Daughters of the Dust (1991, Julie Dash)

Daughters of the Dust is an epical story told lyrically. Set in 1902, the film tells the story about the time a specific Gullah family headed to the mainland and north into the twentieth century. It opens with Cheryl Lynn Bruce returning home to make the crossing, bringing along photographer Tommy Redmond Hicks to document the occasion. Bruce had left home, got some education, and became a Christian.

She’s very surprised to find her sister, played by Barbarao, also returning home. Bruce is the good sister who went off and assimilated into the popular culture. Barbarao is the scandalous sister, though it turns out she’s not the one who ought to feel scandalized. Barbarao’s bringing along female friend Trula Hoosier.

Despite the awkward situation (with the audience not having details, just the awkwardness), Bruce tries to make conversation. She remembers childhood details, which leads to Hicks mansplaining about the slave trade. The Gullah are descendants of African captives enslaved by plantation owners on the lower Atlantic. In 1902, it’s living memory, something Hicks doesn’t understand (yet). Barbarao and Hoosier laugh at Hicks’s naivete, and the rest of the water taxi ride is presumably much more quiet.

We don’t know because the action moves to the family’s day on Ibo Landing, named after the Ibo people, who figure into local mythology. Except, again, it turns out it’s living memory, which adds some devastating context to why people living in a tropical paradise (albeit with bad soil) would want to get the heck out. It also will lead to character development for Hicks and male “lead” Adisa Anderson. Quotations because, although Anderson gets quite a bit in the first act, he’s only the male lead because he’s the only male with a character arc.

The family—the Peazant family—is de facto matriarchal, led by Cora Lee Day, though granddaughter-in-law Kaycee Moore is making a power grab with the move north. Day’s not going, something none of her family seems to have really internally acknowledged. The film takes place over two days, with occasional flashbacks and a future-tense narration from Anderson’s (as yet) unborn daughter (Kai-Lynn Warren). Day also narrates a bit, starting before Warren, which provides some framework for how the narration will work in slipping through time.

Eventually, Warren will appear visually, the hope of the family—the first child to be born off the island—but also the child living inside this story she’s learned. It’s beautifully done. There’s nothing writer and director Dash attempts she doesn’t accomplish. The bigger the swing, the better the hit.

The film’s got several subplots, most supporting the main plot—the family leaving—through character development. Anderson’s miserable because someone raped his wife, Alva Rogers, and he’s worried she’s pregnant with another man’s child. It’s made him remote, angry, and violent, especially when Rogers won’t tell him who did it. Anderson goes to great-grandmother Day for advice but doesn’t listen when she gives it.

Rogers spends much of the film bonding with Barbarao and Hoosier, who are able to sympathize with her situation–finding just how much and why fuels Rogers’s character development arc, which becomes one of the film’s most consequential. But they’re all exceptional.

The best performance is Day. Despite being one of the two narrators (and the only one active onscreen)—and being very open in her narration—Daughters reveals more and more about Day as it progresses. Everyone orbits her, and Dash explores their different and similar trajectories. But Day has layered the performance so well, each new detail just informs a previous choice and sets up subsequent ones. It’s a singular performance, though the same can be said of a few more.

Barbarao, Moore, and Rogers are the other singular performances. Rogers is the last to go from simmer to boil, and when she does, it’s phenomenal and something it turns out the film’s been working towards the whole time.

Technically, the film’s sublime. Dash’s direction is deliberate and concise, honed both with the performances and composition. Color is crucial in Daughters, whether the blue ribbon on future child Warren or the indigo stains on the palms of the formerly enslaved family members, providing a visual reminder of generational differences and experiences.

Arthur Jafa’s succulent photography, toggling between tropical forests and white sand beaches, is simultaneously extraordinary and mundane. Similarly, John Barnes’s score inhabits the scenes, modern for the audience’s ears, while providing an emotional gateway into the characters’ lives, even as Dash waits to reveal various details.

Then there’s Joseph Burton and Amy Carey’s editing. Their cutting makes it all happen. Dash and her editors use slow motion to great effect, focusing and guiding the audience’s attention.

Great production and costume design—Kerry Marshall and Arline Burks Gant, respectively.

Daughters of the Dust is a marvel. Dash, her cast, her crew all do superlative work.

