Graphic Novels on Roxana-Mălina Chirilă

[25 feb] Cartea de azi: „The Sandman” de Neil Gaiman

Sun, 25 Feb 2018 19:16:30 +0000

Săptămâna asta am recomandat mai mult cărți fantasy care au avut și continuă să aibă un impact în genurile lor. Unele sunt mai cunoscute pe la noi, altele nu. Închei săptămâna recomandând seria mea favorită de benzi desenate, care e și foarte influentă, foarte cunoscută: „The Sandman”, de Neil Gaiman.

Acum vreo 30 de ani, DC voia să retrezească la viață niște serii moarte – cum era „The Sandman”, care fusese publicată prin anii ‘70. Nu voiau să păstreze neapărat nimic din supereroul inițial, iar Neil Gaman avea o idee despre un personaj care să fie puternic legat de lumea viselor – îi zisese lui George R.R. Martin de idee, în încercarea de a participa și el la antologia Wild Cards, dar GRRM a respins-o.

Ceea ce e mai bine, pentru că în formă de bandă desenată a ajuns o poveste mai bună și mai influentă.

„The Sandman” e o serie care, teoretic, îl are ca personaj pe Morfeu, încarnarea antropomorfică a viselor. Niște oculiști de la începutul secolului 20 îl iau ca prizonier din greșeală – ei încercau să prindă Moartea ca să devină nemuritori, dar l-au prins pe fratele ei mai mic și nu pe ea. Nu prea au ce să facă cu el, așa că îl țin prizonier timp de câteva zeci bune de ani, până are șansa să evadeze. Scapă, pedepsește persoanele de pedepsit care mai sunt în viață, își recuperează cele câteva obiecte care îi fuseseră luate și, când se termină cu asta, cam intră în depresie.

Iar de aici povestea se diversifică. Uneori e despre el, alteori e despre tărâmul viselor și despre cei care ajung în el. Uneori e vorba de lucruri care se întâmplă în lumea modernă, alteori de trecuturi îndepărtate și de legende – țesând toate o poveste mai mare, plină de ecouri și consecințe.

Stilul artei diferă mult, dar nimic nu e vreodată prost sau neglijent desenat. Din „Ramadan”:

Din „Exiles”:

O copertă:

„The Sandman” e poate mai mult un univers decât o poveste ca atare. Se clădește lent, urmărește diverse personaje care reapar după multe numere, reapar motive și idei, firele narative încep să se lege lent către final. Și pentru că e vorba de vise și povești, există o grămadă de referințe – însă, spre deosebire de cărțile scrise de alde Joyce și compania, pe care nu le poți aprecia decât dacă recunoști referințele, „The Sandman” nu-ți cere să știi nimic. Poate știi cine sunt zeii care apar, sau poate nu – dar nu contează, pentru că sunt personaje de sine stătătoare.

Încă un lucru: „The Sandman” e o serie de sine stătătoare. Are un început și un sfârșit – și totul e cuprins în zece volume, toate scrise integral de Neil Gaiman, ceea ce nu e puțin lucru (bine, mai sunt câteva volume pe lângă, dar vorbesc aici de seria originală în sine). În mod normal, companiile mari de benzi desenate trag la nesfârșit de poveștile care au succes ca să mai scoată un ban de pe urma lor – ai o mie de versiuni de Batman și de Superman, scrise de o mie de oameni, iar dacă ai ratat jumătate din povești s-ar putea să nu-ți dai seama niciodată. Aici nu. Aici există un tot unitar, o poveste. Și asta e ceva.

„The Sandman” poate fi cumpărat integral de pe Book Depository cu vreo 120 de euro – cam jumătate din cât am dat eu pe volume tot luându-le bucată cu bucată. Mai există și o versiune de lux, în patru volume (primul e aici).

Vrei să afli mai multe despre „Cartea de azi”? Intră aici.

Garth Ennis – Preacher: Gone to Texas [recenzie]

Mon, 18 May 2015 05:57:34 +0000

Un pastor e posedat de o ființă supranaturală cu puteri divine, care se trage din povestea de dragoste ilicită, imorală, contra naturii, blamată, dintre un înger și un demon. De unde și numele de Preacher al seriei lui Garth Ennis.

E genul de volum care ori te prinde, ori te lasă cu un gust amar de dezgust în gură, pentru că are violență cât cuprinde, personaje cu deformități care par să fie acolo mai mult ca să șocheze și cele mai oribile tunsori de la stilul punk încoace. Slavă cerului că respectivele podoabe capilare sunt deținute de îngeri, ca să știi de la bun început cu cine nu ții.

