Let’s start with the basics then. The cover illustration shows a cartoonist at a drawing table, his tools of the trade in the foreground. In the background — through the window — the world collapses into Armageddon. The cartoonist is oblivious to this development, his eyes neither on the world nor on the page, he stares forward over his drawing table to something or someone we cannot see. This comes across as the proto-typical Clowes tableau. The cover of Modern Cartoonist is similar to the majority of Clowes’ work, in its combinations of attractive slickness, economical conveying of information and oblique meanings, and the interior is no less so.

As a booklet, Modern Cartoonist is organized around four chapters or statements. Each of these is highlighted by a small drawing incorporating the drawing tools from the cover: anthropomorphized ink and brush for the first chapter, the razor used to slit the wrist of the cartoonist for the last. These drawings hinge around a two-page centerpiece in which seven possible results are imagined to be the consequence of the cartoonist’s final efforts. These hit a variety of Clowesian standards, ranging from far future discovery or remembrance of the work to bored young women holding it arms length and the embrace of the pathetic looking fatcat Hollywood pitchman who envisions the television series. While this, and the other illustrations, are nice enough as far as they go they really impart little that is new to the world of Eightball. If novelty is what we’re after then we have to turn to the text.

Each chapter is organized around a single theme. “The Current Situation,” the first chapter, opens inauspiciously with an error in logic. Clowes suggests that fifteen years are required for a generation to absorb the work of its predecessor and develop its own “creative epoch.” Clowes further suggests that the next of these dates will be 1998, the fourth generation of the comic book. In and of itself this is neither a very instructive nor a revealing way of conceptualizing historical change. Moreover, Clowes does himself a disservice by dating the debut of American comics in 1938 rather than 1934, a necessary move perhaps since allowing the origin of American comics to stand a half decade earlier would have thrown off the dates that followed. He thereby would be forced to skip EC in the first instance and align the dawn of the third epoch more closely with Elfquest than Raw or Love and Rockets. A minor point, perhaps, but a significant one insofar as it demonstrates the degree to which the type of teleology Clowes constructs here is rarely an accurate commentary on history but remains a reflection of the historian’s own vested interests.

Clowes’ semi-positive assessment of the current situation (which can be summed up as bleak — yet at the same time better than ever before) can be linked to the concerns of the second chapter, “So, Why Comics?”, in its focus on the ideal of the lone creative agent fully in charge of production of the comic. What keeps this section from feeling entirely recycled from a Cerebus letters column is Clowes’ references to the Freudian conception of the fetish.

Freudian themes have come to dominate Eightball more and more in recent years and Clowes’ invocation of those themes here provides a useful guide to that terrain — especially for those readers who are willing to read the imagined family story on page ten as Clowes’ most personal declaration yet of his own reasons not only for working in the comics medium but for producing the type of comics which Clowes has so consistently produced. If read as a form of revelation, therefore, the second chapter becomes one of the most revealingly personal moments in a comic whose entire drive in recent years seems to be a drive to confessional story-telling.

“To the Young Cartoonist,” the third chapter, is the least interesting portion of the pamphlet resting as it does on a number of general observations about cartooning which are neither revealing nor particularly insightful. As a commentary on comics production Clowes’ comments fall well short, remaining so non-specific in its recommendations that one could just as easily imagine it tacked up in the Marvel bullpen as in an issue of Eightball. As a manifesto of sorts its lack of specifics probably means that it would find few detractors and, consequently, few adherents. Like a politician who declares himself in favour of “freedom” or “opportunity” coming out in favour of thought balloons hardly strikes me as a controversial stand for a cartoonist.

