Comics Review: American Flagg!: Lustbusters, Alan Moore, Don Lomax, and Larry Stroman

This review was originally published on Pol Culture.

Alan Moore's guest storyline for Howard Chaykin's '80s cyberpunk adventure feature is marred by substandard art, but it compensates with cleverness and wit.

Alan Moore is best known as the scriptwriter of, among other works, the graphic-novel masterpieces Watchmen and From Hell. The fame of those books and their grim tone often obscures that he is also a first-rate humor writer. A good example is his 1985 guest serial for Howard Chaykin’s cyberpunk adventure comic American Flagg!. (The story was featured in issues 21 through 27 of the series. I’ve taken the liberty of calling it Lustbusters after the final episode’s cover copy. The storyline doesn’t have an overarching title.) Moore manages a neat trick: he does a hilarious job of lampooning Chaykin’s work, but he also manages to make the story a comfortable fit with the feature. He has such a strong feel for Chaykin’s characters, themes, and milieu that he can extend his parody for laughs at the feature’s expense yet snap it back when necessary to keep the story on track. He isn’t quite able to duplicate Chaykin’s tone; the hard-boiled edge of Chaykin’s work is gone. But Moore often manages to outdo Chaykin in terms of wit and cleverness. American Flagg! is notorious for being an adventure feature that no one but Chaykin could handle properly, but Moore almost pulls it off. The only thing holding it back is the inept, unimaginative art by Don Lomax and Larry Stroman.

American Flagg!, for those not familiar with it, is set in the America of 2031. A series of international calamities has led the political and business elites of the U. S. to relocate to a colony on Mars. Calling themselves the Plex, they control the country’s remaining communities through the Plexus Rangers, their law-enforcement wing. Additionally, they provide all legitimate television programming, which is mostly comprised of porn, animated cartoons, and reality shows. The feature’s hero, Reuben Flagg, is a former TV star turned Plexus Ranger who oversees the Chicago area. Disgusted by the corruption of the Plex, he both keeps the peace and gradually works to undermine their authority. Chaykin keeps things lively with effective adventure plotting, stunning visual design, and an often hilarious mix of political and media satire.

Moore, stepping into Chaykin’s shoes as scriptwriter, starts by making explicit what was only implied in Chaykin’s episodes. Mark Thrust, the adventure show Flagg used to star in, is also pornography. Part of its formula is to have cliffhanger moments turn into sex scenes. Moore's plot centers on what happens in Kansas when the porno moments are followed by ad breaks. The commercials for dishwashing soap contain some unfortunate subliminal messages. These prompt a run on the product, and it quickly becomes apparent that consumers are, shall we say, finding other uses for it than washing their dishes. Things are complicated when a porn tycoon realizes the connection between the subliminals, the soap sales, and the rise of the aberrant activity. He arranges for the subliminals to be broadcast 24/7, and soon the entire population of Kansas is in the throes of rampant erotomania. The members of the series’ supporting cast come one-by-one to investigate, but they all fall victim to the sex-crazed populace. It's ultimately up to Flagg to save the day.

Moore’s satirical eye doesn’t miss a single aspect of the series. The porny atmosphere of Chaykin’s milieu is taken to its limits. The episodes all star a specific American Flagg! character, and Moore does a delightful job of lampooning their idiosyncrasies. He has a grand time dreaming up the various sex scenarios, whether it’s the assorted Mark Thrust clips, or the multitude of depravities the people of Kansas concoct for themselves. (They get a good deal more imaginative than questionable uses of dish detergent.) But Moore never loses sight of the adventure elements of the story, and he even finds space for extended send-ups of George Herriman’s Krazy Kat and Harold Gray’s Little Orphan Annie. His sense of timing never fails him; the story is hilarious throughout.

The only letdown is Lomax and Stroman's artwork. (Stroman penciled the first three installments, with Lomax inking. Lomax penciled and inked the remaining four.) They make no effort to lampoon Chaykin’s design-heavy visual style or the posterish look of his pages. It may be for the best; their artwork is below what one would like to think is a professional standard. The figures are incompetently drawn, everything is over-rendered, and none of the visuals are especially convincing. The wit of Moore’s scripting is the only thing that saves the story. One comes to accept the inept artwork as approximations of his ideas, and gives it the benefit of the doubt.

What may be most impressive about this lark at Chaykin’s expense is that it really isn’t a departure from Moore’s usual style. He has always analyzed existing story material in terms of its discourses and absurdities, ultimately rebuilding it in ways that captures the heart of the material while managing to improve on it. The major difference here is that he doesn’t minimize the absurdities in Chaykin’s work; he plays them to the hilt. It's a shame the artwork wasn't worthy of his script. This might have been seen as one of the great comics parodies.

Comics Review: Swamp Thing: The Curse [Book 3] and A Murder of Crows [Book 4], Alan Moore, Stephen Bissette, John Totleben, et al.

This review was originally published on Pol Culture.

