Glamourpuss No. 1
The Willows Vol. 1 Nos. 5-6
The Case of Howard Phillips Lovecraft
Glamourpuss, No. 1, by Dave Sim
It was not long ago that Dave Sim completed his 300-issue series Cerebus, begun in 1978 and the longest comic book series by a single author. He wrote and drew the series entirely himself in the early going and later added background artist Gerhard. But Glamourpuss is evidently to be a one-man affair and an interesting one, to say the least.
Sim conceived the series as being about “cute teenaged girls in my best photo-realism Al Williamson style.” But it is also about a generation of comic-book artists. And the better part of the first issue (the part that is not taken up with ridicule of the vanity of models and the excesses and of the fashion world) is spent discussing the photo-realist artists that inspired him—Al Williamson, Alex Raymond, Stan Drake, Neal Adams and John Prentice, collectively responsible for such series as Secret Agent Corrigan and Rip Kirby.
The approach in Glamourpuss so far is, in form, the opposite of that of Cerebus. Whereas the latter was largely unserious in its main contents but frequently enclosed by serious essays and discussions in the lengthy letter columns, the newer book is a serious essay on the artists Sim admires enclosed by faux fashion advertisements and advice columns.
But the essay on artists is also relieved by a short section dramatizing the inner life and philosophy of one of the models depicted:
She was gently sobbing now, small hitches of inward-questing breaths that brought the warmth of shame to her underlids, that threatened to overspill her reddening cheeks with hot tears of remorse . . . and self-recrimination. How could she have been so . . . blind? How could she have been so foolish?
Yes. There was more to life.
There was this! This plain and simple fact before her:
A Dolce & Gabanna big poofy blouse with crystals, with beads and with major (major!) sleeves!
It remains to be seen how much of Glamourpuss will remain commentary on artists and how much, satire. But its progress should be well-worth following.
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The Willows, Vol. 1, Nos. 5-6 (Jan. & Mar.), edited by Ben Thomas
This is a magazine of horror fiction in the vein of the early greats—Blackwood (for whose story the magazine is named), Machen and Lovecraft, among others. In fact, the submission guidelines for Willows prohibits post-WWII settings altogether. The editor, Ben Thomas, is himself an excellent writer (full disclosure: I once accepted a story of his at Fantastic Horror) and shows himself capable in every respect as an editor. Willows has a number of interesting features, among which are commentaries by the authors on their stories—one of the best ideas—and a contest to invent the name of a story to be written by one of the contributors (the winner was “The Spires of Shadow Water”).
The most enjoyable story I read in the two issues was “The Facts in the Case of Algernon Whisper’s Karma” by David Tallerman. It is a macabre extravaganza about a man who makes a science of reincarnation merely in order to come back as a meerkat. What ensues from Whisper’s miscalculation in this project is a fine joke, gravely told.
Another story, of finely written prose, is “A Prayer for the Over-Spider”. I mention the prose, because there is no plot to speak of. But lack of plot is not always a killing defect, and I imagine that the author would have done well without it, were not for the story’s moral tone. The strength and weakness can be shown in a single passage. The Over-Spider, having been introduced as a creature that feeds on and envies humanity for its discipline, goes to a club to collect some victims:
Inside, a bacchanal. Beautiful young humans, unashamed and guiltless, without history, spattered with glittering paint and clothed in rich hues of colored velvet. Dancing, springing, thumbing, bellowing across wooden floors, stomping boots kicking up convulsions of dust. The sweet, dark scent of opium in the air, in hot mouths.
It is left to the reader to wonder whether the guiltlessness of the young humans is related to their lack of history or whether their lack of history is related to the opium. It is also left in doubt whether a bacchanal is meant as an example of discipline. But the reader will gather from the lurid hyperbole of the description the same quality in the story’s moral. (Moralizing may be one of the most notable features of contemporary fiction. It is far more common now than in Victorian times, and its judgments, besides being more long-winded, are less humane.)
The March issue carries the interesting essay “No More Monsters” by Orrin Grey. A review is made of the great monsters of old and the point is made that no great new monsters have been hatched in some years—none of the evident power and longevity of the vampire, the werewolf, Frankenstein’s monster or, for that matter, great Cthulhu. Grey concludes by suggesting that the great monsters were born and sustained by collaborative efforts as well as by simple borrowing.
There is some truth in that. But something must also be owed to the vivid literary power of their creators. The werewolf never secured quite the hold on popular imagination as did the vampire; and in keeping with its lesser power, its best literary representatives are weaker than Dracula.
So far as outward traits and habits are concerned, there is very little to choose among monsters. The vampires of Matheson’s I am Legend are routinely confounded with zombies; and by Matheson’s description, they really are such, the vampirism being incidental, a purely mechanical device of plot. Mr. Hyde of Stevenson’s tale is not substantially less ravening or bestial than any werewolf; the presence or absence of hair is nearly all the difference. Much may be made of the peculiar traits of Cthulhu; but very little prevents him from being exchanged with Godzilla.
This is not to deny the vitality of any of these conceptions or of their associated literary works, but merely to point out that very little imagination is at issue in the matters that seem most prominent—the immediate characteristics of the monsters.
But the fitness of a monster to its times seems of more consequence, both for the impetus it provides to the author’s work by the integrity of his conscience, and for the greater recognition to be expected from the audience.
Frankenstein is the story of ambitious creation gone awry—and the author’s husband was a would-be inventor in his boyhood (see account of his experiments, together with the general blossoming of early-19th c. invention, in The Birth of the Modern) and a propounder of unseemly modernisms in his adulthood. Stevenson’s Hyde was created at nearly the same hour as Wilde’s Gray; they are both tales of horror concealed by double-lives; and were written amid Victorian decadence no less than Victorian morality. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu is not less effective than his shoggoths, but they both belong to tales of the revelation of horrible knowledge and amalgamated forms; and such was the monstrosity of the latest theories of science, the ever-increasing and cacophonous cities and the associated disorders of the times.
Time and circumstance determine the suitability of monsters to literature, and it is unlikely that there will be new monsters, of consequence with the old, unless the present judges well of itself and, naming no names, making no excuses, leaving the moralizing for a separate essay, depicts what is actually to be seen.
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The Case of Howard Phillips Lovecraft
At the outset of this stylized biography, some attention is given to Lovecraft's opinions on the writing of horror stories. But it soon veers into half-baked psychological analyses of his work, no less cocksure than they are dubious. The narrative is excessive in its own right, but it is also accompanied by exaggerated imagery—imagery that might be appropriate if it was meant to illustrate his stories but obviously inappropriate to a discussion of his life. An honest biographer does not find it necessary to depict his subject chiaroscuro.
Lovecraft's opinions on race are belabored and the viewer is subjected to nearly a full minute of blues singing, as though the film's commentary could be strengthened by the interations of Bessie Smith. Lovecraft's actual behavior is all but ignored; his friendship with Samuel Loveman is not mentioned. His generosity is mentioned but as though it were little to his credit. To suggest otherwise would interfere with the film's beloved thesis, which is that Lovecraft's work is a literature of neurosis and hate.
And so the moralizing goes on, more obdurately droning than the sermon of any preacher; a good preacher might at least intone his judgments with feeling and would drop the affectation of constantly saying you when the appropriate word (for someone who is not present) is he.
In short, Lovecraft's life and work are cherry-picked for the worst, and the worst is exaggerated in a manner suitable to a Broadway staging of Nosferatu. The film, overpriced for its length ($30 for one hour), is possibly the most imbecilic, condescending and sloppily concocted biographical film I have ever watched.
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