Laura Westengard’s GOTHIC QUEER CULTURE is mostly what it says on the tin: it’s a collection of essays examining goth literature and queer culture over the past few centuries, focused on how those in that community are often considered monstrosities and how they (and by they, I mean: people like myself) embrace and own it. In case you haven’t realized it? I’m goth as fuck.
What I didn’t expect from it was how it’s also 100% about trauma. Probably wouldn’t have read it if I’d known that before diving into it! I have been repeatedly told by numerous professionals: “Take a break from trauma-centric works!”
(If I’d read the subtitle “Marginalized Communities and the Ghosts of Insidious Trauma” I probably would have realized that but …I’m dumb and didn’t bother to read that far until the book arrived at my doorstep. I was hooked on the title alone and couldn’t help but read it.)
“Gothicism is perhaps best characterized by its excess, bringing the disruptive, the unspeakable, into our field of vision.”
I’ve touched on this before, but uh, from my pre-teen years into my 20s? Pretty fucking traumatic. I really put myself through the wringer. I’m still digging through everything I hid and buried, from myself, from everyone. I’ve been in trauma therapy for a while now. Didn’t really realize any of it at the time — who does when you’re living it? — but fuck. I hope to hell you haven’t had to deal with anything severely traumatizing but if you have? Get yourself to a trauma therapist. Seek help. It’s the best thing you can do for yourself.
I don’t mean to oversell — plenty of folks have been through far worse than I have — but we all have our own terrible journeys in one way or another, don’t we?
What GOTHIC QUEER CULTURE instills is that those who lean towards the gothic subculture, especially if one is queer or bent? You’ve been through a lot of shit and have been weathered and found some sort of calm through this dark community, despite feeling like one is a societal aberration and have been treated like shit, and often still are.
I won’t go as far as to embrace the central thesis of these essays — that goth subculture is innately queer, despite the fact that I identify as both queer and goth — but I also won’t deny it. For me, the goth subculture has always been about simply accepting the deviants, those cast aside from mainstream society and — yes — that definitely includes those who are queer and marginalized, more often than not.
I have mostly lived in goth and queer communities. These have always been safe spaces for me. You can embrace who you are, how you present yourself; you don’t have to feel like you have to put on a facade. You can be genderqueer! You can be non-binary! You can be androgynous! You can be a weirdo cishet that just wants to dance to the point where you feel abandon! You can just be yourself and folks will appreciate and embrace you! It sounds hippie-dippy, but that is absolutely the experience I’ve had in Chicago’s goth community since the moment I moved here and I love it.
We are the misfits. We have been spit on. We have been slandered. We have been abused. When I was younger and lived in Indiana? I felt like every day I went outside I was putting myself at risk, simply for looking and presenting the way I did and rightfully so, as I have been in more than a few situations where I realized: “Oh, fuck, these people are absolutely against me and are definitely going to go to town on me if I don’t do something.”
“If we recognize that a traumatically informed gothic aesthetic was and continues to be central to queer cultural production — critical theory, popular culture, literature, art, performance — it becomes clear that resistant and subversive queer culture is gothic at its core.”
GOTHIC QUEER CULTURE recognizes all of that, albeit couched in academic terms and references. It’s goddamn rare to find a text that encapsulates what I’ve experienced in a manner that is wrapped around the subculture I grew up with. It’s safe to say? I felt super seen. This text isn’t for everyone as it is extraordinarily specific but it was astounding for me and it might be for you.
I already wrote about G. Willow Wilson’s first bout on POISON IVY and while I loved it, Unethical Consumption takes matters further in a way that has turned me into a ride-or-die fan.
What Wilson gets about IVY is that she is so fucking pissed at the world — rightfully so, as well, we keep mindlessly exploiting all of its resources — but she still has an inexplicable empathetic core for humanity, and others can see the good in her, but she’s also so singularly focused on herself.
However! She’s still willing to murder anyone who gets in her way, and also wants to commit global genocide.
Yes, she is the actual villain in her own story. A complex villain, for sure, but still? Yeah.
While so much is that comes from her trauma, of trusting someone who then abused them and literally tore their humanity away from them — a facet of her character that Wilson doubles-down on and I very much appreciate — she is not what one would call a ‘good person’.
Obviously, this is why she and Harley Fuckin’ Quinn fit so well together. Harley? She’s an anti-villain. Ivy? Anti-hero. They both realize their own faults and they keep each other in-check, and Wilson leans heavily on that here as Harley manages to seek out Ivy on her road trip, then leaves Ivy to do what she needs to do. Harley is Ivy’s anchor, but they’re still independent people.
I especially love this bit of reflection from Ivy on Harley:
“More than anyone I know, you see the world without judgement, without expectations, without fear.
“Things that would drive other people mad, you just … take in your stride.
“Delirium doesn’t scare you.
“You can see the world behind the world.
“And you were right.
“I didn’t need to be so afraid.”
Now that is true appreciation and respect from a devoted partner, and I love to see it.
And then of course Ivy fucks her odd roommate Janet — who I’m sure is far more than the basic person presented — stating:
“Harley would understand.”
It’s clear that this isn’t just a hookup for Ivy; it’s a mistake.
(I’m still not sure whether Harley being poly is canon? I’ve just assumed she was. Is Ivy? I have no fucking idea, but I’m going along with whatever Wilson is sellin’!)
JANET: “Be a monster. Embrace the monster. But be a monster who gets between innocent people and the even bigger monsters.”
