related to the Snow Woman he encountered (but if so how can she be here living as a human wife outside of her winter season?). He bites back his curiosity, partly perhaps because the Snow Woman warned him never to mention what happened on pain of death, but mostly, one feels, because he loves her and his daughter. But as the years pass – Yuki looks no older than the day she arrived – and their daughter starts to grow up, events start to happen around the village and mountain, strange deaths, the victims frozen…
This is such a beautifully crafted film – despite the supernatural elements and the folklore it is based on, it avoids the route of J-horror, instead creating a more chilling atmosphere in some places (no pun intended), like a Victorian ghost tale, perhaps. But mostly this is less a tale of strange spirits and more a tale of love and people and men and women, and how they can love one another truly but still sometimes simply cannot share a life, or at least not always, and sometimws can’t even communicate properly to one another (“husbands and wives are strangers to each other” Minokichi’s mother once tells him), a theme of Sugino’s other works too – she explained in a Q&A after the film that as a Korean-Japanese the idea of the outsider and not quite understanding one another is one she is very familiar with, while the tale itself reminds me of elements of the Selkie wife from my own country’s folklore tradition.
Snow Woman is a work of beauty though, the slow pacing and the almost timeless setting (a few items, like electric lights, hint at mid-20th century, but the village and clothing could be almost any time in the last few hundred years) allowing the audience to sink into the pace with the nature the villagers live closely to, and there is a real feeling of the turning of the seasons here (appropriately enough as some versions of the Yuki-onna associate her with seasonal spirits), the feeling of the village life in the shadow of the mountains and forest, the closeness of the natural world (and the supernatural Other World), told in some luscious cinematography and clever, precise use of soundscape until it feels less like watching a film and more like walking slowly through a dream. I can see why Sugino is making a name for herself in Asian cinema.
(Kiki Sugino talking after the film festival screening of Snow Woman)
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog
I’ve been pretty busy watching lots of different types of movies during the Edinburgh International Film Festival over the last few days and it hasn’t left me much free time to pen some reviews, so apologies in advance for bundling one of the feature length animated films with a quick selection from some of the short animation programmes.
My Entire High School Sinking into the Sea,
Directed by Dash Shaw
Starring Jason Schwartzman, Lena Dunham, Reggie Watts, Maya Rudolph, Susan Sarandon
When I saw this appear in this year’s Edinburgh International Film Festival programme I must confess I was minded to book it just on the strength of that title alone – I mean, come on, how could I resist a film with a title like that? Then I found out it was from US comics creator Dash Shaw, so I was doubly determined to go and see it while I had the chance.
Dash and Assaf are best friends at school – in fact the don’t really have any other friends, although Dash, now growing out of his teen acne years, is trying to be more positive about the start of their sophomore year and with big plans for what he and Assaf will do on the school paper. Except Dash is a terrible writer and happy to make up screeds of nonsense flavoured with liberal amounts of purple prose. When the school paper’s editor Verti assigns Assaf a solo writing job it becomes clear that, in that ancient rights-of-teen-passage, two best friends are about to be parted by a woman coming into the lives of one of them, and Dash isn’t happy about it.
In fact Dash is so angry he concocts another of his fake news stories, but this time full of accusations about Assaf, hurtful and quite nasty stuff, which not only hurts their friendship, it earns Dash a visit to the office of Principal Grimm and a note on his permanent record. Still hurt and petulant, Dash sneaks into the archives – a rat-infested basement of cardboard boxes full of school records and confiscated cellphones – to grab his records, but when he does so he also finds some hidden documents about the new senior school auditorium which is about to open on the top floor of Tides High. And among them he finds paperwork from the state surveyor saying the building is already structurally unsound and the new addition will add to that, especially as the school sits above a fault line, right on a cliff by the ocean. Given the location and the film’s title (it really does do what it says on the tin!), I think you can see where this is going…
Dash finds that the principal has forged papers saying the building is sound – finally he actually has a real, important, powerful news story for the school paper. But in classic boy who cried wolf mode, nobody believes him even though this time he has a real story and even the documentary evidence. But events are about to prove him right, although too late for many, and crunch and splash, the school is indeed in the sea, and it is sinking. Cue survival time as former friends and mis-matched students and staff – including the formidable Lunch Lady Lorraine (played by Susan Sarandon, no less!) – choose their paths, some leading to watery death, some a possible, desperate way out.
