Deep Sequencing: Talking About Talking

Or a look at the interaction of speech and sound in Black Widow #5, Island: Habitat, and Cerebus: High Society
by Chris Samnee, Mark Waid, Matt Wilson, and Joe Caramagna; Simon Roy; and Dave Sim, respectively.

I've been thinking about word balloons lately. Specifically how they represent sound, and how sound is experienced by an audience. Listening to speech is an active process by an audience, they have to like, actually listen. I've been keeping my eye out for comics that play with this fact to create some interesting comics moments. And I have some examples for you!

There will be *SPOILERS* for Black Widow 5, Cerebus: High Society, and Island: Habitat.

The first example is from Black Widow #5. In this case the third panel in the bottom row has a cut off repeat of the speech bubble from the second panel. It is recognizably the same bubble of text, but it isn't actually fully legible in the panel. On the one hand, this little snippet of half seen text acts as a time stamp and makes sure the reader recognizes that panels 2 and 3 happen simultaneously. But, I think it's more than that. I think the fact the text is cutoff makes it... out of focus. It's like sound that is happening but not actually being listened to. I think is meant to show that the guy with the gun to his head isn't paying attention to what is being said and is instead thinking about something else. Which given the his following words and actions, makes me believe that this character is centring himself for what is about to happen in this panel. If you buy into this theory, the way this speech bubble is used here is very smart.

The next example is from Habitat, a comic that I originally read as part of the Island anthology. This comic portrays a damaged spaceship where the crew and interior has gone feral. So like, instead of a futuristic crew there are people wearing loin clothes and throwing spears organized into tribes based on their ancestors (I think) section specialization (security, engineering, etc). It's a comic that works because it creates a fully realized tactile world of human desperation in a huge, thoughtfully constructed world of wilderness and technology. I think this example of how speech is used is a great example of the kind of suspension of disbelief that makes this comic effective. In the above scene, one of the feral crewmen boards a battlemech type thing and is sealed in a cockpit. Outside the cockpit, overlaid by the green of the cockpit's glass is another feral crewman barking orders. This choice conveys the separation between in the cockpit and out, but it also really sells a sense of realism: there is muffled, tertiary sound. Which is a fascinating choice. Many comics make an effort to streamline narrative information and to use the readers focus. This is unrealistic, since in real life out of context people, events, and noises are always happening. So creating out of focus sound like this helps build a sense of a busy, populated world. And the use of glass here to create clarity and separation in this example is cleverly simple solution to making this work. 

I think my favourite example of the interaction between speech narration and an audience is this one from Cerebus: High Society. In this example a man is giving a speech to a crowd announcing who the next Prime Minister would be, but as soon as the crowd hears Cerebus' name announced they go bananas and sound of their celebration drowns out the rest of the speech. This is represented visually by the jubilant crowd's silhouette actually overlapping and blocking out the speech bubble. Which is just a wonderful graphical approach to this: it captures the emotion and action of the crowd and creates a clear, visual symbol of an audience over powering a speaker. It is a moment of very accomplished comics.

Visiting The Island #5

Or a look at margin space in Ancestor: Part 2/4
by Matt Sheean and Malachi Ward; Island Comics Anthology (Edited by Brandon Graham and Emma Rios); Image Comics

I have an admission to make: I'm finding it kind of hard to get excited about comics right now. Between a crushing work schedule and a charismatic but needy baby time is at a premium, so I'm finding that a lot of perfectly fine comics that feature nice art and serviceable writing are just kind of dull. Like, dropping titles dull. So bear that in mind when I say Island #6 is one of the very comics I've read lately that I really enjoyed: all three feature stories in this edition were extremely accomplished episodes of comics featuring tremendous artwork, world building, and storytelling. The current chapter of Ancestor, by Matt Sheean and Malachi Ward, was maybe the most engrossing, captivating comic I've read in months.

It is also a comic that does something fun and wonky with margin space that I think is worth taking a look at.

There will be substantial *SPOILERS* ahead.

