Author: Andrew Wheeler

Andrew Wheeler spent 16 years as a book club editor, most notably for the Science Fiction Book Club, and has been a judge for the 2005 World Fantasy Awards and the 2009 Eisner Awards. He is now Marketing Manager for John Wiley & Sons.
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Red Ultramarine by Manuele Fior

What do you get when you tell the story of Daedalus and Icarus, and combine it with a parallel story about a modern architect named Fausto? Does it matter if the architect stays resolutely a secondary character, and makes no deals with any infernal agencies? How about if the whole thing is told in slashing, imagistic hues of black and red? Or if the architect’s girlfriend Silvia is the main character?

Those are some of the elements in Manuele Fior’s graphic novel Red Ultramarine , which I think is his earliest work to be translated into English. The Italian original came out in 2006 – and is the earliest book listed on his website – and this translation, by Jamie Richards, is from 2019.

I don’t think I entirely understood what Fior was trying to do here. Why does King Minos seem to be the same person as the esteemed doctor that Silvia consults about her boyfriend’s obsession? How does that doctor’s assistant, Marta, connect the two worlds – Silvia and Fausto in the modern day, Icarus and the rest in ancient Greece? And why is Marta young and gorgeous – and, notably, naked – in Greece, but older and more settled with the modern doctor?

The story, such as it is, bounces back and forth between the two timelines. Icarus works with his father near the labyrinth, both are eventually thrown into it and have to escape, and do so in the traditional way with the traditional tragic end. Meanwhile, Silvia consults the doctor – who hectors her and rants about Faust for no obvious reason – about her boyfriend’s obsession with perfection and labyrinths, is given a cream by Marta that promises to make the large birthmark on her face “go away,” and uses that cream, which turns her entire body the color of the birthmark and sends her back to the time of Icarus. Silvia consults the doctor – who is somehow also in ancient Greece and has the same face as Minos, but is dressed differently, so maybe they’re not the same person? – and demands that he send her back to her world, and he responds in much the same confusing wordy flood as before, which makes her hysterical.

All of the dialogue in Red Ultramarine talks around things: nothing is stated clearly. No options are laid out cleanly. The connections are symbolic, imagistic, implied. And all of the talk about Faust doesn’t lead anywhere cleanly – it comes across as a red herring.

Speaking of colors, the title is also a bit perplexing. The book is steeped in red – several of the characters, especially in Greece, have dark red skin tones, and red is an element on every page. Ultramarine, though, is entirely absent from the book – that slash of blue on the cover is the only blue in the entire book. The art inside uses black to complement red – black as the base, the core element, red as the embellishment, most of the time.

The art is gorgeous and striking, almost abstract at times in its stark outlines and elegant simplicity. It’s not simple in a cartoony sense, but simple like design, like a mid-century poster. It’s visually stunning throughout, a succession of compelling pages, even as the words confuse and obfuscate.

In the end, I took this as an early work by a creator still figuring out what he wanted to say and how to say it. Possibly also a creator more comfortable with pictures than with the words that partner them – able to make the art say what he wanted but not quite as adept yet with the words.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Was That Normal? by Alex Potts

Philip is about forty. He has one of those jobs you can do from anywhere, on a laptop, so he does it from his apartment, alone. He lives in a British city, probably mid-sized – not very specific, not very special. His apartment is garden-level, which means he looks out his window, while typing on that laptop, below the street. He doesn’t have any long-term friends, or any connections with colleagues that we see – the closest person in his life is his landlady/roommate, an older woman who intermittently tries to engage Philip and be friendly with him.

Philip isn’t all that good at being engaged and friendly. He’s wrapped up too much in his own head, the kind of person who obsessively thinks about what’s he’s doing, what he should be doing, and if there’s anything that he wants to be doing. (There usually isn’t..) He goes out to the pub now and then, because he thinks he should or because he thinks he’ll have a good time this time, but he inevitably ends up drinking too much to be social and pays for it later.

Was That Normal?  is a graphic novel, by British creator Alex Potts . It covers a few months in Philip’s life – how he starts from that point of being stuck, how he’s searching for connection, what happens to him, and where he ends up. There are no major epiphanies, no huge revelations, no amazing transformations – like all of us, Philip is deeply embedded in his own life, and all changes will be gradual and incremental.