Alan Moore's initial goal with the Swamp Thing series was to divorce it from the self-pitying tone that had hobbled the efforts of his predecessors. When Moore took things over, the character was a man whose body had been transformed into a monster's, and his purpose was to find a means of changing himself back. Moore identified this premise as a metaphor for denial. The solution he came up with for the problems it posed was ingenious: turn it inside out. The point of the strip became the character's implicit quest for self-fulfillment. The hope of returning to the life he led before his transformation was abandoned in favor of embracing the happiness to be found in his present circumstances. The crux of this was his relationship with Abby Cable, which blossomed into love in "The Rite of Spring," the final episode of Book 2. Moore began with what he called a "Hamlet covered in snot," and ended with a "happily ever after" moment--sort of.

The material was originally published as part of an ongoing monthly comic-book series, so after Moore reached this endpoint, he had to answer the question of where to go next. He responded by taking the character's engagement with the world around him to the next level. The "American Gothic" storyline, which comprises Book 3, The Curse, and Book 4, A Murder of Crows, of the collected series, begins with Swamp Thing in a state of self-absorbed contentment. But this is no happily ever after. His body dies after being accidentally poisoned, which leads to the discovery that he can grow new bodies at will. He also meets John Constantine, a British occultist and psychic who goads him into a series of confrontations with supernatural phenomena across the U. S. The journey is a parade of evil and horrors, with Constantine in many ways acting as the Virgil to Swamp Thing's Dante. One of Constantine's goals is to bring Swamp Thing to a greater understanding of the nature of good, evil, and how they function in the world. This sets the stage for the storyline's climax, an apocalyptic encounter between divine manifestations of good and evil in which Swamp Thing is a full participant. Ultimately, the knowledge he has gained from his experiences is what brings things to a peaceful resolution. The "American Gothic" has him grow from an individual to a citizen. The story ends with him becoming one who takes responsibility in making the world a better place. At the very least, he is now one who works to keep things from getting worse.

In essence, Moore continues to see denial as something to be overcome; he just moves his focus from the personal to what denial means relative to society. "The Nukeface Papers," the two-part episode that begins things, is built around the issue of one of the most conspicuous examples of societal denial: environmental pollution, specifically the handling of nuclear waste. No one Moore presents can think beyond their personal circumstances. Two nuclear-industry workers pitch drum after drum of nuclear waste into a bog, telling each other, "outta sight is outta mind... an' what the eye don't see... the heart don't grieve over." The local sheriff is too caught up in his card game to pay much mind to local troubles. As for Swamp Thing, he is completely caught up in his happiness with Abby, seeing everything outside of it as "the carefully logged hysteria of a world he no longer belongs to." Everyone's so oblivious to the pollution and its dangers that they might as well be boozing it up with the stuff, and Moore gives us a character who does exactly that: Nukeface, a wandering derelict who downs the toxic waste as if it were the finest cognac. Everybody has their preferred poison, after all, and Nukeface, figuratively speaking, introduces everybody to the latest in throwing up and hangovers--the sort that would leave everyone nostalgic for the old kind. They'd at least survive.

"The Nukeface Papers" doesn't come to a proper resolution--everyone just keeps going their own way. This seems fitting, as the evils the story illustrates really can't be resolved. Crimes of convenience, indifference, and denial are a constant in life. The same is true of the other evils Swamp Thing encounters, which are explicit metaphors for such things as the cycles of violence between men and women, different races, opposed communities, and others. None of these resolve themselves in a way that leaves Swamp Thing with any sense of pride or accomplishment, but Moore has him recognize that they are, to a degree, the extreme expressions of constants. Good and evil feed each other, and the best that can be hoped for is that the two maintain a balance be maintained. It's this knowledge that allows Swamp Thing to bring about the resolution of the storyline's climactic conflict.

Moore constructs the "American Gothic" storyline in order to give Swamp Thing (and the reader) a metaphysical understanding of good and evil, and the climax turns the character into something of a metaphysical politician. Moore makes Swamp Thing a negotiator--one with no sense of guile--and the character's earnestness is highlighted by pairing him with Constantine, who's a different sort of political animal: a manipulator. But, repellent as he is in some respects, Constantine is a do-gooder at heart. He knows the danger that is coming, and one senses that he jerks people around because he knows he couldn't get them to do anything otherwise. Almost everyone whose assistance he needs is either an egomaniac, a flake, or some other kind of headstrong personality. Constantine talks in hints and circles, and as infuriating as that can be for Swamp Thing and others, it's the quickest and, at times, only way to get them where they need to go.

"American Gothic" has flaws. The episodes that comprise Swamp Thing's journey through the American landscape are fine by themselves, but they seem arbitrarily placed relative to one another--they feel as if they could have been presented in almost any order. The knowledge Swamp Thing gains in one episode has no bearing on the ones that follow until the storyline arrives at its climactic section. The material might have been more effective if Moore had dramatized Swamp Thing's accumulation of wisdom--if the character had confronted each of the individual horrors using the knowledge he had gained in his dealings with the previous ones. The material's format as an open-ended serial also becomes annoyingly conspicuous at times. One can comfortably read these volumes without having read the first two in the series, but about halfway through Book 4, Moore introduces a subplot involving the Abby Cable character that has no relevance to the other material. Worse, it's left hanging after it's been developed to a crisis point. One needs to come back for Book 5 to find out where it's going. Serials do not make for tidy reads.

