Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

thoughts

DC New 52 Review: Demon Knights #1

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DC’s linewide relaunch disperses a few titles to interesting fringes of the four-color universe – army comics, westerns, and this medieval entry into the lineup.

While guns and horses might not be big draws for me, I love middle ages stories no matter the medium and the cover of this comic is to-die-for.

Why any hint of skepticism? The cover isn’t from the interior artist – it’s from Detective Comics‘ killer auteur Tony S. Daniel. Second, writer Paul Cornell – so witty on team books like Captain Britain & MI:13 and Stormwatch, seems like a peculiar fit for the thee and thou speech of Camelot.

Can Cornell dial back the quips while Digenes Neves turns in something to equal Daniel’s killer cover?

Demon Knights #1

Written by Paul Cornell, art by Diogenes Neves and Oclair Albert

Rating: 3.5 of 5 – Great

In a Line: “The Celts have odd ways. Nod and smile.”

#140char Review: Demon Knights #1 is a fun read w/terrific art. Cornell accelerates to full madcap wit a bit too quickly at the climax, but it’s still great

CK Says: Consider it.

Demon Knights #1 is a comic version of a popcorn flick – a fast-moving swords and sorcery tale that eschews period language for quips like “sod this.” It would be A Knight’s Tale if not for the absence of a soggy rock soundtrack (though I’m sure Cornell has one playing while he writes it), and perfect for the World of Warcraft crowd if not for a surfeit of whimsy.

A two page intro ripped directly from the pages of The Once and Future King roots new readers on steady, familiar ground, before Cornell swiftly departs from the established myth and fast forwards four centuries. The story follows two Camelot cast-offs – Madame Xanadu, a renegade priestess of Avalon, and Jason Blood, a hapless youth who shares a body with Merlin’s demonic assistant Etrigan. In the present, a magical horde of pillagers and dinosaur-like humanoid dragons is tearing through the countryside to the fictional destination of Alba Sarum, and our erstwhile pair of heroes (and sometimes lovers, depending on who is in charge of Blood’s body) have stopped in pub directly in their path of destruction.

Any question I had about Diogenes Neves’ artwork compared to Daniel’s cover is answered by the first page, a knockout image of a storybook gone entirely wrong. We never get another reason to doubt him. His textured pencils are treated to an amazing interweave of delicate inks from Oclair and spiderwebs of crackling color from Marcelo Maiolom.

While the tone gets less less classically staid as we exit the Future King framing device, those careful details find their way into every page. Add to that a set of beautifully distinct faces and an attractive palette of pinks and purples and you have a stunning issue of art.

I don’t fault Cornell at all for not thee and thouing his way through the entire issue – it saps the life from characters and tend to be accompanied by horrific font choices. So why is this book not “excellent”? Cornell loses his footing as he ratchets the pace with every new character he introduces. By the final panel the plot has become a touch too frenetic for him to pilot surely.

While I understand the need to introduce all seven medieval soldiers to the plot, here’s one case where I would have preferred Justice League’s more leisurely pace of introductions. That said, like Jim Lee on JL, Neves provides plenty of opportunities to linger on each panel – it’s just that here the lingering is a welcome pause before the script rushes forward.

Even with the modern language and rapidly accelerating pace, Demon Knights is a highly enjoyable read due in no small part to Cornell’s wit and an unassailable and altogether stunning set of artwork from Neves, Oclair, and Maiolom. Everything here points to more fun to be had in subsequent issues, which I will definitely be reading.

(Disclaimer: I have a major soft spot for British comic book humor, sorcery, dragons as dinosaurs, woman with swords, and villains who heartlessly kill children. Basically, I am this book’s target audience. Your mileage may vary, but if you need bonus background see the outstanding blog Gone! Gone! The Form of a Man!, which is dedicated to annotating eacb issue with all the mythological and cartographic facts you need to digest it fully.)

you’ll get older too

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This morning I drove the farthest I’ve driven by myself to go to a viewing by myself for the first time.

I don’t know how to do these things. Well, the driving, I suppose I remedially know how to do that. But a viewing? I don’t know.

I dressed how I thought I should dress and wore a white shirt, which I never wear, and I smiled wanly and kept my hands clasped. As the line neared the family I wondered, am I supposed to cry? I felt the valve of tears loosen behind my eyes. I had cried at work when I found out, just for a moment. Then it was too late, and I was crying, and what do you say when you’re the one crying about someone you’ve never met before and the family is hugging you? I don’t know. It’s sad for everyone there, but you’re all there together.

I guess that’s the point.

Now I am seated in bro’s college apartment, talking about the best daytime mixed drinks and the hour it is most appropriate to begin drinking them.

I always think of bro as my slightly-younger peer, but his roommates seem impossibly young. Were Erika and Lindsay this young when we moved in together? I don’t know. Maybe because we were all only children we all grew up as tiny adults, so when we moved in together we were adults, only smaller.

Now I am seated at their kitchen table and I am that old guy, with his laptop and his car keys, whisking bro away for a day of family time.