But he does want more, want something different. He does try, in his fumbling, uneasy way, to open up to experience, to look for things that would make his life brighter. He gets dragged out to a concert, and is struck by the singer, Gina. He sees her around town, and strikes up a friendship.

He obviously wants more, but things are messy – Gina has a volatile not-quite-ex and doesn’t seem terribly interested in anything more serious than friendship with Alex. But she is friendly, and it looks like it’s been a long time since Philip had a friend.

He’s uncomfortable with a lot of the day-to-day of life, the kind of person who over-thinks everything and then has trouble just doing even the little bits of social interaction that more thoughtless people never waste a moment on. That might not change – or not entirely. He’s going to stay Philip. But he might be able to be a Philip a little more comfortable in his own skin, a Philip who tries more things, a Philip who spends more time with people and gets better at it. I do say “might” – Potts, again, is not going for epiphanies or transformations here; this is a realistic, grounded story about a real person in a real world, and nothing is guaranteed. 

Potts draws Was That Normal? with a slightly rumpled, indy-esque line – immediate and grounded, with his people not quite as pretty as a reader might expect. His panel borders are hand-drawn, just a bit uneven. The colors feel just a tone or two off from purely realistic – slightly more of a picture than the thing itself, usually in earthy tones, with lots of yellows/tans, browns and dull reds for backgrounds.

Was That Normal? could be a little hard to take, particularly for readers with a lot of Philip in their own makeup – but it’s well-observed and thoughtfully true, and does provide some hope for this Philip…and, by extension, for all of the rest of us.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Daredevil by Frank Miller & Klaus Janson, Vol. 3

Credits are always a tricky thing for assembly-line comics. Projects tend to have a particular, clear breakdown of responsibilities – this guy writes, that other guy draws, a third guy inks – but those comics tended to be monthly, and monthly deadlines lead to messiness. (Ask the guy who spent sixteen years in a business that had a minimum of seventeen “months” a year.)

And creators want to work with each other – sometimes the same crew for a while, sometimes a one-off with that idol of theirs or the new guy doing interesting stuff.

When it comes to gather all of that messiness into a book, sometimes the publishers err on the side of simplicity. The first time the “Frank Miller Daredevil” was collected, it was under roughly that title, even though Klaus Janson drew the vast majority of those stories. For the second go-round, Marvel decided they needed to add Janson to the title, which makes a lot of sense.

But it meant that there was a first book with stories mostly written by or with other people, one of them inked by Frank Springer, and most of them drawn by Miller and inked by Janson. And then a second book that really was all Miller/Janson, the core of the run.

And this third, concluding volume gets messy again, with Daredevil by Frank Miller & Klaus Janson, Vol.3  collecting not just the climax of their run together – Daredevil issues 186-191 – but several odder and quirkier things, several of which Janson had nothing to do with. So it’s yes Frank Miller, as before, and some embarrassed shuffling of feet about how much Janson there is.

There are three quirkier things, so I’ll take them first, in the order they appear in the book and in increasing order of importance and strength.

Miller and Janson did an issue of What If…? in 1981, with co-writer Mike W. Barr, asking the comical question “What if Matt Murdock became an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.?” It would be a very standard late-’70s, early-’80s Marvel comic, much like the stories in the first Miller/Janson volume, is what. Talky, obvious, full of cramped panels and way too much narration from that boring bald giant on the moon. This is included, I assume, for completionists.

Miller returned to Daredevil for a one-off issue, #219, in mid-’85 (about a year before the Born Again sequence with David Mazzucchelli), apparently in large part to work with John Buscema. The credits are a bit vague – the splash page credits everything to Miller (with an asterisk), Buscema, and inker Gerry Talaoc – but I assume Miller wrote this story and did layouts that Buscema finished. This is a hardboiled “crooked town” story in twenty-ish pages, with Matt Murdock (out of costume) wandering into this Jersey hellhole and incidentally (and almost accidentally) cleaning it up on his way back out. This story has many of the weaknesses of both Marvel comics of the era and Miller in particular, but it’s a solid piece that works on its own level.