Frankie and Johnny (1991, Garry Marshall)

Besides the sex scene, set to Rickie Lee Jones singing, “It Must Be Love” (which means Al Pacino sings it later as he gleefully reminisces), Frankie and Johnny avoids revealing too much about the private tenderness between Pacino and romantic interest Michelle Pfeiffer. At one point, he says something to her as their first date is wrapping up, and it convinces her to invite him back to her apartment. We don’t get to hear it; we just watch Pacino gesticulate exuberantly as the music swells, and Pfeiffer just can’t resist him any longer.

Pfeiffer is a New York City waitress who’s had only bad relationships, some very, very bad and others still pretty bad. Pacino’s the new grill cook who focuses on her after discovering she’s Frankie to his Johnny, finding more and more coincidences to suggest they should be together. Pfeiffer remains unconvinced. The film covers their courtship—with detours—before examining whether or not they can actually function as a couple, what with Pacino being obnoxiously extroverted at times and Pfeiffer being guarded.

The film’s got its share of problems. First and foremost, the film presents anything but married with children as abnormal. To some degree, it works as an exaggeration of the societal expectations on Pfeiffer, who starts the film back home visiting and standing up as godmother at a christening, with mom K Callan passive-aggressively whining about not having grandchildren. But it’s still reductive, especially for unmarried, ostensibly lonely waitress Jane Morris. Though that characterization also indicates another problem—director Marshall only knows how to direct so much of the film. When it comes time for Pfeiffer and Pacino to capital A act in close-ups and have hard talks, Marshall gets uncomfortable and either hurries away to montage or throws in a joke.

The jokes aren’t bad—they often involve Nathan Lane, who’s fantastic as Pfeiffer’s neighbor and best friend. He’s gay and has just started dating Sean O’Bryan, something Pfeiffer finds out when she gets back from her visit home, meaning we never get to see Pfeiffer and Lane as friends without him in her life less. Another thing Marshall could’ve leaned in on more.

But for the third act, the only time the stage adaptation (Terrence McNally wrote the screenplay from his play) gets to be stagy, as Pacino and Pfeiffer hash it all out, Marshall runs away from both actors. After opening with Pfeiffer (and a quick clip of Pacino getting out), the film’s heavy on him for the first two acts. After all, Pacino’s got the additional getting-out-of-prison story arc and Pfeiffer’s entirely reactive to him. But in the third act, Pfeiffer’s got to shut down his bravado and charm and stake out the space for her performance. McNally’s script makes the room for Pfeiffer, Pacino arguably makes the room for Pfeiffer, but Marshall doesn’t know how to do it. He doesn’t force more Pacino into the scenes, and avoiding him too makes it weirder.

There’s also the odd issue the only thing cinematographer Dante Spinotti doesn’t shoot brilliantly is sunrise in the city. Spinotti’s exterior street scenes, day and night, are fantastic. His interior restaurant scenes are extraordinary; the talking heads scenes between Pfeiffer and Pacino are gorgeously lighted. But he’s too saccharine in the finish. It’s a disconnect, with Marshall’s unsureness compounding the problem.

But the film’s problems don’t surmount the careful, deliberate, marvelous performances. While Pacino’s bombastic and naturally draws attention, Pfeiffer’s observation of the world around her is even more transfixing. Pacino gets to showboat; Pfeiffer just gets to watch and process that showboating for herself (and the film). It’s an incredible narrative device: even though Pacino’s new to the restaurant and the cast, making him the natural perspective, the film actually uses Pfeiffer’s experience of his arrival. We get to know the cast not through Pacino meeting them (well, except Kate Nelligan, sort of), but in Pfeiffer watching it.

It’s a really nice move, and Marshall does pull it off well. Outside the finale, Marshall mostly knows how to direct to showcase his stars, and, given their excellent performances, it works out.

Nelligan’s another waitress at the restaurant who decides she’s going to hook up with Pacino if Pfeiffer doesn’t get her dibs in soon. Nelligan’s also part of the problematic “married or die” aspect (I mean, so’s Lane), but she gets the time and space to act through it. The supporting cast at the restaurant is all good and often lovable. Besides Morris, there’s restaurant owner Hector Elizondo, Glenn Plummer, and Fernando López. In addition, there are some charming regular customers, like Phil Leeds—another layer of the film is how Pfeiffer, Nelligan, and Morris act as de facto part-time caretakers for their aging customer base.