But I know this context. It feels familiar. I could day drink with them all day. Or, at least, I have. I don’t know if I could any more.

The girls are making apple sauce at the counter. We’re headed outside. Guitar shopping. Another context where I never know who I am.

I wish there were more rules, but then I remember I don’t like rules. I’ll just be me. That should work.

30 for 30 Project: we’ll be right back!

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My 30 for 30 Project of video cover songs from each year of my life resumes tomorrow! I’ve been holed up in the studio all day working on songs, and I can say without exaggeration that this week will feature some of my favorite songs and most unusual performances – ever. For example…

Come on, just try to tell me you aren’t wondering what that ridiculousness is about.

Point your browser at me tomorrow afternoon at 12:30 ET to see what I have in store from 1988.

sounding off

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This is the first time all month I truly don’t feel like blogging. Between the acts of god and the blogiversary I am tapped out, dudes.

Chez Krisis escaped Irene with only the aforementioned broken screen door as evidence of the storm. Goes to show that all that wackiness E put us through with the several tons of dirt and subsequent weeks of hard physical labor paid off, as there was hardly even a trickle in our previously-damp basement.

I cannot believe that there are people whinging about Irene over-hype in the media. I hate local news just as much (okay: five times more) as the next person, but this was warranted. Overhyping a snow storm is one thing – it’s snow. We’re all gonna live through it and probably have a lot of fun getting bombed and using trash can lids as sleds.

Hurricanes are something else entirely. There is no fun aspect, and as a city used to “fun” apocalyptic weather patterns we needed a bracing dose of reality to make sure we’d be prepared for any eventuality. I know I personally ignore all local weather news, but at the point that the National Weather Service thinks it might be dire I pay attention and prepare.

(Did you know they are the ones largely credited for spurring passive communities into action during Katrina prep? Did you know you can input your zip code into NWS’s site Weather.gov at any time to see all the weather warnings for your area? If you hear any politician say something negative about this service, it is a sign they are a total moron.)

Did it hurt to get extra groceries and gas, clean up the stray stuff around our house, and check various batteries. Totally not, so no complaints here. Well, maybe I could have done without eating an entire loaf of Parmesan Pesto bread in the last 24-hours, but as my friend Sarah pointed out, I was simply carb-loading in preparation for feats of athletic exertion during the storm.

And, well, now I’m ready to hibernate and live off my own body fat, which I guess could have come in handy, too.

kismet, or something

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There are some days that are just kismet, or something similarly serendipitous.

Last night was Filmstar rehearsal. I’m learning now that band rehearsals ebb and flow. For months you are learning new songs and battling new riffs, and then suddenly you realize you’ve arrived and want to work on something new.

I got there halfway through rehearsal last night, after powering through a particularly strong version of “Promise Me, Promise Me.” I think it is giving me arthritis, actually. The gradual decay of my aging husk aside, it was a good rehearsal. Good enough that I asked when we’d be learning another new song.

The space between rehearsal and bed is slim, if I want to possess even a modicum of sanity the next day. A few minutes prior to exhaustion overtaking me, I checked my blinking phone to discover we had the chance to play the Tin Angel the week of my birthday. I fired away some emails and nodded off, bedside light still on.

Today I woke up too early and thought, Oh, to hell with going back to sleep. I got to the office before anyone else and started my day in peace.

A few hours and several dozen emails into the now-broken peace, I noticed my phone blinking. It was David, who books local shows at the Tin; we were in for September 24th.

I didn’t have time to celebrate. Instead, I put out some fires, did crazy Batman-esque calisthenics with my personal trainer, and delivered a 90-minute long presentation complete with a little 5.5″ x 8.5″ instruction booklet I composed for the occasion.

(Actually, if you know me, that probably did constitute a celebration. Few things make me happier than crises, superheroes, print collateral, and public speaking.)

Eventually I wound up at home, after nearly missing my trolley stop as I nodded off to The Format crooning in my ear. E and I sat on the couch.

“Are you writing your anniversary post yet?”

“No.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“I feel like playing guitar.”

Having long since given up on serving as a traffic cop to my creative whims, E noodled on her iPad while I strummed. I could tell that she could tell that I was working out something new. She stayed silent but set a curious eye on my over the edge of her iPad.

I hummed a little. I found where two different chord progressions connected. I picked a starting pitch.

I played the new song, rather coherently, with a few stops and starts to fit the uneven lyrics into the chords.

E has seen me birth many a song since we moved in together in 2004. The process doesn’t typical elicit a comment until I fish for one.

I played it again and she fixed me with a look over top of her iPad.

“New?”

“Yeah. Just now, actually.”

She waited, just long enough that I almost had to ask.

“It’s a good one.”

“Does it work?”

She laughed her little non-laugh that she laughs.

“Yeah. Really. Really.”

She gave a satisfied smirk. Later, she asked me, “Do you want to go out for water ice?”

I nodded back at her.

“Just let me play it once more.”

I played it twice.

I am exhausted in bed, again, with bleary eyes and sore muscles, but a new song and a belly full of water ice for my trouble.

I’ll take it.