"Why Won't You Come Over Here? We Got a City to Love." : Forgetless

People love New York. It's true. There are even t-shirts available that proclaim that very statement, complete with a big red heart to symbolize all that juicy love. It's a city of dreams, of hustlers and playboys, chorus girls and rockers, artists and writers, all of whom are probably waiting tables as you read this. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, according to Frank. Sinatra, that is, but you knew that. It's a city where you can famously get anything you want at any hour of the day. You can order Chinese, a new sofa, and a bag of marijuana, and have them all delivered to your doorstep at 3 A.M. by a bike messenger who's studying Romance Languages at NYU. New York City. There's nothing you can't do, according to Alicia. Keys, that is, but you knew that.

People hate New York. It's true. There are even t-shirts available that proclaim that. Well, actually, they read "Yankees Suck", but that's pretty much the same thing. It's an equivalent, The Bronx Bombers being such a symbol for the city. New York is a dirty, dense, over-crowded urban tangle of concrete and garbage piled in endless mounds on every street. The summers are thick with sticky humidity; the winters clogged with dirty, befouled icy slush; the air throughout the canyons reeking of urine regardless of season. There is never a moments peace in New York City, as the streets and sidewalks remain crowded with cabs and delivery men, dropping off furniture and Chinese food at all hours of the day. Rents are impossibly high, only the trust-fund generation can live comfortably, and all the artists and writers, chorus girls and rockers, are forced to wait tables and live in studios in Queens with three roommates apiece. Most people are so rent-poor they spend their time feeling beat down, trapped, that there's nothing they can do.

New York City is complicated. Peoples' feelings toward New York often are informed by the fantasy of NYC, the televised image of endless flickering re-runs of Seinfeld and Law & Order, Sex & The City and Friends. They feel the pulse of the city in the endless looping mixtape of indigenous music; the wail of a Charlie Parker alto solo that gives way to the simmering strum of Bob Dylan that leads into the dissonant drone of the Velvet Underground that begets the three-chord blast of glue-sniffing Ramones that births the post-Modern nostalgic ennui of The Strokes. New York exists in all five senses, for better or worse. You can smell the city, taste it, even. There is a taste in the winter in Mid-Town that is unmistakable, almost disgusting, yet oddly comforting, because despite the funk of it, it's New York. It's home.

Art that attempts to deal with New York so often embodies these complications. The City inspires it. It inspires contradictions and hypocrisy. A New York comedian will travel all the way to Los Angeles to produce a ground-breaking sit-com about New York, with references and insider humor, and film it all on open sets of one-sided flats in a soundstage in Burbank. Another show will be filmed on the very real streets of Manhattan, will itself, also, be filled with insider humor and references, and will take over the cultural landscape with it's fairy-tale romantic vision of the modern dating rituals of well-heeled professional women. Neither will be completely realistic. Both will be more uncomfortably honest than was probably originally intended. Both will polarize, spark passion and revulsion, and serious, often hyperbolic debate. It's the City that does it to them.

Darla Danberry loves New York. Darla Danberry is a teenaged girl from South Jersey who wears a garish red faux-fur Russian ushanka and white leather 8-hole Doc Marten boots. She designs clothes, has a gay male BFF named David who spins, records that is. He DJ's in playgrounds because he's a teenager, too. They both have a friend named Leigh who, well, doesn't say much of anything. She's just there with them, an anchor of chill to keep the group together. They're childhood friends who've grown up together in the 'burbs of the Big Apple, and have all internalized the common malady of kids raised in Jersey, that of inbred inferiority combined with grandiose ambitions. They're wannabes. They wannabe creative, famous, and most importantly, free. They wannabe free. They wannabe older so they can get into the big club nights, run their own parties, live the televised fantasy of New York. They are kids with Big City DREAMS, in all caps. They've drank the fairy-tale Kool-Aid and on the side of the bottle are the letters N-Y-C.

Sara Schmidt hates New York. Sara Schmidt is a college-aged quote-unquote model living in downtown Manhattan who doesn't seem to like much of anything, except a particularly bad late-night talk show host, oh, and killing people. For money. That's what she really does for a living. She's a model ostensibly only because she's signed to one of the many random model agencies that populate New York; in actuality she's been hired by a shadow agency, that apparently also deals in low-budget downtown pornography, as a covert assassin. Sara is essentially heartless; taking the demeanor of cool-as-ice aloofness of your average urban hipster and typical too-cool-for-school teenager to a ruthless extreme. She won't just make fun of the clothes you wear or the music you listen to, she'll stab you sixty times with a knife. Without blinking. She's a disease, too. She infects her roommate Sonia, also a wannabe model, and recruits her into the little group of killers. They're wannabes, too. They wannabe on the covers of Vogue, supposedly. Really, it seems, they just wannabe making money while staving off boredom.

Then there is Derrick, a college-aged prankster, aimless and shuffling, who loves New York so much he copulates with it, literally. He has sex with inanimate objects - buildings, espresso machines, mops - and films it, posts it online. He is an internet star, his videos garnering hundreds of thousands of hits a day. In the city built by men such as Carnegie, Morgan, and Rockefeller, a city that celebrates the ideals of self-actualization, therein enter Derrick, the self-made celebrity, thrusting away in a crack in the Empire State Building. Most people feel screwed by the Big City; Derrick returns the favor.

This group of dreamers and schemers coalesce during the final night of the most famous party in New York, Forgetless. This is the story of Forgetless, the five-issue mini-series by writer Nick Spencer and artists Scott Forbes, Jorge Coelho, and Marley Zarcone. This is the bizarre, complicated, hilariously sick mess that is and is of NYC, and if it all sounds like it's too much, the truth is that it's not even enough. Five issues barely contains this story, one so full of life and vitality, that even it's most ludicrous moments ring with resonant truth. It's that uncomfortable artistic contradiction rearing around again; this is truth dressed in the most unbelievably ridiculous fiction.

Everything here is truth, stood on it's head a bit. Struggling artists exasperatedly cry out every day 'who do I have to kill to get some recognition around here?'. Well, Sara and Sonia take that to heart and push it to it's logical conclusion, literally killing their way through Manhattan for prosperity and consumer goods. Perhaps killing isn't your thing. Maybe you'd prefer to sleep your way to the top. Well, Derrick seems to have that strategy down cold, except the objects of his rutting are not people in powerful positions who could reward him his sexual favors with career advancement and money, but the very objects and consumer products that are generally seen as the end result of fame. He is screwing your architecture and all your mod cons, and creating his own fame. These three people have figured out that the system is theirs to break apart and make for themselves. Unfortunately, what they wish to make for themselves is only themselves. The end product is narcissism. So self-absorbed are they, they barely know how to communicate with each other, dealing instead through text messages and Twitter posts, FaceBook status updates and Flickr albums.

