Wednesday, September 20, 2017
I wish my younger self could see the emails that go between me and the lovely wife these days. I wish I could just forward them on to 1998, and let 23-year-old me recoil in horror.
He'd be appalled by the joy of a good salad, and the appreciation of jeans that cost more than twelve bucks. He'd be disgusted to see me shed more of the anarchism in my political philosophy, and wouldn't believe how much I need to go to a proper barber's this weekend so I can look good in Sweden.
Most of all, I like to think that my younger, dumber self would be making this face when he found out about my current enthusiasm and appreciation of scented candles:
This whole nature of time business means we're all always changing, all the time, becoming more normal or more strange over the years, or usually a mix of both. This is the way of universe, and fighting against it is like taking on the strongest river current, you're just going to drown.
Tastes change and slip over the years, opinions and obsessions that were once important and indispensable become forgotten and disposable. Just and hold onto them for too long, and you'll either drown, or just turn into another dead rock in the river.
We should always be looking for something new. It's all right to listen to the classic rock radio station while you're at work or driving around town, but if that's all you're listening to, you're not getting anywhere in life.
Like a lot of folk on this small blue dot, I have an insatiable hunger for something new and interesting. I have my favourite directors that provide endless brilliant cinema, but nothing beats some slick new kid. I'm on an active quest to find new favourite authors, and the search for new tunes goes on and on.
My greatest failure in this regard is the comics. I stick to old favourites, long after they've gone off and reek of desperation; and I am frequently disappointed by all the latest hip comics, finding it incredibly difficult to find anything in the heaving morass of the modern comic book industry.
I still try, and I win small battles, but I think I'm losing the war.
It's hard, and not just because of pure nostalgia. It's hard because all that old stuff is so fucking good.
I'm not winning this war of new appreciations, because all of my 10 favourite movies ever were all watched in that age between the late teens and mid-twenties. That's when I watched all the good shit that had been made up to that point, and figured out what I liked the most, and it's still the stuff I like the best.
That's when tastes in fiction became solidified, and a little bit calcified. I'll always think The Prisoner is one of the great TV shows of all time, even as the production looks increasingly more dated and cheap (the ideas, mind you, still shine eternal). It ain't changing.
My easy list of my five favourite films hasn't changed since 1998 - it's still Dawn of the Dead, Withnail and I, 2001, O Lucky Man and The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. I've seen loads of other brilliant movies in the years in the past 19 years - and some of them have been transcendentally good - but nothing that I've loved as much as those five.
Likewise, my favourite comics have been Love and Rockets and 2000ad since about the same time, and show no sign of shifting off that list anytime soon, because any contender is going to have to display decades of brilliance before I'd even consider them.
Plus, of course, that's the age where you've got the most freedom and disposable cash, before other adult things become more important. Maybe all my favourite shit was made before this century because little things like a partner, a family, children, travel, scented candles or a career get in the way.
Who has got the time to keep on top of all the new stuff, especially when going back and revisiting all the old best stuff is so consistently rewarding?
I'd like to meet my younger self, but I don't think I would actually like him very much. He was so fucking stupid, and weird, and poor, and ideologically pure, (or so he thought). Just another dumbarse working class hero, when that was something to be. He would probably be up on his high horse about some goddamn thing, or more likely, just drunk in the gutter.
The meeting would still be worth it, just for the scented candles revelation.
I do have a genuine interest in scented candles. I don't know where it came from, but I got really excited recently when my workmate Tom told me his partner made them, and I ordered a strawberry and champagne one from her, and it was absolutely fucking delightful. Our house now smells like love and happiness forever.
Young Bob would be appalled - it would be a waste of hard-earned cash for something so frivolous, it literally dissipates in the air, perpetuating the capitalist nightmare that is driving this world towards oblivion by giving in to the narcissistic drive to hide the world's bullshit beneath a pretty smell.
I don't care, our house now smells like love and happiness forever. Fuck off, young Bob. It ain't 1998 anymore.
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Nobody has the time, money or inclination to follow everything in modern pop culture - you have to choose what movies or TV or novels or comic books you bother with. It's not hard, you can base it largely on personal taste, recommendations and the past form of the creators involved.