And the last eighty pages or so of this book incorporate the 1986 graphic novel Daredevil: Love & War, written by Miller and drawn by Bill Sienkiewicz, in what ended up being a try-out for their Elektra: Assassin project almost immediately afterward. This is very much a one-off, but it’s glorious and energetic, with Sienkiewicz at the height of his ’80s inventiveness and Miller’s multiple-narrators captions working quite well. Daredevil himself doesn’t actually do a lot in this story, actually – he is necessary to the plot, I’ll admit, but he also sets off for a whole lot of derring-do that fizzles entertainingly.

I’ve left the meat of the book for last: issues 186-191 is the big ninja storyline, the single most important vector for their takeover of American culture (particularly comics culture) later in the ’80s. But we can’t blame Miller and Janson for that. The stories are muscular and taut, with Miller dialing down his wordiness and telling this story visually a lot more than was standard for Marvel at the time. It includes all the greatest hits of the Miller Daredevil: Matt’s mentor Stick and the small band of good-guy ninjas he leads, his dead-but-gets-better global-assassin ex-girlfriend Elektra, the super-evil ninjas of The Hand and their world-domination plots, the Kingpin, and a cameo by currently-paralyzed assassin Bullseye.

Those issues, though, in the best Marvel Manner, actually starts with some hugger-mugger about Matt’s current girlfriend, Heather Glenn, and the family company she supposedly runs that has gotten involved with…gasp! horror!…some kind of munitions work. As usual with Big Two comics of this era, both the legal and the business details are ludicrous and unbelievable to anyone who is not twelve, and all of the characters talk about it in mind-numbing detail that only proves how little any of the creative team involved understood law or business. But, eventually, the Heather subplot ends and we get to the ninjas, who are thankfully much quieter.

My takeaway from this, and the whole mass of Miller/Janson Daredevil stories, is that everything is part of its time and place. The best of this material is as good as any adventure stories in comics form anyone has made over the past century. But a lot of it is dull, cliched and obvious, rolling out wallpaper-like standard plots, themes, and concepts that are third-hand at best and threadbare if you look too closely. The three Daredevil books have nearly a thousand pages of comics: three to four hundred of that is pretty darn good. The rest you need to slog through to get to the high points.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Walt Disney’s Donald Duck: Donald’s Happiest Adventures by Lewis Trondheim and Nicolas Keramidas

About a decade ago, writer Lewis Trondheim and artist Nicolas Keramidas made a bande dessinée for Éditions Glénat, the French arm of the global Disney octopus, about Mickey Mouse. It was called Mickey’s Craziest Adventures  and pretended to be rediscovered pages from an obscure (probably American) 1960s comic, telling a long, convoluted and all-adventure story on its big pages. It didn’t entirely make sense, but that was the point: it was supposedly roughly half of the pages of a decade-long story that was all cliffhangers and hairsbreadth escapes to begin with.

A few years later, they did it again, though in a slightly less breathless register: Donald’s Happiest Adventures  similarly pretends to be a serial from an incredibly obscure ’60s comic. But, this time, they happily state that they found the whole thing, and can present the full story of how Donald was tasked by his Uncle Scrooge with finding the secret of happiness. Happiest was published by Glénat in 2018, and an American edition followed in 2023, translated by David Gerstein.

The structure is the same as the Mickey story: Trondheim and Keramidas pretend that each page stood alone as a monthly installment of the story, so the story leaps forward regularly, with each page being a moment or a thought or a particular place. Trondheim’s Donald has the standard irascibility, though he doesn’t break into full-fledged tantrums here as he sometimes does in stories by other hands. He’s also more philosophical than Donald often is, a lot like other bird-coded characters in other Trondheim stories, like Ralph Azham or Herbert from Dungeon or Trondheim’s self-portrait in Little Nothings .

But if you’re going to have a story about Donald Duck searching for the meaning of happiness, you need to have a version of Donald who is capable of finding happiness and of talking about it coherently – not always a guarantee in every version of Donald.