The story of Darla, David, and Leigh is the real heart and soul of this book. These three are the inverse of the above group, and they are a nostalgic throwback to innocence wrapped up in an outward package of street-savvy wiseacre-ness. Darla Danberry may rock the sarcastic 'tude of a teenaged hipster, but she bears none of the aloofness. She is intelligent, clever, and in possession of the type of passion that probably makes her the target of scorn by the "cool" kids in her Jersey high school. (Cool kids always hate anyone who displays any kind of real passion.) She's friends with David because he, too, is driven to greater things, passionate about music and unashamed to wear his heart on his sleeve. These are the types of kids who feel put upon by a society that doesn't seem to want to help them out, so they learn to fight their way through it. They may scheme a little bit - sell a step-mom's dog through Craigslist, use the money to procure fake IDs - but they never do anything out of heartless malice, and everything is meant to serve the grand ideal of a greater, more noble purpose. Whereas Sara and Sonia find their way to Forgetless to perform a nefarious deed, Darla and David are fighting their way through the exclusive velvet ropes because inside be their dreams.

These stories form the beautiful duality that is the great paradox of New York City. It is a city that appreciates hard work, even forces it upon the citizenry - (a San Francisco psychiatrist once warned me, upon my telling her of my want to move back to New York, that New Yorkers live, on average, five years less than residents of other major American cities. I've not verified this, but instead of putting me off the idea, it caused me to move up my move date. C'est la vie.) - all with the unspoken promise that that hard work will be rewarded. But as any hardcore hustler, and hip-hop mogul, will tell you, the hard work can take many forms. And the city rewards just the same.

Writer Nick Spencer weaves these tales with effortless skill and shows off a remarkably powerful knack for dialogue. Every character has a unique voice, a specific cadence and vernacular that makes them full and unique. They are not a group of "youth types" out of Central Casting, whose sarcastic dialogue could be entirely interchangeable. Each character speaks words natural to them, to their experiences. Spencer has done an outstanding job of writing very real people and by doing so, using them to ground the surreality that surrounds them. The situations don't seem as bizarre when read in context because these people are so genuine. It causes the parts of the story that are sick and depraved to ring even more frightening, while the parts that show heart and zeal shine with true hopefulness. That he gives all these characters, to varying degrees, some form of "happy ending" at series end, is a true testament to Spencer's deftness.

The art of the book is equally accomplished and yet stylistically mixed. Scott Forbes brings a clean quality to his pages; a thin line weight and shiny surface that gives Sara and Sonia that gaunt under-fed model look. He provides a world where backgrounds are sparse color fields blurred around the edge, as if large-scale Rothko's have been hung to form stage flats for sets. This allows the bold expressiveness of his characters to pop even more.

Jorge Coelho's work is far more detailed and carries with it the essence of underground comics in that it provides a cartoony veneer to very realistic settings. He draws the majority of issue #4, which centers on the story of a certain talk-show host as he tells tale of his sexual activities involving online personal ads and a Koala suit. His work fits this perfectly; certain panels having a mid-60's MAD Magazine vibe to them which accentuates the deviant tone of this chapter.

The true stand-out art star of this series would be Marley Zarcone, who is responsible for drawing the entirety of the "Jersey" story line. It is an absolute triumph. Her storytelling is seamless and flows with a graceful ease, never once losing momentum. Her characters crackle with living energy; she has given each one a soul that is unique to them. Zarcone's real success is Darla Danberry. Darla is the engine that moves this entire series; she is a stand-out figure whose personality looms large on the city landscape, and Zarcone fills her with blood and guts, humanity and verve, right down to the David Letterman-style gap between her two front teeth. Spencer gives some of the funniest and sharpest lines to Darla and Zarcone sets about to match the pose, posture, facial expression perfectly to drive each witticism, each barb, each deft turn of phrase deep into the skin. By stories end, Darla positively lives and breathes as surely as a person standing next to you on the subway. I can't imagine reading too many more characters stronger than she in comics this year. Darla Danberry is my new hero, and Zarcone and Spencer stand as the hero-makers.

There is a famous book, by a famous British author, that's famously about two very famous cities. It opens with a very famous line about the contrasting nature of these two bustling metropolises. In one city, things are going quite well, one might even say it was the best of times. In the other city, not so much, perhaps described depressingly as the worst of times. This is really the everyday existence in New York City, and perhaps you would have had to live there for some time to fully understand that. Then again, a certain sit-com about a Jewish comedian on the West Side was originally thought to be too New York-y, too Jewish, and it went on to conquer the world. When a work of art, regardless of medium strikes the right notes, it transcends location and time, transcends the boundaries of ethnicity and geography. Forgetless is a New York story, through and through. It vibrates with the very rhythms that propel that city and it's populace every single wonderfully lousy, god-forsaken day. It recognizes the heartbreak of the City, laments that which is seemingly missing, like an amputee forlorn over a lost limb. Yet it celebrates the ability for New York to provide redemption, hope, and even miracles at any given moment. Serendipity isn't just a candy store, it's a way of life. In a City of dreams. In a City where anything is possible. It's 3 A.M. Your dream is here.
............................

It's Witchcraft: Zatanna!

In October of 1954, the Comics Magazine Association of America, a collective of comics publishers, distributors, and printers, held a press conference to announce the creation of what would be known as the Comics Code, a set of self-imposed guidelines aimed at cleaning up the comics and salvaging the business as it faced the death knell of government censorship. Amongst the codes' original 41 requirements were such stipulations as:

-Scenes dealing with ... walking dead, torture, ... ghouls, ... and werewolfism are prohibited.
-Suggestive and salacious illustration or suggestive posture is unacceptable.
-Females shall be drawn realistically without exaggeration of any physical qualities.

Hmm.... No ghouls and ghosties? No walking dead or demons, nor devils and minions of the netherworld? No suggestive and elongated posturing or embellishment of the female form? All this considered, it's a very good thing for Paul Dini and Stephane Roux, and DC Comics, that we find ourselves not in the repressed and closed-minded world of 1950's America, for what would be left of Zatanna? Pulped down to a mere pamphlet one would think. Good for us, too, for this is a top-notch comic and a welcome addition to the DCU landscape.

