If countless books and movies are anything to go by, we do love to watch middle classed families fall apart. Denise Mina’s A Sickness in the Family, the latest in DC’s Vertigo Crime imprint, is a gruesome study of one such affluent and revolting clan. The Ushers are scum with table manners; Ted and his adulterous wife Biddy despise one another, while offspring William and Amy stick around solely for fear of losing their inheritance. Only adopted son Sam is in any way irredeemable, and the sole Usher to care for dear old Grandma Martha after she suffers a stroke.

Mina takes her time atrophying the Ushers, kicking their downfall into motion with the brutal murder of the downstairs neighbours. When Ted decides to expand their property into the now empty apartment below, the resulting echo their cavernous property now creates slowly drives the family towards madness. Furthermore, several horrific incidents soon convince the Ushers that a murderer lives amongst their brood.

A Sickness in the Family - Denise Mina

This leads us to the subplot of the witch that Sam is convinced still haunts their home. I was having so much fun seeing this dysfunctional household crumble, that the notion of a 16^th Century witch unjustly murdered in the same spot as the Ushers’ abode felt clichéd, entirely unnecessary, and destined to drag the story into the depths of poorly conceived horror fiction. But Scottish crime writer Mina does something unexpected with this supernatural element, leading to a twist ending so expertly pulled off that you’ll feel the need to slap your forehead for not spotting the red herrings early on.

The monochrome art by Antonio Fuso (Fear Agent) is stylish, but always places focus on the story, which racks up the tension with level of menace and mystery rarely conveyed through comics. I wasn’t a particularly big fan of Mina’s Hellblazer arc (Empathy is the Enemy / The Red Right Hand), but with the digest Vertigo Crime format her noir sensibilities are given ample opportunity to electrify. And even if A Sickness in the Family’s ending is somewhat abrupt and callous, it’s executed with a sense of bleak humour that harks back to the EC era’s finest.

9/10

With Canadian artist/writer Jeff Lemire’s Sweet Tooth currently receiving widespread acclaim, his previous efforts Essex County Trilogy and The Nobody are justly receiving a great deal of backdated attention. But it’s easy to appreciate why The Nobody slipped under the radar last year; this contemporary take on H.G Well’s The Invisible Man is imbued with Lemire’s distinct storytelling approach and an atmosphere thick with xenophobia and paranoia, but doesn’t quite come together as well as you might have hoped for.

A tale of fear and loathing in small town America, The Nobody is narrated by teenage outcast Vickie, who recounts the arrival of bandaged stranger John Griffen to the peculiarly named Large Mouth. The reclusive but mannered Griffen instantly becomes the talk of the town, and the obsession of Vickie, who yearns to see under the dressing. But as another mysterious guest arrives in Big Mouth, and Griffen’s grip on his sanity loosens, the town and its residents are, in the words of Vickie, “changed forever.”

It’s a shame, then, that the air of menace that Vickie’s initial narration hints at doesn’t quite live up to its potential, and Griffin’s time in Large Mouth climaxes in a tragedy so predictable that it’s rendered as hollow as the body between the bandages. Any story in which a freak enters a town of distrustful, gun-wielding yokels only really has one outcome, really.

The Nobody - Jeff Lemire

Lemire’s overall story might not be entirely satisfying, but his storytelling talents are indisputable. The black, white and blue illustrations depict a world of intensely white expanses and deep, consuming shadows. The Nobody’s characters are crudely drawn yet utterly distinctive, and the work of an artist more concerned with telling a human drama through his art than producing pretty but vacuous imagery. One particular 8-panel sequence, in which Griffen slowly binds an invisible hand in against a black background fascinates and engrosses me more with each revisiting.

The Nobody may lack the emotional participation of Sweet Tooth or the assurance of Essex County Trilogy but it’s an interesting oddity that is definitely worth a read, if more for the appreciation of Lemire’s visuals than his oddly hollow story.

