frank and frank
Chris Appelhans
Free
If there is an is distinguishable from that which appears to be, as Wallace Stevens suggests in his poem “The Emperor of Ice-Cream,” then surely Chris Appelhans is no stranger to it. Each of his two-dozen frank and frank strips is an exercise in the actual, the authoritative, and the authentic.
Actual in the sense that each pixel visible on the screen contributes directly to the coordinated effort of dot and jot and dash that is a frank and frank strip. Appelhans plays no games with the reader; he reaches the moment when a strip stands on its own and he lets it stand for itself. He doesn’t comment or qualify or capitulate. He proffers, and we receive what we perceive.
Authoritative in that the boy (presumably frank) and the refrigeratorial bear (also presumably frank), among others, always act with absolute emotional accuracy—with the expressive energy of telling gesture and willful posture. Expressive of what? A frank2 strip, like a poem, means how it says. To be frank is, frankly, to be frank.
Authentic in acknowledging and even honoring the no-space of the Web. Unlike paper comics, digital comics exist only when they are activated to exist. It is not exactly a tree-falls-in-the-woods phenomenon.
It is, exactly, as Wallace Stevens describes in another poem, “The Snow Man”: “Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.”
Read This Comic.
--Steven Withrow
Apocalypso Presents HEADcase
Sam Chivers
Free
Who doesn’t enjoy a good antiplot now and again? Three-act structure’s been done to death, after all, and challenging the reader’s sense of safe narrative—where the corridor is lighted and the doors are all closed—is healthy, at times even crucial. In HEADcase, progression rules over plot; surprise conquers consequence; and mischief masters message.
But does it work? It depends on your depth of attention and level of patience.
Chivers has constructed this headlong hypnostory, which features (at least early on) an urged-on android and a phantom primate, in rolling three-panel increments. Dialogue is absent, though Chivers makes intriguing use of word and icon in certain places. The artwork is clean, colorful, and well composed, even when crowded with detail.
HEADcase might aptly be subtitled “Postmodern Times” for its Chaplinesque combination of slapstick pantomime and picaresque pathos. Its three-panel time signature remains one of the few constants, though the pacing is modulated through devices such as rounded panel borders to signify speed and a digital clock to measure a long passage of time.
What lifts HEADcase above the “experimental” crowd of webcomics made expressly for the creator’s own amusement is the control—not to mention care—that Chivers evidences in his rendering, staging, and storytelling. He obviously wants to involve us deeply in all the goings-on; he clearly means for us to revel in the myriad peripherals and reiterations, to feel the anticipation of discovery and the sharp shock of subverted expectation.
A reader must work to keep the flood of occurrence from becoming overwhelming (this is good) and, after the midpoint, labor to construct narrative coherency (this is not so good). Here the simple navigation, usually a plus in webcomics, works against the author, as it encourages the reader to pass through the panel blocks rather quickly. And a brisk reading of HEADcase tends to degenerate into pathless skimming, reducing the total sequence to a massive mindboggle or empty image parade.
Sam Chivers might never catch on with casual cruisers of digital strips. But he does reward the close, careful reader.
Read This Comic.
--Steven Withrow
Moon Lake
Robert Goodin and Nora Murphy-Berden
Subscription (Serializer.net)
Elsewhere in this issue we have some critics bemoaning the fact that short stories get short shrift on the web. But elegant short works can be found in the medium if you know where to look, and one such place is the Showcase feature at Serializer.net.
Moon Lake is a dark fable that understands the cruelty of nature, and depicts it in the horrible deaths and injuries suffered by a tribe of rabbits trampled by elephants. It balances this harshness against the fanciful notion that the creatures are able to talk. One lone, brave rabbit uses his cleverness to avert a further disaster. His shrewd hoax exploits superstitious feelings among the elephants, and reminds us of the forest's elemental mystique.
The appeal of the story is inseparable from Goodin's shadowy, brooding artwork. It is very fine nature illustration that succeeds in being much more. The fluid lines and delicate crosshatching reminds us of fantasy illustrators like Charles Vess. The rich, muted color scheme completes the moody atmosphere of the story.
The animal characters are rendered with a discrete balance between their roles as human-like personalities and their presence as wildlife creatures. The elephants carry their weight convincingly as they shamble through the forest crushing everything in their paths. And the rabbits are very much the timid, soft, vulnerable creatures found in any woods.
Read This Comic.
--Joe Zabel