Frankie and Johnny takes place in a nicer than not world, but it’s all very textured thanks to McNally’s script and Marshall’s enthusiasm for supporting actors.

Pfeiffer and Pacino are the show, though. The film’s about them, specifically their performances; everything else is just there to support them. Well, except in the third act when Marshall needs to step up and doesn’t. They’re great. Problems, potholes, and hiccups aside, it’s a wonderful job from them both (Pfeiffer’s better, just saying).

Lovely Marvin Hamlisch score too.

Birdland (1990) #3

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I think this issue of Birdland is the best? I mean, I haven't really worked out what constitutes "best" for a porn comic, but Gilbert Hernandez has got a lot of variety in the art here. Like, combinations-wise. Literal orbiting orgy with issue's entire cast.

Though not the series's cast. One of the characters from last issue has disappeared.

It's also the best written, but for some particular reasons. First, there aren't any of the bickering siblings scenes for Petra and Fritz. So Fritz doesn't come off like a villain. Also, it's about people with their crushes, so some of the drama has this hint of sincerity. Finally, there's a transactional nature to the sex to further the plot.

Obviously, it's unclear how much effort Beto's putting into the story over the art.

But there are some excellent dramatic moves in the issue. The ending is a deus ex machina out of Plan 9—everyone just follows everyone else onto a flying saucer, but Beto hasn't got the pages to show everyone filing on, so there's some surprise instead. And there's an epilogue suggesting a bit more playfulness with the narrative, along with an Errata Stigmata appearance. Not really a cameo because she's just there for texture and effect.

All told, Birdland does have enough character drama for a comic. Almost. The epilogue changes things a bit and skips a resolve for the existing cast as we know them… but there's enough drama.

Like, Petra and Simon not realizing they're perfect for each other is tragic. Their star-crossed crushes on their siblings-in-law are sad. It's fine. They're very sympathetic. Well, Simon's sympathetic.

However, sympathetic character drama is also not the point of Birdland. Birdland's about the porno, not the story, regardless of the epilogue's potential profundity, which seems to be Beto flexing philosophical at the very last minute when he doesn't have to do anything else with the material.

Birdland (1990) #2

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Oh, good grief. Either I missed it, or creator Gilbert Hernandez didn’t make it clear enough—the guy in love with Fritz is her brother-in-law. It’s important to this issue because it turns out the brother-in-law, Simon, is carrying on with Fritz’s sister, Petra, who’s in love with Mark. Mark being Fritz’s husband and Simon’s brother.

Also, Simon is fooling around with Inez.

The issue starts with Inez worried about Bang Bang, who’s not at work and has been missing a few days. We don’t actually find out what Bang Bang was doing between last issue and this one, but we get some hints in a reveal. Presumably, Beto will clear it up next issue, though also maybe not; there are a couple of things he established last issue he doesn’t continue with this issue. I also don’t remember him trying to rhyme so many ribald remarks. Lots of rhyming ribald remarks this issue.

But once Bang Bang returns, another dancer—La Valda—is watching her and Inez’s show to seize up the competition. La Valda might have been in the last issue. There are so many characters, and they’re just saying the same names over and over. It’s challenging to keep track and doesn’t seem to matter.

La Valda’s Mark’s ex-wife, and they get together before she gets together with Bang Bang. I think Inez is mooning over Simon? Or at least wants Simon to give her a job. I mean, the narrative’s obviously just a bunch of slight gags to string together the sex.

I also think it’s a better issue? Like, Simon and Petra are star-crossed (just not to each other), making them more sympathetic. Though Beto does acknowledge Fritz is basically a Republic serial villain as she hypnotizes her male patients into sex. Still, I’ll bet she doesn’t get in trouble for it next issue.

It’s fine? Like, there’s some good art. It’s a little weird when the non-sex setups feel like regular Love and Rockets though. I kept expecting Petra to be worried about her niece’s fitness empire or whatever.