Like the Mickey story, this one ranges widely – Donald is summoned by Scrooge to go retrieve a fabulously valuable artifact from an obscure corner of the world, but unwisely questions Scrooge’s motivations and finds himself instead sent to find the secret of happiness. In particular, the secret of making Scrooge happy, which is even more difficult than doing so for Donald. (Donald has moments of happiness throughout the book, as a careful reader will notice – but he’s not happy all the time, which is what he thinks he’s looking for.)

Donald meets and talks with a vast array of other characters – the fabulously lucky Gladstone Gander, the down-to-earth Grandma Duck, the genius Ludwig von Drake, and so on – as he asks each of them in turn what happiness is. Along the way, he gets into adventures that span the globe, including a stint in a nasty totalitarian country where, luckily, the shackles are all made of cardboard. He also runs across Mickey several times, helping capture Pegleg Pete each time and getting a reward from the police forces who pop up, always right after the hard work is done.

It’s a fairly talky story, because it’s about finding happiness, and Donald needs to talk to nearly every character about it. (He doesn’t have any conversations with Pete, which is a possible miss, since Pete has always seemed quite content with his lot in life, despite having all of his schemes fail miserably.)

As he must, Donald does eventually make it back home to Duckburg, and has an answer for Scrooge that makes the old miser happy, at least for that moment. It’s not the secret of happiness, but that of course is Trondheim’s point: there’s no such thing. Along the way, Happiest is thoughtful and adventurous in equal proportions, a good story for people who are willing to do a little thinking during their Donald Duck adventures.

As in the Mickey book, Keramidas draws it in a style that I can’t quite call off-model but doesn’t quite look right. (Though I mean that as a compliment: purely on-model is boring.) His characters are energetic in that cartoony way and his pages crisply laid out to accommodate all of Trondheim’s long speeches – and to look as if each one could have been a full entry of this serial. 

Some reviews of this book have missed the fact that the ’60s origin is…how do I put this delicately?…not actually true. But you, my dear readers, are smarter and more perspicacious than that, so I’m sure the metafiction here will be no trouble for you. If you’re looking for a combination of philosophy and Disney adventure – and why not? it’s a fun mix – Donald’s Happiest Adventures will provide a lot of enjoyment.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Kiosco by Juan Berrio

I didn’t know this was wordless going into it. Wordless books pose a challenge to the critic, for all the usual dancing-about-architecture reasons, but this is sweet and lovely and expressive, so let’s see what words I can dig up that Juan Berrio didn’t need.

Kiosco  is a horizontally-formatted graphic novel, generally one big wide panel to a page, originally published in Spain by DIBBUKS in 2014 and published in this edition for the US market by Europe Comics in 2017. It doesn’t credit a translator; it didn’t need one. Someone wrote the descriptive copy in English, but then I bet someone wrote descriptive copy for this in Spanish, French, and German earlier, and we don’t credit those people, either. (No offense: I’ve written descriptive copy for books, back in my misspent youth. It’s a skill, and a necessary function, and I didn’t get credited, either.)

The main character is a young man. We see painting apparatus in his apartment, and him working at it, so we think he’s an artist. But the way he makes his living, we think, is by running a little coffee-and-pastry stand in a local park, in whatever city this is he lives in. A kiosk, we might say in English. I gather “Kiosco” is the Spanish equivalent.

This is the story of one day. He gets up, gets ready, pokes at a painting briefly, and then sets off on his bicycle to work with a tray of croissants. He opens the shop, the sun rises, and he’s ready to greet the day.

But though the park is full of people passing through, no one is spending money at the kiosk. Berrio shows time passing, with some wonderfully expressive pages in soft earth tones – I’m not sure if it’s watercolor or colored pencils. He goes back and forth between the hubbub of the passing crowd – different every time, a fascinating array of different faces and body language and gesture, all going somewhere else to do something else – and our main character, standing and fidgeting and cleaning the stand and tables yet again to keep himself busy.

There are a few scenes of someone almost shopping at the stand, but no one actually does. It even rains, to make this a comprehensively bad day.

Eventually, though, he does have a customer. I won’t spoil it. It’s lovely and bright and happy, and that ends his day in the kiosk and, soon afterward, the book.