I can’t help but think of Carmen Maria Machado’s remarks regarding JENNIFER’S BODY:
“Kiss someone, fuck someone, think about fucking someone while kissing someone else. Let sex be unknowable, warm, thrilling, funny, erotic, terrifying; let sexuality be all strange currents and eddies and unknown vistas and treasures and teeth.”
Carmen Maria Machado
As with the previous volume The Virtuous Cycle, this is an absolutely fucking gorgeous work. Marcio Takara’s intricate pencils and inks are mesmerizing, even if half of it features Ivy puking. (I say that as someone who would like to go one week without reading/watching/playing something that didn’t feature vomit.)
IVY: “I’m pretty good at recognizing things I know I will regret later.
“I’m much less good at stopping myself from doing them.”
Arif Prianto’s colors are so goddamn vibrant and command attention! And Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou? Holy shit, their lettering is so inspired, especially during the drug trip that Ivy and Janet undertake which leads to one hell of an unbridled orgy. (Yes. That is a thing that happens and I do not apologize for spoiling it.)
IVY: “I can’t violate her like that. I know what it feels like, and I can’t.”
JANET: “So we all have to live with the consequences of her bad decision?!”
IVY: “NO. We all have to live with mine.”
This series is an embarrassment of riches, a complex and thorny work, and I am absolutely here for it and I can’t wait for what’s to come.
Since my 2023 media diet featured very little in the way of works released in 2023, I figured I’d extoll the works I read, watched and played in 2023 that were released in prior years. Perhaps some of them will be as new to you as they were for me!
Books
HARLEY QUINN: BREAKING GLASS (2019)
This work crystalized to me exactly what Harley can impart on folks. Fundamentally, Harley Quinn is victim of her own circumstance, and BREAKING GLASS showcases her as a youth, shining a light on how she’ll inhabit that space, her space, while still never browbeating her decisions but — Harley being Harley — she’s rarely makes the ‘best’ decision.
It’s a tale of growing, of self-realization, but also realizing you can be drawn into the webs of others and that they may not have your best interests in mind.
Is it labeled for young adults? Yup. Could anyone read and love and empathize with it? Definitely.
It also helps that Steve Pugh’s art is so fucking energetic and the colors are so vibrant and fitting!
Also, my wife found me the All Saints equivalent of her argyle sweater. (They literally label it as Harley Argyle. They knew what the fuck they were doing. And yes, yes I’m fucking rockin’ it.)
LIFE IS STRANGE: STEPH’S STORY (2022)
While doing research for my LIFE IS STRANGE posts, I discovered STEPH’S STORY, a LIFE IS STRANGE: TRUE COLORS tie-in novel by Rosiee Thor which is something I didn’t know I needed, but I desperately did. It’s an intimate character-based queer romantic melodrama that hit me from all sides and I absolutely loved it and can’t wait to revisit it.
Predictably, I wrote about it almost immediately after reading it.
DOOM PATROL: RACHEL POLLACK OMNIBUS (2022)
Have I repeatedly re-read Grant Morosson’s DOOM PATROL iconic run? Yes, yes I have.
However, I was shocked to discover that I’d never read Rachel Pollack’s DOOM PATROL which is ever queerer and just as inventive and far more heartfelt.
I wish I had been prodded to read it earlier — I only found out about it due to her death earlier this year — but better late than never.
As I’ve previously penned, DOOM PATROL is all about the misfits of society, the ostracized, those who have to live on the edges and never feel like they fit in, except in the house that Chief built who — spoiler alert! — not as altruistic as he makes himself out to be.
It is a supremely resonant work, one that cuts to the quick when it comes to coercion and the desperation to want to be seen and accepted. Again, I wish I had found it earlier.
This was the year that I finished reading Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Novels.
Yes, yes, I realize that these works are frequently lumped in with (apologies in advance for the pejorative term) chick-lit for reasons absolutely unknown to me.
This is a supremely amazing epic of lives lived, of contrasts, of personas pushing-and-pulling, of classism, of intellectualism, of hubris; it is a lot and I fucking loved it and the fact that it isn’t recognized as capital ‘L’ literature reminds me how much women’s stories are so belittled. Ferrante’s prose is so succinct and exacting in a way that makes me so jealous of her skills.
Cinematic comedic horror at its fucking best. While it doesn’t have the visual verve of Sam Raini’s work, it is so clever, so funny, but also features a human core.
I’m not one for making ‘island’ lists, but I could watch WEREWOLVES WITHIN every fucking day of the year. It’s so funny and endearing and thrilling but never traumatizing. It is an astounding work.
(I’ll note that I did finally try to play the game, but it’s VR-only and while I’m sure they make the most of it? Fuck that noise.)
It is a fucking crime that this film is practically impossible to watch without doling out far too much money or catching it on Turner Classic Movies — R.I.P. TCM Underground — which is why I was so delighted that my favorite theater — the Music Box — wrangled a print of it.
While, yes, yes, Russ Meyer mostly wrote films solely so he could stare at busty women but, perhaps accidentally? This is an extraordinarily subversive work, one that has influenced so many others.
This is a ferocious film, one that simmers with anger and frustration, and while it is definitely meant to be titillating, you can feel the resentment against the motherfucking patriarchy.
It’s goddamn thrilling, a film that makes you pump your fists in the air, one that makes you root for fucking awful people throat-punching even worse people, and those doling out the hits? They look amazing while laying louts to the fucking ground.
PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE (1974)
Brian De Palma at his campy best. This pre-dates the Webber work by a good decade, and is definitely my favorite take on the work.
(I’ll note: I do need to re-evaluate Wes Craven’s take on it. Also: In high school I had to play the cello part of the theme and for fucks sake, nothing else apart from perhaps Canon in D is a duller work to play.)
Yes, it was only available via NBC’s peacock streaming service, but it was still terribly overlooked. This is one steamy potboiler of a neo-noir thriller that deserved more attention. It has an intensity so many shows which they could aspire to.
Due to a number of factors I didn’t get to swim in as much media as normal this year, and what I did read, watch or play often wasn’t released in 2023. Consequently, instead of breaking my favorites of the year by medium, I’ll list them all in one post.
Books
BIG SWISS by Jen Beagin
“I will often buy a book solely because of a sharply designed, well-executed cover. Jen Beagin’s BIG SWISS was one of those books. […] I saw the cover, refrained from opening it, balked at reading the inscription in the slipcover and thought to myself: “I don’t know what this book is about, but I know I need it.‘”
IMPOSSIBLE PEOPLE: A COMPLETELY AVERAGE RECOVERY STORY by Julia Wertz
IMPOSSIBLE PEOPLE — the full title is IMPOSSIBLE PEOPLE: A COMPLETELY AVERAGE RECOVERY STORY — is quite the epic as it’s over 300 pages long and spans quite a bit of time and change. It still contains Wertz’s immaculate architectural reproductions, but also retains her expressive cartoon roots. When I was reading it, I’d gawk at the street in one panel, then laugh at the exaggerated simplicity of her comic self throwing her arms up in the air. It’s a perfectly calibrated work.
“This episode is wall-to-wall horny in a celebratory way, in the way that I wish sex was more popularly portrayed. It’s mostly about Harley buying drugs to give Ivy the best orgasm of her life — which leads to one of the best lines of the show: ‘Oh you cannot possibly be mad about me wanting to get you off too good. THAT IS NOT A THING!’”
Season four doubles down on Harley and Ivy’s relationship, as well as the dissonance between their aspiring goals: Harley is part of the Bat-Family and trying to do good in the world, and Ivy is the Legion of Doom’s — as Lex calls her — “She-E-O”. Hijinks and emotional beats ensue.
Thankfully a fifth season is on its way, and it will almost certainly be on next year’s favorites list.
THE BEAR Season Two
I was not as wild about the first season of THE BEAR as others. Instead of repeating myself, see my post about that season here.
The second season maneuvers in a way that is catnip to me. It made sure to properly convey Chicago’s robust food scene, and turned the show into a character drama anthology.
I know everyone loves Honeydew and Fishes and Forks, but my favorite episode is Sundae. Sydney, portrayed by the endlessly curious Ayo Edebiri, is instructing herself through tasting a variety of foods; she’s teaching herself instead of being taught by others like in Honeydew and Forks, and she does so mostly silently by trekking around the city to low-brow and high-brow restaurants and diners.
It’s all show — don’t tell — which for a show that relies on taste, a sense that can’t be easily conveyed through a televisual medium, makes it all the more remarkable, and that it does so in a such a subtle and nuanced way is a stunning achievement.
BOB’S BURGERS Season 14
It’s hard to believe that this scrappy, winsome show has been on-air for twelve years. It’s even harder to believe that each and every season has been a gem, practically flawless and immensely entertaining and endlessly re-watchable.
Of particular note this season is its second episode, The Amazing Rudy, which focuses solely on ‘Regular-sized Rudy’ and his family issues and general insecurities and it’s such a sweet and heartfelt episode, expertly woven.
This show, while yes it’s often puerile but hilariously so, never ceases to surprise me. Every Sunday it’s on is a delight. For the past few years, I’ve indulged in December 26th BOB’S BURGERS marathons to wind down from the holidays, to remind me about family bonds and laugh and chuckle to myself and just feel my body warmed by the Belcher family.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQdRPJic2z0
STAR TREK: LOWER DECKS Season Four
I enjoyed STAR TREK: STRANGE NEW WORLDS’s second season although I felt a bit let down a few times — that musical episode could have worked more around the characters, for instance — however, it was the LOWER DECKS crossover that made me seek out the animated LOWER DECKS.
LOWER DECKS is perhaps one of the most reverent and spiritually original recipe STAR TREK, moreso than DISCOVERY and STRANGE NEW WORLDS. It’s both about the wonder of space and exploration, but also about being part of the Federation, something grander and being proud of being a part of that, even though it has its drawbacks.
It is also by far the most overtly nerdy STAR TREK show out there as it really, really leans into the lore and history of the series, to a point where I know I’m not even getting a third of the jokes or references, but it’s so finely crafted that it’s still extremely entertaining.
Also: I would have been watching it out of the gate if y’all had just told me it was basically a BAJILLION DOLLAR PROPERTIE$ reunion.
SUCCESSION Season Four
What can be said about SUCCESSION that hasn’t already been said before? They fucking stuck the landing. The final season is one hell of an emotional rollercoaster from start-to-finish, with pitch-perfect scripting, pacing, claustrophobic camerawork, exquisite costuming, but what I’ll remember most about the series, and especially the fourth season?
Motherfucking Kieran Culkin.
Of everyone in the Roy family, Roman is the most idiosyncratic, the most broken, and this season just heaps more and more shit on him and how he deals — or doesn’t — is a fucking marvel. This is one hell of a performance — in many multi-faceted ways — and so much of the final season hinges on him without calling attention to that fact.