Finally “The Future and Beyond” ends the pamphlet on a note which can be seen as both optimistic and pessimistic, even maudlin. Optimistic insofar as Clowes maintains a belief that comics will never be fully beaten down by progress in other media, perhaps resting some day in the arms of a small but dedicated elite. Pessimistic, of course, because Clowes seems unable to seriously entertain a future more significant than that. This pessimism is tied to Clowes’ Werthamesque contempt for the comics audience and other creators, a type of lame duck elitism which permeates Modern Cartoonist — from Clowes’ dismissal of “2950 cartoonists” who draw for development deals (perhaps not unlike a Ghost World film?) to the questioning of audience participation in the processes of meaning production. Clowes actually manages in these instances to make a future in which comics are ridden out of the collective memory seem appealing to me.

Despite these numerous reservations it is difficult not to recommend Modern Cartoonist as an important insight into the work of Dan Clowes, although not as a truly interesting or meaningful statement on comics in North America. Lacking the sustaining interest of the Jack Chick style religious tract that it occasionally seems to mimic, Modern Cartoonist remains nevertheless a curious piece of the always intriguing Dan Clowes puzzle.

His follow-up to Longshot Comics, a comics story told entirely through the use of dots, Money has an equally interesting premise: the characters are images lifted from the paper currency of various countries, the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom among them. George Washington, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Thomas Jefferson and four different incarnations of Queen Elizabeth II are cast members in a story of power struggles set in the “half-a-horse” town of Evansville. The action of this first chapter revolves around the funeral of Edward Warfield, an apparently high-ranking townsperson, whose untimely demise has left a vacuum of power in Evansville that everybody seems eager to fill. In an ironic twist, Abe Lincoln appears as the hitman who sent Edward to an early grave.

There are a few elements in Money’s story worthy of recommendation. Simmons’ wit and facility with language are every bit as evident here as in Longshot Comics. Aided by a solid knowledge of his characters’ histories and a healthy dose of irreverence, he constructs a light-hearted narrative that pokes fun at things as diverse as great historical figures and bad night-time television soap operas. More often than not, Simmons’ jokes are successful, mostly due to his sense of timing and attachment to (and practice of) the dry, British school of humor. This comic being a premise-driven spoof, there’s not much more that can be said about the writing, except that Money would probably have been more successful as a strict prose piece. The major weaknesses of this work can all be found at the illustration level.

The concept of monetary figures as characters is an intriguing idea but an enormously difficult one to maintain for an entire issue. Quite simply, the people on dollar bills are visually boring; they aren’t particularly aesthetically appealing and their facial expressions are frozen in a dignified, static pose. Simmons tries to sidestep this latter limitation by drawing in teeth and an open mouth on talking characters. To the book’s detriment, he doesn’t vary the width and/or extension of the lips so that what results is a binary opposition of open mouth/closed mouth that is almost as boring as if he had just used a single expression for everything. Contrary to what the author may think, staring at the same character wearing exactly the same expression panel after panel after panel does begin to try even the most enthusiastic comic book reader’s patience.

Even this would be forgivable, however, if Simmons had used the other tools of comics creation page design and panel backgrounds effectively. For the most part, despite a very conscious attempt to vary panel sizing, Money’s layout is unimaginative, disjointed and repetitive. What’s worse, it even manages to slow down the story at certain parts something to avoid in a work of this nature and confuse the reader as to which character is talking. As for the backgrounds, Simmons’ use of differently shaped solid blacks is uninteresting and serves only to heighten the boredom generated by the work as a whole. The few panels where he makes use of actual illustration seem out of place and ultimately add nothing to the story.

In Money Talks, the creator’s clever premise throws obstacles in his path that he is unable to overcome; Simmons’ gimmick in this instance works against him. Whether this is a result of his lack of technical proficiency or poor understanding of the comics form is unclear, but neither is forgivable. Even a second-rate artist understands that the difference between a good idea and its successful completion lies in the manner in which it is executed. Form is, and always will be, a necessary partner to content in the creation of comics.

It is possible Money would have worked as an eight-page narrative exercise in a small press anthology, or even as a mini. As a full-length comic, however, it is far too flawed to offer a reader anything approaching enjoyment. At the very least, there is no call to continue it as an ongoing series which, judging from Simmons’ introduction, is what he intends and, in fact, said course of action would be a gross mistake. This project would best be served by a quick and clean ending (i.e., no second issue) and Simmons would be wise to move on. After all, this is the man who brought dots to new levels of comics fame; there must be other ideas kicking around his cranium with which he’ll have more success.