And sometimes, you can find yourself watching or reading something that everybody else has written off, partly because you want to see if it is bad as everybody says it is, and partly because there is a definite cheap thrill in digging something that nobody else does.
The first reason is how I ended up watching The Orville this week, but I'll probably keep watching it because of the second.
People who are total contrarians about everything they watch, read and hear are, unfortunately, usually boring as hell. You're allowed to like stuff that other people hate, and vice versa, but if you base all of your opinions on what everybody else is thinking, in some vain attempt to stand out from the crowd, then you're unlikely to have anything interesting to say.
But it still happens - I'll end up liking something more because I've been told it's bad for me, and I will have affection for something everybody else sneers at just because... well...
Fuck you, buddy. That's why. I can like what I want. We all can.
It would be a boring world if we all liked the same shit, and I welcome different opinions. But there is also that knee-jerk reaction against the great nerd hive-mind, especially when it gets too enthusiastic, or too scathing, about a particular movie or TV show.
While I can't follow everything, I still check out half a dozen nerd sites almost every day, just to keep up with the play, just to see if there is anything good coming. That great nerd hive-mind is easy to see from this perspective, even if it isn't exactly that impressive.
It's all harmless enough, but it gets bloody boring when there is some kind of great geek consensus reached, where it's already taken for granted that, say, the last season of Game of Thrones was poorly written, or that Frank Miller doesn't have anything interesting left to say about super-heroes, or that JJ Abrams coming back to Star Wars is going to be a great disaster, (I certainly don't agree with any of that).
Like a lot of people, I often have some affection for TV shows that absolutely everybody else has written off as dumb trash, and that affection only increases in proportion to the amount of hate lumped upon it. If it's taken for granted that I'm a fool for doing so, then I'm a happy fool.
I must be some kind of fool, because after 6000 articles, essays and tweet telling me it was bad for me, and I should avoid it at all costs, I still watched the first episode The Orville - the new Seth McFarlane show that is a totally shameless Star Trek rip-off.
All the smart people know that Family Guy is the worst show, and Seth MacFarlane is a smug, arrogant prick who is the worst embodiment of boring privilege, and the humour is so lazy, don'cha know?
I don't give a shit about any of that, I think Family Guy is fine, and sometimes a lot of fun. Scatological and slapstick humour has it place, just like narrative-driven laffs do, and most of the best people I know are smug, arrogant pricks. I mean, I never went far enough to watch American Dad or The Cleveland Show, but shit, I'll still watch a new Family Guy any day.
So when The Orville dropped onto my TV screen the other night, I didn't just automatically skip past it like any sane person would, partly because of that tolerance for that kind of humour, and partly because of some lingering and idiotic contrarian impulses.
After all, it couldn't be as bad as everybody was saying - they never are. There is a dull 'everything is awesome/everything is awful' that a lot of cultural criticism boils down to, and that leaves a lot of room for stuff that's just.... okay.
And The Orville is okay. I actually like the way the characters react to stressful events with dumb jokes and lame one-liners - because that is what people actually do in real life. And it's actually nice to have a Star Trek-type story that isn't bogged down by the boring need to play up to the iconography of the 51-year-old series, and can just get on with the business of some slightly goofy sci-fi nonsense.
I know there are better shows I could be spending my day on, but it's harmless enough, and the amount of bile flung in its direction starts to feel a bit forced. McFarlane has been making his silly shit for decades now - if you don't like it, you're never going to - but it ain't the end of the world.
(I can't fucking believe I'm writing about this goddamn average piece of shit show when all I want to talk about is the new Twin Peaks, and how it is undoubtedly the best TV of the decade. But a curious effect of watching the recent series is that I had absolutely no interest in reading anything anybody had to say about it afterwards, mainly because everybody seemed so hell-bent on explaining every fucking thing, so I can't add to the cacophony, even though in real life I can't stop fucking talking about that last 20 seconds of the series and all the doppelgangers and Harry Dean Stanton and a thousand other pieces of the show.)