If this is the end of prestige TV — and it certainly seems like it might be — I can’t think of a better show to close the door.
WELCOME TO WREXHAM Season Two
As I wrote in my prior WREXHAM post, I firmly believe this show will be an inflection point for sports documentaries. Everything about it could have gone wrong: the self-insertion, the rich American saviors, the forced attempt at an underdog story, etc. However, WREXHAM manages to acknowledge all of the above and focus on the humanity of what sports do, not just for community economics, not just for townsfolk, but for a greater good.
Everything about this show feels like it comes from the heart, a place of well-wishing. While there is the push-and-pull and tension of budgets and over-spending, this is not an exploitative work. Yes, it does bring up some fundamental questions of capitalism and sportsman-like conduct, but that’s baked in and well-handled.
I can safely say: we’ll never see another documentary like this again. Get in while the gettin’ is good.
Film
BARBIE
This was one of the few first-day blockbuster film viewings for me in 2023, and well, it did not disappoint. (That said, I was hoping for a more energetic audience, but a less exuberant one is probably better than one far too rowdy.) Gerwig deftly threads the needle between American culture and consumerism, nostalgia, social commentary, and gender politics, all while also being endlessly entertaining and a visual starburst.
While Gosling rightly gets many accolades, I feel like Margot Robbie has been unfairly overlooked here, not just for the work she put in to will this into the world, but also her understated and sly performance. While it’s certainly a more subdued and backgrounded performance from her — odd words to type, considering she’s playing the titular role and she’s not exactly quiet — she does a lot with it, and there’s a lot to work with!
(Please note: I mean this in comparison to how broad she could have played it.)
I think most folks knew this would be a fun film going in. I don’t think anyone was prepared for just how smart and subversive it’d be.
It took me back to when I first saw JOSIE AND THE PUSSYCATS in that it’s so witty and intelligent and so winsome and fun and thoughtful. It makes the most out of what film can do; it’s a visual and aural extravaganza that doesn’t speak down to anyone, but can please just about everyone.
In other words: an absolute triumph of a Hollywood film.
KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON
I am not the right person to discuss this film, but its runtime is supremely justified. Not a moment or exchange is wasted, and all of the money and Scorsese’s humanity is all on the screen. It’s a supremely taut epic, albeit one that I didn’t suspect would be more in the vein of GOODFELLAS than some of his more quietly dramatic works.
That said — and I know the editor and Apple were absolutely against this idea — bring back the intermission. The theater I saw FLOWER MOON at? I needed to use the facilities and because it’s in a strange mostly-deserted urban mall with very meandering stairs, well, I lost a good ~12 minutes and missed at least one key point. Would I know where to even put an intermission in this film? Nope, but between this and watching THE IRISHMAN in the theater, I appreciate Scorsese’s big swings but … give us just a slight bit of respite during the film.
Nonetheless, it’s all the more reason to watch it again.
Live
RATED Q
To repeat myself from prior posts: RATED Q is a monthly screening event at my favorite theater — the Music Box Theatre — helmed by Ramona Slick that features queer and underground films, prefaced by a themed drag show.
They’ve held these events on for at least two years now — I have had a hard time finding a list of prior events — and, despite being queer, I didn’t quite think it was for me.
However, when they announced that they’d be screening a print of BOUND, I knew I had to go, and it was a fucking revelation. It was brazen, it was audacious, it was fun, it was celebratory; it was ecstatic and electric. I couldn’t help but keep coming back. CATS! LEGALLY BLONDE! BRIDE OF CHUCKY! HAIRSPRAY! And the next screening? Motherfucking JAWBREAKER!
I know it’s an unfair favorite to post given how local it is, but seriously, seek it out if you’re ever in Chicago on the second Thursday of the month.
(Also? I accidentally intruded on the above photoshoot. Not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed about that.)
SKINNY PUPPY
This was a reunion show (R.I.P. Dwayne Goettel) — allegedly their final tour — of a classic electro-industrial band that I endlessly listened to in my youth and still listen to, to this very day.
I might be one of the few folks out there who will always go to bat for Last Rights. Scrapyard is probably no one’s favorite song, but it’s my favorite song from that album, perhaps my favorite of theirs overall. That fuckin’ break two-thirds through?! If you know, you know.
I have attended a number of reunion shows. Most of those I have regretted attending as they cast a pall over their works. This one I did not. In fact, it was far better than the majority of shows I’ve seen as of late and made me appreciate their works more than ever.
It was wall-to-wall theatrics; they hit all of the right notes and it had the verve of a far younger band. I never saw them live but had seen taped live performances and it felt like they hadn’t missed a beat.
I walked out feeling exhilarated and very privileged that I managed to see it. (It was a sold-out show but I lucked out and knew someone with tickets who couldn’t attend at the last second. Thanks, Chrystyne! Wish ya coulda been there!)
Videogames
COCOON
COCOON is an absolutely exceptional puzzle work of a game. Immaculately executed, absolutely gorgeous; it’s a game that makes you feel like you’re being taught to walk; your body innately wants to do so, but needs certain soft nudges without feeling pressured.
(Except for the bosses. Yeah, I know; there’s no real fail condition here, but I really hated the bosses. I understand the need — escalating action and resultant relief and all — but geez, I did not enjoy those bouts.)