There’s a lot to recommend the new anthology Monkey Punk, featuring writer Chris Butler paired with 12 different artists in short stories ranging from one to seven pages. It puts on display a wide variety of artistic talent, including one with some degree of mainstream comics exposure (Vertigo semi-regular D’Israeli), and two with recent, graphically appealing American series debuts (Chris Hogg of Killer Fly and Andi Watson of Skeleton Key). It serves as a decent introduction for some to an artistic “scene”: in this case, many of the artists here have at one time been published by or distributed through Slab-O-Concrete, the Brighton, UK outfit whose closest stateside equivalent is Wow Cool Productions (a future co-publishing partner). The stories themselves strike a nice balance between slice-of-life and whimsy, and are capably done — particularly the Butler-Hogg efforts.

The main achievements in Monkey Punk, however, are all Butler’s. Not only are the vast majority of the stories well-constructed and entertaining, but Butler writes to his artist’s strengths, from the extremely spare narratives for Ed Pinsent in “Miserable Slaves of Dogs” to the character-driven humorous dialogue that accompanies Simon Gane’s artwork in “Marsha & Edie — Bear Thing.” Whether or not there will be a second issue (although the covers sports the blurb “spectacular first issue,” Butler’s own brief introduction indicates that nothing is certain), this is solid, stand-alone work.

Like Chris Ware, with whose work this oddsized (16 inches tall by four inches wide) self-published effort may be easily confused, fellow Chicagoan Ethan Persoff seems to be interested in advertising icons and baroque page layouts. But where Ware will often subvert the content, context and form of such icons for the sake of ironic commentary, Persoff is more concerned with surface elements: their “look” and general cultural symbolism. It is these elements which shape the story; even the type is both a method for carrying a large portion of the story and a graphic element. The resulting seven-page comic (collected from its original serialization) is, as expected, more a fractured meditation than a clear narrative. But it’s interesting, both in the attempt and the result. And on top of that, it’s very nicely designed in a way that enhances the story being told. Musical Chairs leaves one waiting for Persoff’s next project and wondering why more people don’t take his graphics-led storytelling approach.

Patrick McDonnell’s Mutts isn’t a great strip, but it’s a pretty good one. On the strength of the first collection, it has the potential to be a very good one. It’s well-drawn, in a style that easily sets it apart from its comics page fellow travelers. It has the sort of simple premise, life as experienced by a little dog and a cat who live next door to one another, that moves the focus from endless variations on “me, too” humor into potentially richer, funnier territory. It has an agreeable lead: the dog, Earl, is wide-eyed enough to serve as the audience’s surrogate but wry enough you don’t feel bad he’s taking your place (the litmus test is that the strip’s jokes are funnier when we see them through Earl’s eyes). The second lead is effective, too. Earl’s next-door neighbor cat, Mooch, works equally well putting the spin on one of Earl’s comments or driving the action himself (above). Best of all for fans of the form who miss Watterson, Mutts experiments with format and structure: many of the Sundays are designed to be printed one way and one way only; daily strips may run as three strip-wide panels one on top of the other, or in any variety of rhythms, from single panels up to nine small ones.

There are some growing pains. A few of the gags are forced and unimaginative, particularly some early takes on the theme of pet ownership (I dare anyone to make a “Who’s walking whom?” joke funny). And while Earl is a well-defined character, many others aren’t. In this first collection, at least, Earl’s owner Ozzie is a complete cypher. Even Mooch is hard to pin down sometimes. While both leads speak in ways that echo classic strip affectation (“Yesh” for “Yes”), in a few of the strips Mooch’s dialogue reads like a crude Pogo parody. And although this may be the result of having a great pair of leads, the strips where minor characters take center stage often fall flat. Mutts needs more foils, like the obnoxious squirrel sticking his butt out at Earl and Mooch, and less tertiary leads, like the mostly unfunny bickering bird couple who hold center stage for a couple of days.