8/10

iZombie is an odd first issue, in that for a title debuting at an alluring $1 it offers little in the way of a hook, or any reason that readers might want to return next month. That isn’t to say that it’s a bad first issue by any means, but it’s difficult to form a substantial opinion of from this issue alone.

iZombie #1 - Mike Allred

The series centres on Gwen, a pallid gravedigger who also inhabits the cemetery where she works. Here she socialises with Ellie, the ghost of a 60s blonde bombshell in an Emma Peel chequered dress, teases the local werewolf boy, and snacks on the brains of the people she’s just buried. Gwen’s a zombie, see.

I originally intended to refrain from revealing this last detail, as Roberson (Cinderella: From Fabletown with Love) only discloses his protagonist’s undead nature on the last few pages, but I think it’s safe to say that the title of the book and Allred’s cover already give this little twist away. One interesting aspect of Gwen’s diet is that she receives the memories of the person she’s just ate. In this particular case the recently deceased was murdered, and Gwen vows to find his killer; which looks to send the series in a similar direction to Pushing Daisies.

There are also several other subplots. One concerning vampires sucking on paintballers, and a scene with two shady types (one has a scar across his face, so we’ll assume he’s a wrongun) investigating the increase in “post-mortem activity” in the area. Both of these moments feel as though they could have been left until issue 2, and diminish Gwen’s introductory tale somewhat.

Mike Allred’s inimitable pop-art stylings pretty much hold this issue together. His character designs and sense of storytelling are so unique that his attachment seems to dominate any project he works on even when he’s not involved in the writing. Roberson’s characters are still in urgent need of fleshing out, but I find it hard not to be smitten with anything or anyone Allred draws. Fans of Madman will definitely enjoy this book’s similarly quirky tone.

So, perhaps the question iZombie #1 warrants more than any other is; would I be so favourable to this series were it illustrated by someone other than Allred? Probably not, but I’m prepared to give iZombie the benefit of the doubt. It’s idiosyncratic enough to stand out from ever other zombie comic on the shelves, and for $1 there’s really no valid argument against picking up the first issue and making up your own damn mind.

7/10

Vertigo. 2010
Story, Art: Jeff Lemire
Colours: Jose Villarrubia

There’s a certain sense of intimacy that comes through whenever an independent comic creator handles both the art and writing duties on a comic. When Eisner-nominated Jeff Lemire (Essex County Trilogy) moved to Vertigo, these indie sensibilities thankfully remained intact in The Nobody, an eerie homage to The Invisible Man. Sweet Tooth is no different; it’s a post-apocalyptic oddity that feels at home beside Vertigo’s best, but still bears the personal touch of an artist whose intention is to tell an enchanting story rather than appeal to the mainstream.

Sweet Tooth vol. 1: Out of the Deep Woods

In a near future where much of humankind has fallen to a mysterious illness, bizarre boy/deer hybrid Gus resides in the centre of Nebraska State Wilderness Sanctuary with his protective but ailing father. He’s repeatedly told never to stray too far from their cabin, as Gus’s kind has been hunted to near extinction. But when Gus’s father inevitably passes away, Gus is taken from his serene habitat by drifter Tommy Jepperd, whose intentions are ambiguous until the final few pages of ‘Out of the Deep Woods.’

Lemire masterfully introduces this barren landscape to us through Gus’s broken narration. Gus is an innocent child whose view of the world is so narrow that when he finally leaves the park he’s as clueless to what dangers civilisation holds as us readers. What caused this virus? What caused the survivors to give birth to mutant hybrids shortly after the virus struck? And, crucially, why does Gus’s father tell him that he was born before the virus? There’s never the sense that Lemire lacks a grasp on the haunting epic he’s telling. He’s a confident enough storyteller to let the narrative unravel in its own time.

Gus’s narration itself is superb. So many comic book writers attempt to capture the mindframe of an illiterate freak/mutant/animal/robot, and the result seldom rises above embarrassing child-talk. Lemire writes Gus as someone who is not stupid but new to the world; the ruined Nebraska still induces a sense of wonder in the horned boy, and his trust in the sinister Jepperd is so wholesome it almost hurts.