Now, now, prudes and watchdogs, before one gets the impression that this fine monthly title brings with it only the salacious, the lurid, the dark and murky, dressed up in curvaceous fishnets and black patent-leather, let's be clear; it's all those things, but with STORY! and CHARACTERIZATION! and even a little bit of HEART! thrown in. Dammit if this comic doesn't make you care.

Zatanna is a most intriguing character, one who has so often been merely a bit of window-dressing on the fringe of the Justice League, brought in when a spell or some quick teleportation is needed, or just to add some sexual spice to the mix. She is, after all, a walking gallery of fetish from head to toe. Thigh-high patent-leather boots glistening wet and glossy encasing her strong calves; fishnet stockings forming a lattice wrapping up to her hips; tight brocade waistcoat cinching in her waist, pushing up her ample bosom that is nestled in the crisp clean cotton of tuxedo shirt topped with bow-tie; the masculine energy of the fitted tuxedo jacket with tales adds the element of playful androgyny, as do the fitted white gloves and tall top hat that finish off the look. Add the flowing cape and one has all the elements to fuel the fires of endless sexual fantasy. Just putting her in a panel, in a group scene, immediately adds a sensual energy to the dynamic. She almost requires no dialogue, no real characterization. This is her curse.

It is a sad curse, too, because there is an undeniable charm, grace, and devilish mystery to the character of Zatanna that is brought out by the best writers (and sometimes worst) that touches on how much more she could be, if given the space. Say, like her own 22 pages of space every month. Oh, look, like magic, here it is!

Writer Paul Dini, best known for his work in Warner Bros. animation and on a long run on Detective Comics, has been tasked with bringing the great magician to life and making us care about her as more than just fetish. He does so with seeming ease. Three issues in and Zatanna has struck out as a strong and credible character and formidable superhero, with deft humor and cleverness. She is fearless in battle, ready to step into the lair of a villain without breaking a sweat, and when faced with attack both mystical and physical, shows her skill not just with the casting of spells, but also with the throwing of a punch when the need arises.

Dini has given her a base of operations in the beautiful, fog-drenched hills of San Francisco, and given her a sense of purpose, to aid law-enforcement with her expertise in the dark arts of sorcery and magic. When San Francisco's finest stumble upon a gangland killing in a nightclub, and discover the bodies of the human victims have been transformed into toads and pigs, they call in Zee. She swoops in like a plainclothes detective in (stylish) trench coat and lays down the supernatural CSI routine without batting a long Maybelline eyelash. She takes care of business, see, no fishnets required. Dini writes Zee with an element of noir-ish "dame", a gal-Friday for our Modern Times; it fits perfectly with the setting and tone of the book. Don't be fooled by the abracadabra and hocus-pocus, this is West Coast crime fiction; Sunshine Noir without the sunshine.

But this is comics, kids. These are the picture books, the funnies the younger generation is going mad for. We want those salacious and lurid drawings of the exaggerated female form that spits in the eyes of your Comics Code. We want hell-spawn demons and dream-stealing imps, brought to oozing and dripping life in vivid color. We want comics in all their glory, and here, thanks to the wonderful work of artist Stephane Roux, we get it, and we get it so good. There is more to his art, though, than mere cheesecake and gore, and in actuality, those terms seem dirty when describing Roux's art, for it transcends those crude descriptors by leaps. His Zatanna is no helium-filled inked up sexual marker; she is a full-bloodied woman of strong emotion and power of expression. Roux animates her face with such ferocity in certain panels that one feels Zee's face may burst off the page. Zee doesn't just merely say her dialogue and cast her spells, she feels it all naturally, experiences every line as if it is being brought forth from deep inside her. Her laughter, her tears, her veracity, her compassion are all real and honest. And when there are moments where we are afforded a sly glimpse of protruding hip or décolletage, it doesn't seem exploitative in the least; she is an attractive, sexual woman, and is empowered enough to be allowed to be all of herself, all the time. Roux presents her as a work of art; she exists already, he is only drawing her essence.

The real remarkable magic with Zatanna is in the span of three issues, it has managed to give a often misused character a strong foundation for a long and healthy run into A-list relevancy. The ghouls and walking dead, the suggestive illustration are all part and parcel to what makes this magic work. It's not simply about the ingredients, however, but how those ingredients are used. Dini and Roux prove to be fine artisans crafting together a strong work of comics art. Spellbinding stuff, indeed.
...........................

Oh, that little Comics Code? It's still around, by the by. You can still catch the seal of the CMAA on an ever-dwindling random assortment of titles. (There it is, under the #54, on this months Supergirl.) The original administrator of the Comics Code was a man by the name of Charles F. Murphy, and he enforced the code with an unflinching ruthlessness. He's gone now, as is the real power and meaning of the Code. Now, we are left with all the full-color zombies, bloody murder, gratuitous mayhem and unbridled sex we could possibly choke down. Have we won the fight for freedom of speech? Mostly. The battle for good taste? Always questionable.
............................

Zatanna #3, written by Paul Dini with art by Stephane Roux, was released on 21 July, 2010, by DC Comics.

Further reading on the Comics Code: "The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic-Book Scare and How It Change America" by David Hajdu, published by Picador, New York.

Madame Xanadu R.I.P.?

When I first started this particular blog here you find yourself reading, it was for the dual purposes of satisfying my overwhelming need to over-think and overanalyze every comic I read, and to serve as a vehicle with which to practice my writing. What better way to force myself to write than to cover something I have an undying love for, namely comics. The intriguing thing for me, that I discovered early on, was that writing about comics forced me to dig deeper into them than I originally foresaw. Comics I didn't particular like would show themselves to be better when looked at through the microscope of critical analysis. The attempt to put my feelings into words, into paragraphs, into cohesive and understandable essays that would clearly express my feelings forced me to see things I would not have normally seen. I learned a great deal about myself, what I truly loved, what I truly found disappointing. One of these personal discoveries was that I have a very real sensitivity to the way female characters are portrayed in genre comics, specifically superhero comics.

So, here's how it happened. I came up with the name, Desperate Worlds, (more on this title some other time), I bought the domain, I started the blog, and I looked over the comics released that week to decide which one would find itself as the inaugural write-up. There was really no question about it, actually, because I knew that I would start with my favorite issue of that week, Madame Xanadu #9, released 25 March, 2009. To say that I was starting this whole blog with the express purpose of writing about this comic would be only slightly disingenuous. In fact, it was important that this title be the first. It was important to me.