I don’t know if Berrio typically works wordlessly; I found this book randomly and the only other Berrio book I see available in North America is similarly wordless, for kids. (But he has a long list of previous works on his Spanish site , and wordless comics famously travel the most easily.) This is a sweet little book in a lovely cartoony style, and I’d love to see more of Berrio’s work make it over to my side of the Atlantic.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Girl in the World by Caroline Cash

Caroline Cash took over the Nancy comic strip at the beginning of this year, after a try-out run (before and after a couple of other creators) a year before. Her predecessor was Olivia Jaimes, a female creator who rejuvenated the strip in 2018 and is shrouded in mystery. Well, slightly more mystery than any other name on a national media entity where you never see the human being behind it – she’s pseudonymous and has guarded her privacy, though the assumption is she’s also known as a cartoonist under her real name, whatever that is. [1]

I liked the Jaimes Nancy; so far (it’s January 31 as I write this) I’m liking the Cash Nancy; and I liked Cash’s brief run in 2024. So I figured I should see what else Cash has done. She was best-known, pre-Nancy, for her ongoing comic PeePee PooPoo, with a confusing numbering scheme that has so far gone 420, 69, 80085, and 1. (I may have the order wrong, for obvious reasons.) Before that, though, she had a standalone graphic novel, Girl in the World , as her comics debut in 2019. So I took a look at that.

Girl follows a large cast, almost all female – there’s one gay man I remember, and possibly other men in minor roles as passers-by, but it’s a story about a lose friend group of women, during one long night. (Yes, there is a Bechdel Test reference at the end.) They’re all young, and I guess to complete the cliché I should say they’re all restless, too. They’re all part of the same set in whatever city this is – Cash herself is from Chicago, but the city here is unnamed but mostly low-rise, rowhouses and buses and dark late-night streets.

These girls – I guess I should call them girls, from the title? – have different things they can do this night: the organized ones are Facebook events, to make this even more 2019, but the characters mostly ditch organized frivolity early and spend their time traveling with each other to the next thing, talking and just hanging out.

There’s no larger plot: this is a book about those conversations, about what this group of young women are thinking about and worried about and unhappy about in this random night in 2019. They’re different people – Cash does, I think, give them all names and personalities, but the names don’t get used much, as friends don’t dialogue-tag each other all that often.

Cash’s art style shifts and alters – at first I thought she was creating looks for each cluster of characters, but I think, in the end, it’s more a new creator working on her first long work – trying new things, using all of the tools she has, pushing in every direction she can, using each new blank page to learn something new.

Girl is a very “indy” book – that art style, that kind of storytelling, that feeling of a young creator trying things out in public. I find that kind of work energizing, and this is a great example of the type.

[1] I would love to work up a conspiracy that Cash is actually Jaimes, and this is a complicated double-fakeout to go public and switch her art style. But Cash is barely thirty, and I think was still in art school when “Jaimes” took over Nancy, so the timeline really doesn’t work. Sad, because that would be an awesome thing to at least pretend to believe in.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Man’s Best by Pornsak Pichetshote, Jesse Lonergan, and Jeff Powell

If I were cynical – and I am, a lot of the time – I’d think of this book as “We 3, but with a happy ending!” or maybe, more vaguely, “We 3 in SPAAAACE!”

That might be reductive, but, really, how many other comics about three uplifted and cyborged animals fighting to save their humans can you think of? Sometimes, the precursor is glaringly obvious.

Man’s Best  is a 2024 SF comic, originally five issues long and then collected into a single book-sized volume, written by Pornsak Pichetshote, drawn and colored by Jesse Lonergan, and lettered by Jeff Powell. (I don’t usually credit letterers, but Powell is on the cover, and I try to defer to the book most of the time.)

There is a starship, heading to an alien planet to test a terraforming device. Earth, of course, is falling apart in the background, for thematically important but non-specific “people are fighting” reasons – it’s not quite the ’70s-standard population-bomb argument, but maybe a revised and updated version of that. Among the humans, there is a Captain and a Doctor, and then an undifferentiated mass of everyone else.

