I was rooting around the other day for back issues of Third World War, that gently diplomatic Pat Mills/Carlos Ezquerra strip from Crisis — the short-lived, politically-engaged sibling magazine to 2000 AD, initially set up so that its contents could be collected into strip-specific comic books and sold in North America — when I came across on old collected edition of the feature to the left: Devlin Waugh, which turned out the most interesting comic I picked up last week. As the caption indicates, that’s Sean Phillips providing the art; he’s known best these days for his Criminal series with Ed Brubaker, but he’s got a good deal of British work behind him, dating back to the late ’80s. I actually don’t think I’d ever seen this painted style, 1992 vintage, which he switches up with the occasional buckle of monochrome line art panels a bit more reminiscent of his current look. There’s also a smearier look for violent scenes, some photographic elements for television monitors… a pretty versatile, cocky outlay.

The writer is John Smith, among the most prominent British sci-fi comics types to have never quite registered with Vertigo or thereabouts. He’d wanted to take over Hellblazer after originating writer Jamie Delano left, but Garth Ennis was taken on instead; a single issue of Smith’s material (#51) was released, drawn by Phillips, a regular cohort, as a taste of what might have been. He then worked on a big showcase revival of Dr. Fate, which wound up knowing a troubled life as Scarab, an eight-issue 1993-94 Vertigo miniseries. That was the year after this debut Devlin Waugh strip, Swimming in Blood, which was apparently a huge success with readers of the Judge Dredd Megazine. Indeed, the character Waugh is both a denizen of Dredd’s world and cut from the same cloth as that famously droll take on costumed action hero rhythms, but instead of a dutiful authoritarian he’s a ruthless aesthete, a Vatican assassin sent to quell a vampire uprising in the undersea prison Aquatraz, only to preen and flex and admire his collection of watercolors (which he has taken along) and demand apologies from the beleaguered staff for wholly perceived slights. Only after dozens of pages does he take action, leading to his own transformation into a vampire, his blood lust calmed through sheer force of superior breeding, at which time a pointed anticlimax arrives.

It’s a curious, fascinating work, stuffed with literary nods (“Interzone Pest Control,” tee hee) and odd flourishes, like parenthetical captions supplementing narrative captions for lyrical effect, maybe the only prominent, semi-recent use of parentheses by an action comics writer outside of Brian Michael Bendis. It’s from 1992, though, and it feels like that to me – Phillips’ muscular characters bring to mind a lot of the roided-out superheroes I was reading at that time, but fucked around with from the careful tension between writing and art. His massive he-men grimace and flex like any Image revolutionary, but Smith’s story gives it specificity; of course Devlin Waugh poses and struts around, because that’s his sense of beauty. The easy spoof of muscular art is to say that it’s all posturing and no real action, but Smith makes it clear that Waugh can throw down, just as Phillips shows his drawing board versatility – the real joke is that Waugh is a creature of ultra-refined id, and prefers to just pose, because that’s his aesthetic, his veritable meta-attitude. Even as the story threatens to linger on past its welcome, much like its ‘hero,’ Smith & Phillips assure us it’s all in the best, most considered taste.

This really got me going; I haven’t even gotten into the overtly camp and homoerotic elements, which wash the whole thing over. I immediately got to looking for more, and (inevitably) discovered that the collection I’d read had been subsumed into a larger collection of Waugh strips, two softcover volumes (Devlin Waugh: Swimming in Blood & Devlin Waugh: Red Tide) released as part of the very short-lived mid-’00s DC/Rebellion publishing alliance. This led me to glance again at my Third World War issues and realize that Smith & Phillips had also worked on an early Crisis serial, The New Statesmen (the originating artist of which was Jim Baikie), which was also released in North America in both comic book and bookshelf formats in the early ’90s.

One thing just leads to another. I can’t hang on to money in comics, and I don’t even publish the fucking things. I… what? You want more, NEW options for expenditures this week? Good! GOOD.

The Complete Milt Gross Comic Books and Life Story: Ain’t that ambitious? Yes, we are truly living in the Golden Age of Reprints right now, a time where a nondescript week in March just happens to pop out a 368-page IDW Publishing hardcover purporting to feature “every one of Gross’ wild and crazy comic book stories,” along with various photographs and production art, with an introduction by Al Jaffee. I imagine this would be the first thing I’d flip through in a comic book store on Wednesday, if only to evaluate the specifics for myself. Edited by Craig Yoe; $39.99.

Dungeon: Twilight Vol. 1: Dragon Cemetery: Now here’s a reprint of more recent stock, a spanking new edition of NBM’s 2006 English translation of the first two albums (1999, 2001) in Joann Sfar’s & Lewis Trondheim’s far future (Crépuscule) iteration of their Donjon comedic fantasy series – specifically T.101 and T.102 in an overall saga that stretches well back into the negatives. These are the ones Sfar draws. For now. Naturally, Donjon is as much about imagination as experience, though I’m sure some will appreciate the established jumping-on point. Preview; $12.95.