Let me be clear in all kinds of ways, I was and still am in love with Madame Xanadu, and by this I mean the character specifically, not just the book. If you have never fallen in love with a particular fictional character then I truly feel sorry for you. I'm speaking of real honest-to-goodness adoration, not simply fan-worship; but a true attraction to a particular character's depth, charm, elegance, wit, intelligence, and, yes, beauty. Those are all the things I fell for when I discovered this book back in 2008. This woman, this titular heroine, was everything I admired in a strong woman, and yet flawed enough to register as real and relatable. She was what all superheroes are supposed to be, extremely driven to do the right thing, to pursue justice, to be fair, to help those who find themselves victimized by society, by crime, by forces they cannot begin to understand. The girl couldn't help herself. Nimue (her birth name) lives to serve humanity, to make the world a better and safer place for those who seek her help. What's not to love here?

The credit for this goes to the superior creative team of writer Matt Wagner and artist Amy Reeder, who designed the current incarnation of the character as well as drew most the of the current titles' run. Together they created a woman and a universe fully-formed, living and breathing, pulsating off the page. Whether the story took place in the medieval forests of Europe or the humid urban streets of mid-Century Manhattan, it was always filled with intricate and charming details that lent character and power to the tales being spun. This book stands as an example of what magic can be wrought out of a truly collaborative creative effort by a team that so obviously cares. This book has been an absolute joy to behold every month.

Looking over these past few paragraphs I notice, and you may have too, that I seem to be oscillating between tenses. I keep veering from past to present tense when referring to the book. I seem to be at a loss, and the reason is simply, that today, rumor has run rampant on the internet that Madame Xanadu has found itself on the chopping block. The cancellation pile may have grown by one more title and I couldn't be sicker about it. While nothing has been officially confirmed, usually these rumors have a nasty way of panning out to bear truth. So, I describe my love, as she sits on her death bed, not quite in the past tense, yet with difficulty in using present tense. It is uncomfortable to speak of the dead while breath still occupies the body.

I read back over that first review of Madame Xanadu #9 with a bit of cringe on my visage. It is not my best piece of writing, a bit forced in parts, perhaps repetitive and contrived; still, it makes valid points I still believe to this day. The most important part of the piece is that my admiration for the book, the character, and the creators who brought both to life, comes through with clarity and shine. I did not waver then in my feelings and I do not waver now. Past and present tense served well.

If the end is truly nigh for Madame Xanadu I will find myself saddened at it's passing. It will feel like losing a dear friend, one that came to visit me regularly for the last two years of my life. I will miss the woman, her stories, her very presence in the stack of comics I will hold under my arms as I leave the shop on Wednesday mornings; her very presence in my life. I look at the issues now, as they sit encased in bag and board filed neatly in longbox, and I feel a deep warmth at being able to pull them out now and hold them. The tangibility of art is something that is very important, something especially important with the comics medium. It is not simply about treating issues as collectible items, speculating on their potential for increased monetary value. It is about the beauty of being able to hold onto the stuff of life in ones hand. I will hold onto those issues of Madame Xanadu as dear objects containing great stories of sorcery, magic, history, romance, pain and pleasure, heartbreak and triumph; of one strong and vibrant woman who possessed incredible powers, none more incredible than her compassion.

Thank you.
...........................

Previous reviews on Desperate Worlds:
Madame Xanadu #23
Moments of the Year: Madame Xanadu #7
Madame Xanadu #17
Madame Xanadu #16
Madame Xanadu #12
Madame Xanadu #10
Madame Xanadu #9
............................

DW welcomes writer Nick Spencer to DC!!

In recent weeks, DC Comics has been on an announcement spree, regaling the comics-reading public with news of new creative talent joining the ranks of the legacy publisher. Of these many announcements, the most exciting for me was that of writer Nick Spencer joining the fold to tell the stories of Superman's pal, the one and only Jimmy Olsen. Starting in Action Comics #893, Spencer will pen the back-up feature focusing on the world's most famous bow-tie wearing photojournalist.

Mr. Spencer's most recent work has been on several critically acclaimed books published by Image Comics, including the recently concluded Forgetless, and Shuddertown, the third issue of which releases shortly. Forgetless told the tale of two different groups of young hipster urbanites made up variously of struggling models, internet stars, and Jersey kids, who come crashing together as their lives converge in Manhattan for the closing night of a famous nightclub. It presented a warped yet real view of modern New York City with a biting and fearless satire. Contrast this with Shuddertown, it being the very dark and dirty story of a drug-addled homicide detective trying to solve a group of murders that are seemingly being committed by dead perps, and one sees very quickly the breathtaking range Mr. Spencer possesses.

What will Mr. Spencer bring to his time in Metropolis? In an interview with the website Comic Book Resources, the writer provides his perspective on the urban environment that is the backdrop of the Superman Universe:

"One thing we talked a lot about during the pitch process was the idea that, in a place like Metropolis, there are all these young people who live and work in close proximity to these awe-inspiring heroes and villains, and they sort of build up the infrastructure that makes all the high-action stuff we see in comics normally possible in the first place. In a city like this, there would be a lot of interns, entry-level post-grads and junior executives for whom guys like Steel, Booster Gold and Lex Luthor aren't far-away legends; they get their coffee, handle their schedules and write up their press releases every day. The closest real world comparison I can make is to Washington, D.C., where you have all these idealistic younger types doing a lot of the behind the scenes work for The President and The Senate and whoever. Metropolis is exactly the same way, except there, we're talking about The Daily Planet, S.T.A.R. Labs, Steelworks, LexCorp, etc. Jimmy, semi-famously known as Superman's Pal, basically the closest thing he's ever had to a sidekick, would obviously be a very big part of that scene. It's a pretty interesting position to put him in and impacts our story in a lot of different ways."

Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen has a long and storied history within the DCU. It is a hallmark of the much-maligned/much-beloved Silver Age, giving us great moments of bizarre adventure and indelible images such as Jimmy Olsen as Turtle Boy. Mr. Spencer seems an inspired choice to marry a modern sensibility with a satirist's irreverence and play with that in the most legendary playground in comics. Combined with writer Paul Cornell and artist Pete Woods who are producing the main feature, it would seem Action Comics is primed to return as a premier title on the racks once again.
............................

Action Comics #893 by Paul Cornell, Pete Woods, and Nick Spencer is scheduled for release on 29 September, 2010 by DC Comics.