Personajele nu m-au dat pe spate: nu pot să spun că simpatizez prea tare cu cineva din primul volum (pe celelalte nu le-am citit (încă)) sau că aș suferi cu adevărat dacă ar muri vreunul. De fapt, la un moment dat moare gagica (știți voi cine, tipa care s-a încurcat cu personajul principal) și singura mea reacție a fost „Uuu, chiar și-a omorât unul dintre personajele principale, crud și fără drept de apel.”

Bine, că n-a murit de tot și m-am simțit ușor dezamăgită, asta e altă treabă.

Tunsoarea care n-a lansat o mie de corăbii.

Povestea are aerul că e inventată de la număr la număr, fără să-și bată capul să stea pe direcție, dar funcționează și uneori o face chiar foarte bine: pornește pe direcția clișeului, dar virează înainte să termine fix cum te-ai aștepta; mai smulge câte o reacție emoțională pe ici, pe colo; și, de ce să n-o recunosc? Cel puțin pe mine m-a prins.

Nu cred că o să rămân marcată prea mult timp de Preacher, dar per ansamblu mi s-a părut un volum bun.

Writing, video games and so forth

Wed, 27 Nov 2013 11:55:18 +0000

I don’t often write blog posts because somebody says „Be part of this! Write about this topic!” And yet here we are, because I find a certain topic interesting.

Cathy Day, whom I’ve occasionally mentioned on this blog, wrote the following:

I’ve never played a video game, but I recognize that it’s a narrative experience that lots and lots of people value. No judgement. But in my fiction-writing classes, I often read stories and novels that read as if I’m watching someone else play a video game. There’s plot, action, scene, all great, but virtually no interiority, which for me is *absolutely necessary* in fiction. My students have always used films and TV shows to talk about fiction, but now they also reference video games. “This is like Bioshock,” for example, and I have no idea what that even means. I wonder if other creative writing teachers have noticed this quality in student fiction or these references? I wonder if people who play video games could give me some tips about how to help my students make the transition from gaming to writing narrative.

She wrote it on Facebook, then she posted it on her blog and asked for opinions. I like the question and it’s part of something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. It’s a slightly different take, and I’ll start from here: what is up with literature, anyway?

I’ve run into endless discussions concerning whether listening to an audiobook counts as reading the book. Some say it’s less valuable to listen to a book than to read it – because it’s lazier. And then, of course, people often say that books are superior to movies/TV shows, because the latter are less valuable/more commercial/easier to follow. Theater is above TV, but I’m not sure where it is in relation to reading books. Probably a bit lower on the scale of values, unless you’re watching some damned difficult crap. Video games are, of course, at the very bottom of this scale of values, because Pacman can’t compare to Tolstoy, or something like that.

Which is all fascinating and, in my opinion, all wrong. I describe myself as a writer, but what I actually mean by it is that I am a storyteller whose main medium is the written word. But man, I love other mediums, too. I write my own novel and I do my own audio recording of it. If you read it yourself, you get to add intonations and moods yourself. If you listen to it, you get my interpretation of how the story and the characters sound like. You might think this is good, right? I am telling a story, I naturally want to get it across my way, no? No. Sometimes it helps me. At other times, I am very sad that my own voice, no matter how good, will never echo in your mind in the same way as your own soundless inner voice.

The fun part is that no matter how a story gets told, we never get the whole of it. We recreate it from what we have, but in the end we all see our own version of that story. Fans put this in practice: they often write their own crazy stories based on small gestures which are definitely there, but which meant something entirely different to the scriptwriter, director, actors. And that’s perfectly alright and normal and I love it.

So where am I going? Well, to this: there’s no ‘right’ way to tell a story. There is no ‘perfect’ medium. Art is a lie: it makes us think we’re getting the full story, but it’s always giving us more of something, less of something else. There will be things you will wish you had been able to leave out, but must add. A movie will never manage to have an indistinct background as well as a comic series can. It’s easier to hide background details in film than in literature: in literature you need to mention them, but keep the reader’s attention focused on something more exciting. In film, you literally put them in the background.

Here’s what I mean. Look at one of the pages of Exiles, a number of The Sandman, from the volume The Wake:

Look at the subtlety of the black and white, at the elegance of the drawings. The scenery is barren, or maybe it barely exists at all. Different fonts to suggest different types of speech, but they don’t tell you anything about what characters’ voices sound like. I can’t change fonts in a book: it’s too odd, it jumps at you. What you can’t do: add music; describe actual voice pitch; add every gesture. There is a lot of suggestion here – and in other mediums, that suggestion would need to be done in different ways. Literature would use vague words, cinema might use filters and carefully considered sets.

It is unfair to compare a medium with another from a value POV because they all do different things.