Lemire’s art is also quite unique, depicting a world that is seemingly empty but always treacherous, sterilised yet chaotic. Other than a group of masked marauders Gus and Jepperd briefly encounter there’s little in the way of clichéd imagery that has propped up post-apocalyptic fiction ever since A Boy and His Dog and Mad Max.

So, a great start to what looks to be another classic Vertigo series, then. Jeff Lemire pretty much delivers the perfect introduction to Sweet Tooth’s world. Lemire himself has described this series as “Bambi meets Mad Max”, but ‘Out of the Deep Woods’ shift in tone actually reminded me more of David’s journey in Spielberg’s A.I. than either of those movies. Only without Jude Law and the dumb aliens, hopefully.

10/10

It’s practically impossible to review American Vampire without first mentioning that Vertigo’s latest marks the comic book debut of Stephen King, who’ll be providing a 5-part secondary tale in this ongoing “vampires through the ages” series from Scott Snyder. And a solid debut it is too, not just from King but particularly Snyder, whose first creator-owned title opens up a world of infinite possibilities in its bumper sized first issue.

American Vampire #1

American Vampire begins with Snyder’s half, the tragic tale of aspiring actress Pearl Jones in 1920s Los Angeles, as we discover how she came to end up bloodied and naked in a pit of corpses. In King’s story, ‘Bad Blood,’ failed novelist Will Bunting recounts the real events that inspired his single literary effort; the execution of outlaw Skinner Sweet in Colorado, 1880.

Skinner is the element that ties these two plots together, seemingly a vampire born in daylight and immune to its devastating effects. Both Snyder and King stay true to vampiric convention, but it’s their execution that makes this series stand out. These aren’t the effeminate, naval gazing bloodsuckers that have followed in Twilight’s wake, but the shapeshifting bogeymen of yore, and both sections are excruciatingly suspenseful reads.

But in many ways it’s Rafael Albuquerque and Dave McCaig that are the stars of this siamese show, rendering both King and Snyder’s tales with distinctly separate approaches. In the Los Angeles-set segment Albuquerque’s lines are clean and McCaig’s palette bold, while in the 1880’s portion the duo’s art is as rough and grimy as the era they portray. Keeping the same artists for each section has certainly paid off, bestowing the book a cohesion that similar anthology titles lack.

The majority of monthly comic titles are now written with trade paperbacks in mind, and often suffer when read in instalments. Not so with American Vampire. Both of the two tales in this first issue of Snyder’s potential epic feel satisfyingly complete, much like the E.C. horror anthologies of yesteryear but running within an encompassing narrative. Definitely a series to get excited about.

8/10

Joe the Barbarian is part of an increasingly popular genre; the adult kid’s book. Joe’s spacious attic bedroom is one that every adult wishes they lived in as a child (as opposed to every current child wishing they had), with 80s action figures lining the floor and a toy railway set dangling precariously from the ceiling. And like the majority of fictional teenage outcasts, Joe possesses proficient drawing skills.

Joe the Barbarian #1

Of course, Joe the Barbarian is the latest effort from Grant Morrison, and it comes as no surprise when Joe’s reality begins to crumble around him, and the tiny toys in his room (including analogues of G.I. Joe’s Snake Eyes and the Transformers) come to life.

Quite why any of this happens, I’m not entirely sure. Issue 1 of Joe the Barbarian is little more than an exercise in character building, but it’s difficult to object to Morrison’s languid pacing when the story is introduced as well as this. The art by Sean Murthy and Dave Stewart really is in a league of its own, depicting Joe’s mundane life with a sense of the fantastical while making the hallucinatory sequences – though I suspect they’re much more – look almost plausible.

On the merits of the first issue alone, it’s difficult to say exactly where Morrison’s plot is heading, and whether Joe the Barbarian will be worth investing in. While Murthy’s art and Morrison’s track record would suggest yes to the latter, the setup between Joe and an equally timid female admirer is uncharacteristically clichéd for Morrison, and Joe’s problems (diabetes, workaholic mother, dead father) feel as though they’ve been lifted from an uninspired Hollywood kid flick.