 

The story of Ancestor, in a very basic nutshell, is that in a near-future where everyone has a kind of advanced, holographic computer with them everywhere they go (a kind of extrapolated smartphone type idea), a group of friends attend a party run by a visionary inventor except things aren't what they seem and something is afoot. In the current issue it's essentially revealed that the visionary inventor isn't entirely stable, which builds over the course of the comic to outright madness in a truly masterful story of unfolding tension and story pacing. Shit gets fucked right up in a really, really skillful way.

A small part of this effect, that I think is really clever, is the use of panel gutter space. Rather than having white or black gutters that simply demarcate the division between panels, this instalment of Ancestor has coloured gutters that participate in the mood of the story. In the early pages, which focus on the inventor's instability the gutters are yellow, an unusual attention getting choice that conveys warning and alarm. As the story progresses and it becomes clear that the situation is much worse, much more disturbing and violent than the reader expected the panel gutters gradually change colour from yellow, to orange, to an angry, violent red, to a truly ominous black. It's the entire emotional arc of the comic rendered and encoded in colour. It subtly grades the feeling of every page and works like an ominous soundtrack in a visual medium. It's a small, but really smart thing.

I may not have a lot of time for comics right now, but Ancestor 4/5 and Island #5 I cannot recommend enough.

Previously:

Island #1: Multiple Warheads
Island #4: Multiple Warheads 2Island #1: I.D. Part 1
Island #2: ID Part 2

Visiting The Island #4: Multiple Warheads

Or a look at active speech bubbles in Island Comics #4 presents Multiple Warheads: Ghostown #2
by Brandon Graham; Image Comics

What's cool about Multiple Warheads is just how little this comic cares about conventional wisdom and how much its willing to play with storytelling elements in unorthodox ways to make interesting comics. In Island #4, Multiple Warheads shirks convention and does some pretty interesting and fun things with dialogue boxes.

There will be *SPOILERS* below.

I think the common wisdom behind dialogue boxes and lettering is to be as unobtrusive as possible. The dialogue boxes should avoid covering artwork and while they should do their job of conveying what the depicted characters say to each other, they shouldn't be overly each catching and distract from the artwork. I feel like this metric maybe lacks some nuance: lettering is often a powerful storytelling tool that uses its ability to draw reader's eyes as a subtle guide to how to read a page. Where this perspective and the common wisdom intersect though, is that the dialogue boxes are best when they are seamless, semi-invisible page components that work their magic without being the focus of the page.

What this instalment of Multiple Warheads does is make the dialogue boxes an active, obvious part of the page in a variety of ways that are pretty cool.

One of the realities of vocal dialogue is that it kind of has two parts: the words being spoken and the emotional tenor of the speaker. In Real Life, these two elements interact to create context and meaning. Someone saying "the dog is coming!" in a delighted voice (like I would) is saying something very different from someone screeching "the dog is coming!" in fear. Comics, which are a silent medium are great at conveying the word content of character dialogue but struggle a bit in layering in the emotional reaction.

Normally comics manage to encode emotion through character acting: the tenor of the dialogue is implied by the happy or sad or horny faces of the portrayed characters. But this isn't always perfect and sometimes, like when a comic is way zoomed out like above, the facial clues needed for this aren't available. Which is where smart comics happens: Multiple Warheads bakes the emotion of some dialogue boxes right into them with artwork that captures the feelings of the speaker. The above selection is, I think, pretty great because the uncomfortable glance in the dialogue box changes a kind of emotionally ambiguous moment of dialogue into something definite. It's really astute stuff.

Another fun example of using illustrations inside of dialogue is this selection. Instead of having the two stoned buds here discuss how Moontoone's nose looks kind of like a dick using words, the comic shows this using pictures. It's a great choice because it takes way less space/time to parse than the equivalent dialogue: the reader can at-a-glance suss out the phallic pictionary of the situation. It's also petty great because, I think, it changes the feeling of the sequence. Reading someone explain in words how someone's face looks like a penis would be actually pretty cruel, but seeing it here in pictures makes the entire situation feel a lot looser and sillier. Less a cutting criticism and more two dopes being goofy. (I mean, it's still kind of mean, but for me it's the difference between jerks and people being ignorant, y'know?) The choice to use images here instead of dialogue here, I think, just makes this sequence work in a way using text wouldn't.