But what about video games and fiction writing and what Cathy Day said? I’ve taken you on a ride, but we’re finally arriving at our destination. She mentioned no interiority from the characters. Well…

In video games the main character can be a shell that the player enters (usually first-person games: shooters, Portal, Amnesia). Or s/he can be very clearly defined as a character (Monkey Island’s „Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate!”). In the first case, the player’s psychology substitutes that of the character’s, doesn’t it? There is still psychology going on, but you don’t see it because it’s yours. You put it all in. It’s something you simply can’t do with books, they need psychology.

Well, the problem with video games from this point of view is that they don’t teach you how books look like. Which is an odd thing to say, I suppose, but I think it’s the basic problem that Cathy Day encountered: her writers might have stories to tell, but they aren’t familiar with how literature tells stories.

Oh, no. What is there to be done?

Well, the short answer is: read books. Read more books. Look at what it is that books do. Grab books from various different genres, different countries, different times and see what they do and how they do it. What catches your attention? What makes them interesting? What makes you read on? Study books, don’t just read them. If you like a page, figure out why you like it. I am not saying you should do this as a reader. As a reader, you really ought to give in to the story and enjoy it. But as a writer, that’s how you learn how to do things. By studying others.

C. Day is asking about transitioning from one medium to another.

Well, transitioning is a bit like translating. The theory of translation says the following: a translator doesn’t go from language A to language B. Instead, he goes from language A to a certain meaning, which he then moves into language B. In other words, „Mary goes to the market” is English. It is then translated into the idea of Mary going to the market, in present tense, which then needs to be retold in, say, Romanian: „Mary merge la piață.” This can lead to several choices for the translator (Do I call her Mary, because that’s her original name? Or do I call her Maria, so Romanian readers can feel closer to her?).

The same is true for changing mediums, I think: you have the story in medium A, which you then translate to yourself as a complex web of plot, character and details, which you then try to get across in medium B, with medium B’s tools and techniques. But the story is, to my mind, the central thing.

I haven’t played Bioshock, but I’ll talk about Tomb Raider, which is new, shiny and well-known, okay?

Lara Croft struggles there against two types of opponents: ones who catch her and ones who don’t. This division is important because those opponents transmit two different things: the ones who don’t catch her are at a distance. They have guns and other such. They can shoot her and kill her, but you can evade them. They are there to underline her skills with a gun/bow and arrow/weapon of choice. They create a stealthy Lara, who works hard at not being seen, who is a scared woman, but a deadly woman. They make you feel strong.

The enemies who catch her are up close and personal. They grab her. They hold her. You need to hit a sequence of buttons at the right time to escape their grasp and you often can’t. This Lara is more scared than skilled, more desperate and in difficulty than on top of the situation. I did wonder for awhile why the hell I needed to press left and right in quick succession to evade a crazy psycho, but the answer is this: because it’s effing hard for her to escape.

This is how the story works for games: is it difficult for Lara? The player will struggle. Are stealth and skill needed? You get ten opponents and alarms everywhere.

Literature is more subtle. You don’t have to kill ten opponents to prove stealth. One or two are enough. Four are numerous. I will disbelieve you at ten. Explosions don’t affect us much, because it isn’t the idea of an explosion that really makes an impact on us: it’s the sound of it, the light, the way things fly all over and are destroyed. You need to describe that.

Video games are explicit. They need to hit you over the head with a hammer to get a point across. Literature is subtle and relies on small things, on details and observations.

Here’s how it can be done. Lara against opponents who don’t catch her:

My knee scraped against the ground as I fell, but I couldn’t scream. They would hear me, and then they would kill me. I hurt all over, but I needed to find a way out, so I searched for something, anything, a rope, a surface I could climb on, but seconds ticked away and they got closer and closer…

Lara caught:

She felt his hands running across her body as he whispered words in Russian that she couldn’t understand. Lara had no idea whether he meant to kill her or rape her, she wanted to curl up into a ball and cry either way, but that wasn’t an option…

If you want to transition, you need to switch modes of expression. What can literature do that video games can’t do (as easily)? References, thoughts, impressions, feelings, moods. It comes down to learning what your medium can do, what has been done so far and how. Which is why writers need to read books.

(But you can pick up stuff from other mediums as well, of course. And as for video games, I really recommend that people should play some. You might eventually realize that they Aren’t Your Thing, but they are an experience of their own, no? A whole new type of telling stories.)

Neil Gaiman's "The Sandman": "Preludes and Nocturnes" [Book Review]

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 19:56:54 +0000

Title: Preludes and Nocturnes

Series: The Sandman
Author: Neil Gaiman

Rating: 4/5

Is this book for me? It’s a graphic novel – that’s a fancy way of saying „comics”. It’s also horror. I’m not fond of the drawing style. The writing is grand, each word falling as heavy as if it were engraved in granite, sent back in the past and reverberating at you from antiquity. This book is probably not for you. You should read it anyway.