In the end, I just don't know how how much of the critical talk about this dumb new show is a knee-jerk adolescent reaction to MacFarlane's humour and his pissing on the Star Trek iconography, and how much of it has genuine insight.
I still delight in reading takes that are completely different to mine, because I'm never gonna learn anything otherwise. I'll be amazed if The Orville goes any further than this first season, but I'll stick around. All that bad blood doesn't harsh my buzz.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Who ever just reads one thing at once? Don't we all have a few decent-sized books on the go? Aren't we all also filling out the day with a selection of magazines and articles and comics and whatever? It's not just me, right?
There is just so much great stuff to read, enjoy and absorb, and I've only got a short lifetime to get through it all. Better crack on.
A lot of the most rewarding reading experiences lately have come from the one-person book club, which is working out quite well.
A bit too well, to be honest, because now when I go into the local bookshop at the start of every month, looking for something new, I'm worried I won't be able to find anything that matches the high standard of the things I've already read. They've been so bloody good, I'm start to dread the inevitable disappointment.
Still, it's paying off now. In fiction, the recent great stuff has included Emily Ruskovich's slow, mournful Idaho, the brutal and beautiful theatricality of The Yid by Paul Goldberg, and the unexpected turns in the road through John Darnielle's Universal Harvester, a journey that ended in strange new territory.
They've all been fantastically rewarding reads, and a further impetus to keep this book club thing going. At the moment, I'm hurtling through David Grossman's short, sharp A Horse Walks Into A Bar, and that's another one that's living up to the deal. So far.
The other half of my book club is all about the non-fiction, so I've been piling on that, although most of the factual books I've been reading - things like Brenna Hassett's Built on Bones, and The Swerve, by Stephen Greenblatt - have been in the safe topic regions of history and science. I've got to try a bit harder, although at least I haven't gone for the easy options of books about movies and music.
The most recent one was a cracker of a book about the criminal Kiwi underground in the 1950s, at a time when the pubs closed at 6pm, which was hugely interesting, and surprisingly useful for another writing project I've been working on. It all comes around.
It took me more than a year, here or there, but I just finished up a recent project to re-read all my Empire movie magazines - hundreds of issues, dating back to the early nineties.
It got a bit laborious there for a while, especially when there was some real fallow periods for great movies, but it was a fascinating experience going back through the years, tracking unspoken trends in cinema, and seeing the surprisingly slow dissolution of 90s lad culture, and checking out the initial reaction to films that have calcified over the years into 'total classic' or 'utter stinker', and realizing how many movies have been made over the years that have just been totally forgotten by everyone, everywhere.
The best thing about it was, of course, the painfully personal connection I have to these silly magazines - that issue with Kenneth bloody Branagh pretending to be Frankenstein is the first one I bought after moving out of my parents' place; there are the ones with Brandon Routh's Superman I got just after we got married; that Star Wars cover went all over Europe with us a decade ago.
There are almost half a dozen banana boxes full of Empires under the bed now, but I'm not getting rid of any of 'em, no matter how outdated they get.
Once the Empire project was done, I went straight onto another big British re-read, by going through another massive 2000ad prog slog, focused on the past 1000 issues of the galaxy's greatest comic.
Again, there are a bunch of weird trends that run through 20 years of a weekly publication, that become more obvious in one big binge-read. Sinister Dexter goes on and on too long, and even Nikolai Dante gets flabby when he goes through his pirate phase, but it doesn't last long, and picks up again with the return of Simon Fraser. Dredd just gets deeper and deeper, and there are entire series that were passable entertainment in weekly chunks, that become great reads in one go - Gordon Rennie's stories benefit particularly from this.
There are also huge chunks of dullness, and the anthology comics always has at least one story every issue that never really connects, and they become easy to ignore and skip past, especially when there are stories with far more thrill-power waiting at the end of the prog.
In other comics - because there are always, always other comics - I finally got around to reading Jonathan Lethem and Farel Dalrymple's Omega The Unknown comic, which was gloriously all over the place, and doesn't feel like anything else the publisher has done in the past few years. (Especially since it came out - fuck me - 10 years ago!)