But one is more than willing to come back for Book 5. The reasons go beyond Moore (complemented by the able efforts of artists Stephen Bissette, John Totleben, and others) making the "American Gothic" a compelling read in its own right. He builds on the thematic material of his first two Swamp Thing collections to leave the reader with a more complex starring character and philosophical worldview. The "American Gothic" is far richer and more resonant than what's come before, and it leaves one happily anticipating what Moore will use Swamp Thing to bring the reader next.

Comics Review: Superman: "For the Man Who Has Everything," Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons

This review was originally published on Pol Culture.

Alan Moore’s 1980s superhero stories are frequently constructed around critiques of the superhero genre. They take an especially cutting view of the escapist and nostalgic impulses that are typical of superhero protagonists. When confronted with a character who seems devoted to a rosy view of the past, often in rejection of one’s present circumstances, Moore’s response is to pull the rug out from under that character’s fantasies. His 1985 Superman story, “For the Man Who Has Everything...,” produced in collaboration with Watchmen artist Dave Gibbons, is perhaps his most overt use of this thematic approach. (The story was originally published in Superman Annual #11 (1985). It has been reprinted in the collection DC Universe: The Stories of Alan Moore.)

The story’s taking-off point is Superman’s birthday. Batman, Wonder Woman, and a novice replacement Robin named Jason Todd meet outside the Fortress of Solitude, Superman’s Arctic retreat. Once inside, they discover a catatonic Superman with a strange plant wrapped around his chest. It’s gradually revealed that the plant immerses anyone it bonds with in a fantasy of their heart’s desire. It is part of an attack on Superman by an alien villain. The scenes in the Fortress of Solitude are intercut with Superman’s imagining of his life on his home planet of Krypton if it had never exploded.

Like Snoopy in his daydream battles with the Red Baron, Superman finds no satisfaction in his fantasy world. He’s content with his imagined wife and children, but his being the son of Jor-El undermines his happiness. The fantasy Jor-El, once Krypton’s leading scientist, was permanently discredited when his predictions that Krypton would explode turned out wrong. He’s become a reactionary crank and radical-group leader who’s estranged from most of his family, and he castigates his son for being a terrible disappointment to him. Worse, Jor-El’s invention of the Phantom Zone banishment for criminals decades earlier is viewed by many as a means of torture. As a result, a fringe protest group has targeted members of Jor-El’s family for violent attacks. After Superman’s cousin is hospitalized after an assault, he and his family are forced to flee the city where they live. The heart’s desire of Krypton’s survival becomes a nightmare.

Moore constructs the story so that engagement with the circumstances of one’s present life constitutes a triumph. On the one hand, Superman cannot escape the villain’s clutches until he rejects the fantasy of Krypton’s survival. On the other hand, the villain is defeated by the one character who consistently engages with the reality around him, no matter what anxieties or frustrations it holds. Superman isn’t the hero of “For the Man Who Has Everything...” The Jason Todd Robin is. Moore opens the story by showing how intimidated Jason is by everything he encounters. He doesn’t know what to make of Wonder Woman’s brief outfit, he feels embarrassed by his failure to remember one of Superman’s powers, and he’s all but unnerved by Superman’s catatonia and the alien’s attack. But he ultimately overcomes his fears. Through his own initiative, he manages to contain the alien plant, and it is he who defeats the alien villain. He lacks the older heroes’ assurance and skill, but he’s not hobbled by their illusions, either. His courage and determination allow him to take advantage of a serendipitous moment and prevail.

The story’s moral about the desirability of rejecting fantasy outlets is a pleasant one, but it feels a little too pat in execution. In a rather heavy-handed metaphor, Moore has Batman’s birthday present, a specially-bred rose called the Krypton, crushed underfoot during the battle with the alien. When Superman is told, he says, “Perhaps it’s for the best.” And Moore isn’t able to create enough emotional resonance with the scenario to make it feel like much more than a better-than-average superhero story.

On the other hand, I appreciated Moore’s implicit view of Superman as someone who cannot avoid being dissatisfied with what life presents him. This is what led him to fetishize a homeworld he never knew, and it’s what enables to him to escape the alien’s fantasy prison. Moore underscores Superman's inevitable dissatisfaction with his circumstances during the exchange between him and Wonder Woman in the story’s epilogue. She kisses him, and he replies with, “Mmm. Why don’t we do that more often?” She jokes that it would be too predictable, to which he resignedly says, “You’re probably right.” Something in him resists real-life happiness when it presents itself. (One can read this tendency in his traditionally frustrated romance with Lois Lane.) In real life, it’s a psychological block characteristic of adolescents, and it represents something to grow out of. It’s fitting that Moore, whose work with costumed heroes has done the most to transcend the genre's adolescent appeal, should be the one to highlight, however subtly, the presence of that tendency in one of the greatest adolescent fantasy figures of all.