The Linguini Incident (1991, Robert Shepard)

I watched most of The Linguini Incident’s 108-minute runtime waiting to go read the IMDb trivia page and discover what wealthy New Yorker bankrolled a movie for their kid to star in with Hollywood actors. Except there’s no such item on the trivia page, and it doesn’t appear to be the backstory to the film’s production. And now Linguini makes even less sense.

The Linguini Incident takes until the third act to reveal what the title’s referencing, and then it skips through it because writers Tamar Brott and director Shepard couldn’t come up with a compelling story. So they punt. They punt on the “linguini incident” being at all relevant, which kind of carries for the film itself. There are multiple times Brott and Shepard’s script introduces character traits as reveals (not to mention a big twist with one of the main actors), and if it were an artlessly produced vanity project, not going back and fixing the movie would make sense. But if they’re doing Linguini straight? It’s bewildering what they miss.

The film takes place mainly in a swank New York nightspot called “Dali” because the interiors are surreal. Sort of. There are some nods to surrealism like they had enough money to decorate a quarter of a wall, and then the rest of it was just a warehouse turned into a restaurant. It’s okay, Meatpacking District, whatever. Though it’s not supposed to be in a trendy area, at least not based on the street location for the entrance.

All the staff wear silver latex-y outfits, except the owners, Andre Gregory and Buck Henry (who hack and ham their way through this thing like they’re trying to find the bottom of a pit). Gregory and Henry wear big band suits. Linguini really doesn’t understand how to make quirky happen. Director Shepard’s got fail after fail in the movie—and, arguably, the direction of Gregory and Henry’s even worse than not being able to make it quirky—but still. Gregory and Henry aren’t in it very much until the last third. They’re at the opening, they’re terrible, but then they go away. They have to come back for one of the reveals. Their third act spotlight takes the movie away from Rosanna Arquette, who’s been losing the picture to every costar after the first sequence—including at one point a rabbit—but it’s still a surprise.

Okay, fine, the quirky. Let’s talk about the quirky. Outside the costumes and Arquette’s character—she’s a former Catskills tween entertainer trying to make her comeback as a Houdini-inspired escape artist, only she’s terrible at it—Shepard’s big idea for quirk is to have people utterly incapable of delivering comic lines deliver comic lines. Usually, Eszter Balint, who plays Arquette’s best friend and her ostensible rival for David Bowie’s affections. Also, Viveca Lindfors. Shepard does a terrible job directing Lindfors’s cameo as an antique shop owner. Bowie’s not quirky. He’s also better dressed when he’s not at work—he’s a bartender, Arquette’s a waitress—which seems weird, but then he also has really precise hair throughout. It’s like Bowie brought along his own costume designer and hair person, not trusting Linguini’s. I mean, rightly so. But still.

Bowie needs to get married for a green card, and he’s got his sights set on hostess Marlee Matlin. Matlin’s one of the only well-timed comedic performances, James Avery’s the other; Avery’s got three lines and better timing than anyone else in the movie. You can almost see him ignoring Shepard’s direction and just doing the delivery well.

So Matlin wants a pay-off to marry Bowie; he’s going to have to rob their place of work to get her the cash. But then Arquette wants to rob Gregory and Henry too so she can buy some memorabilia from Lindfors. No spoilers, but the robbery thing is a red herring to get the movie into its third act, which makes sense if you’re trying to appease some kid’s rich parents bankrolling your movie. For an actual motion picture where, presumably, at least one person read the script more than once… not so much.

Linguini could be worse, to be sure. What if Bowie, Arquette, and Balint were as lousy as Gregory and Henry, for example. But they’re also not unlikable. It’s hard for them to be sympathetic because they’re absurd and poorly written, but Bowie’s got some energy. Arquette and Balint run out of it quickly—possibly because they’ve got no chemistry—but they aren’t energy vampires like many other cast members.

The music—from Thomas Newman—is best described as half-ass, and the other technicals aren’t any better. Sonya Polonsky’s editing is terrible, Robert D. Yeoman’s photography is bland; however, given they’re working with Shepard’s direction, it’s not like it could be any other way. There’s no way to cut Shepard’s shots together any better, no way to light them better.

A rewrite, a better director, some recasting, The Linguini Incident would still be missing a protagonist and a point. Shepard and Brott can’t commit on Arquette, Balint, or Bowie and hand it off to Gregory and Henry instead of making any decisions.