It’s a tour-de-force of game design, one that has raised the bar. The gorgeous art design and soundtrack is just icing on the cake.
VIDEOVERSE
Still planning on writing more about this, so I’ll try to keep it brief:
VIDEOVERSE from developer Kinmoku — who willed into the world the very necessary work ONE NIGHT STAND — is not just a love letter to the days of internet old, but it scrutinizes when folks realized they could reach out and communicate to strangers and form bonds without exactly having to do so face-to-face.
It’s a merger of talkers and WiiU communities. While the novelty of exploring those communities would be worth the price of admission, the interwoven narratives are extremely effective, as well as the striking throwback interface.
It also has perhaps my biggest endorsement: I burned through my first playthrough on my MacBook Pro in my office on launch day.
I almost never game in my office as I like to keep my professional and recreational lives separate. I might play one PC/macOS-only game a year. This year it was VIDEOVERSE and it was well-worth it.
I’ve touched on this in prior posts about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn — as I will never, ever shut up about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn — but I refuse to read or watch or listen to works that involve her in a relationship with the Joker.
It’s a coercion/abuse thing. My Harley — because there are many different Harleys because she is nothing but mercurial and has had many writers — has (mostly) moved beyond that. Read into that as you will.
As usual, I picked up HARLEY QUINN: BREAKING GLASS — penned by Mariko Tamaki (SKIM, THIS ONE SUMMER) with art by Steve Pugh (ANIMAL MAN, HELLBLAZER) — without knowing jackshit about it. It was about Harley and it looked like fun.
I didn’t realize it was considered part of DC’s non-canon young adults imprint which, uh, is boringly named ‘DC: Graphic Novels for Young Adults’. That said, it’s more adult than a number of ‘mature’ comics I’ve read. Also, probably something that if it were on more garbage folks radars, it would probably be banned due to Harleen/Harley being part of a queer found family.
BREAKING GLASS is a twisted fairy tale-ish take on an alternate Harleen/Harley’s teen years (hence the YA label). She was sent by her mother to Gotham City to live with her grandmother because, well Harleen doesn’t take shit and we’ll leave it at that.
(Not-so-brief note: I will be switching between Harleen/Harley to match the use in the book as the best that I can. As someone who did draw a line in the sand at a certain point in my life as to which name I would utilize, most Harley-centric works don’t have to juggle that, so I appreciate that Tamaki respects that and I will as well.)
Harleen found her way to the address of her grandmother’s house, only to discover that her grandmother had died, but had been overseen by the minder of the building called Mama, an older queer who oversees a number of misfits. Gotham City’s YA take on TALES OF THE CITY, if you will.
“And yes indeed, our happy heroine Harleen was happy as a kitten on a radiator.
“She had everything she needed.”
Mama takes Harleen in and Harleen starts attending high school with a bunch of — to use her phrase — boogers, boogers that disgust her because “boogers will always act like boogers.” As Harleen is prone to do here, she acts out, and gets punished for pushing against the bullies and jerks — I mean boogers — of her high school.
However, she does find solace in Mama’s queer community, as well as one fellow student: Ivy, a vegan, anti-establishment activist, and the two form a fast, if somewhat combative bond. Harley learns from her, she grows, she tries to do better and to do more and to be more supportive. (There’s nothing more Harley than her trying to grow from terrible situations, even if she consistently fucks up.)
Eventually, due to her urban reactionary behavior, she’s eventually spotted by ‘The Joker’, basically a similarly ostracized youth who has managed to wrangle a bunch of other youths to do slight terrorist actions to Gotham.
(I will note: his face is not physically altered like in the canon. He wears a mask that exaggerates the already exaggerated canonical Joker look.)
Matters escalate in the way that teen dramas do, and it’s quite fulfilling. This is a fully realized work, from the framing device of Harleen’s scattered fairy tale rendition to the exacting dialogue, to Pugh’s amazing command of color depending on Harleen/Harley’s situation, often only utilizing primary colors, and explode into vibrancy when her emotions rise.
Like all of the best young adult works it transcends ages. If I had nieces? I would totally hand a copy to them. (Not that I wouldn’t hand it off to nephews, but I know my nephews and haven’t handed off a copy.) Harley isn’t exactly the best role model but Ivy is and Harleen is improved by being in her orbit and simply listening to her.
While this isn’t the cavalier Harley of Conner/Palmiotti, it is a great take on the character and an extraordinarily well-executed and well-plotted and well-penned and dynamically illustrated and vividly colored work that deserves all of the eyeballs.
I mean, come on! Just look at that cover! I endlessly return to it because it’s so engaging and encapsulates all that’s Harley! It’s worth picking up solely for that print!
Anya, as portrayed by Vera Brosgol in her young-adult graphic novel, is a high school girl with traditional high school girl issues: she frets about her weight, she has crushes on boys she’d be better off staying away from, she secretly smokes cigarettes with her best friend, she tries to separate herself from her Russian past, and she’s trying to be her own person.
Oh, and she also accidentally falls down a hole and discovers a skeleton inhabited by a 90-year-old ghost who, by her account, was murdered. The ghost, Emily Reilly, seems benevolent while lingering around her. Then matters escalate.
“There aren’t any other Russian students there?”
“Nope, just your run of the mill rich white New Englander private school kids.”
An aside: I am a New Englander, but I do not come from a rich family and I attended public school. Also, I consider myself agnostic — the universe is too weirdly symmetrical for me to consider otherwise — but I am not religious. However, I was very briefly raised as Roman Catholic. (My mother rightfully got pissed off at the church and we stopped attending services when I was quite young.)