The Doctor – a woman, and very feminine-coded, with big fluffy hair and huge circular glasses – has three animals, said specifically to be for emotional support on this journey. (The Captain is similarly masculine-coded, all craggy features and eyepatch.) But the animals also are heavily cyborged, or maybe just lightly cyborged (one definitely has a new leg) and live inside exoskeletons that augment them. They are Athos, Porthos, and….Lovey; two dogs and a cat, with the cat as the leader in a twist that will amuse anyone who has ever met a cat.

For some reason – this really isn’t clear – the Doctor is running the animals through training sessions in what seems to be a Star Trek holodeck, in which they fight giant robots they call Klangers. This is the beginning of the story, so they do not work well together, and fail. This clearly sets up Narrative Tension for when the animals have to battle robots for real later in the book.

Anyway, the planet they’re supposed to test the terraforming doohickey on is missing, which leads to some doomy speeches from the humans. But a planet suddenly appears, and the ship crashes into it. The animals wake up, somewhat later, in the wreckage. The humans are all gone.

So they decide – not without squabbling, because we need to see them squabble a lot for aforementioned Narrative Tension reasons – to save the Doctor and the Captain, somehow, using their various technological enhancements and The Power of Friendship. (Well, they don’t say the latter.)

The planet they landed on is some kind of third-generation copy of the Well World, with various regions separated by some kind of gates – we don’t see big walls around the hex-equivalents, so it might be implemented somewhat differently, but it’s the same idea: a big planet full of sentients from lots of other planets all over the place, each in their own habitat. And, of course, there are robots that run the whole thing, which are hostile to Our Animal Heroes. Plenty of the inhabitants of the individual regions are somewhat hostile, too, so there’s a lot of running and fighting and squabbling, as the animals see their tech enhancements get degraded, destroyed, or removed along the way.

They also learn a bit about the purpose of this world, and do, of course, eventually get to the Doctor and the Captain, where there is a Shocking Revelation and a big Boss Fight with a robot that looks just like the one from their training. In the aftermath, the animals need to make a decision about The Fate of Earth, and we readers think they make a pretty good one – but it is a bit of a “Lady and the Tiger” ending as to whether their decision will work.

For all of the “Earth is doomed because people Can’t Get Along” talk and the eternally-squabbling animals, this is a fairly positive story: it does come down on the side of humanity being salvageable, which could be a bit of a stretch in a story about uplifted animals made to fight robots. I found it a bit talky but pleasant, and didn’t argue with the premises (how are these animals uplifted? they seem to be just plain shelter rescues who can magically talk to each other in clear idiomatic English and eventually communicate with humans, too) as much as I normally would. And Lonergan is a great story-telling artist, particularly for SF stories like this one: he gives the action sequences a lot of punch and energy.

I found Man’s Best to be somewhat lighter and fluffier than I think it wanted me to, but it’s just fine for what it is. And if you want cyborged-animals-fighting-robots action, it can’t be beat.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Bridge Planet Nine by Jared Throne

I came into this book with almost no expectations, and was happily surprised – it’s a taut, smartly-paced crime thriller in a lived-in SF universe. I’ll try not to spoil what turns into a twisty plot with a lot of revelations, but keep that in mind.

Bridge Planet Nine  is Jared Throne’s second full-length graphic novel, and I think the first to be published by an established company – Top Shelf put it out in October. It’s the kind of book that takes unabashedly genre materials, uses them well, and mixes them to make its own story.

It’s the medium future. Humanity has expanded to some unknown number of other planets, and seems to be living under a mildly dystopian corporatocracy – well, about as dystopian and corporate-ruled as today, frankly. One of those corporations, Partna, has a string of “Bridge Planets” – uninhabited worlds used as refueling stations for automated transport ships. It sounds like the point is either to extract all of the mineral wealth from those planets or to degrade them enough that Partna can take full ownership for some other activity later – or maybe both.

Four people are planning a heist on one of those planets. Garrett was a VP at Partna before a scandal – which he claims he had nothing to do with – took him down, tossed him in prison, and ruined his life. He has the knowledge and the desire to hurt Partna. The other three are specialists: Hudson is a long-time criminal with a lot of expertise; Wes is the one who’ll get them through digital security, with his reprogrammed drone Etta; and Pearl, Wes’s sister, is the pilot. They have contacts so they can “borrow” a ship to get there and back – not in a lot of comfort, but good enough.