It’s kind of incredible it’s comprehensible at all. Some of the acting’s terrible and whatnot—some of the writing—but it’s clearly all director Shepard’s fault.

Doctor Gorpon (1991) #3

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So last issue was a surprise as far as creator Marc Hansen’s plotting for Doctor Gorpon goes and this issue is no different. The issue opens having to resolve three cliffhangers—all of the monsters Gorpon has captured over the years has gelled into sentient ooze bent on destroying him, his former assistant is at the back door also bent on destroying him, and the police chief (not captain, which just makes the cop stupider) is watching the animate chocolate bunny monster eat people while waiting for Gorpon to show up so the chief can… destroy him.

There’s a throwaway line about why Gorpon wears a mask—he’s got his new assistant, a dopey teenage punk—but it turns out to be incredibly important in the mythology building Hansen ends up doing in the issue. He’s got three cliffhangers to resolve (which he spends a bunch of the issue doing), some major reveals, and he still manages to fit in a third act and an epilogue. Doctor Gorpon is a visual delight of gross cartooning and funny dialogue—Hansen also explains why Gorpon’s got such a peculiar vocabulary—but it’s also a great example of good plotting. Hansen covers a whole bunch of narrative without ever forcing it (the mythology-building stuff doesn’t get—or need—any spotlight, Hansen just puts it in organically) and never sacrifices the cartoon gore or humor.

The issue ends with promise of future Gorpon adventures but not of a sequel (Hansen’s been getting more mileage out of the concept since the first issue and exponentially increasing it in the subsequent issues), leaving a wonderful satisfaction to the comic.

Doctor Gorpon’s a win; Hansen and his creations ooze through any genre or medium constraints.

I’m really impressed with Hansen, but also with Eternity for giving him three issues of this madness.

Doctor Gorpon (1991) #2

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I was expecting Doctor Gorpon #2 to be gross and funny—and it is both gross and funny—but not have much of a story. Instead, creator Marc Hansen has a bunch of it. In fact, the story even overshadows the gross and some of the funny.

Everyone who survived the first issue is back. Gorpon’s struggling to get through menial tasks since firing (and maiming) his assistant; he can’t do laundry. Meanwhile, some decomposing scientist comes up with a cure but it ends up infecting and animating a chocolate Easter bunny, which starts feeding on human flesh. That sequence—the decomposing scientist interlude—is probably Hansen’s best art in the issue. The level of detail on the decomposition is horrifically wonderful. But the point isn’t the scientist, it’s the animated, human-flesh eating bunny, which ties into the idiot cop from the first issue’s return. Given where the issue cliffhangs, with three dangers in the mix… Hansen’s plotting is far more impressive (and effective) than I was expecting. Even after the successful first issue. There’s a lot of plotting to keep straight here and he does an excellent job.

The stoner teen from the first issue’s back, getting to go for a job interview at Gorpon’s, where Hansen gets to do some exposition on the state of monster hunting in the big city. It also feeds into one of the cliffhangers. Very nicely executed.

Similarly the former assistant trying to get revenge for the firing. And maiming. Probably more the maiming. He’s hired his own muscle bound grotesque to take on Gorpon, which ends up being the issue’s C plot, presumably to get a focus next (and last) issue.

Gorpon’s a good read. It’s assured enough I’m almost not surprised at the quality by the end of the issue, but it’s an Eternity comic and I’d never heard any of them were actually good. Gorpon’s actually good.

Doctor Gorpon (1991) #1

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Doctor Gorpon is a nice bit of gross-out gore. Creator Marc Hansen’s cartooning has these thick inks, which perfectly complement the tentacles and intestines the title character is pulling out of monsters throughout the issue. Doctor Gorpon is a monster hunter, one who charges for his services whether they’re requested or not (his first target is a monster masquerading as a harmless suburban husband), and terrorizes everyone around him, monster or not.

As Gorpon deals with having an incompetent assistant (who destroys Gorpon’s Gorpon Mobile through said incompetence), two teenage punks call forth a demon as part of their band practice. The cops—getting reports of the demon eating people—want to respond, but the police captain has it in for Gorpon, who steals his replacement car and thereby becomes public enemy number one.