Gantz Vol. 9: This is a comic about people and things being killed in an attractive manner. It’s maybe the best, purest comic of its type out right now. But that strikes me as selling creator Hiroya Oku a bit short. This is a guy whose first longform series, (HEN) Suzuki & Saito, is supposedly a panties ‘n breasts-loaded comedy extravaganza about a young man coming to grips with his intense attraction to a male classmate, a scenario that somehow involves a manga competition and the presence of Oku himself in the story as a character. Frankly, he seems like a slightly exaggerated character even in the backs of these Dark Horse action books, happily sharing his John McClane fan art or offering conflicted reminisce on how his innovative nipple trail effect (like the dancing headlights of a car) from an early sex scene entered the broader manga porno repertoire. Know that this isn’t the product of some marginal goof, no matter how serious – ongoing since 2000, Gantz is currently up to vol. 27 in Japan, and ready to roll well into the 30s.

No time is wasted on frivolity. A pair of hapless teenagers are beheaded by an onrushing subway car in the opening pages of vol. 1, transporting them to a strange room full of recently dead people, beckoned by a mysterious black sphere to put on skin-tight black costumes and score ‘points’ by killing weird threats to the city – a just-terrible-fun set-up foregrounding the reader’s delight in watching people shoot and get shot. The extended action team shifts with newly dead contestants, ranging from an elderly grandmother to a “butter dog” (don’t look that up), both of which also wear skintight black costumes. Soppy, po-faced relationship drama smashes into uninhibited fight scenarios with snapping creatures in boy mannequin shells; Oku creates his art a little like Gerhard did in parts of Cerebus, modeling environments in 3-D and breaking it down (with various assistants) into drawn-looking stuff. There’s gaping bloody eye sockets, mosaic-covered genitals and a big breast fetish so spectacularly indulgent it pushes past boob socks and pert nipples into the realm of utter surrealism – one early chapter sees a particular female character phase into the home base nude and with slit wrists, her curves slipping into reality gradually so that you can observe her internal organs from above, despite her flesh holding together.

So remember that part in Paul Pope’s 100% where there’s speculative dirty videos of women’s guts filmed sloshing around inside their bodies because that’s how outre smut has gotten in the future? Gantz did something a little like that a few years earlier, except Oku may have meant it as smut. But then, he also tosses in a Matrix-style long drawer of weapons that winds up extending outward into someone’s chest and pressing them up against the wall. Recap q&a pages in the backs of vols. 7 and 8 all rustle with editorial wryness. The fun of owning a lot of these is setting them all face-down in a row and reading all of the back cover copy and pinpointing exactly where Dark Horse either ‘catches on’ or throws its hands up: that’s vol. 5. This is vol. 9. There will be others. Preview; $12.99.

Detroit Metal City Vol. 4: Meanwhile, Viz presents some more straight-ahead comedy from Kiminori Wakasugi, in which milquetoast Europop dreamer Soichi tries (and fails) to cope with his unwanted, absolutely volcanic talent for ear-shredding death metal and the alter ego (Johannes Krauser II) that consumes him whenever heads need banging. Vol. 9 should be out in Japan in a few weeks, and it’s still ongoing; $12.99.

Elephantmen #24: Your Image Comics selection, the start of a new storyline-of-sorts (and the return of founding artist Moritat) in this very uneven but compellingly mounted series. The creation of digital lettering font impresario Richard Starkings, Elephantmen started out as a deeply odd showcase series for Comicraft’s hippopotamus detective mascot Hip Flask, a saga of genetic atrocity by way of anthropomorphic man-animals ripped from human wombs to serve as killing machines, segueing into a Heavy Metal future noir drawn with scary on the nose precision by (José) Ladrönn, who didn’t stay on for too long; I think he’s still working on Final Incal with Alejandro Jodorowsky.

So Elephantmen relaunched in its current form, as essentially a modular series of anecdotes, one or two per issue, following one or another member of the series’ sprawling cast through what’s now one of the very few viable, current instances of an ongoing sci-fi comic acting as a simulacrum of ongoing life in a future world, a godless place where humans and anthropomorphic creatures, a vast minority, try to get by though their troubles are all but determined by the focusing even in their past. ‘Big’ storylines typically involve characters just meeting, crossing paths. It’s sometimes awkward, sometimes sappy, patience-trying, very emotional button-pushing at times, but it’s spent so long now running with its weirdly literal concept of talking animals and its undeniably emphatic use of violence as a serious, irreversible, life-defining thing that it warrants attention as a big thing, a march. Maybe the big fat collections are the best way to read it, even if its built for comic books; $3.50.

Grimjack Omnibus Vol. 1: Speaking of big bricks of comic books – no fuss here, just a 400-page IDW package of color ’80s John Ostrander & Timothy Truman, including pertinent material from Starslayer #10-17 and Grimjack #1-13; $24.99.

