Comics old and new explore basic themes

Brandon Garcia | For The New Mexican

10/28/2007 -

In the future, everyone will read comics. In Japan they already do.

Of course, it helps when you have an author like Osamu Tezuka around for decades to pioneer the medium the way Walt Disney championed American animation. His books have steadily been translated into English and a few months ago, Vertical released Apollo's Song. Tezuka was an especially prolific cartoonist and this is from his middle period. It was originally published in 1970, as Tezuka moved from the straight science-fiction of Astro Boy and Metropolis to epics like Buddha and Adolf.

As such, elements of both can be found in Apollo's Song. Unrelentingly spiteful, Shogo is committed to an asylum. Each of the book's next four sections appear to be Tezuka's attempts at different well-worn set-ups: a deserted island, wilderness retreat, dystopia and star-crossed lovers, each one providing Shogo an opportunity to learn to love.

Although the book is more than 500 pages long, a reader devours it quickly. Tezuka's language is simple and his art, while loving and quintessentially Japanese, rarely begs a reader to linger. His variously sized panels aid the brisk pace, allowing the story to breathe even as it speeds along, keeping it from feeling unrelenting. His characters are drawn round and soft, their oversized eyes often making them appear innocent even when they act maliciously.

Thematically, Apollo's Song is largely concerned with romantic love and Tezuka treats it as an essential piece of human procreation. Obviously, that's unrealistic, even though the idealism can be appreciated. But here, what the story is matters less than how it is told and that's where Tezuka shows his worth.

There's a certain purity and precociousness here that won't appeal to everyone. Tezuka writes from a monochromatic period from before every character was morally shaded. But those who enjoy this throwback style will find a rewarding story with enough length into which they can heartily delve.

My original intention was to use Tezuka's book to anchor a column about historical fiction. That isn't going to work out, so how's this for a transition: One section of Apollo's Song has Nazis in it. Know what else has Nazis? Superspy!

Of everything I read this month, Matt Kindt's book was easily the most enjoyable, a surprising find from Top Shelf that I haven't heard any buzz about. The book is entirely devoted to World War II spy missions, following several characters on both sides of the conflict.

Kindt's narrative isn't entirely spelled out. Instead of spies going on missions and returning for debriefings where commanders discuss what happens next, one mission follows the next non-sequentially, giving the story an enjoyably tense claustrophobia. Through the entire book, readers are immersed (or, if you prefer, "embedded"), losing sense of the overarching war and how each mission affects it. This works spectacularly for two reasons: First, it provides us with a limited framework of understanding similar to what spies had to work with. Second, World War II has been covered endlessly, and I found it delightful that Kindt trusts his readers to have a basic sense of history and not feel compelled to provide the kind of expository background that otherwise would be necessary.

Most of the book is drawn in a pulpy broad-lined style reminiscent of movie posters and novel covers from the '40s. Kindt also employs a sparse, two-color art, period colors like sienna, powder blue and ochre, that gives his cartooning a modern, retro feel. This is clearly a contemporary work, but it feels old, adding to the charm.

Most importantly, it's about spies and there ain't much cooler than that.

Going deeper into history is James Sturm's America, God, Gold and Golems (Drawn & Quarterly), a collection of three gorgeous stories spanning from 1801 to the 1920s, each one presenting a unique slice of Americana with its rewards and consequences.

Starting with a revival shortly after the nation's founding — the 19th-century's Coachella festival, apparently — Sturm presents a rough America, dangerous to her citizens. As a vocal portion of Americans likes to say, the nation has always been religious and this story illustrates that. It is easy to imagine with such uncomfortable surroundings the respite availed to them by faith but Sturm also presents this with caution, showing how, while tempting, reliance on faith alone can be unrewarding.

From there, he segues to a boomtown, with its promise of riches, demonstrating how although the nation may have been wild and filled with opportunity, it often came with a human cost. Sturm seems to be saying that humans succumb to greed and a nation like this one provides a dangerous number of opportunities for us to indulge in it.

The first two stories are fairly simple morality plays. But the third and longest, about a traveling Jewish baseball team, is considerably more ambiguous. Figuring out how the unremitting anti-Semitism the team faces and the gimmicky minstrel show it uses to draw in crowds work in concert seems to be key, but I haven't quite figured it out. Certainly, America has had plenty of race problems and, with equal certainty, sport is one of the great equalizers. That Sturm used baseball is also certainly significant. Somehow bigotry, capitalism and baseball became entwined in this story and as enjoyable as it was to read, its puzzling nature is another reason why I recommend it.

But that's America: Just when I think I have the country figured out, someone like Sturm throws me a curve.