Broken Frontier

The sidewalk in front of the local deli was baptized in blood last night. Now there’s a man hosing down the concrete, washing the stains off the pavement before customers arrive. He doesn’t know he’s rinsing away the last mortal remains of a fallen god, and he probably wouldn’t care if he did. Costumed vigilantes were outlawed eight years ago. The Watchmen no longer rule the earth.

A smiley-faced button lies next to the sewer grate, the only witness to the last battle Eddie Blake lost. A dried spot of blood mars the polished surface, but its cheerful expression remains unchanged. Like the soundtrack to a Quentin Tarantino horror film, the mumbled words of a psychopath drone in the background. A silent observer with hair the color of an angry sunrise walks through the puddle of death carrying a sign that says “the end is nigh.” His footsteps leave scarlet souvenirs on the sidewalk as he continues down the street. 

And a question lingers in the air like a joke without a punch line. Who watches the Watchmen?

Yesterday evening, Eddie Blake was beaten viciously before being hurled through a plate glass window. He didn’t fight back, not when the front door crashed open, not when he was choking on blood and broken teeth, not when he was being lifted into the air, not even as he fell to the ground some twenty stories below.

In the end, Eddie understood more than he ever wanted to. He learned the answer to the question spray painted all over the city, and it destroyed him long before he felt the first body blow. How do you justify destroying the world to save it? Can you stand by and allow someone to die if it would let countless others live? What if two people would have to die? Or a hundred? Or a million? When exactly is the point when horror replaces conscience?

Last night, Eddie Blake learned how to fly. Today, the last of his blood is being washed away by a delicatessen owner. No one knows it yet, but the countdown has begun.

In the summer of 1986, the first issue of “Watchmen” was released. It was obvious immediately that this series was different. A small clock on the cover was frozen at eleven minutes to midnight. A larger than life-sized pin, bright yellow and smiling, floated in a crimson river. The cover served as the first panel of the book, a wordless introduction to the story of heroes, murder, and the last futile cries of a dying world.

Inside, journal entries were quoted as parallel commentary, the voices of characters overlapped scenes in a carefully choreographed waltz, and the accepted conventions of comic books were discarded. The characters didn’t speak like superheroes, with numerous exclamation points and noble speeches. Instead, they stumbled sometimes, fumbling for the right things to say. They revealed themselves in halting phrases and embarrassed confessions. These weren’t cartoons with voices; these were real people walking the narrow line between hope and tragedy.

Alan Moore was the conductor, combining the fury of a hundred different fragments of melody into a symphony of light and noise that left readers stunned and amazed. Every word meant something else. Every thought was linked to another. Every casual conversation revealed a complexity hidden just moments earlier. He never took the easy path, churning out cheap displays of drama that might capture the emotion for a moment but would leave readers feeling cheated afterwards. Instead, he trusted the power of the truth. And he made that truth sing.

Dave Gibbons provided illustrations that perfect complimented Moore’s layered script. His art was astonishing, embroidering a wealth of details into every carefully thought out panel. The quiet mastery of his craft was beautiful; Gibbons wasn’t just a gifted artist, he was a natural storyteller. Like his partner, none of the scenes he drew was what it initially seemed to be. Every action, every gesture, every pause was mirrored in other scenes and situations, often with devastating results. With every line, he chose to avoid the flash and extravagance of less talented artists and trust his own instincts. The result was breathtaking.

As if that wasn’t enough, John Higgins colored the scenes in a palette of hues and shades that enhanced every mood and made a seamless collaboration that much stronger. The tones changed from one panel to the next, from shadow to light, from darkness to glory. Higgins appreciated the importance of what Moore and Gibbons were accomplishing, and his appreciation literally took comic books to a new level. Combined with Lynn Varley’s magnificent work on the recently completed “Dark Knight” series, Higgins made it very clear that colorists could also be artists.

In a world where the word can mean anything from a paperback thriller to barbecue sauce, Alan Moore wrote a true masterpiece. It would probably have been shattering even if the rest of the creative team had been different. But with the help of Dave Gibbons and John Higgins, “Watchmen” went from being a great comic book to being an unbelievable work of genius that has yet to be equaled by anyone.

I envy anyone that hasn’t read the “Watchmen” collection. Maybe you’ll never look at the book, never flip through the pages or appreciate the intricacy of its story. Maybe you’ll never cry when Laurie stops denying what she’s always known, or cringe when Jon learns what happened to the first fourteen concrete blocks, or pause for a moment that lasts forever when you realize why the dogs aren’t interested in Rorschach. But there will always be the possibility that you’ll be able to read “Watchmen” for the first time. I’ll never have that opportunity again. Still, reading it for the fifth time or the eighth or the twentieth is still amazingly rewarding.

Instead of feeling dated, “Watchmen” has actually improved over time. At a time when comic book conversations can literally last months, when panels are repeated over and over again for “dramatic irony”, when plot lines are often stretched and padded until any hope of intensity or suspense has been annihilated, “Watchmen” stays razor sharp. Every page, every scene, every word of dialogue is important. The panels are designed to make the story flow, a rarity in a world where layouts get ever more dynamic, confusing, and meaningless. The artwork serves the tale, instead of the other way around. Moore, Gibbons, and Higgins are telling a story they believe in, one that works on every imaginable level, so they’ve stripped the series of any gimmicks or grandiose egos, and the result is stunning every time you read it.

 “Watchmen” is about a world a thousand universes and yet minutes apart from ours. The champions discarded in an act of rage and frustration years earlier are now being systematically destroyed. The Comedian is viciously killed. Dr. Manhattan is driven off the face of the planet. Ozymandias is attacked in his own office complex, and Rorschach, a man with stains for a face, is set up and captured by a police force all too willing to crucify him. The end of the world is coming, and the Watchmen are powerless to stop it.

But it’s so much more than that.

I thought writing a review of “Watchmen” would be easy. It’s a story I love, a book I’ve read more times than I can remember, and I really believed the words would just pour out. But that’s not the case at all. I keep tripping over phrases, searching for descriptions to describe the feelings, the wonder, the incredible sweep of it all. I search for flaws because even the most minimal of weaknesses would give me something to say beyond praise. It’s not going to happen. “Watchmen” is a classic that doesn’t read like one; it’s vital, it’s brilliant, it’s heart-breaking, and it’s unforgettable. Everything I could possibly tell you can be summed up in six small words.

You need to read this book.

- Tommy Marx