Broken Frontier

And now, the end is here. And so I face the final curtain. My friend, I'll say it clear. I'll state my case, of which I'm certain. I thought I knew them all, every nineties Vertigo comic in ev'ry way. And more, much more than this, I read them my way.

But The Heart of the Beast hardcover by Sean Phillips and Dean Motter was an enigma in a back issue bin waiting to be found. Published a year after the rise of Vertigo in 1993, when conglomerate DC / Warner Bros decided to step away from the superhero kiddie stuff and launch an imprint for mature readers. Karen Berger rose to the challenge and climbed her way to the top on the bodies of small children everywhere as they found out that their immaculately saved money in the piggy bank no longer provided long underwear heroics but crime, fantasy and horror. I for one embraced the Vertigo imprint like a mental patient stuck between a cheerleading troupe.

I loved it all unabashedly. From Hellblazer to Doom Patrol to Enigma, a new world had been thrown at my feet, ready to be buried under my comics cash. I assume that The Heart of the Beast received a green light right around the formation of Vertigo. I ass-u-me because this particular GN is a fully painted Gothic fantasy by the skillful hands of Sean Philips and written by Dean Motter and Judith Dupré and, as we all know, painted comics take like a bazillion years to paint.

So, The Heart of the Beast ... there's already something in that title, cluedo time! Is it a Gothic horror story full of soul searching and hard decisions crossing oceans of time, Sisters of Mercy playing in the background, eyes black with running mascara? As it turns out, it's not so bad. Instead of the traditional Gothic, the Gothic is transported to the Eighties yuppie environment. So we get Bret Easton Ellis who breathes new life into Mary Shelly's creation but without the dildos and stuff. And the Gothic is more medieval Gothic than the social trappings and visuals the term is associated with nowadays. No Japanese dress up Lolitas here.

No, this immortal monster finds himself trapped in the Eighties between bad Michael J. Fox movies and Frankie goes to Hollywood. His face and body remade into a handsome visage by a seemingly benevolent plastic surgeon-slash-gallery owner, he is caught between his desire for a normal peaceful live and the circumstances this desire has lead him to. Caught between a shot at love and the exigency of fighting the rage that torments his soul like the lightning that created him. His benefactor's charitable hand is not free from illegal dealings and out of (misplaced) trust, the monster is sucked in again by a corrupt father figure, a patriarchal model that turns out to be just as egocentric as his first one, his creator. Victor does not actively wish to participate in a world of aggression but where his fellows in crime act aggressively without feelings of remorse or guilt, the monster's soul rears up and ... well that would be telling now, wouldn't it? Like the great Oscar Wilde said "Morality, like art, means drawing a line somewhere."

Dean Motter and Judith Dupré - having been in the art business herself - manage to come up with a rather fascinating setting within the world of art and galleries. They do tend to generalise their world though and take their cheap shots at modern art rather easily (transformative reinterpretations) and it's fascination for interpretation - which kind of always sets my radar beeping because it can be so ... effortless - but obviously they want to juxtapose it with Victor's feelings about classic art that possesses a craftsmanship the world has never seen before like Rembrandt and Goya. The story is told from two perspectives: Victor the monster and Sandra, the actress cum waitress who falls in love with the mysterious art lover cum Victor. Their relationship gives the tale a nice double take on on one hand the ethicality of their actions and on the other hand a double point of view of the unfolding proceedings. It injects humanity and delivers a play on experience and knowledge, the wise old man and the young innocent girl.

Sean Phillips takes the risque route here opting for watercolors in combination with photographs. Again, radar beeping. Fumetti comix almost invariably turn out to be stiff and staged - except for the occasional Dave McKean page - and until Adobe Photoshop integrates some quantum mesh tool features, I guess it will still be a while before we can overcome that hurdle. Phillips though is an immaculate draftsman and takes a more off kilter route opting to integrate parts of pictures with either a fuzzy focus or a long exposure time. The interleaving then takes on a different meaning because it becomes more about the flowing together of bright spots and twirling colours instead off a figurative photograpical component in combination with painted figures. Phillips is an immaculate draftsman and although you can see a little less variation in his faces and body gestures than he possesses today, you can't really say anything bad about the art. It looks fabulous.

The Heart of the Beast succeeds mostly, not as a fantasy tale, not as a horror story (there's really not much horror in the book at all) but as a morality play. A take on the human condition from an outsider who desperately wants nothing more than to be part of humanity, realising along the way that even your most innocent aspirations can lead to torment. Motter, Dupré and Phillips craft a compelling story but the character arc ultimately leaves you hanging a bit with a coming too soon action-oriented conclusion. Despite the minor setback at the ending, put on those white gloves, pull down your infrared spectacles and go spelunking in those dusty corners where cheap back issues seem to reside in comic shops globally.