by Alexander Danner

One of the great unspoken truths of webcomics is that, despite the advanced technological distribution system (which is to say, The Internet) that they make use of, webcomickers are characterized primarily by Luddite sensibilities. Counterintuitive though this may seem, empirical evidence bears the theory out. Take any random sampling of webcomics, examine their deeper implications, and you will almost assuredly find evidence of Luddite sympathy. Take, for example, the comics Tailipoe, by Craig Boldman; Comics for a Better Tomorrow, by Lauren Norby; and Cave Monster, by B. Shur, all chosen at random.

The antitechnological leanings of Boldman are plainly evident right on the surface of his webcomic creation, Tailipoe. In outright defiance of the possibilities of the digital age, Boldman stubbornly adheres to a traditional three-panel structure, suitable for publication in any daily newspaper. He doesn’t even deign to color his strips, instead seeking to protract the age of black and white line work as the standard for comic strips.

And what of the content of Tailipoe? Imagine if Crocket Johnson’s Barnaby, haunted by an increasingly ghoulish Mr. O'Malley, grew up into a dysfunctional twenty-something lay about, and was then kept locked in a room in his father’s luxurious manor, and you’ll have a good idea of what Tailipoe’s about. What the father does to earn his fortune is unclear, but despite vague suggestions that the comic is set in present times, the castle-like nature of his home suggests a feudalistic arrangement—he may well be benefiting from the profits of vast farmland holdings.

Dominated by a palpable sense of nostalgia, Tailipoe owes far more to the comics of the 1940s than it does to comics of the modern age, in tone, language, and visual style. But where the characters in Barnaby had to suffer through the repercussions of technology (such as German bombings and mandatory blackouts), Boldman’s characters remain pleasantly oblivious, isolated as they are in their old world home. The characters in Tailipoe live in a time when “homeland security” might simply refer to a security blanket, thrown over one’s head to keep away an insufferably incompetent under-the-bed monster. No bombs, no automobile accidents, no television or internet to bring such terrible news. Just an idyllic, technologically-unencumbered life of pajama-clad misadventures.

Lauren Norby is similarly brazen in the low-tech production of his so-called “Comics for a Better Tomorrow.” Rather than a single series, this site presents a collection of Norby’s short stories, all of which are black and white, and all of which are clearly scans of comics drawn on paper with pencil, pen, and marker, presented entirely without digital touch up. Taking the technological debasement a step further, Norby has consciously chosen a background color for his website that suggests old, yellowed paper, and even presents some of his comics on artificially aged paper.

What’s more, all of his comics are clearly laid out for presentation in traditional comic-book formats. Yes, he pays some lip-service to infinite canvas, in stories such as "This is a Funny Story About Me and My Dad," but he immediately rescinds his support of this modest technological advancement by pointing out in the after word that the panels can easily be reordered for traditional print. And in any case, “infinite canvas” is not the technological achievement it seems. Yes, it’s been championed by Scott McCloud, the great bastion of digital progress; but McCloud himself may be a plant for the cause of Ludditism, advocating devolution in the guise of progress. The idea for infinite canvas is introduced in his second book, Reinventing Comics. But one needs to look back to his first book, Understanding Comics, for the source of the idea. In Understanding Comics, McCloud points to certain early examples of comics—cave paintings, the Bayeaux Tapestry—all of which are created on extraordinarily large, effectively infinite, canvases. Effectively, the most widely accepted of McCloud’s great artistic technological advancements is not an advancement at all—rather, it is a way of recapturing an artistic method that predates the invention of even print technology by thousands of years. This is not advancement—it is Ludditism taken to an absurd extreme.

But, getting back to Comics for a Better Tomorrow, one must ask: what does this “better tomorrow” look like? Well, as presented by Norby, it looks like: a classic Western; a low-budget art film; a happy family living out in the woods, in a shack with neither electricity nor plumbing; a world of cannibalistic zombies, ritualistically devouring their best and brightest. These latter two in particular give a clear view of the author’s antitechnological stance. The implied beauty of a Thoreau-esque family out in the woods, tending their gardens, and living deliberately speaks for itself. The irony of the zombies, of course, is that they are sophisticated thinkers, engaged in intellectual debate on the merits of cannibalism. That intellectuals and flesh-eating monsters are presented as one and the same is a bold statement in itself. That they are resorting to cannibalism precisely because they have already devoured all of the living (i.e. – the regular folk) sends a clear message that intellectual advancement inevitably has apocalyptic repercussions. That the remaining zombies must now resort to cannibalism in order to maintain their mental functioning suggests that intellect itself is inherently self-destructive. The message of this comic is not merely one of a preference for simplicity, but one of abject horror in the face of progress.

Finally, there is Cave Monster, by B. Shur. Unlike Boldman and Norby, on the surface, Shur appears to have embraced digital technology. Cave Monster is clearly digitally produced, with vibrant colors and no outlining. On the other hand, layouts are clearly still adhering to print standards; though, admittedly, this is a minor point in contrast to the digital color work.

However progressive the production might be, however, the content paints another picture: the “hero” of the tale is literally a cave monster. He is a furry beast, whose happy moments consist of spearing little rat things and biting off their heads. The world he lives in is far more sophisticated than he is; he is stymied at every turn by some facet of modern technology, from laundry, to stoves, to medical insurance. Unable to adjust to this modern world in any way, his entire life is a fugue of displacement. That the comic itself is a product of advanced technology is an intentional irony—seeing the primitive cave monster and his primitive pleasures rendered in beautiful digital color is visually dissonant, further emphasizing the cave monster’s anachronistic existence.

Struggling with this sense of disconnection, the cave monster seeks help from a psychiatrist—this character clearly being the representative of the scientific community in this comic. Predictably, the psychiatrist turns out to be a wholly untrustworthy character. He is never seen without a mask (in fact, his mask changes from panel to panel, apparently suggesting that science is all the same, regardless of the guise it wears), and plainly lies about the side effects of the strange concoctions he offers the cave monster. Not only does he fail to aid the cave monster, but he leaves our protagonist all the worse off—and then hands the cave monster an exorbitant bill besides.

Running off to the beach in search of escape out to sea (he is clearly nomadic by nature), the cave monster finally encounters a happy person—a singer on the beach, in the company of turnips, singing the praises of vegetables. What could this be besides a call for a return to agrarian life, simple and happy and free of the petty dishonesty of science and technology?

Ultimately, all three comics bring us back to the same idea: technological advancement debases the humanity’s quality of life. We would all be better off returning to some variant of a simple agrarian economy, whether through some form of modern feudalism, or hermetic subsistence farming, or the life of a nomadic hunter/gatherer. In fact, this antitechnological vein of thought is so extensive and intensive that the only reasonable conclusion is that the greater purpose of webcomicdom as a whole is to actively retard the pace of technological progress.

Naturally, it seems strange at first that such a movement would base itself so completely within technology itself. This should not be mistaken for hypocrisy; rather, it is a clever and purposeful tactic. Just as it is more profitable to preach to sinners than to the choir, when spreading an antitechnological sermon, the best way to reach the people who need to hear it is through the vast digital distribution system of the internet. By definition, anyone who encounters the message will be of the class of people it is most targeted toward. That the internet thus becomes the means to its own destruction fits perfectly into the Luddite worldview; as Norby showed us in the parable of the cannibalistic zombies, technology must inevitably devour itself. And webcomickers are all too happy to nudge the process along.

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