I also went back through some of Joe Sacco's Sarajevo stuff, just because it's still bloody good, and always worth going back to again. I balanced out the worthiness with some Dicks comics by Ennis and McCrea, because they're still my favourite 'couldn't give a fuck' comics, (although Jimmy's Bastards is my Ennis of choice at the moment).
I tried out a bunch of new superhero comics from the library, just to see what was going on, but it wasn't that encouraging. There is some beautiful art, especially from Marvel, but it's all the same old shit, and the portions are too big. The DC stuff in particular feels particularly uninspiring, and nothing under the ugly and bland Rebirth design is really hitting it for me. Someone keeps buying these bloody things though, so what the hell do I know? At least I keep trying, but I never really seem to get anywhere.
I usually have some sort of Doctor Who book on the go, and have done since 1981. But I haven't read anything in a while, so I keep thinking I need to re-read all the New Adventures from the nineties.
I want to do it partly because I only recently completed the set (that only took 20 fuckin' years), and largely because I have a thing for smart women with short, dark hair. So I could go back and read them all in one go, but there are just so bloody many. I don't know if I have that kind of enthusiasm anymore, no matter how much the books are full of time-traveling potential.
The New Adventures are going on the list, because of course there is always a fucking list. All the books I need to get to, or catch up on, or try out for the first time. All the recommendations from friends, all the ones with the ace reviews I read. Onward and upward.
We're off traveling again at the end of the month,so the things at the very top of the list are the reading material I'll take on the trip, something I put a huge amount of thought into, and actually finalized a few months ago. I've got a new Kim Newman book that I've been saving for the planes and hotels, a couple of chunky magazines, and a plan to pick up at least one of Pat Mills' two recent books about the British comics industry on the way.
I'm off to see the world again, but that's no reason not to have my nose stuck in another book. Life really is too short for all this.
Friday, September 8, 2017
It's not hard to find examples of the undisputed brilliance of Jaime Hernandez's art - it's right there on the page in every new issue of Love and Rockets.
There are a couple of moments of quiet genius in the recent third issue of the latest volume of this exceptional comic, and they could only have come from an artist who had been deepening and enriching his ongoing story for decades.
If you're telling that kind of story, and you need to evoke a distinctive time and place - say, a California drug dealer's pad in the early eighties - you can do it with faint echoes, rippling down the years, without writing a word. You just do it all with body language and positioning.
Look at this, a panel from Jamie's magnificent Tear It Up, Terry Downe, from Love and Rockets v1 #28, where the title character of that wonderful short story arrives at the house of Del Chimney, back in the days before he got crucified on his floor.
That was published in 1988, but it's so slick and modern, it could have been yesterday. And it kinda was, because here's a panel from the most recent issue, published just a few weeks ago:
It's not just a callback, the two scenes are roughly taking place at the same time period, and feature a female character who doesn't want to be there, being ignored by some douchebag.
Without having to belabor the point, without having to explain every damn thing, Jaime takes the reader back to that place, showing that some reactions are universal, and filling in the background of his beautifully sprawling saga.This isn't just easy nostalgia for the 'golden age' of L&R, this is making it clear that it's all the same story.
And hell, if you are filling in things like that, why not take a single panel of Hopey at her young punk best from a mid-eighties strip -
- and then take the story right past that intimidating scowl in the new issue -
This is just great comics, operating on a level that spans generations, offering new insights on old events, and giving the entire thing more depth than you could ever possibly expect.
Love and Rockets: All these year later, and still just better comics than anything else out there.
Monday, September 4, 2017
Saturday, September 2, 2017
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Friday, August 25, 2017
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Friday, August 11, 2017
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
Monday, August 7, 2017
Back when people actually cared about what happened in Cerebus The Aardvark, just before Dave Sim nuked most of his audience from orbit with a view of life and the universe that was breathtakingly sexist and offensive, Sim offered comic creators a tiny platform in the back of his comics, giving artists exposure to an audience eager for new alternative comics.
This would evolve into multi-pages previews of comics from other self-publishers, but at one point he offered up a single page, with no rules about what could go on that page. Anything goes.
