Sometimes, the term graphic novel actually manages to hit a nail right on the head. Small immersive pockets of pure fiction. Okay, it’s wrong because a work like Greendale isn’t anywhere near the length of a novel. It is, in fact, about half a film in a length. To pick one, it’s Donnie Darko minus the Lynch. But that breathtaking feeling of emerging the other side is exactly the same.
It makes sense, perhaps, to talk about it in these terms, comparing it to other media. After all, this was apparently a film already, as well as (obviously, I guess) a Neil Young album. But I know nothing about that, and nothing about Neil Young beyond … Young Neil from Scott Pilgrim.
Most impressively, it makes an interesting story from subjects I’m not necessarily that interested in. The Bush administration and the mess that was ’00s America got chewed up so thoroughly by the culture of that time that I’m not able to take it all that seriously. But that is intertwined with characters that are easy to care about, especially as illustrated in Cliff Chiang’s … okay, I have to say it again … magical brushstrokes.
The story opens with a stock tragedy. The composition and colours and lines somehow make you immediately care about it. That’s a perfect microcosm of this book, I reckon. I picked it up quite by accident, nonchalantly, and emerged an hour later breathless. Magic.
It’s boring, because this was the centre-piece of my choices three months ago, but this has been undeniably the dominant force in my reading for a while now. And comics move slower, anyway. A ‘Quarter’, our chosen measure of time, contains 3 titles of a comic if you’re lucky. I’d ban myself from talking about it, but for wanting to talk about it forever and forever like a man infected with a particularly chatty strain of the Joker virus.
Morrison’s run on Batman* has been interesting all through, but this is it finally reaching narrative maturity. All the plot threads are finally coming together, and answers to all the craziness that has been the last half-decade of Batman comics are promised. We’re at the perfect point of any story like this, where ideas begin to crystallise and rush around your mind. In rollercoaster terms, we’ve just climbed that final ramp and can just about see the big drop.
If it all pays off – and it’s difficult to pay off so much, and Morrison rarely manages fully satisfying endings, and working in an endless serialised story doesn’t help – this will be possibly the greatest superhero story ever told. It’s stunning in its scope and ambition.
But for now, all that doesn’t matter, because it’s the story and the mystery that keeps bringing me back. It’s the thing I impatiently check the weekly listings for, every week. That’s thanks to breathless cliffhangers and tightly-cut-together Big Moments, just as much as it is the trademark Morrison craziness. By the next time I write about this, it’ll all be over and I’ll have the scalpel to go at what it all means. See you there.