It’s too soon in Mutts’ development to pass final judgment on the strip. Mediocre strips are often better in their first, heady months of syndication, and the great ones only become that way over time. But McDonnell’s gentle approach, solid and entertaining characters, and awareness of the strengths of the form give him the chance to become as good as this first collection promises. Even if Mutts fails to live up to that promise, McDonnell does enough things well to make his strip the beneficiary of the “quality strip” publicity it deserves. Given what passes for quality these days, he deserves every opportunity. Call your paper.

Toles reminds us of just how foul, venal, and self-serving George Bush was in several of the wittiest and most vicious cartoons on the subject ever published. Ma Kettle Bush’s hypocrisy vis-ˆ-vis family values is beautifully illustrated. Dan Quayle’s parasitic irrelevance is nicely underscored by depicting the best golf game this side of Goldfinger. “Those who got richer in the recession” are represented by the Forbes 400 Richest Americans list while “those who didn’t” are represented by a Manhattan-sized phone directory. Ross Perot’s opportunistic dilettantism is skewered in “Conspiracy Theory #2,437” (“Look, folks, the reason I didn’t win the election is some cartoonist out there released a doctored picture of me, see, in an attempt to spoil the most important day of my life.”)

The biggest comic book scam of 1996 — and remember, this is in an industry where unscrupulous dealings are rampant — has to be the release of Narrative Corpse. Based on an interesting idea, with which all Journal readers are by now familiar, it features 69 comics luminaries doing some really bad work.

But probably the biggest problem with Corpse is the $25 price tag; the excessive production values effectively preclude anyone from buying it out of curiosity, which is really the only reason that anyone should want to take a look at this. I can’t say that the staggered-page design (while admittedly attractive) adds much except to push the book out of the range of casual buyers. Sure, The Narrative Corpse is worth flipping through, but you’ll probably get tired of it in about thirty seconds.

And on top of that, the design work is overly complicated and ineffective, drawing attention to the project’s weaknesses. The staggered design for an all-paper project (this is a coffee table book?) must have cost a fortune, but I’m afraid it looks more like a Denny’s menu than a design award winner. In the end, Narrative Corpse is completely unsatisfactory in every way. Copy the names off the back cover and start buying their books — leave the art school projects on the shelf.

Canada’s answer to Fantagraphics has come up with another winner in the autobiographical/confessional sweepstakes. Nowhere recounts the story of Lily, a maturing eighth-grader who moves to a tract development in the middle of... nowhere. “From the first moment I saw our new house, I could tell it would be a stupid place to live,” Drechsler writes, adopting the distinctive cadence of a semi-rebellious adolescent. Chester Brown meets Lynda Barry as Lily and her sisters begin to explore the surrounding environs, which include an intriguing pine forest and a small tribe of teenage misfits. Things take a particularly interesting turn when a spotty high school junior shows up with a Jefferson Airplane LP in tow. The book’s odd colors — muddy red and pea-green — evoke the feel of a 3-D comic. But the effect, rather than distracting from the story, enhances the sense of unreality that practically defines the teen experience.

File under ’promising.’

When you think of mini-comics, you may be thinking of Sam Henderson. His work seems to embody the stripped-down style of the submedium, the primitive line work and body-function humor. But you only have to read a few mini-comics to realize that Henderson is near the top of the pro-am league. His drawings and ground-zero “jokes” may seem simple, but only because Henderson has scrubbed away the clutter — a process most mini-comics artists have not yet even attempted.

Henderson’s primary vehicle is his mini-comic The Magic Whistle, which just reached its seventh issue; his strips have also appeared in Heavy Metal’s “Strip Tease” section, Nickelodeon, Duplex Planet, Destroy All Comics and other venues unlikely to bring him to the attention of anyone older than 30. Berkeley-based Wow Cool! has now released Oh That Monroe, which collects the “complete adventures” of Monroe Simmons, an überschmuck who fumbles, frets and rages from one hyperbolic humiliation to the next.