Another cool bit of dialogue box trickery in Multiple Warheads is the above sequence. In the comic a dragon is smuggling back a magical weapon-thing in his belly that a wizard extracts from him through his speech bubble. While it might not be a generally applicable bit of comics, I love it when magic is depicted in comics as something impossible or fourth wall breaking. Magic for me has always been impossible, amazing things that violate the rules of the universe, and seeing that played with as a visual metaphor is always cool. 

I think my favourite example of fun dialogue box experimentation is this selection here. It might not be the smartest or more most experimental dialogue experiment in the comic, but it is just so charming and fun. The way the call box and the wonderful hand lettering combine to make a yawning face, is neat, and the way that enhances the weight of that yawn on the page is pretty smart stuff. I am also pretty keen on this choice because yawning is just such a visceral experience, more about the motion and the physical sensation of yawning mouths and scrunched faces than the actual noise of it. I think the choice to build the face into the sound here lets the dialogue box convey more of that physicality than just the text alone would. Which is effective storytelling.

(I mean, it's late here, and I am yawning up a storm trying to write this section, which is further evidence that this bit of comics is great.)

Multiple Warheads, still making the case that there is all kinds of ways to make good comics.

Previously:
Island #1: Multiple Warheads

Island #1: I.D. Part 1
Island #2: ID Part 2

So I Read Multiple Warheads Vol. 1
Multiplexed storytelling in Multiple Warheads

Visiting The Island #2: I.D. pt 2

Or a look at the effects of research and detail in ID pt. 2 
by Emma Rios with consultation from Miguel Alberte Woodward, MD; Image Comics

I once read an X-men comic allegedly set in my hometown of Vancouver, Canada. I was pretty excited since very few comics are set here, and seeing my favourite city portrayed in media is always fun. Unfortunately the artist on the book didn't bother to actually reference what Vancouver looks like. So instead of the intersection of ocean, looming mountains, and skinny green-glassed skyscrapers, there was a vaguely defined collection of generic highrises and apartments with the odd Canadian flag thrown in. Instead of seeing the familiar shape of my home in an X-men comic, I was reading a comic that might as well have been set in Cityville City. It was a huge distraction.

Which goes to show that details matter in fiction.

I.D. in Island #2 is a great example of how fine attention to detail can enhance a storytelling world.

This post will contain *SPOILERS* for I.D.

In my day job I work as an academic research scientist in cardiac cell biology. This is only relevant here in so far as it makes me really picky about the portrayal of Science and Biology in fiction. I mean, it's fine when things are left extremely vague ("there is a surgery that let's us transplant brains, cool?"), I can go along with the premise in service to the story. But once a story tries to engage with the Science-maguffin, I find that this invites scrutiny which often just blows holes in the story, subtracts from my suspension of disbelief, and leaves me distracted from the core narrative. It can be another un-Vancouver moment. 

Like, in I.D. #2 the volunteers are told they will be infected with a virus that adds light-sensitive firefly proteins to their brains. The goal being to allow for optogenetic surgery which allows lasers to cultivate neuron growth and brain integration. Which, despite the delightful moment about bug-DNA, is kind of problematic. Fireflies are best known in Science as the source of luciferase, a bioluminescent light-emitting protein that gets used a lot to measure when a particular gene is being transcribed, or activated. Off the top of my head, fireflies are not really a source of commonly used light sensitive proteins. Optogenetics, the use of light to control cells, generally uses channelrhodopsin, a light-sensitive protein derived from the eye that can be used to transport ions and which has been implicated in neuron activation, axon growth, and synaptic potentiation. Jargon speak aside, this means that channelrhodposin would make a more plausible tool for the kind of brain-integrating surgery portrayed in the comic than a "modified firefly gene".

I can be downright crazy about this stuff.