I first read Neil Gaiman’s „The Sandman” back in the first year of university, when a friend shoved it towards me. I’d seen „Stardust”, but I had such a huge stick up my ass that I couldn’t believe fantasy to be worthy of anything (nor fanfiction, but that’s another story). Now, she’s a very convincing person and she made me read some scans. I hated the drawing style.

Really not my type of art.

It was the story that got my attention, naturally. I knew next to nothing about comics and I had expected some sort of superhero running about saving the day, amidst corny lines like, „I will get you next time, Sandman!!!” and „That dastardly enemy, he killed me! I’ve been shot!” Not so. The series begins with „Wake up, sir, we’re here”. An old man gets out from what seems to be an early 20th-century car – we’re told it’s 1916. He walks to a rich mansion and delivers a mysterious tome to somebody looking very much like your standard villain. The comics cheese steps in for a second on the second page as the villain declares that „The Magdalene Grimoire was all that the order needed. We can hold the ceremony at the next full moon… and then… No one need ever die again.”

But Gaiman doesn’t detail what exactly that’s all about. He doesn’t step into the evil plan. One corny line of exposition and then we’re thrown into four panels that break our expectations – the third page and Gaiman is already working his magic. The Sandman is not about superheroes. It’s about stories. It’s about dreams and tales and the imagination, about the way each person is made of feelings and dreams and aspirations and desires and hopes – and all that comes together into a web that’s so large, so complex that by the end of the series I was standing in awe, crying with the inability to even figure out how one goes on to create a Sandman.

The panels are the real hints of what will happen. In Toronto, Canada, Ellie Marsten is listening to „Through the Looking Glass” and, despite knowing that it’s just a bedtime story, she’s terrified. Elsewhere, in Jamaica, Daniel Bustamonte sleeps despite the noise and the rustle and dreams a dream that sounds comforting. In France, Stefan Wasserman looks scared shitless on the battle front – he’s almost 14, but he lied about his age to enlist. In London, Unity Kinkaid dreams of a man with stars in his eyes.

The Sandman is a story of stories. In „Preludes and Nocturnes” it picks up its wings to fly – somewhat unskillfully, as Neil Gaiman hadn’t gathered the courage and the following that would propel him into greatness yet, but even the first flight is darkly beautiful. Whereas the rest of the series will draw from the entire world to build itself, „Preludes and Nocturnes” draws mostly from other comics and the comic genre – the Sandman, Morpheus, Oneiros, the Lord of Dreams who is in charge of dreams, the imagination and stories, first appears dressed in his battle regalia, which he actually doesn’t often wear – he has a helmet, a pouch and a ruby (all of which get taken from him). Summoned by Roderick Burgess, our villain, he remains entrapped in a magic circle for seventy years, biding his time until he can escape. In the mean time, people all over the world fall into deep slumber or remain unable to sleep.

His escape and the recovery of his artifacts are, to put it simply, not pretty. To put it simply, this IS a horror series, complete with graphic descriptions of heads rolling off, of drugged people, insanity and violent murders. The stories, episodic, read like general cautionary action/adventure plots, with descriptions of hell and Lucifer and what happens if you play with the forces of the universe. Your run-of-the-mill sort of plot – but the details shine through dialogues and inner monologues and little ironies.

One that appealed to me especially was the story of Bette Munroe („24 Hours”). Quote: „On her days off, after she’s tidied the house, Bette Munroe writes stories. She writes them in longhand on yellow legal pads. […] Most of her stories, however, are about her customers. They look at her and they just see a waitress; they don’t know she’s nursing a secret. A secret that keeps her aching calf-muscles and her coffee-scalded fingers and her weariness from dragging her down… It’s her secret. She’s never shown anyone her stories.” She pictures her success, people wondering how such an accomplished writer could know so much about being a waitress – she fancies herself gathering material, just playing her life’s part, but one day she will move on. „She isn’t small-minded; a writer can’t afford to be.” She writes lesbians into married girls, young men into success – she wants everybody to be better off, to have a good life. „All Bette’s stories have happy endings. That’s because she knows where to stop. She realized the real problem with stories – if you keep them going long enough, they always end in death.”

As it happens, Bette has less than 24 hours left to live before she dies gruesomely. Her killer has much longer. But the diamond of Gaiman’s style shines from within the roughness.

If horror is far from your thing, however, another option is to simply skip most of „Preludes and Nocturnes”, although you’ll be missing a lot. The last issue in the volume, „The Sound of Her Wings”, has Dream/Morpheus/The Sandman hanging out with his sister, Death, at the end of his quest for the artifacts. And it’s where Neil Gaiman starts revolutionizing the world of comics. By turning something that was horror/adventure into a huge story about stories, life and everything in between.

Dream, Death and the old man

The Sandman is available on Amazon UK and Amazon US (click the pictures to get there):

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Amazon UK version

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Amazon US version