THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #26: REVIEW OF HELLBLAZER HARD TIME

[This is another one where I come off as a raging asshole. I have changed my mind about everything I said here (except the part about the logo, as I still prefer the original). Richard Corbin, as I believe I’ve mentioned here before, really is a horror master. I was just stupid and inexperienced with the comic book world back then. Also, I have since learned to love Azzarello’s run. The prison stuff was a bit iffy, but all my doubts were met by the end of that storyline. It laid the groundwork for John Constantine’s journey to the heart of the American dream. Looking back, I fucking love it now. Also, at the time I was unaware of why Warren Ellis was kicked off the book. It was for a one-shot story involving a shooting at a public school. Unfortunately, this happened just after Columbine. Vertigo thought publishing it would be in bad taste. Ellis walked out on the rest of his run. Vertigo eventually published that story. It was pretty good. Anyway, this was in the Elmhurst College Leader on April 24, 2000.]

Okay, this has got to stop. Hellblazer has had its ups and downs (thankfully, there have been more ups), but the latest story arc, Hard Time, is quite possibly the lowest Vertigo’s longest-running title (not counting the newly resurrected Swamp Thing) has ever sunk.

First of all, give credit where credit is due. Writer Brian Azzarello has one of the greatest ears for dialogue in comic books. He took a pretty dull comic from the ‘Sixties called Jonny Double and gave it a hard-edged cynical look for the ‘Nineties that was simply beautiful and gruesome at the same time. He writes another ongoing series called 100 Bullets, a formulaic concept that he somehow manages to write wonderfully every month. There is no doubt as to his abilities as a writer.

Tim Bradstreet, the cover artist, has published some amazing pieces of artwork in the past, from his haunting Unknown Soldier covers to his earlier Hellblazer covers, all very spooky stuff.

As for artist Richard Corbin, well, he just sucks. His drawings look like a child’s dolls. He’s supposedly a horror master, but if he is, then Ronald McDonald is God. Sean Phillips, with his use of shadows (perfected by skipping pencils and going directly to inks) and rough drawings is a horror master, but not Corben and his doll-like drawings.

Corben excepted, Azzarello and Bradstreet have proven themselves in the past as worthwhile. However, with the Hard Time storyline, their talent has gone to hell. Bradstreet seems to have lost his eerie edge (which is also evident in his Punisher covers)—he’s grown sloppy with his shadowing technique, and it looks like he’s trying to imitate Corben.

As for Azzarello, he broke one of the rules that has made Hellblazer such a strong comic book for so long: whenever a new writer takes up the reins, the writer always wanders into protagonist John Constantine’s mind and world. Instead, Azzarello plucks Constantine out of his scummy, disease-ridden angst-ridden London and throws him into an American prison. What’s he there for? Azzarello still hasn’t answered that. Constantine has engaged in ample badness in the past, but he’s an ace at avoiding the authorities.

What it comes down to is yet another story about how bad prison life is. Just what the world needs . . . There are times when Hellblazer wants to go back to its more terrifying self, like the bloody shower scene in #146, but for the most part, the horror Azzarello is emphasizing is the horror of prison. You know, sodomy, cigarette debts, skinheads, the occasional body cavity search form a gloved screw, the usual stuff. Again, the dialogue is great, but whatever happened to the old Constantine? The one that tricked the Satan into curing his lung cancer? The one that couldn’t keep his friends alive?

Azzarello, in a recent interview, said that he wanted to emphasize the con man side of Constantine, but the thing is, that’s not all he ever did. Besides, he usually had a reason to screw people over. Here, there’s no reason—he’s just in prison screwing a lot of people over and up.

Azzarello isn’t the right writer for the job. Whatever happened to Warren Ellis’s run? Granted, his one-shot issues weren’t that great, but his Haunted story arc was the last great Hellblazer story. Bad artists are common in Hellblazer, but there has never been a bad writer. Again, Azzarello isn’t a bad writer, but he’s just not right for this comic book.

Oh yeah, and the new trademark sucks, too. Forget the high-tech crap and go back to the old trademark—it was much better.

THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #10: REVIEW OF HELLBLAZER (DON'T REMEMBER THE ISSUE NUMBER)

[Here’s a little nugget of information I remembered upon rereading this piece: I didn’t come to Warren Ellis through Transmetropolitan, as I had previously believed. Nope, I came to him through his Hellblazer run. That’s odd. Anyway, I had just discovered Hellblazer a few months before I wrote this. It was the first comic book I found on my own without the assistance of a friend. I devoured the whole run so far (even the one Neil Gaiman wrote that is hard to find and a bit on the expensive side). So, all things considered, I was new to the book at the time. I still can’t believe Vertigo killed it to bring Constantine back into the DCU so he could rub elbows with the likes of Superman and the rest. Ah well. This is from the Elmhurst College Leader, April 27, 1999.]

The first and foremost question on all Hellblazer fans’ minds is, “How’s the new team doing?” Put simply, don’t worry about the integrity of this comic. Tim Bradstreet, who worked on Unknown Soldier, follows in Sean Phillips’s footsteps, capturing the moody darkness of John Constantine’s world on very devious looking covers.