Garrett knows of a high-value ship, with extra security, coming into Bridge Planet Nine soon. The ship, and the planet, are completely automated – no staff at all. So the four heisters just have to get there, quietly take what they want, and get back out – a big payout for all four of them, minimal risk.

Of course it’s not that simple.

Before we meet the heisters, there’s what I might call a cold open. A group of people, on a planet somewhere, execute or sacrifice one member of their group by chaining him outside at night and removing the mask they all wear. Something in the environment kills him, unpleasantly, almost immediately. We don’t know exactly where they are. But we can guess.

Garrett and crew do get to Bridge Planet Nine without trouble, and park their ship away from the transfer station they plan to hit. They take a ground truck over, marvel at the ruined buildings from when this was an inhabited planet, and get to work on the security at the transfer station. They know their jobs, are smart and organized, and have planned carefully. (This is roughly a third of the way into the book.)

Things go badly in unexpected ways, as they always will in a heist thriller. The mission shifts, there are revelations of what Partna did and is doing on Bridge Planet Nine, and, of course, there is sudden violence and death. There are other characters, too, of course. You need to have a larger cast than just four people to have enough deaths to make a thriller.

The borrowed ship does lift off from the planet at the end of the story; I’ll say that much. It does return to Earth, with a crew and a pilot. The people on that ship are not unrewarded by their efforts on Bridge Planet Nine. It’s a good ending, a satisfying ending – one that fits for both a heist thriller and a gritty anti-corporate SF story.

Throne draws this in an indy-friendly style, with sharp spotted blacks, crisply distinct faces, and a good eye for design – both of his pages and for elements in his world. Suitably for both the heist and grungy-SF genres, most of the background elements look worn, lived-in, half-broken – he draws a universe that’s already seen a lot of activity, where the street has been making its own uses for things for a long time now. Bridge Planet Nine is impressive: it tells its cross-genre story well, with distinctive characters, a strong sense of place, and serious tension throughout.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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The Joy of Snacking by Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell

There were three major comics memoirs by women in the fall of 2025, all about the same cluster of topics: eating, cooking, family, and how those things are connected. I don’t know if it’s going to be surprising to anyone that many women have issues around both eating (their bodies are often policed by others) and cooking (they are generally assumed to be responsible for feeding the people around them), but the cluster is an interesting thing, and I hope someone better-qualified than me (an actual woman, at a minimum) digs in and looks at the three books together.

I first saw Jennifer Hayden’s Where There’s Smoke, There’s Dinner , published in November, leaning towards the production side of food and making comic hay about Hayden’s inability or unwillingness to do it well. Then I noticed My Perfectly Imperfect Body  by Debbie Tung from September, which is more focused on the consumption side of food, and a bout of disordered eating in Tung’s youth.

Published in between the two of those is The Joy of Snacking , from Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell, whose work I’ve seen as a cartoonist in The New Yorker, but has also done a previous comics memoir, illustrated several other books, made a few documentary movies, and also works in burlesque.

Snacking is mostly about eating – young Hilary was what we call “a picky eater,” and that’s continued into her adult life. (She’s now in her early thirties.) The spine of this book is, as the title implies, “snacking” – Campbell is one of those people who eats lots of little bits all day long, isn’t terribly fond of big meals, and tends to focus on a few preferred, beloved, standard snacks. (She also says this is a youngest-kid thing, which made me realize my younger son is also a grazer – there’s a kind of bowl that he uses to gather stuff to eat, and we see them pile up in the sink – so I tentatively think her theory has some merit and she should get a major research grant to investigate it.)

Campbell organizes Snacking into loose chapters, bouncing between two timelines: her childhood and young-adulthood, as she discovered new foods and mostly tried to avoid them, and the last few years and her tumultuous relationship with a man she calls E. Separating scenes or sections are cookbook-like pages, which are each about a food Campbell likes – apples and peanut butter, or “a baggie of goldfish,” or “a bowl of potato chips,” or Cool Ranch Doritos – with details on how to “prepare” them, when and where to eat them, and their significance to her.