While I have high hopes for Joe the Barbarian, I guess the question needs to be asked: were this leisurely paced premier issue scripted by an unknown writer, would it be so readily embraced?

8/10

Eisner Award winning Brazilian duo Fabio Moon and Gabriel Bá’s new series Daytripper is a mature title in the truest sense. And by that I don’t mean that this is a comic that feels the need to shove tits and incest in the reader’s face to get a reaction, a la Vertigo’s recent Greek Street, or even that Daytripper reads as though it’s been marinated in the adolescent angst or philosophical ramblings of many other so-called “mature” titles.

Daytripper #1 Review

It’s not even a flashy first issue, instead unhurriedly introducing us to Brás, a bored obituary writer who’s long procrastinated more ambitious projects. And that’s about it. Only in the final pages does ‘32’ suggest where Daytripper might be heading, and what happens next is genuinely still anyone’s guess.

There’s a lovely sense of subtlety here, from Bras’ discourse with his dog Dante, to the manner in which the recently deceased play a part in his daily stream of consciousness. Fans of The Umbrella Academy or Ursula will be surprised quite how reserved the book’s art is, but there’s a superb sense of pacing on display here that lends clout to even the most (seemingly) insignificant scenes. Unlike most first issues, ‘32’ takes its time introducing us to its substantial protagonist. Often such an approach feels sluggish and directionless, but here I was captivated by the deliberate storytelling.

Some will pick up Daytripper #1 and reject this slow burning introduction to what looks to be a cracking series, dismissing it as a book where “nothing happens,” while others will hopefully appreciate it for just that. Like Sideways, A Serious Man and the very best Woody Allen movies, it’s likely to appeal largely to writers both professional and aspiring. Pretty much anyone who counts, then.

8/10

There’s something foreboding about any book which gives front cover prominence to author over title. It’s a tell-tale sign that a writer has reached a stage wherein his name bears more weight than the quality of his/her material. It’s even less reassuring when said writer has had little input onto the work that bears his name.

Lucifer’s Mike Carey does a faultless job of a thankless task, adapting the original novel’s third-person prose into a first person narrative as awkward and perplexed as its bewildered protagonist. Gaiman’s inspired dialogue occasionally hits the high notes of pretentiousness, but the entire thing moves by at such a pace that it really doesn’t matter. Neverwhere is a floating market of ideas. Some work, others don’t; there’s rarely enough time to notice.

Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere TPB

Neverwhere’s abstract plot is relatively pedestrian, following the adventures of generic everyman Richard Mayhew, a browbeaten London office worker. When Richard stumbles across the unconscious body of the attractive, pallid Door, he is sucked into London Below, a postmodernist’s wet dream, a world under, above and between our London.

Neverwhere has a plot that is best enjoyed rather than explained, making sense only in the sense that it doesn’t. Those inclined to question their fiction may find the journey a little arduous.

With names like the Angel Islington and The Marquis de Carabas, London Below’s inhabitants are amalgamated from the usual Gaiman influences; mythology, folklore, religion, the Commedia dell’Arte, and the obligatory cute Goth chick, his premium entities are villains Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar, a little/large combo of softly spoken assassins that feel like they’ve been banished from a dark, depraved Dickens. Raucously malevolent, the anticipation between their increasingly gruesome misdemeanours gives Mayhew’s passage through London Below a much needed state of urgency.

Glenn Fabry’s art should be prescribed as a nutritional supplement for the eyes, with several establishing panels that you could get happily lost in for several days. His facial expressions are almost on par with Dillon’s work on Preacher, conveying a charismatic empathy that the original TV version’s wooden actors never could.

Neverwhere isn’t an essential read, lacking the focus which established The Sandman and The Books of Magic classic status. It’s a forgettable but enjoyable read, never short on imagination but lacking any depth or lasting meaning. Though perhaps more importantly, it’s a successful novel to comic adaptation, losing nothing in translation. And those are a rarity indeed.