"How Could It Be Over" - Batman #701

At first, it's difficult to understand why this issue exists. Sub-titled as "R.I.P. The Missing Chapter", it implies that parts of that story, somehow were lost in the fray, misplaced in the mad-rush of deadlines and story meetings. Pages needed to be off at the printers, you see, and they just didn't have time. Now, here it is. Brought into existence. Your questions finally answered, right? You had questions, didn't you? Surely. If only it were that simple.

Let's begin. Everyone who read "Final Crisis" or is currently reading any of writer Grant Morrison's Bat-Universe books now, surely already knew that Bruce Wayne survived the helicopter crash at the end of "R.I.P." The only mystery here would be to explain how, and really, the answer to that is already inherent in the story: he survives, because he is Batman. The opening sequence of issue #701 serves to explain no survival technique, only to show Bruce swimming away from the devastated wreckage of the copter, narrating to us, through his journal, that he survived because it's what he does. The sequence is exquisite and possibly the strongest work done by artist Tony Daniel on the Batman title. The pacing and flow of panels is strong, and the final moments of Bruce hauling himself up onto a dock and sitting there unmasked as fires rage and police helicopters swarm in the distance is a rare beautiful moment of stillness for a character so often depicted as full of unbridled rage. While nothing new is offered here in terms of story, it's a sparkling character moment, a chance to see the man in the moments after the case is solved and the last punches have been thrown. This is Batman after the credits roll and we all go home.

Perhaps you'd been wondering how "R.I.P." bridged to "Final Crisis", the book in which Batman stares down an angry dying God and plants a toxic bullet in him before being tasered by magical eye-beams that shoot him off into the time-stream. (Yeah, it's awesome.) Issue #701 gives us the moment when Superman comes calling on Bruce to join with the Justice League on a planetary emergency, that being the murder of the God Orion. But, really this plays itself out in "Last Rites" the two-issue arc that was released immediately following "R.I.P.". Some of the conversation between Bruce and Alfred is even repeated verbatim. We already knew that the Justice League called their number one detective in. Why must this scene be played out again, and now under the guise of a 'missing' chapter? Again, it's not that simple.

It would seem that these scenes are now playing out from a more personal perspective, not just as plot points to be moved about to further the story. In "Last Rites", Bruce simply tells Alfred that the JLA called. It's a straightforward and simple explanation that pulls him into the storm of "Final Crisis". Here, we see Bruce witness the Red Skies event that accompanied the death of Orion. As he gazes into the sky with Alfred he comments, "How soon before we hear from someone who can fly?" In his journal narration, he refers to his colleagues, these people who can fly, as "super-people". There is a tell in his comments and his use of language that speaks to the disconnect he feels between himself and these super-powered beings. "...sometimes they forget I'm flesh and blood.", he writes in the aftermath of a case that tested that very theory. After everything he has endured and survived, how can he be anything other than "super" himself? How can he not be seen by Superman and Wonder Woman as anything other than their equal? In this moment, he is so beaten he almost wants them to treat him as just a man in a cape and mask. It's shockingly touching.

Bruce does not call in sick, of course. Batman takes no sick days nor personal time, and when Superman calls because a God has been murdered, his body dumped on Earth, Batman suits up, climbs in the Bat-Plane and heads off to the clubhouse meeting of the JLA. He proceeds, as he sees it, to his inevitable fall. As he does so, he asks himself one simple question, "How could it be over?" Like a child being pulled away from an amusement park after a very long day of thrills, he asks as though surprised at where the time went. How did 70 years pass so quickly? How can it all be over now? There is a scene in "R.I.P." where Jezebel Jet lectures Bruce about his life, calls him out on his paranoia, stating that his exploits as Batman are the cries for help of a stunted adolescent still coping with the violent death of his parents. Essentially, she says what many have thought through the years, that he is an overgrown lost-boy, dressed up in costumes, parading around in tricked-out cars and planes, loaded down with toys of every imaginable stripe. He is still a little kid playing at being a ninja in the backyard, except he has made those adventures real. And now, while dressed as a bat sitting in a plane shaped like a bat, flying off on what may be his last adventure, he laments the possibility of the end of his days as Batman.

Of course, we know it's not his last days as Batman, merely the odd beginning of yet another bizarre and mind-bending adventure. Bruce Wayne is always Batman, and will always be Batman. It's as simple as that.
............................

Batman #701 written by Grant Morrison, with art by Tony Daniel, was released on 14 July, 2010, by DC Comics.

"Hello, Little Ghost." - iZombie #3

On one of the several stints I did in New York, I let slip in a cafe in Astoria, Queens, that I had been a fan of the television show 'Friends', to which was met with some very slight agape looks. Yes, I realized, especially as a rent-poor New Yorker, that the exploits of a group of Gen-Xers with low-paying jobs as massage therapists, line cooks, and bit actors living in great apartments in the Village while dating, flirting, and sleeping within their small incestuous group was (only) somewhat  unrealistic. I didn't care. I still don't. I stand by my belief that it was, for the most part, a clever and humorous show that embodied the essence of New York if not the reality of it. It was a fantasy world where your best friend lived next door and could walk in at any time to comfort you or make you laugh, because, hey, the door is conveniently left unlocked, you know, to make the impromptu entrance easier. Filmed in a three-camera style that seems antiquated now in our single-camera filmed-like-a-movie sophisticated alt-comedy world, 'Friends' is now a throw-back to a simpler pre-9/11 New York time. I love it more now than I did then.

What does this have to do with a zombie comic? iZombie, the new Vertigo series by Chris Roberson and Michael Allred, embodies a similar innocent spirit and wraps it all up in a classic movie-monster motif painted day-glo Laugh-In colors. The main characters consist of a brain-eating zombie, a ghost from the Sixties complete in Nancy Sinatra ensemble, and a man who turns into a terrier every month on the full-moon. Throw in a group of sexy supermodel vampires, two monster hunters, and a mystery involving a spooky house on the hill, and you've got the makings of something truly bizarre and thoroughly entertaining, not to mention, utterly charming in a retro-milk-and-cookies way.