And for a while, the Single Pages were some of the best value comics available, with one page offering up a wide variety of styles and techniques from some established pros like Evan Dorkin and eddie Campbell, and lots of enthusiastic amateurs who nobody ever heard of again.
There were a few dozen of these Single Pages, and instead of providing some actual goddamn content, I'm going to share some of them over the next few days. (There would be more, but I recently traded up up bunch of Cerebus bi-weekly comics, which had the addition, for the earlier original copies, which didn't, and oh fuck I'm boring myself to death...)
They vary greatly in actual quality, but this Jim Henson tribute from Jim Aubry, published in Cerebus #162, is always my favourite, and the saddest bloody single page story I've ever seen. That look on Ernie's face as he fades away...
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
It was exactly 10 years ago, and we were somewhere near the monastery on the pillars of Meteora, when I realised what my name was.
The lovely wife and I had just got married, and we celebrated by heading off around the world for six months. At this point, we were 30 days into a 46-day tour around Europe, and disaster had struck: I'd run out of things to read. The scenery around Europe was mindblowing, but a lot of the travel was along anonymous highways, with just grey walls and straight lines of trees to see out the window. We were on a tight schedule to get around the continent, so there were hours and hours on those dull roads, with nothing to do but sleep, drink or read. (Or all three.)
This was before the ubiquity of e-books, so almost everybody else on the tour had their own dogged paperbacks, and they'd all get handed around. I'd already burned through Robert Fisk's 1200-page History of Civilization in less than a week, and got through my Carl Hiaasen omnibus in two days, so was desperate to read anything, and there were no Enlish-language bookshops about. So I read the only Harry Potter book I've ever read, and even choked down a James Patterson novel. I got five books into Steven Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen saga, and never actually finished the series, which isn't much of a problem, because I can't remember a single thing about any of those books.
What I do remember is this - staring out the window because there was nothing else to do, and deciding at some point that I needed to get a lot of the bullshit about comics and movies and other debris of pop culture out of my skull and into some sort of online journal, right about the time blogging became terminally uncool.
It was always going to be called the Tearoom of Despair, but I couldn't use my real name, because I couldn't bear the endless jokes about The Cure. I needed a fake name, and as we were traveling through the Greek countryside, and I saw these giant pieces of rock stabbing into the sky. And while I felt so fucking far from home, I knew that wherever I went, or whatever I did, I was always going to be Bob from Temuka.
It took another 18 months before I actually started publishing in the Tearoom, but that was where it really started, and I haven't stopped since.
This is the 1000th post at the Tearoom of Despair.
A thousand posts of ill-thought comments, and ridiculous opinions about the dumbest shit. A thousand posts of trying to convince the world that Love and Rockets is as good as it ever was, that Doctor Who really is the best TV show ever, and that Frank Miller still has something worthwhile to say. A thousand posts of bullshit, and half-arsed opinions, and desperate pleas for attention.
I've spent countless hours writing this out, and have posted every single thing with a 'fuck it, that'll do'. I still lie awake at night wondering about the next post, and have now racked up nearly 700,000 words on the dumbest subjects.
It's been going a lot longer than I thought it would last, but I'm hardly going to stop now. I feel like I'm still just getting started.
Still, real life is a right arse sometimes, and the Tearoom is in a semi-low content mode at the moment, and that will continue for a couple more weeks, with the help of The Single Page.
It doesn't mean I don't care. I still love you all. Here's to the next 1000 posts.
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Artist Steve Dillon broke into the comic industry as a teenager, largely for two reasons - 1) because he was bloody brilliant, with a sharpness to his line that was immediately appealing, and 2) because he was fast as hell.
For a perfect example of both of these attributes, you don't need to look any further than the lost episode of City of the Damned, a Judge Dredd story from the early 1980s where Judges Dredd and Anderson travel a decade into their future to see the results of a predicted apocalypse.
It's a classic Dredd tale, as our heroes overcome the deep horror that their beloved city has become, and save the day by ensuring this apocalyptic nightmare will never come to pass. Like all the great golden age Dredds, it was written by John Wagner and Alan Grant, and featured work from a variety of the comic's best art droids.