8/10

I’ve always considered Grant Morrison the Philip K. Dick of the comic medium. But writers both are inhumanly creative, incomparable to almost any other writer of their period. Like Dick, Morrison writes to pay the bills, churning out radically inconsistent work with unnerving regularity; and like the majority of Dick’s books, Morrison’s work often collapses under a multitude of whimsical ideas. But when Morrison hits the target, like Philip K. Dick he’s the best of his kind.

WE3 Graphic Novel Review

We3 follows the fortuitous escape and arduous journey of lab experiments 1, 2 and 3 (dog, cat and rabbit respectively). The animals – referred to as biorgs – developed for covert missions and political assignations, are packed with enough firepower to cripple an entire army. When the project is decommissioned, the animals are to be put to sleep, but are freed – perhaps imprudently – by their compassionate creator Roseanne Berry.

We3 has been compared to The Incredible journey, but its themes of animal cruelty for its own sake are far closer to Richard Adam’s The Plague Dogs. Like Adam’s novel, the story is seen from both animal and human perspectives. The series’ original covers, a series of “missing pet” posters add another dimension to the fable, displayed by Bandit’s desire to be a “gud dog”; these animals were all once someone’s friend.

The implementation of a mastiff prototype as the fugitive’s primary threat seems a little contradictory, though to his credit Morrison does not resort to sentimentality as a lesser writer might. The feline, 2, kills with an almost sadistic glee, and many human lives are inadvertently taken by the sentient weapons as they traverse forest and city. Yet we still sympathise with the beasts; they are as much victims as those unfortunate enough to cross their paths.

Quitely’s art has been billed as a kinetic, “western manga.” Given the substandard nature of the majority of Japanese comics, that’s an insult. His panel composition is among the best there has ever been, showcased perfectly in an almost dialogue-free first part. Several pages feature intricate layouts of several dozen tiny panels, lending WE3’s commotion a remarkably dense pace; it definitely feels a lot longer than 3 issues.

Quite how the low-key ending manages to hit the heart with so few words is a mystery only the greatest science fiction writers could possibly answer. We3 may not be Morrison’s most creative or ambitious work, or indeed his most intelligent, but it’s perhaps his most effective.

9/10

Fables’ strength has always been that, whether immersed in Bill Willingham’s universe or not, anyone fortunate enough to have survived childhood will be familiar with its myth, legend, folklore and fairy tale beginnings. There’s an instant comprehensibility to its ingenious premise that not only places us in the familiar territory of the worlds within the series, but the fantastical landscape we created as children, when these grisly and macabre tales were read to us as by innocently sadistic parents.

Fables: 1001 Nights of Snowfall

This is none more apparent than in 1001 Night of Snowfall, an iteration of the Persian fable of Scheherazade, in which envoy Snow White finds herself at the mercy of a sultan who systematically has the virgin he beds each night executed the following morning to ensure her honour to him. To impede the loss of her head, Snow White bemuses him with stories galore. One thousand and one, in fact.

But it’s the stories Snow imparts that form the core within this effective but underwhelming frame tale, a decuplet of anecdotes and character origins that flesh out Fables cast in a myriad of ways. Amongst others we discover what drove Bigby to become the Big Bad Wolf, and, in the book’s most heart-rending segment, the traumatising events that led to Flycatcher’s current state of mind. There are some seriously dark elements in here. Many of the shorts are laced with Willingham’s usual irony and tragedy, or disturbing truths that are only half revealed, such as Snow White’s history with the associated seven dwarves.

I could write everlastingly on the quality of the art on display here, but let’s just leave it at “overwhelming.” That is not to in any way undermine mark Buckingham’s work on the regular series, which obviously had tighter deadlines to adhere to, but the talents of Charles Vess, Tara McPherson, John Bolton and many more lends 1001 Nights an interior of cover quality art. This is the closest a graphic novel gets to being a coffee table book outside of anything by Alex Ross.

Rather than tell a separate narrative that could easily have been printed in the regular series, Willingham’s decision to pad out his creations in this manner works exceedingly well. Though not absolutely vital, 1001 Nights of Snowfall spreads precious extra layers of depth over a vastly populated realm that has already gone beyond multifaceted, without compromising the pace of the main run.

9/10