That's what made me think about 'Friends'. This group of hipsters hang out at a local coffee shop and are the only friends each other really seem to have. They dress in vintage clothing, either by ironic choice or because they, well, died in the clothing and are stuck in their era, and one even has a crush on the other, setting up a will-they-won't-they scenario á la Ross and Rachel. It's a sit-com in comic book form.

iZombie #3 is the first issue to really pull away from the exposition station and start moving down the tracks toward storyville. This issue sees the intertwining story lines of vampire hunters and monster-friends literally crash into each other, as our heroine-zombie Gwen, has a meet-cute with monster-hunter Horatio. (Yes, I love hyphens!) They run into each other outside the coffee shop like high-school kids in the hall after homeroom. The dashing Horatio helps Gwen to her feet, and their eyes meet in a moment of instant attraction. The gruff hipster-facade Gwen wears slips as she is overcome by her feelings of desire for this mysterious square-jaw new on the scene. It's also a moment of revelation for the comic, as it introduces the element of romance to the already overflowing mix. It's wonderful.

iZombie could really be titled something along the lines of Racy Horror or Spicy Mystery with taglines like "Zombies in Love!" It's truly a sweetly innocent interpretation of the Bill Gaines EC-style comics of the 1950's as filtered through a 'Scooby-Doo Where Are You?' kaleidoscope. These meddling kids are going to solve this mystery, save the town, and maybe groove to some right-on tunes before all is finished. For now, Gwen and company can let themselves in, the door is open.

iZombie #3, written by Chris Roberson, with art by Michael Allred, was released on 8 July, 2010 by Vertigo Comics.
...........................

Review: Brightest Day #3

Brightest Day #3

Writers: Geoff Johns & Peter J. Tomasi
Artists: Various
Inkers: Various
DC
Released: May 3, 2010





Brightest Day #3 is a middling issue. It is not offensively bad nor insulting, nor poorly done. There is nothing shameful about it, nor embarrassing to the gaggle of writers and artists who worked on it. It just happens to not be very good. This is a strange instance in any art form, when something achieves status as indifferent. It's a book on a shelf, that takes up space, or a canvas on a wall in a gallery that people pass but don't really notice; it's there but it doesn't have to be. You could replace it with a block of wood or a stapled up wad of newsprint, and it would serve the same function. It exists. That's it.

When nothing of real consequence happens to the characters involved, that tends to make the overall message of the work seem empty, and that's what happens here. It's a lot of set-up and prologue and repetitive exposition, and then it's over, and you sit there, holding this comic in your hands, with the realization that you read nothing at all.

This issue follows the same template as the three issues prior; there is one scene devoted to each of the characters who were resurrected at the end of Blackest Night. Fair and balanced this approach may be, but it also is extremely limiting, as it affords no real amount of space to develop any one story line with any meat at all. The scene with Martian Manhunter is dry exposition as he talks to himself, repeating to us bits of story from previous issues. It's two pages in which the highlight is him sticking his hand into a dog's head to "see" what the dog saw at a crime scene. This is followed by him flying off with ominous words about something that will happen, because nothing happens here, see, it's all going to happen soon. Promise.

The Aquaman scene is equally repetitive, in which we see the King of the Seas summon up a dead whale. Now, if the point of this story beat is to show us that he is summoning up dead sea creatures instead of living ones, well, that has already been demonstrated for us in a previous issue. It's already been talked about, so this story beat needs more to it to validate it taking up real estate. Sadly, there is nothing else, just Aquaman recounting, once again, how he was shunned by his people in Atlantis. This scene is four pages, two of which are dominated by very large single drawings. Again, this is valuable space taken up for no reason other than for unnecessarily repetitive exposition. (Not to mention how, now that her husband is back, it seems Mera, who was rendered so powerful and strong in Blackest Night, has been reduced back to being 'dutiful wife', there simply to hold her morose husband and prop up his ego. Barf!).

Every scene plays out in this same way and what this produces is a work that feels like it's made up of interludes. Which would be fine for one issue, maybe, if it were not for the fact that Brightest Day #2 also suffered from this same malady. So that's two issues, at least, where nothing substantial happens and characters with superpowers and amazing histories are seen just moping around feeling sorry for themselves while they speak obvious dialogue about things that may, eventually, happen. Four issues in and I no longer care about these characters, who were miraculously brought back from the dead, given new chances at life and love. It's the reverse of Blackest Night; it's about life and rebirth, yet it's completely lifeless, drained of all it's blood.

It's possible the main problem with Brightest Day is that the main characters it follows around are all B-level and lower, none of whom have commanded their own books in quite some time. The absence of one of the big five (Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, and Green Lantern) leaves this all feeling like a theater piece written for the understudies to get some reps in, and that's a shame. This would be a golden opportunity to showcase the supporting players in meaningful and strong stories that would allow them to ascend back to the top shelf in the DCU. One of the greatest triumphs of Blackest Night was the emergence of Mera as a wonderfully full and three-dimensional character. The weekly series 52 was mostly populated by supporting players, and it thrived, giving us strong and memorable stories of Booster Gold, Rene Montoya, Adam Strange and Steel. So it can't be just that there is no Superman or Wonder Woman for why this series is falling so flat so soon.

The shocking aspect of this is that the two writers responsible are ones who should understand this most of all. Johns was a main writer on 52 and the mastermind of Blackest Night, and Tomasi's run on Green Lantern Corps was a triumph of the power of story to uplift a book of a motley crew of supporting characters to critical acclaim and top sales. They are fanboys turned writers with editorial credits as long as your arm, both of whom understand the DCU better than your grandma, if your grandma was a Monitor. They both know it doesn't take a household name to make the marquee in order for a book to be good. It takes a great story. The terrible thing to ponder after reading this issue, is that maybe they just don't have one. Sad, because Aquaman deserves better, as do the Hawks and Martian Manhunter. Maybe they were better off dead?
............................

Review: Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne #2

Batman: The Return of Bruce Wayne #2 (of 6)

Writer: Grant Morrison
Artist: Frazier Irving
DC
Released: May 26, 2010






Writer Grant Morrison has, throughout his career, been saddled with the reputation as being a writer of dense and inscrutable comics. Lines of dialogue such as "... at that time our anti-entropy aegis will succumb to the unstoppable conclusion of the thermodynamic process.", probably does much to lend credence to this assessment. That this line is 'spoken' by a "biorganic archivist" that appears to be a horned rugby match-ball on top of a walking shag carpet doesn't help, either. Or, that it delivers this monologue whilst in a place called Vanishing Point, the terminus of a line known as Space A. Yes, a scene like this sure does give much fodder to those critics of his work who see him as self-indulgent and lost in his own mind. Pity them, really, because hating a scene such as this only shows their own lack of humor and imagination, and those are two things this book demands of its readers.