Everyone in the comic is absurd in one way or another, with Hansen laying it on thick for Gorpon, the used car dealer, the cops, the punks. The demon is almost the most sensible one—he just wants to eat people and get stronger—whereas everyone else moves through the comic with a dangerous amount of dumb. Hansen plays the dumb up for laughs; there are some rather good ones.

And Gorpon himself is something of an exception. He’s not capable of being dumb because he’s too savage. He’s a barbarian loosed on the modern world. A lot of Gorpon’s fun consists of seeing Gorpon’s bull in a china shop routine, though it’s just as entertaining during the big monster fights thanks to those inks of Hansen’s and the humor.

Hansen gets twenty-eight pages of material out of the okay but definitely thin premise thanks to the humor—which includes the exposition—and, especially, the art.

Foolkiller (1990-1991)

The last time I read Foolkiller, almost fifteen years ago, I really liked it. I wish I knew what I’d liked about it because it’s really not good. Even back then I know I thought the art—Joe Brozowski on pencils, Tony DeZuniga then Vince Giarrano on the inks—was bad. And the art’s bad. It appears DeZuniga had been handling the facial features and without him, the people start looking real bad, but then Giarrano adjusts or something. Very rocky, art-wise. Never good, sometimes less bad than other times.

But the art’s not the problem. The problem’s the script, which is from Steve Gerber, who’s not just good, but also not the guy you expect to do a comic all about how the “super predators” are real. At one point they even do a Central Park Five reference. In Foolkiller, it’s a string of Central Park attacks on cyclists where the gang beats the victims to death, enraged the victims can… afford bicycles. Even the killers’ parents are okay with their sons brutally murdering those better off bicycle owners.

Of course, one of the other bad guys is a right-wing TV host. The first few issues of Foolkiller have a different feel than the rest of the comic and not just because the noses go bad at some point. The comic’s about a new Foolkiller, inspired by the original, who’s actually the second one, and is currently in a mental institution in Indiana. The protagonist, Kurt, has just lost his father, his job, his house, his wife, and finds Foolkiller—on the right-wing TV host’s show—aspirational. Pretty soon Kurt’s going around killing bad guys, romancing his shift manager at the burger joint—the only job he could get because savings and loans—and working out in garbage. On one hand, Foolkiller feels like Gerber amping up the absurdity over this kind of character but Gerber’s also grounding it as he goes along. It’s like Gerber’s too dedicated to the actual narrative to subvert it with jabs at the protagonist’s philosophy. Taxi Driver: The Comic.

And outside a mention of The Avengers and Spider-Man swinging through an issue to sell at least one to the Spidey collectors, Foolkiller doesn’t feel very Marvel comic. Outside the art, which—even bad—looks like Marvel and the lettering, which is perfunctory and somehow inappropriate. Foolkiller’s journals are all supposedly written on the computer but they appear in handwriting. It’s also unclear how the journals are supposed to be read—contemporary to events, past tense. It’d be nice if it mattered. Something in Foolkiller should matter.

Yeah, Gerber created Foolkiller, didn’t he. At least the most famous one—and he was in Man-Thing. I just can’t figure out what happened to the joke in Foolkiller. The comic takes a shift when it starts dealing with the Iraq War in the last few issues; that news is pushing Foolkiller’s killing spree out of the headlines. The other headlines are about crack babies and something else kind of iffy, even for the early nineties. The first half of Foolkiller is Randian objectivism with some sprinkles of libertarianism, the second half of it is the lead dispassionately offing examples of those philosophies. Maybe if there were a connection there’d be some impact but Gerber introduces the relevant supporting characters—outside the TV host—when he needs them, not before. And the TV host doesn’t really provide much texture. Foolkiller confuses hyperbolic with effective.

Nothing in the comic stands out. None of the characters, none of the moments Gerber tries out with the supporting cast. He’s got a lack of empathy for everyone involved, which matches the protagonist I suppose but… it’s a little long—ten issues—to go just to prove you can do something. Though Foolkiller is from the old days, back when publishers never would’ve dreamed off cutting issues off a limited series. Or at least it seemed like they wouldn’t. What do I know? I used to be a big Foolkiller (1990) fan. And not when I had any excuse to be.