Monroe may be a disconcerting ride for non-cognoscenti. It’s rarely outright funny, yet it’s obviously supposed to be. It often reads like an abstract joke — funny because it isn’t — but just about the time you get used to that idea, there’s a bit of genuine mirth, like the wonderful play-out of a joke concerning Monroe magazine. Somewhere along the line you may start wondering whether you’re cool enough for Oh That Monroe.

In the introduction, Henderson says most of the work dates from five or six years ago. This explains why Oh That Monroe seems less sure than his later Magic Whistle issues, in which he has simultaneously sharpened his wit and pushed the lame gags into pure conceptualism. (He’s good enough to have a fan in Mark Newgarden, the Roland Barthes of laff deconstruction.) But there are plenty of pleasures to be had here. On closer examination, his drawings are less crude than stylized; S. Gross is a clear influence (on the subject matter as well), and there are also similarities to artists like Claire Bretecher and Keith Haring on the highbrow side. Henderson has a lot of fun with formalist humor, goofing with sound effects like “Walk Walk” and “Write Write.”

The strips also have tremendous momentum, not just because Henderson’s line and compositions are so clear but because he has a strong grasp of comic rhythm. Once you’re in his rock-solid groove, you start believing you’ve read punchlines even when you haven’t. It’s a bit like when an original Ramones producer claimed that the brutish double-time strumming and single-note bass riffing, recorded at TNT-blast volume, produced some sort of contrapuntal feedback melodies. In other words, so simple it’s complex.

In fact, Henderson has a lot in common with the original ’70s punk band. He too makes DIY art look easier than it is (as it turned out, initial appearances to the contrary, there was only one Ramones) and blurs the line between simple entertainment (pop song, gag cartoon) and avant garde exercise. Punk magazine cartoonist and Ramones cover artiste John Holmstrom is clearly Henderson’s spiritual father.

The Ramones became one of the great modern rock bands — they weren’t an experiment after all. Henderson may also be headed for greatness, whatever that means for an American alternative cartoonist. (He’d probably be rich or famous if he operated from Belgium or England — Robert Boyd aptly compared his work to Britain’s Viz in a previous Journal.) Oh That Monroe certainly isn’t the test of Henderson’s promise — those wondering whether the crown will fit should consult The Magic Whistle. But for connoisseurs of cocktail-napkin cartoons, high-school-annual-signing comedy, National Lampoon-style grossouts and irony-saturated jocularity, Monroe may be the summer’s hot book. You may or may not “get it,” but after reading this comic you’ll think twice before laughing at anything else.

In a sense, “One Life, Furnished in Early Moorcock” is the quintessential Neil Gaiman short story, combining the two major themes of his body of work: recollections of childhood (Violent Cases, Mr. Punch) and the power of stories (Sandman, Signal to Noise). Originally appearing as prose fiction in the 1994 anthology of Elric stories Tales of the White Wolf, Gaiman’s piece is the tale of an awkward English public school boy named Richard Grey whose relationship to books, especially Michael Moorcock’s Elric series, helps him to endure the traumas of adolescence.

As a prelude to Topps Comics’ forthcoming Elric miniseries, occasional Gaiman-collaborator P. Craig Russell has adapted the story to the comics medium. While the cynic in me suspects Topps would leap at any excuse to plaster Gaiman’s name on a cover and sell more copies (as have Negative Burn, Wiindows, and various Tekno comics), this is one case where Gaiman’s fans will not feel ripped off.

Russell’s adaptation is painstakingly faithful to the source material, preserving most of the original text. A few pages actually seem a bit too text-heavy, but this is a minor flaw in a moving and insightful work. Russell’s characteristically superb drawing and storytelling skills eloquently contrast the drudgery of young Richard’s reality with the flights of fancy that form the basis of his maturing and questioning intellectual life. This is far and away the best Gaiman comic that Gaiman never actually worked on.