If one imagines the DC Universe as a living, breathing world, and that the characters who inhabit this world have experienced every single adventure that has been written for them, then one gets close to understanding this scene at Vanishing Point. Every single issue of every single book that has ever been written, saddle-stapled, and shipped to a spinner rack or bookstore near you, is not just a publishing history, but an actual history of a greater multiverse. Years ago, a planet exploded and a small rocket ship carrying an alien baby from that doomed world landed, not on Earth, but in the consciousness of a group of imaginative men who turned that lost child into a superhero, and that superhero into a franchise, and that franchise into a publishing house, a movie studio, and beyond. He wears an "S" on his chest, but there is a small "WB" on the back of his neck just under the hairline. This is a world that exists on paper, the kind that runs through printing presses, and the kind that's green and sits in our wallets. The DCU is a multi-faceted, multi-stringed instrument that builds on itself, twists in on itself, and collapses every which way it can, only to rise again in another new spot. This is what I see when I read a Grant Morrison DC comic.

The scenes in The Return of Bruce Wayne #2 that take place in Vanishing Point seem to encapsulate this idea well. When the Archivist describes Space B as, "an immense cosmic loom of converging and separating timelines. Each track a new vibration, a separate universe, a superstring on a mighty fretboard.", he is describing time as it exists within the confines of this story, time as it exists for the entirety of the DCU, as well as the shelves of your local comic shop. Every time you pick up a DC comic and open the pages, you are essentially plucking one of the superstrings on this cosmic guitar. See, it's not complicated. It's brilliant and actually quite fun.

It's also fun to watch our delusional and lost hero battle with a gigantic tentacled sea-beast that is actually a "hyperfauna" he has brought with him through the time-stream as he has landed in Gotham Village, the Puritanical forebear of modern Gotham. Yes, our Batman is actually a Pilgrim in this here comic, and, as Brother Mordecai, we witness him use those inherently astute detective skills to solve a murder the rest of the town was completely willing to lay at the feet of the devil. Whether in buckled hat and riding boots or in cape and cowl, Bruce is always the world's greatest detective, and Morrison does a wonderful job of allowing us to see that while "Batman" is a costume, a symbol that can be trademarked and put on breakfast cereal and trading cards, it is Bruce who is the soul and heart, as well as the brains of the operation, and he needs no copyrights to dole out truth and justice.

There is a beautiful romanticism to this issue, as well, as Bruce befriends a mysterious woman who lives on the outskirts of the forest, and may or may not have been responsible for summoning him from the dark gods. As a confused Bruce lay in her small cabin, weary from battling the sea-beast, babbling to himself, she calms him with the warm simple words, "...stay with me and I'll love you. Until the end of time." These words are both beautiful and stinging as throughout the course of the issue we see how immensely gargantuan the idea of time actually is, and we are faced with the knowledge that time will indeed some day come to end.

Detractors and critics will undoubtably claim that this is not Batman; that Batman lives in Gotham and fights Bat-villains while swinging on Bat-ropes and driving a Batmobile. Batman fighting "hyperfauna", time-traveling, stealing time-spheres, and scratching graffiti into cave-walls is really no Batman at all, but just the delusional fantasies of a writer who doesn't respect the traditions of the character. Those detractors are both right and wrong. Batman exists in Gotham, in the shadows, and swings in on a Bat-rope to punch out criminal scum in the nick of time, and he will exist as such for as long as we walk into comic shops and movie theaters to read and watch those adventures. Morrison is not disputing that nor overturning that tradition, he is simply plucking for us other strings on the fretboard, showing us the versatility and power of the character; and in doing so shows us the accessories and gimmicks of 70 years of stories are but mere window dressing, and that the man himself is what was truly the most interesting thing all this time. Bruce Wayne is truly indestructible. Throw him anywhere, at any point in time and space, and he will fight and claw his way towards survival, and he will change lives in the process. Bruce Wayne is a man and a character, a trademark and a copyright, an icon and an idea, that can not be destroyed. He will stay with us until the conclusion of the thermodynamic process. And we will love him.
...........................

Review: Madame Xanadu #23

Madame Xanadu #23

Writer: Matt Wagner
Penciler: Amy Reeder
Inker: Richard Friend
DC/Vertigo
Released: May 26, 2010





Unto every story falls the showdown, that moment where the paths of the protagonist and antagonist inevitably meet, the point at which good versus evil collide, often violently, when all other options have been exhausted. Madame Xanadu #23 presents us with that moment, as the story of sibling rivalry comes to conclusion with some hot sister-v.-sister action!

In this corner, in possession of immense heart, compassion, sorcery skills to rival all, and an extremely stylish wardrobe, in a lovely purple dress with full skirt and cape (and a sharp utility belt tied nattily round the waist), I give to you, the endlessly strong, survivor of the ages, the defending champion, Madame Xanadu! And in this corner, in possession of deep rage, hubris, arrogance, and mighty magical powers of her own, in white ribbon 'figure-skater' dress with gold armaments, I give to you, the challenger, the villain of the piece, the sister of our titular heroine, Mistress Morgana! Come out of your corners fighting!

Let's get ready to rumble, indeed. The main chunk of this issue is this fight scene between two women who never once touch each other. The surprising aspect of it all, is how brutal and violent this scene is, with nary a punch or kick to be had. Spells are cast, lightning thrown, Latin yelled; this is how sorcerers fight, and even the most hardened superhuman tights-wearer would be a bit shocked. This issue sees our heroine plummet 140 feet into the icy rough waters of the East River, blown through a plate glass storefront window to land with bone-jarring thud upon city asphalt, all of this on the back of being buried under the rubble of her building, and being tossed in the middle of a fire.

The issue moves along at a quick pace, it's propulsive power a testament to the strength of storytelling skills of artist Amy Reeder, who takes Matt Wagner's 'fight' scene and gives it energy and dynamism that flows seamlessly from panel to panel, page to page. It works extremely well for a script that has no filler. This is a showdown through and through, and we are sent from one set-piece to the next, from theatre fire to Brooklyn Bridge to downtown brownstone without delays. There are no wasted panels. This here be the final battle, no superfluous distractions will be allowed. It's this simplicity that could almost be seen as a fault, and that would be a mistake.