My wife, however, is Greek Orthodox. One of the fun things about being Roman Catholic? I didn’t have to convert to get married to her in a Greek Orthodox church, partially because of how Catholic Orthodoxy spread across continents. I even had the fucking paperwork to prove so. (Yes, this is an actual thing and yes, I fucking hated it, but you do what you have to do for love and legal issues.)
Anya is an early Russian immigrant to America, explicitly Russian Orthodox but she’s spent a lot of time erasing that. Her mother — we’re never quite told what happened to her father — moved heaven and earth to give Anya the life she has. Anya, in a traditional act of teenage rebellion, punts on attending services, although her Russian heritage is not something that she can escape.
“Shut up! You look great!”
“Are you sure it’s not too loose-woman?”
(I will note: I am not going to touch on any of the recent Russian tumult.)
As noted above: my wife is Greek Orthodox. I’ve attended a number of Greek Orthodox church events, from Greek Easters — fun fact: not even remotely the same as what folks consider traditional Easter! — to funerals to weddings, even our own of which I was not completely educated about and kind of made a fool of myself in a BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING sort of way.
Religion is weird. I don’t begrudge anyone who finds solace in it, because we all need something to latch onto, but let’s face it: the rituals are fucking crazy and abstract and the history behind them do not make much sense. (Again, no judging!)
“I’m not interested in the life you wanted, or your taste in men.”
That spectre of belief, of history, of generations and what Anya’s mother believes in and has lived through looms over Anya as she tries to navigate her high school life, even as she exploits Emily to cheat on tests and woo folks. I’ll note that Anya? She doesn’t appreciate any of the kind graces her mother or brother or friends attempt to ingratiate on her. She’s having none of it, in only the way that teens do. (Been there, done that.) She has the occasional sense of self-awareness, but — like a teen — she’s firmly fixated on her wants and needs and it’s refreshing to see this honest portrayal of a slightly shitheel of a youth.
I’ve spent many words extolling the plot and story and depth of character here, and I do not want to ignore Brosgol’s astounding artwork. The line work is lush, the character expressions are so vibrant and telling, and her panel work and visual structure is extremely stark and effective. When Anya is shocked, her eyes grow astoundingly wide in a way that makes you feel for her, and the same when she feels shame, or anger. All of the emotions are on display via Brosgol’s penmanship, and you can’t help but hurt for Anya, even though she can often be a bit of a brat.
It is a perfect encapsulation of an auteur graphic novel work, all heart both in words and visuals, with a touch of supernatural and teen horror.
“I’m human! She’s just a pissy cloud!”
ADDENDUM
This is definitely a brag, but the copy I received was signed to myself and my wife, and also arrived with a print that I want to share because it’s amazing. Brosgol does astounding work — she goes above-and-beyond. Her pieces are something special.
Carol J. Clover’s MEN, WOMEN, AND CHAIN SAWS is an extraordinarily influential collection of feminist academic essays centered around cinematic horror. It cannot be overstated how it clarifies so much of the subtext of horror films and how men and women relate to the horror genre, especially the slasher genre. Hell, she coined the term ‘Final Girl’, crystalizing that trope.
First, it’s worth noting that the essays were penned in the early 90s, so this is very second-wave feminism in that there is a definite line drawn in the sand as to biological gender. It’s also worth noting that author Clover did not believe she’d get this amount of attention, and the recent editions of the collection include an introduction stating as much.
Nonetheless, MEN, WOMEN, AND CHAIN SAWS is not only one of the most insightful looks on the more lurid modern horror works, but also for an array of academic essays, it’s immensely readable.
Clover focuses mostly on the major slasher films: HALLOWEEN, the FRIDAY THE 13th series, the NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET series (although she skims over the extremely gay barely subtext of NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 2) and TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE. She also rightly spends a lot of words on THE SLUMBER PARTY MASSACRE, which — as I’ve previously detailed — was penned by respected feminist Rita Mae Brown.
While I said it’s very readable and accessible to those outside of the academic world, it is extraordinarily dense, and I know this write-up does not do it justice. All I can say is that, if you consider film as a serious medium, and/or you are a fan of horror, this will be an eye-opening read that will imbue depths into these works that you may have not otherwise considered.
You can — and should — purchase it via Matt Zoller Seitz’s excellent book store:
For once I am shutting up about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn because I thought I’d take a break and see how her paramour Poison Ivy was doing via the first volume of POISON IVY: THE VIRTUOUS CYCLE. (CYCLE from here on out.)
So, how is she doing? Not great!
For all intents and purposes, CYCLE is a solo road trip that folds SWAMP THING into PREACHER. It consists of Poison Ivy being 1) pissed at the folks that robbed her of her godlike command over the Earth and 2) pissed at humanity for ruining what could have been Eden 3) pissed at herself for fucking things up and 4) hating almost everyone she encounters while driving through the U.S. and 5) pining for Harley but still driven to eradicate humanity and restore what she believes should be the natural state of the world.
CYCLE is deliciously and angrily penned by G. Willow Wilson (MS. MARVEL, AIR). Ivy’s simmering rage — occasionally tempered by well-meaning folks who get in way of her personal mission — is nothing but relatable by anyone who feels that the world’s gone to Hell and there’s no redemption. The artwork — mostly helmed by Marcio Takara (CAPTAIN MARVEL) but also Emma Ríos (PRETTY DEADLY) is so vibrant and expressive, and the exceptionally evocative layouts and panel work do what brilliant panel work does best: bolstering the narrative and tension while also dazzling you.