John Higgins is not disappointing, either. In a comic where artists have been a dime a dozen (a lot of whom didn’t know what they were doing), Mr. Higgins is definitely one of the best. He combines the shadowy, ink-laden art of Sean Phillips with Steve Dillon’s sense of the real world. He just has one problem—drawing blood. It just seems unreal and out of place. Then again, that could be the colorist’s problem. It’s hard to tell. One way or the other, Higgins makes up for this in his own sick way. Haine (issue 137) has got to be the most repulsive looking human being I’ve ever seen, aside from maybe Arseface of Preacher fame.

The glittering gem, though, is writer Warren Ellis. Oddly enough, he didn’t start out where Paul Jenkins, the last regular writer, left off. Instead he brings us a story of his own, which is a bit reminiscent of the days of Ennis. Ellis’s first story arc, “Haunted,” still has two issues to go, but it’s vintage Constantine already. An ex-girlfriend of his has been murdered Ripper-style, and John’s trying to find out what happened, and well, this is familiar territory. While the plot is the basic revenge story, it’s the population of his search that is unique. The first person he goes to is a leery, questionable detective named Watford. As usual, John has something on him that makes Watford cooperate. He’s a twisted man who likes to look at crime scene photos, and his blunt nature is beyond tactless. When he tells John the victim had VD (there was a very grotesque image that went with it), he added, “Any road up. It has a quick wash. We’ve got the flannel. Pus and come.” That, in addition to continuously refer to the victim as “it” instead of “she” is definite grounds for a beating I’m sure John will administer in the future.

Another contact, a guy named Map, is just plain odd. He’s apparently a very powerful magus that works in the subway tunnels under London. Then there’s Hawkstorm, a magician/pimp/electrician. His brother, another lunatic, was told by Jesus to cut off his own, ah . . . ahem!

One thing Ellis is bent on is the idea of a dark and foreboding London. The scene with the kid blowing his mind with an air freshener isn’t very optimistic about the youth of the UK. Neither is the naked baby lost in the alley. Very depressing stuff.

On a lighter note, it’s very good to see Chas again, considering his absence throughout most of Jenkins’s run. John is also seeing ghosts again, except she’s not out for his blood like the others.

Speaking of friends, no one close to John has died yet during his investigation. Give it time, though. It’s pretty early in Ellis’s run. John will get them all killed eventually. It wouldn’t be Hellblazer any other way.

C2E2 2013: THE WILDSTORM PRESENTS CHRONICLES #1: MEETING AMANDA CONNER

I’ll be honest, I’ve not come across much of Amanda Conner’s work.  The extent that I’m familiar with is her work on BEFORE WATCHMEN:  SILK SPECTRE and a small bit that she did for WILDSTORM PRESENTS.  The main reason I wanted to meet her was because I was trying to get as many BEFORE WATCHMEN people as I could.

Her line was one of the longer ones I waited in at this convention, and by the time I got to meet her, I could see why.  She’s done some pretty good work with Supergirl and a few other superhero titles.  Not my thing, but I can definitely recognize amazing artwork.

She was incredibly nice and engaging.  She was glad to see my issues of SILK SPECTRE, and as she signed these, I broke out one of my big guns:  a collection called WILDSTORM PRESENTS.  I’d initially bought it because I saw Brian Azzarello’s name on it, but when I found out who else was in it, I was impressed.  Georges Jeanty, Paul Jenkins, Ed Brubaker, Judd Winick, Doug Mahnke, Richard Corben, Jill Thompson, and shocker of all shockers, Patton fuckin’ Oswalt.

Since many of them were going to be at the convention, I thought I’d get as many signatures as I could.

When I set it down in front of Conner, she looked puzzled.  “I’m not in here.”  I reassured her she was, indeed, in there, and pointed out which story.  Then, recognition blazed on her face.  “Oh yeah, I remember this!  I’ve never seen it, though.  Very cool.”  And she signed it for me.

Much to my surprise, this scenario would recur several more times during the convention.

She marveled at it for a while, flipping through the pages, excited to see her some of her work that she hadn’t seen since she put the finishing touches on it and sending it to Wildstorm.  She asked me how long I’d had it, and I said a couple of years.  She said she was wondering if it had just been printed.

I moved on then, because she was sitting next to Jimmy Palmiotti, and I hoped to get him to sign a few things.  Then, as I waited at the back of the incredibly short line, unpacking my things for Palmiotti, I noticed something.  I’d brought TRANSMETROPOLITAN:  I HATE IT HERE because I’d been working on getting all the artists in there to sign it.  I was hoping to get Palmiotti and Tony Harris to join the ranks of Rodney Ramos, John McCrea, Warren Ellis, Eduardo Risso, Tim Bradstreet, Dave Johnson, David Mack, and Cliff Chiang in signing this thing.

In that moment I realized that AMANDA CONNER IS IN THIS BOOK, TOO.  Fuck.  I turned around and saw that Conner’s line was just as long as it had been when I’d first gotten into it.  I just resigned myself to getting back in it when I’d finished up with Palmiotti.

Suffering through that line a second time was a drag, but fuck me for being so stupid.  When I got up to her table again, she laughed, surprised to see me again.  I apologized for being a fool and presented her with her page from the book.  Chuckling, she signed it and said, “Why am I always drawing people on the toilet?”

Why, indeed?