This was huge fun – sure the animation is pretty basic, guessing executed on a really small budget, it’s kind of Daria-level animation, but Shaw and company don’t let that hinder then, in fact they seem to glory in it, delighting in using odd combinations of colours and perspectives so that, although fairly basic animation, visually it all works nicely, keeping the eyes interested while the story hooks the brain. And yes, the story is essentially mashing a bunch of 1980s high school movies mashed up with The Poseidon Adventure, but it really doesn’t matter, it’s just a great ride as the kids have to make hard decisions and work together to try and survive, all handled with some out-there artwork and perspectives. Inept teachers, a cool lunch lady, lost juniors, jock-like seniors, gruesome deaths, sinking high school and even sharks, plus friendship and romance and comedy, I mean what else do you need??
The McLaren Animation Awards
I always make a point of going to the annual McLaren Animation strands at the Edinburgh International Film Festival – there are so many interesting short animation works being produced and yet we so rarely get to see them properly, on the big screen in a cinema, so I usually try to get to both strands of the McLaren, which celebrates and promotes new and emerging UK-based animation talent, and, rather pleasingly I think, the awards are voted on by the actual audiences, so it is the people who came along to watch, enjoy and support the works who get to cast the votes which determine the winner.
This year’s McLaren Award for British Animation went to Paloma Baeza for Poles Apart, which was a lovely piece of stop-motion work in which a back-packing grizzly bear arrives in the Arctic, and meets a starving polar bear. Using humour and friendship this short story gently raises the increasingly dire spectre of climate change and the human impact on the natural world, without getting on a soap box – in fact at at Q&A after the screening Paloma noted she wanted to say something about this global problem, but not in a way that may put people off or come across as lecturing, and she succeeded admirably in this (and also raised smiles into the bargain, it is a lovely wee work),and kudos to her for getting a major actor like Helen Bonham Carter to voice the polar bear:
There are a good couple of dozen short animation works shown across the two annual McLaren screenings at the film fest, and there isn’t really space or time for me to mention each of them, and, as with any collection of quite different works (very different approaches in subject matter, style, execution and so on), some are going to appeal more to some viewers, while others may appeal more to different viewers. But there were so many interesting works that I have to pick out a few that struck me personally.
Will Adams’ Nothing to Declare starts as a warm, inviting piece – a young man off on his travels before he settles down to life, sends back a package for his little sister from South America. A little after this, right before Christmas, he returns back to chilly Scotland from Brazil, the family flat is warm and inviting, Christmas music plays, the windows glow with that warm, cosy glow that looks so inviting from a winter street. But when he gets inside it takes a very dark, actually quite gruesome twist that wouldn’t be out of place in an old EC Comic – I didn’t know until afterwards that the story here was from Scottish comics legend Frank Quitely. Will spoke at the Q&A afterwards and said he and some of those involved used to share space in the famous Hope Street studios in Glasgow with Frank and other creators, and when asked if there may be future collaborations between the animation team and Scottish comickers, he said they hoped to do more (although given the time even short animated films take, it could be a while before we see any new fruits of such collaborations, but fingers crossed!)
(home in time for Christmas – a scene from Nothing to Declare)
Elizabeth Hobbs’ G-AAAH was an utter delight. Elizabeth celebrated the epic solo flight from Britain to Australia by Amy Johnson in 1930 (the title refers to the plane’s call sign), and she does it all using an old Underwood Typewriter (Amy was a typist before she was a famous flyer). ASCII characters from the old typewriter come to life on the paper, taking the shapes of the aircraft, the stars in the skies, the seas below, it’s a beautiful example of the ways in which a talented animator can use almost any medium to create the sense of something vibrant and living.
Jack Newman’s Escape From Syria – Faiza’s Story, was based on the testimony of a young mother, Faiza, who saw the slow disintegration of Syria, from their comfortable home to a place of horror and terror; by the time her brother is kidnapped the family realises they, like so many others, cannot stay any longer in their own land and have to flee – the artwork is based on drawings by Faiza’s own children, who have seen things no child should, and it gives an added power and emotive blow when watching the film. Jennifer Zheng’s Tough explored both the generational and cultural gaps that can happen in immigrant families, her parents Chinese who fled to Britain, the daughter considers herself British through and through, but as she gets older she starts to realise she has a whole cultural heritage she hasn’t explored. Sam Healy’s Wires (A Cyber Fairy Tale) was only four minutes, but managed to combine both comedy and tragedy as two small robots break the continual loop of their fellows’ existence, but find a price to pay.