Given that this is Poison Fuckin’ Ivy, you’d expect some brilliant color work and goddamn, Arif Prianto, Jordie Bellaire, and Trish Mulvihill do not disappoint, although all know how to reign it back when Ivy’s actually interacting with normals.
I can’t forget to mention that Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou’s lettering is pitch-perfect, and literally folds the words into the interwoven world of roots and greenery that is Ivy’s mind.
I previously mentioned that it feels like SWAMP THING merged with PREACHER and I want to underscore that this is one of the few works I’ve read in some time that captures the outsider thrill of a Vertigo work — DC’s now-defunct mature reader imprint that they gutted for parts — and I love it for that alone. After all, Wilson penned one of the later original Vertigo series, AIR, which is brilliant and I’ll post about another time. CIRCLE is all moral grey areas and, while it leans on the powers of the protagonist, it’s more about a personal worldview and societal dissonance. It’s a severely substantial work that makes the most of Ivy, and I can’t wait to read the next volume.
Lastly, I’ll note that if you buy the collected edition, you also receive a bonus interview with all involved — yes, even the letterers — which is amazingly enlightening and entertaining, and I wish more collections made the space to do the same.
I first encountered this work via the 2022 film adaptation featuring the marvelous Lesley Manville (PHANTOM THREAD) and while that adaptation is exceptional, I only want to focus on the novel and what it means.
Paul Gallico’s novel MRS. ‘ARRIS GOES TO PARIS (‘ARRIS from here on out) is about wants and needs, but most importantly? It’s about anchors and goals and the lengths others will go to selflessly assist one in realizing them.
To summarize: widow Ada Harris is a London charwoman (essentially a housecleaner) who sees a Dior dress and becomes utterly and completely infatuated with having one of her own. She scrimps and saves for years, and when she finally has what she feels is enough money, she flies to Paris to acquire her fixation. (I won’t spoil the rest, but it’s an amazingly endearing and warm tale.)
I’ve never been someone who has been well-off. There have been points in my life where I was dead broke. Rent went unpaid and excuses were made. Despite the fact that my wife is ensconced in fashion, and despite the fact that I try to pull off looks, I’ve always been reluctant to spend much on presentational matters. If you have been broke, you know the feeling; it’s a fear, a fear of over-spending, a fear of losing not just comfort but a fucking roof over your head, a fear that you aren’t worth extra expenditures. I’d say it’s financial hoarding but let’s face it: you can never have enough money.
Consequently, when I first saw the film adaptation, I admired its warmth and compassion and understanding exactly what garments mean to people. (My wife has crafted more than a few wedding dresses and I was often tasked to take photos, so I’ve seen how folks glow when they feel they look their best.)
The novel does a better job at drawing out just how much of a struggle Mrs. ‘Arris goes through to get a Dior dress. It’s far more protracted, far more strained, the act of saving becoming a similarly unsatisfying routine effort as her charwoman work. Consequently, the payoff as to when she hits her financial goal hits harder than it does in the recent film. (I’ll note that there is a prior adaptation which features Angela Lansbury, although I have yet to see it, but that’s some amazing casting right there.)
I’ve never felt justified to spend that much on my own presentation until relatively recently. I’ve said many times that I will never, ever shut up about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn. In a prior post I touched on the fact that I would get a tattoo that would somewhat recreate her wraparound band, a band that very infrequently appears in the texts and the BIRDS OF PREY film because I have my reasons.
It took a bit of time but when it suddenly snapped into focus as to how and why Harley is who Harley is and what the character — her abuse and trauma and recovery — means to me, I knew I wanted that argyle pattern in my skin. I know it’s dumb. It’s super dumb. However, once you realize what you want to look like and why you want it, you can’t shake it off. If you don’t see it through you will always hate yourself.
Like Mrs. ‘Arris, I was absolutely, completely fixated. I latched onto the idea like a lamprey. Like Mrs. ‘Arris, I scrimped and saved because large tattoos are not cheap. Also, you do not want to get a bad tattoo artist, and good ones are hard to find and are worth every penny. (I lucked out and got an absolutely amazing one thanks to the recommendation of a friend.)
My tattoo took a few sessions and even for what I paid, I feel like it should have cost more. (Also: fucking tip your tattoo artist, even if they’re the owner of the outfit.) I’m still amazed that I actually went through with it, but now I can’t imagine myself without it.
After the final session, I was all wobbly and discombobulated, but still managed to endlessly thank the artist for his work and patience and graciousness. I know it was just a job for him, but it meant the fucking world to me, just like Mrs. ‘Arris sitting in on a Dior showing.
What’s great about ‘ARRIS is that it recognizes all of this internal desire in the most gracious, most welcoming ways. Fashion and general presentation — including hair and tattoos — are how we show ourselves to the world. They speak for ourselves before we can speak. When you find what and how you want to look, when you find a visual identity before you can acquire it, you will sacrifice so very much to attain it. We all want to be seen for how we see the best of ourselves.
Thankfully, ‘ARRIS’s world is a benevolent world, one that understands that need, even for those who are considered lesser folks because of their class or stature or looks.
It is worth noting that the ultimate message of ‘ARRIS is absolutely none of the above, but to say why would spoil matters. However, her journey up until the end is something that I think would wildly resonate for anyone.