It might be the fact that this isn’t her first memoir, but I found Campbell to be harder on herself than other people – in particular, E comes across (maybe, though, because I am a man) as a fairly reasonable guy trying to live with Campbell’s issues, as the two of them snipe at each other in that deeply nasty way some couples develop. I’m sure he had his flaws, but I felt that Campbell presented him in a mostly-positive light: he’s a guy who is in many ways her opposite (a foodie who works selling wine to restaurants!), but they made it work, more or less, for a number of years.

This is not a how-I-changed book, or a I-fixed-my-problem book. Campbell likes snacking. She’s going to continue doing it. On the other hand, this isn’t entirely a celebration, since she’s also clear that she had a weird, often unpleasant childhood because of her food issues, and that it’s affected her adult life in ways she doesn’t like. That tension plays out throughout the book – can she be herself, eat the stuff she likes (and maybe “normal” food, too, OK, sure, sometimes), and go through life with less stress and anxiety? Well, maybe. But how about some popcorn and white wine now, while she thinks about it?

This is a big book, with some aspects I’ve not even mentioned – Campbell traces the eating habits of her parents as well in flashback sections, so it’s not just a book about her individually – and a warm open-heartedness I found deeply engaging. Campbell has a cartoony, dense style here: her people are loosely defined with thin lines, her panels are many and jammed together without gutters, her dialogue is long and rambling, like real people. This is a fun book about a distinctive person who’s not afraid to show herself being odd and quirky – that’s the whole point of the exercise. I don’t know if anyone else eats quite like Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell does, but, then again, do any of us really eat like all of the rest of us? This book made me wonder that – and that’s a good thing to wonder about.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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Hi, It’s Me Again by Asher Perlman

I bemoan the sorry state of single-panel cartoons a lot here – because I like them, and because they used to be a massive tide rolling across popular culture, so there were many more of the things I liked, albeit mostly before I was born – so it’s nice to be able to balance that out now and then.

Asher Perlman’s first book of cartoons, covering a decade or so of toil and strife, was published last fall: Well, This Is Me . It was a best-seller, says the publisher, and I believe them. The reason I believe them is because they backed it up: they published what looks very much like a sequel to the first book just about exactly a year later, which is the time-honored model for a publisher that has found a good thing and wants it to continue as long as they possibly can.

The 2025 Asher Perlman collection is Hi, It’s Me Again , featuring the same character (and a variation on the joke) from the cover of the first book. Again, “hey, this is a sequel!” is a reaction you aim for when the first thing did well, so I am happy for Perlman and for comics-in-book-form in general.

Like the first book, it has three new short page-formatted comic sections to organize it (Introduction, Interlude, Epilogue), all with the “real” Perlman taking to another character about his work, in the usual half self-deprecating, half self-aggrandizing manner appropriate for comedy.

In between are two big sections, transparently called Part One and Part Two, each with eighty or ninety single-panel cartoons. The whole book is just about two hundred pages long, so it has almost that many pages of Perlman art and gags.

The only remaining major regular outlet for single-panel cartoons is The New Yorker, and Perlman does appear regularly there. According to the copyright page, nine of the cartoons here first appeared in that magazine – it’s possible that some of the others appeared elsewhere, but likely the vast majority of them are new to this book. (At least as far as the general public goes; my guess is that they were part of Perlman’s weekly “batches” over the past who-knows-how-long, though potentially reworked or finished for this book.)

As always, it’s difficult to say anything specific about a pile of nearly two hundred individual cartoons. Perlman has a fine modern cartoon style, with confident lines mostly of a single weight and various tones overlaid for texture and depth, and his ideas and punch lines are funny. (At least, I think so, and I’m the one reading the book.) A lot of people liked the first book; if you were one of them, this second book is more of the same stuff you already liked.

If you weren’t one of them, well, a lot of people liked the first book, so the odds you’ll like this one are solid – give it a try, won’t you? Help keep single-panel cartoons alive; it’s your civic duty.

Reposted from The Antick Musings of G.B.H. Hornswoggler, Gent.

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