This story arc entitled "Broken House of Cards" started seven issues ago, chronicling the plight of a Manhattan housewife, Betty Reynolds, trapped in a loveless marriage and a ho-hum existence, seemingly invisible to even her own husband, except on the one night a week they set aside for less than stellar sex. If one were to compare that first issue with this one here, they would read strikingly dissimilar. Part one is full to bursting with details of Betty's daily life and the circle of friends and neighbors that populate her world. We see her become sick as the possession by Morgana begins to take, and we see her seek out our heroine for desperate help. Issue #23, by contrast, seems incredibly bereft of story. The no-nonsense effortless flow of the issue could strike some readers as hollow, though that deception would be the true beauty of this finale. After all, there have been seven previous issues that have laid out all the players, all the details, given us the ins-and-outs of the major plot points. All the exposition, character motivations, and consequences have been revealed for us. There is nothing left but the duel. So why not give it to us with violent and grand spectacle?

Madame Xanadu #23 does just that. The pages are alive with glistening city-scapes, flying bodies contorted in a ballet of magical violence, and enough glass shards and building debris to fill a Staten Island ferry. At it's core, stands our heroine, by stories end bloodied and battered, her clothes torn to near shreds about her body. But, she has survived and triumphed. Standing in the remains of her once beautiful and humble shop, where she would beckon those in trouble to enter freely without fear, Madame Xanadu tells us that everything will be alright. After all of this, only a fool would not believe her.
..........................

Review: Power Girl #12

Power Girl #12

Writers: Justin Gray & Jimmy Palmiotti
Artist: Amanda Connor
DC
Released: May 26, 2010






Years ago, I attended a fashion show in San Francisco as part of a benefit for AIDS research. As befitting a cause such as this in a city of such charm and grace, the event lured much star wattage. Magic Johnson co-hosted, and the surprise musical guest to end the evening was the one and only, the inimitable Liza Minnelli. And before you click the back button on your browser to double-check what the hell it is you are actually reading, yes, this is a review of Power Girl #12. Back to my story. There she stood, Liza with a Z, all in endless drapes of black sequins, short jet-black hair chopped in a ragged version of her Sally Bowles cut, to the rapturous applause of a grateful, gleeful, and predominantly gay, crowd. Then she sang. A small medley of her hits, ending, of course, with a full rendition of Cabaret. And while the old chanteuse warbled and labored, it was grand spectacle, and a wonderful reminder of what glorious and amazing work we as an audience had been blessed with because of her.

This is sorta, kinda, how I felt upon reading Power Girl #12, the final issue of the year-long run on this book by writers Justin Gray, Jimmy Palmiotti, and artist Amanda Connor. It is a medley of greatest hits, the type of set-piece performed by a mega-star musician for a Super-Bowl half-time show. There is the chorus from Little Red Corvette, followed by a few bars from I Would Die For You, then maybe the bridge to Get Off, ending with the crescendo from Purple Rain. It's glorious, sure, but choppy, and makes you want to just go and listen to the original tracks in full. So, here we get a beautiful scene with Terra in her home-world; then some villains engaged in some post-coital banter that tells us the coitus was perhaps not completely consensual; a day in the life of your average house cat; then there's a little red-haired kid; and then Vartox makes a triumphant return to fight with a cuckolded space alien somewhere in mid-town Manhattan. It all ends as things should end, with cake. Glorious, but choppy, and immediately I wanted to reread the entire run.

What is amazing about this issue is how exuberantly fun it is to just behold. Talking about any slight perceived flaws feels ugly, in fact, because the overall effect of the issue is one of such intense goodwill and joy, complaining about anything feels like pointing out gray hairs on Bob Barker, after he's just given you the keys to a BRAND NEW CAR! Get in the damn car, already!

So, let's talk, instead about all the great things, like that scene between Terra and PG as they lounge at an underworld "spa", bonding emotionally while wearing rainbow-colored, 'mood-ring' bikinis even the most liberal Brazilian sunbather may find revealing. Here, the absolute youthful uninhibited nature of Terra shines as she declares with such effusiveness that PG is her best friend. It's deeply touching and genuine, a magical feat given how surreal the scene itself actually is. "You're my best friend, Kara." I believe her, and it's the best line in the entire book.

And, of course, what Power Girl mix-tape would be complete without a Vartox appearance. It would be like peanut butter with no jelly or Jay-Z with no Beyoncé, just plain not right. So, the greatest character ever created drops his science on the second best track, as he battles with a space husband whose wife he may or may not have taken aboard his headship, if you know what I mean. (*wink) I now begin my campaign to implore DC to give Vartox his own solo monthly, with a back-up feature entitled Space Husband.

"Wait a minute", I hear you saying... "is he going to write a whole review about Power Girl, Liza Minnelli, Prince, and Vartox, and NOT mention the one and only, the endlessly talented, the seemingly indestructible, always irresistible, international super-star artist, Amanda Connor?!?" Of course not, but saying Ms. Connor is in possession of remarkable skills as both a draftsman and storyteller is like calling New York the greatest city in the world, it's stating the obvious. Every single page of the issue absolutely vibrates with life; actual honest-to-goodness, hot-blooded life. Her characters seem to barely contain themselves. Every emotion, every word of dialogue manifests itself in bold expressions of both face and body. If this were a film, the actors would be labeled fully-cooked hams (water-added) and would be laughed out of the industry. This is a comic book, though, and a superhero book at that. There are capes and masks and robots and women with animal parts and space aliens with dreadlocks and a sex scene with Grant Morrison (or is that Dr. Sivana?) and Ms. Connor turns the volume all the way up to eleven. My windows shook with the turn of each page. I felt like the guy in the old Memorex adverts from the '80's. Is it live or is it Amanda Connor? Amazing.

Sadly, children, as stated, this issue is the last in this amazing teams' run. This medley, this mixtape, this greatest hits collection with bonus track, is the swan song of this fine trio of Gray, Palmiotti, and Connor. Worn, battered, and bruised from a fine year of recording and touring, these valiant artists take a final bow as the curtain lowers on the first year of Power Girl. Yes, a new creative team is taking over the reins, and the character has been given a strong new life that seems built to last, but still it will not be the same. It never is. As I reflect on this, my mind wanders back to Ms. Minnelli and her signature tune from that seminal play of Berlin in the 1920's, Cabaret. At the end of the show, as our intrepid writer stands at customs ready to board a train to leave Berlin, the passport agent wishes him well and a speedy return to Germany, to which Bradshaw replies that is "not very likely". "You did not find our country beautiful?", the agent retorts. Bradshaw's simple reply to this, "Yes, I found it beautiful."
............................