It is a magical novel, one that encapsulates the wonders of the world and the potential grace of humanity.
As I’ve been following ND Stevenson for years through his tumblr, I am very familiar with his yearly reports. At the end of each year he would lay himself bare before his audience, emotionally unfurling himself through his sequential art to his readers. Some entries were longer than others, some were more terse than others, while some were heartbreakingly earnest and honest.
While it’s one thing to read them in real-time — year after year with the distance of hundreds of days in-between — it’s another thing to read them one-after-another in a single collection. Said collection? THE FIRE NEVER GOES OUT: A MEMOIR IN PICTURES.
I won’t mince words here: I’m old. In all likelihood, I’ve already tripped over the halfway point of my life. However, this memoir covering the adventures of a late teen to twenty-something creator endlessly resonates more and more every time I read it.
With THE FIRE NEVER GOES OUT (FIRE from here on out), Stevenson details the trials, tribulations, and difficulties of discovering and reckoning with one’s self. We watch as he goes from girly churchgoer to an Eisner award-winner for a techno-fantasy about a shapeshifting gremlin of a girl, embracing their queerness, showing weakness and vulnerability, and ultimately finding their place in society and settling into willful tranquility.
It’s an epic graphic work, one that speaks just as much with panels as it does with the space left between them. (If you aren’t aware, that’s traditionally known as a ‘gutter’, but with Stevenson it’s more like troughs.) Nakedly honest and unflinching, it’s a memoir like no other; introspection peppered with grand achievements the likes of which he — or few of us — ever imagine.
Again, I’m far older than Stevenson, but his message of opening up to people, to finding your crowd, to reckon with who you are and what you want is ageless. Stevenson skirts the issue of therapy — he does briefly discuss being bipolar early on in the memoir, and he closes noting that he finally entered therapy and reluctantly embraced meds — but, as with Julia Wertz’s IMPOSSIBLE PEOPLE, both come to the same conclusion that standing with others helps the most. That facet is something I’ve come to embrace over the past few years that I’ve been in therapy.
If you’ve previously read my words, it probably comes as no surprise that this blog — to use the outmoded term — is often my own sort of memoir. Several years ago I had a number of interactions where I realized the friends around me had no fucking clue who I really was. They had no idea of my past history, no clue about my inner life, no knowledge about any of the weird shit I’ve endured, and especially didn’t realize just how severely fucked up I am.
I realized I had buried most of my past. It was something not to be seen. Every once in a while I’d let loose with it — a piece I wrote for my now-defunct games criticism site that went viral was overtly self-reflective. Offhand remarks to friends that often resulted in shocked looks. However, those have been exceptions. This site has been a way to passively address that, to tell my own story, albeit in a way that I hope doesn’t feel like it’s an exercise in self-indulgence or nosedives into ‘too much information’.
There’s so much in FIRE that I can’t help but relate to. From an obsessive, myopic approach to work, to burnout, to feeling broken, to guilt and debilitating depression and wild upswings, to fully and completely reckon with one’s self; there’s a lot of harsh realities laid bare here. I am still somewhat shocked that publisher HarperCollins read his tumblr and thought: “Yes, this is a viable piece of entertainment content” because it feels so intimate. It is so very much of a certain over-sharing internet age that to put it into print almost feels sacrilegious, but I’m very happy they did so.
I first read FIRE as a collected work in 2020, right before I dove into some pretty intense therapy. (Fun fact: it’s only become more intense!) Upon rereading it three years later, I was shocked to read how many terms he used that mirrored my own, both with my partner as well as my mental health professionals. He uses terms that encompass feelings of guilt, of responsibility, of exhaustion, of frustration, of self-loathing.
FIRE isn’t a fictional work; it doesn’t wrap itself up into a nice, neat bow. It is a portrait of a life lived, a life learned, a life changed by experience and self-reflection and self-examination.
Upon my reread, I’ve found that his journey resonates louder than before. This isn’t a pandemic thing; it’s simply a matter of coming to terms with who the fuck you are and how you want to present yourself and endure the outside world.
I realize I’m privileged enough to live in a part of Chicago that doesn’t think twice about someone who paints themself up. No one here gives two shits about your gender identity or your pronouns; most folks just roll with it. I reside in a land of ostracized people; an area of living misfit toys.
In-between my initial read of FIRE and my reread I was diagnosed as bipolar, as well as suffering from acute anxiety and PTSD and dissociative disorder. Additionally, I came out as pansexual to a few folks. (I guess a few more folks now, if you’re reading this. Yes, I’m trying to come to terms with this.) Does it externally affect anything about me? No, it does not. However, like with Stevenson, it does require a lot of internal re-centering and a lot of recalibration and reflection.
We’re all just beings, living on the fumes of whatever societal and artistic and physical means we can. We want and want and want. We want to be heard, we want to be embraced, we want to be seen for who we are, but often settle for being seen for who we think others want us to be.
I’m happy that Stevenson figured that out earlier in their life than I did, but I’m also happy that I finally made some sort of peace with myself. The fire never goes out but, as Stevenson notes with hopefulness: You can “control your fire so that it warms instead of destroys.” I thank him for instilling that comfort.
You can — and should — get your own copy via Bookshop.
I’d like to call your attention to The New Yorker review of FIRE, which I discovered after penning the final draft of this post. We’re very much on the same page, although Stephanie Burt is far more eloquent and exacting and less navel-gazing than myself.