The thing is, despite this crazy person quibble, I.D. does a fantastic job incorporating Science. The overall approach of using optogenetics, light directed surgery and virally transduced genes, is shockingly plausible. The drawings displaying the surgical setup, or the process of using a lentivirus and vector are textbook precise. The use of Science jargon is pitch perfect and complex. Basically I.D. displays a level of biological expertise beyond what I have ever encountered in another comic book. I mean, the fact I can quibble about which light-sensitive protein would be the most realistic in this situation at all is truly remarkable event.

The effect of this is that I.D. is elevated from a clinical character study using a Sci-fi plot device to a serious work of Science Fiction that is having a serious discussion about well developed and well thought out technologies. Which for me makes the entire premise feel more real, which lends the comic an unsettling, visceral quality that a less realistic, un-Vancouver-style comic would lack.

I think this really showcases the value of researching background/setting material in fiction: while a scant go-with-this contract works, a comic that invites and stands up to technical scrutiny is much more satisfying a reading experience.

Which goes to show that detail matters,

Previously:
Island #1: I.D. Part 1
Island #1: Multiple Warheads

Visiting The Island #1: Multiple Warheads

Or a look at the busy town compositions of Multiple Warheads 2: Ghost Town
by Brandon Graham

Another great thing about the new Island comics anthology is that it appears that it's the vehicle for more of Brandon Graham's great comic Multiple Warheads. Which, I've gotta say, I'm pretty excited about. Brandon Graham is one of those comics artists with a distinct aesthetic and an approach to comics storytelling that I think runs contrary to a lot of mainstream wisdom. While I don't think you can drill this difference down to any single aspect of his work, there are a couple great examples of wide angle shots in the current instalment of Multiple Warheads that really showcase one of my favourite aspects of Brandon Graham's storytelling. Which are perhaps worth a bit of unpacking.

There will be *SPOILERS* for the Multiple Warheads in Island #1.

In a lot of cases good storytelling comes down to efficiently conveying the emotion or details of an event in a clear and concise way. Usually this entails the artist honing their composition in on the main characters, or key actions, or providing an evocative look at setting to provide spatial context. It's also often an action in limiting extra details to only what is necessary to sell the shot, to populate the scene with just enough detail to make the world look inhabited, but not so much to distract readers from the key things being portrayed. Or, TLDR, it's all about focus. 

Multiple Warheads essentially ignores this approach and throws a chaos of detail at the reader to sort through. And it is kind of great.

Take this double page spread which shows our protagonists going for a crazy brunch. The page is drawn wide angle to provide spatial awareness of the restaurant and to allow the world of Multiple Warheads to exist. 

The main story of the page has our protagonists order their meals (complete with a fun choose-your-own-advenutre moment), their weird Warhead thing order his meal, and their bird waiter person go and fill out the order. Despite the very busy layout, this central story is very easy to follow across the spread, taking advantage of lettering to draw attention and the effective tangent of the staircase to handle the transition from one clearly defined story region to another. Despite all of the seemingly extraneous detail on the page, the underlying core narrative is well constructed and clear.

Built into this main narrative is a smaller mini-strip within the spread focussed on world building. The restaurant our heroes are eating at is built on a whale and uses specially grown whale meat as the main ingredient. This smaller comic strip shows the cooks in the restaurant and explains a little bit about how the whale-restaurant functions. It's a fun little discursion that makes the whale-restaurant feel more real. It also, critically, slots into the main narrative very cleanly, fitting into the flow in an organic spot, and adding a nice sense of elapsed time before progressing to the final panel in the main story. 

Finally this page has little islands of crazy characters around the periphery. These characters largely function like extras, filling the restaurant with people and making the world feel more lived in. Except, unlike the standard idea of extras, who are meant to occupy a space without attracting undue attention, and are usually kind of bland, these extras are all crazy Multiple Warheads characters who are each unique weirdos. Which really helps build the veracity of the world: not only do the heroes of Multiple Warheads have fantastic, crazy stories, but so does everyone in this wild, post-apocalyptic world. It's a really charming choice.

In a lot of ways this double page spread violates the common wisdom of storytelling: it packs in tons of extra detail, includes fun, but irrelevant side stories, and generally makes the world instead of the core narrative the focus of the page. And yet this spread still manages to provide a clear, well built navigational path through the composition so information can be logically and effortlessly read. The result is this living world, seemingly bursting with life that navigates this really effective compromise between clutter and narrative focus. It's great comics and something Brandon Graham does really, really well.