Maybe the most disappointing aspect—other than Gerber’s exaggerated, almost defensive classism—is the pointlessness of the narrative. It doesn’t add up to anything for anyone involved, not Foolkiller III, not Foolkiller II, not Foolkiller II’s too liberal psychiatrist, not the girl who falls for Foolkiller III, not the stupid villain who can’t seem to die… no one. One of the villains is even a New York City real estate developer who is way too competent to be confused for any real figure.

Either something went very wrong with Foolkiller or it was always a terrible idea.

I’m not sure I wrote about Foolkiller the last time I read it, but if I did, the posts are long gone. I don’t know if I want to know what I thought but I’m frankly embarrassed about it.

Foolkiller (1990) is most decidedly not good. From the start. I kept thinking maybe it turned around in the last few issues and Gerber finally acknowledged the nonsense.

But no.

It’s just bad all the way through.

Batman Versus Predator (1991-92)

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Batman Versus Predator, in case the title doesn’t give it away, is bad. It’s real bad. It could be worse, sure, but it’s real bad.

It doesn’t open terribly—sure, the Kubert Brothers art is pretty bland from go, but the subject matter is at least sort of interesting (compared to where it goes later). And writer Dave Gibbons (who doesn’t just overwrite the comic, he badly overwrites it) has some style for the opening. He juxtaposes the Predator attacking some old guy and his dog with the Gotham City championship boxing match. The former isn't important (other than it's a little weird the Predator is attacking a junkyard watchman), but the latter turns out to be the whole comic. See, the Predator isn’t initially interested in hunting Batman or even (armed) criminals or (armed) cops. It’s out to take out the championship boxers.

Because they’re champions. Says so on the news. The Predator watches a lot of news in Batman Versus Predator and repeats sound bytes to make dialogue. Because Gibbons is incapable of writing an action sequence without a bunch of stupid recycled sound bytes the Predator has picked up somewhere. At one point, it seems like the comic would be at least somewhat better without their constant addition. But then, once the Kuberts never get any better—they can’t make the Predator versus the criminals interesting, they can’t even make Batman versus the Predator interesting, though it’d probably be hard to do given the big showdown is in the woods surrounding Wayne Manor. But there are times when it doesn’t seem like Batman Versus Predator isn’t going to be a complete waste of time.

Sadly, all of them are in the first issue (of three). And by the end of the first issue, it seems kind of unlikely the book is ever going to turn around.

Most of the comic, overall, is about the crooked businessmen and gangsters who run Gotham (and the boxers) getting wiped out by the Predator. It kills them because… it knows they’re swinging dick criminals and it came to town to hunt some white collar looking criminals. Then it takes on Batman and puts him down for the count—there’s this terribly ineffective device where Gibbons and the Kuberts have a single panel showing Batman getting home all cut up at the bottom of pages while above the main action with the cops or crooks or whatever plays out.

Because Jim Gordon’s got a big part. Not sure why he doesn’t try to take out the Predator himself as the Kuberts draw him just as buff as Batman, which is considerable because they’re Batman is super buff. So big and buff it’s like, obviously you need some meaty muscle guy like Ben Affleck for that part.

But you wouldn’t want to see Batman Versus Predator: The Movie with Batfleck or anyone else, because the only thing the comic succeeds at showing is how bad it would be. Even though it’s about two “characters”—Batman arguably has less personality than the sound byte spouting Predator here—who are known for their wonderful toys, there’s not much competition.

You’d think after fighting aliens since the fifties or whenever they first showed up in a Batman comic, Bats would have some better ideas than he comes up with here. Nope. There are a couple times in action scenes where it’s like… why did that work? The Predator is scared of cars?

The big action finale has Batman in special armor, which looks like the suit from the end of Batman Forever, though I don’t think the Kuberts got a thank you, and then he has a sword at some point. Because armor and swords and whatever.

Batman Versus Predator is pretty dumb, even for a comic called Batman Versus Predator. I’ll bet if you bought this comic back in 1990 thinking it would resemble Watchmen in some way because of Gibbons, you were pissed as all hell. Though, as someone who bought it back in the day—at age twelve—I recall being shameless about it.

I shouldn’t have been shameless. I should’ve acutely felt the shame.