I loved Lila Babington’s Tunnel Vision, a mixture of stop-motion, live-action and puppetry, in which the protagonist chases her errant shoelaces, which slip away in the woods like a writhing worm and burrow underground – on chasing them she finds a strange chamber and an odd creature under the earth, in a short that has a pleasing nod to the great Jan Svankmajer (and perhaps to Del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth as well). Daisy Jacobs’ The Full Story uses mixed media animation and live action as a man is showing an estate agent his family home, in preparation for selling it, triggering flashbacks to his childhood and the magical happiness of being a kid slowly being pulled apart as his family breaks up; it’s very effective in the different styles used through the short film, and delivers a good emotional wallop. Karni & Saul’s Perfect World is an enchanting fairy tale of a mother and child told in a world made from the sugar granules on the kitchen table; it was made for Katie Melua’s album In Winter.
Directed by Bong Joon Ho,
Starring Tilda Swinton, Paul Dano, An Seo Hyun, Byun HeeBong, Steven Yeun, Lily Collins, Yoon Je Moon, Shirley Henderson, Daniel Henshall, Devon Bostick, Giancarlo Esposito, Jake Gyllenhaal
Bong Joon Ho brought us the brilliant monster movie with a twist, The Host and the film adaptation of the Snowpiercer graphic novels, so when I saw his latest film, Okja, was due to make its bow at the Edinburgh International Film Festival, I had to grab myself a ticket. A Korean film in both Korean and English – and boasting a nice bonus in the form of the great Tilda Swinton – Okja sees a huge multinational attempting to rebrand itself away from its toxic image, with new CEO (Swinton) waging a PR blitz to try and make the company look warm, eco-friendly and fuzzy after the reign of her father (who even his own family admitted was psychopathic). And the main plank is the superpig, which, over the next ten years, as well as being studied by their own scientists, will be given to traditional farmers in different parts of the world to raise for ten years.
Following the slick (and sickeningly obviously fake) PR launch (riffing nicely not just on how heartless corporations try to hide their agendas with a feel-good PR blanket but also the way so many super-rich CEO seem to desperately want the public to love them), we move to the mountains of Korea and meet Seo-Hyun Ahn’s Mija, who loves with her grandfather and Okja, their now fully adult superpig. Okja is less farm animal and more family member/pet (let’s be honest, to most of us pets are family members), and we get to see Mija walking with him through the woods, playing with him, tapping the sleeping giant animal so he rolls over on his back and she can sleep on his tummy. It’s all quite adorable and I take my hat off to the very young Seo-Hyun Ahn for being able to give such a convincing and emotional acting job to a CG creation she couldn’t see when the film was shooting, it’s a terrific job for such a young actress, and it isn’t long before the audience totally buys into their relationship.
But the day is coming when the corporation wants to pick up Okja and take him back to their American facility, hold their even bigger publicity show and then… Well, gigantic or not, what usually happens to farmed pigs sooner or later? Mija is heartbroken at Okja being taken away from their hillside farm, this is her best friend in the world, and the animal is so clearly bonded with her too. She decides to set off to Seoul after Okja, in what could, in other hands, have become a clumsy Disney-esque “incredible journey” type tale, but fortunately never does. Enter some comedic light relief in the form of some animal liberation activists, apologising to everyone for any harm as they try to free Okja. They have a longer term plan though, and Okja and Mija become a part of it – and of course the corporation too has plans to use both superpig and adorable young girl for their own ends, and the pair are caught between them.
This was such an utter delight – adorable and emotional in places, often wonderfully funny in others, and with some deliciously satirical barbs, especially for giant corporations, the spin doctors who spend vast sums trying to persuade the public how nice they are (really, we are not evil, honest!), and most especially on the way humans treat animals, especially food animals. I don’t think the film is trying to persuade anyone to become a vegetarian (although some scenes made me glad that I am), but certainly to think about the mass-production of animals for food and the appalling way thousands of animals are treated every day so we can buy cheap food from the supermarket and not bother our consciences by thinking of what sort of life the animal that ended up on our plate had before its demise.
The story moves from sweetly emotional to gleefully satirical, with swipes at Almighty Power and healthy doses of our old friend The Absurd, saving perhaps for a later scene where we see what is to happen to the animals, which is just horrifying. The CG for Okja is terrific, the animated animal coming across much more like a giant, good-natured Labrador than pig, and young Seo-Hyun Ahn’s acting with this creature added in post-production totally sells the relationship and is the heart of the film, while Tilda Swinton’s increasingly deranged CEO steals scenes left, right and centre. This is an absolute gem.
This review was originally penned for the Forbidden Planet Blog