Previously:

Island #1: ID and Emma Rios

So I Read Multiple Warheads Vol. 1
Multiplexed storytelling in Multiple Warheads

Visiting The Island #1: I.D.

Or a look the opening page of Why Don't You Like Your Body 
by Emma Rios; Island Anthology, Image Comics

Island is a new comics anthology run by Brandon Graham and Emma Rios, two comics creators whose work I profoundly enjoy. And since both of these artists have multi-part stories currently running in the comic and because I've been in the mood to try an anthology comic, Island was a must read for me. I was not disappointed.

I was also super impressed by Emma Rios' comic I.D., particularly the form and function of it's opening page, which I think is worth exploring in detail.

There will be *SPOILERS* for I.D. pt. I below. 

I am deeply fascinated by opening pages: how do they go about establishing a theme, setting a mood, or opening a contract with the reader. Viewed through that lens, the opening page of Why Do You Hate Your Body is a really impressive feat of comics.  One that functions on a variety of levels.

From a purely storytelling perspective, this page manages to elegantly drop a ton of information on us. The first three tiers of the page each focus on one of the main characters, giving us tiny glimpses of each person, and just enough to compare them. Broadly speaking these tiers show us a feminine woman with pedicured nails and mannerisms, a bespectacled man with glasses, and a third, slightly androgynous person with delicate hands. The page also drops setting hints, with two shots that anchor the composition to a restaurant, or more likely, a coffee shop. And, judging from the nervousness and sidelong glances, that these three characters are probably strangers and somewhat uncomfortable with each other. Which is a huge amount of information for a page of textless snapshots.

Layered into this narrative information is some really adept work with theme. I.D. is a comic about extreme cosmetic surgery, which, at its heart, is about fixing those aspects of yourself which displease you. I say you here because the reality is, no matter how broadly happy you are with yourself, there are probably little quibbling aspects about your body that bug you. I'm balding in the weirdest way, which I am largely fine with, but I'm worried that it is revealing that I have an overly large forehead, what Raymond Chandler would say "was so much more head than you expected". I am slightly unhappy with the area where eyes and nose meet, the lack of architectural interest along my too straight nose, and the size and prominence of my mouth. I mean, taken all together everything works alright, and I am generally happy with my face, but treating each of these things in isolation, it becomes easier to focus on the bad. And I think this page of I.D. captures that experience, that breaking down to focus on individual aspects, eyes, hands, mouths, noses; those specific things that the characters might want nipped or tucked or surgically altered. Which works to evoke those feelings of insecurity that lurk in us all, to empathically transmit those insecurities onto the characters in the composition, and to generally establish the themes of cosmetic surgery.

This composition takes this thematic aspect a step further by combining snapshots of physical traits with the furtive glances of the characters. We get the sense that not only do these characters judge themselves, but that they are also judging each other; appraising the bodies of the other characters. Which in a way draws attention to the physical characteristics of these people and invites us as readers to judge and appraise the various bodies in the comic. It's also, given the final revelation that these characters will be undergoing a body transplant, presumably each others, a wonderful bit of foreshadowing.

Another cool thing about the opening page is how this later page calls back to it to close a storytelling loop. The first page uses a group of circular tight shots focusing on individual body parts to show a group of strangers nervously and warily judging each other. This later page, right before the end of the comic, uses similar round, hand focused shots, to show these three characters uniting to escape a protest/riot in the streets outside their coffee shop. This choice makes the two sequences echo each other and closes the storytelling contract established in the opening page: our protagonists have met, united and are working together. This page is also really clever, because the human chain of joined hands no doubt foreshadows the swap of bodies that will occur following the body transplant operations. It's really adept story structure.

Based on this sample, I.D. is going to be an interesting and technically adept comic that you ought to seek out. And if you are looking for an anthology comic to try, Island #1 is filled with good comics and at $7.99 for 100+ pages of content, is ridiculously good value.