These included Dillon, who was a perfect fit for this gritty, hopeless future, and it was all going swimmingly, until the actual climax of the thing, when most of Dillon's art for a crucial episode vanished from the 2000ad offices.
The colour centre-spread was still there, which was just as well, as it was a massively pivotal scene where Dredd gets a bunch of his undead former colleagues to step aside, purely with the use of his own imposing authority. But the rest had disappeared, and under a supreme deadline crunch, Dillon stepped back up and redrew the required four pages in record time.
A couple of years later, the missing art turned up again, and 2000ad readers were able to see and compare the two versions, and it was absolutely bloody fascinating:
It is an invaluable insight into the young artist's methods, just by looking at the slight alterations made to the story. You can study the difference between the two, (the published version on the left above, and the 'lost artwork' on the right), and try to see if the pressure of the deadline forced Dillon to make any shortcuts, or just take note of the way characters switch sides, or move differently (body language was one of Dillon's great under-rated skills).
Other artists frequently sketch out their layouts beforehand, but it's so unusual to see two pieces of complete and finished art like this. Dillon had already had a rehearsal run on the pages, and even though the replacement pencils were churned out at an incredibly fast rate, they're arguably better, with a slightly tighter focus on some of the figurework, and even more detail - see how the panel where Anderson's face is in shadow on page four on the original, but more fully revealing in the redo, or how the sizes of the actual panel are tighter, or more open.
When we lost Steve Dillon recently, we lost one of the modern greats. His worth is evident in the hundreds and hundreds of pages of comic artwork he did, but you can see it best here in these four pages, quickly whipped up to save the day.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
George Romero never really liked being pigeon-holed as a horror director, but he was asking for it, because he was just so very good at scaring the shit out of us. All modern horror films - and a large amount of crime, thriller and comedy movies - owe a debt to Romero.
He brought horror out of the gothic castles and into rural and urban America, using his movies as broad and biting allegories on the state of the world, and he didn't flinch from showing just how brutal things could be. Many of his films were pleasantly ambiguous about this world of ours, and some of them were bluntly pessimistic.
While the broad strokes of his metaphors were obvious, Romero really made an impact on viewers with the deft use of tiny details and little moments that made his stories sing with terror, and give his movies life.
There was the soft slipping of the sheet covering Roger as he comes back in Dawn of the Dead, and the nasty villain telling the ghouls to choke on his intestines at the end of the Day. The sheep in the field in The Crazies, running past a tiny massacre; Martin's inept clumsiness as his romantic delusions crash into real life; Ed Harris' smile as he rides on out of this world in Knightriders. A zombie on a horse in Survival of the Dead, the unsettling cleanliness of Creepshow and the Amish dude's chalkboard in Diary of the Dead. The meathook at the end of the Night, the belly button ring in the Land, and the detail that went into that fucking eye in The Dark Half.
One that always stuck in my mind as desperately horrific in its banal finality was a tiny bit at the end of the original Dawn of the Dead - a zombie crashes into a display cabinet in the cosmetics section of an overrun department store, and then an undead foot steps on it, splattering goo over the floor.
There is something in that extraordinarily small moment that enforces the reality that this really is the apocalypse, really is the end of the world. The inhabitants of the mall have kept it remarkably clean and tidy as they used it as their own giant bunker, but when the dead reclaim it, they trod over everything, and make a hell of a mess, and nobody is ever going to clean it up. That paste, splattered across the floor, will lie there for a thousand years, and nobody will ever wipe it away. This is the new world, where all that materialistic bullshit means nothing. Nothing at all.
As wide as his allusions to society got, Romero was an incredibly subtle filmmaker, and he managed to raise big questions about race relations, just through casting decisions, that didn't need him to spell anything out. And it was in the tiny moments that made Romero a genuinely great filmmaker.
I hope he wins all the posthumous accolades he can, and that everybody makes dumb jokes about his career living on past his death. He would always grit his teeth beneath those enormous glasses whenever people made jokes about that in front of him, but you could always tell George was digging it.