B.P.R.D.: King of Fear #3 (of 5): I think Mike Mignola’s extended Dark Horse comics universe has gotten to the point where it needs no introduction — it’s a tightly-controlled, visually-focused line of horror-flavored adventure comics, generally ok, sometimes very good, and almost never outright bad — so here’s the latest issue of one of the flagships, nearing one of those huge climaxes that happen every so often. Mike Mignola & John Arcudi write, and the ever-fine Guy Davis — who also has a TwoMorrows Modern Masters interview/art showcase book (vol. 24, $15.95) out this week — draws it nice. Preview; $2.99.

Hellboy Vol. 9: The Wild Hunt: And as for the ostensible star of the show, here’s the new Mignola-written present-tense Hellboy storyline, which puts a special burden on artist Duncan Fegredo (aided greatly by ace colorist Dave Stewart) to maintain a specifically Mignola-esque look, to borderline eerie results, as if an alternate universe’s Mike Mignola had suddenly walked in from filling out all sorts of details on his mainline French comic album projects. Hellboy-the-comic otherwise remains a reliable creature of spectacle and accumulation, nonetheless tossing out some disarming characterizations when least expected — I like how the villains in these comics aren’t so much diabolical as sad, like really unhappy and dissatisfied people — and gradually becoming suspicious of its own listen-to-folk-story-then-hit-monsters formula. Probably not the place to start. Preview; $19.99.

Greek Street Vol. 1: Blood Calls for Blood: Peter Milligan! I mentioned this last week – his Vertigo series about ancient myths recontextualized in a lurid crime story manner. This is the first collection (issues #1-5), notably priced in the same (maybe) bookstore-appealing (hopefully!) manner as Mike Carey’s & Peter Gross’ successful The Unwritten (which sees its own issue #11 this week); $9.99.

The Ghoul #3 (of 3): Bernie Wrightson! He’s been doing a few projects with IDW and writer Steve Niles — City of Others and Dead, She Said — and this concludes another one, a story of a detective running into a monster investigator. Samples; $3.99.

Batman and Robin #10: This, of course, is writer Grant Morrison’s top-selling Bat-title, which finally started really clicking for me last issue, which saw Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate son Damian facing down all sorts of horrible hidden truths about what his absentee dad thinks of him and beating it back with the heroic power of obnoxious stoicism. Anyone who’s been reading Morrison’s assorted superhero books (Seven Soldiers especially) knows that he places the locus of change (and therefore threat) on fringe-dwelling, young and untested characters, because of course Bruce Wayne is going to come back and reclaim the role of Batman, and Dick Grayson isn’t going to die or anything, at least not for long; Damian’s story last issue was contrasted with momentary media phenom character Batwoman evading trouble by dying and immediately coming back to life, since that nothing at all for a character like her, for a superhero we know is getting her own series soon – Morrison knows we know. And he also knows that some of his ideas — like, Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate child — could be very liable for erasure, so that’s the threat he’s honed in on for this familial struggle: Batman & Robin, like the title says. Andy Clarke & Scott Hanna are the new artists through issue #12. Preview; $2.99.

PunisherMax #5: Jason Aaron & Steve Dillon present shootings among MAX-rated new street-level versions of Marvel villains. This issue concludes the Kingpin, next issue starts Bullseye. Preview; $3.99.

The Mystic Hands of Dr. Strange: But it’s not all up-to-the-minute murder at the House of Ideas. For example, here’s the latest entry in its line of b&w specials, meant to evoke the old magazine-format titles of years gone by, albeit at today’s comic book size. The big draw in this one is probably new art by Frank Brunner(!), working off a script by either Mike Carey or Peter Milligan (whom, as I’ve mentioned, can show up anywhere), I’m not sure. Plus: a story by Ted McKeever, and writer Kieron Gillen (also scripting the fifth and final issue of S.W.O.R.D. this week) teamed with the always-welcome Frazier Irving, like so; $3.99.

The Twelve: Spearhead: Moving from one Marvel throwback to another, here’s a one-off tie-in comic to The Twelve, a WWII-era-men-of-mystery-woken-up-in-2008 series that’s only seen eight of its twelve intended issues released since, well, 2008. Writer J. Michael Straczynski remains absent, so Chris Weston handles both the writing and the drawing here, with some inks by Gary Erskine. The Weston/Erskine team is probably best known for their work on The Filth with writer Grant Morrison, although some will no doubt recall Weston’s work on prominent 2000 AD strips such as Indigo Prime, written by one… John Smith. See how it all fits together? Samples; $3.99.

Criminal: The Sinners #5 (of 5): And – my god! It’s Sean Phillips! This wonderful concordance justifies all of my online spending! Today is the best day on Comics Comics. Ending the current Tracy Lawless: syndicate enforcer storyline, and thereby prompting me to actually read the issues I’ve been hoarding in one big chunk; $3.50.

The Steranko History of Comics 2: I dunno the details, just that Diamond says it’s offered again this week, and that the price has increased. From what? I’m not told. But it’s your book about comics for the week, presumably from Supergraphics, presumably still a tabloid-sized volume from ’72, and presumably as much an artifact of history as any of the tales told by Golden Age comic book artists within.

Labels: John Smith, Sean Phillips, This Week in Comics