Hey Television,

Look, I know I’m not that much older than you, so don’t think I’m being condescending, but I’ve been through what you’re going through, and I thought you could use some advice.

I remember when I did “serialization” and “decompression” or whatever you kids are calling it these days. The idea’s the same: instead of treating an installment as its own piece of story, each installment becomes part of a bigger story. Hell, the idea is older than either of us, but it’s taking off for you, just like it did for me.

I remember those first few series that did it for me, just like you had your first few. Those were the days. People talk about how you’ve finally grown up, you’re telling stories that are complex, rich, and rewarding. People even compare you to those books with no pictures (it’s a complement, I’m told).

And then it’s everywhere. Everybody has to get on board with serialization. What’s the point otherwise? It’s old fashioned to tell those “one-and-done” stories. The bosses start telling everyone to serialize. We all get a big laugh at those old-timers who resist.

Sound about right? Well here’s what’s about to happen.

You’re checking out the latest installment of your favorite series, and you ask yourself: what just happened? You know you watched something, and it took your time, but can’t really recall any plot points. It just seemed like a lot of nothing.

And now you realize: maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. We all really dug the serialization thing, but was there another reason? Did the big guys like it because it kept us involved even when there was no story, no character. Because they figured out we’d always come back for the next installment, as long as they never gave us a jumping off point.

But now it seems that in getting rid of jumping off points, they also got rid of jumping on points. Everyone checks out the first installment, but they trickle off and never return. I wasn’t around at the first installment, why start now?

But wait, you were being innovative, right? The cool kids liked it – but now it seems like the only ones still around are the same old folks who’ve been around for a while. Where did all those cool kids go?

They already noticed, and they’re gone.

So what do you do? Well its never really up to us, is it?

Its up to the content producers, to make a drive to put out really good content. To know that serialization is a tool, and good content will always be good and bad content will always be bad.

It’s up to the suits (well, we don’t really have those, but you get the idea), not to put in place policies about storytelling, because that’s not something they understand. They should understand that their job is to identify good work, facilitate good work, and get out the word about it.

But at the end of the day, its really up to the fans. They have to demand from all of the above that they don’t want ploys — they want good stories, serial or otherwise.

I talk like I’m some old man, about to give up the ghost. But when I look in the mirror, sometimes I feel really freaking young. Like we’re just getting started, and this whole decompression thing is a little blip. And at the end of the day, isn’t it nice to know that people are talking about you?

Anyway, don’t be a stranger. I’ve got some property to sell you.

-Comics

Katsuhiro Otomo’s Akira is one of the crowning achievements of graphic fiction.  It’s a 2000+ page epic that never lets up for a minute.  Page after page, Otomo demonstrates that he is a master of his medium, choosing layouts and panel structures convey so much information without ever sacrificing readability.

To try and cover every innovation and perfection that Otomo made to the medium would take much more space than I have here.  Instead I’ll focus on the technique that most struck me on my recent reading: the splash page.

Comics are no stranger to splash pages – those single panel pages that so often bookend mainstream comics.  While they are casually thrown about in superhero comics, Otomo uses them to a much different effect than what Western readers are familiar with.

Every splash in the first 350 pages of Akira

Start with frequency: in the first volume of the book, there are 11 splash pages, many of which are double splashes. The book is 350 pages long, so Otomo averages 1 splash every 32 pages.

For comparison, look at the recent Justice Leauge #1. It’s 25 pages long, and has 4 splash pages. That’s 1 every 6.5 pages. A whole lot more than Akira.

But it’s not just quantity. The whole approach is different. In modern comics, the splash has been reduced for really two purposes. One is the glamour shot: the superhero arcing through the air, a chance for the artist to dig his heels in and deliver a spandex-clad anatomy lesson.  Generally these pin-ups are fan-service-y tools of decompression and artistic overindulgence.

The other modern use is the reveal. We find out a terrible secret; a full page closeup ofcompromising evidence.  It forces our attention, and let’s us know that this is a Big Moment.  It’s heavy handed, sort of the comic equivilent of very obvious music cues, but it can be quite effective when used properly.

But Otomo’s use of splashes in Akira couldn’t be more different than either of these two techniques. The splashes in Akira are all about space.  Scale.  Scope.  They’re downright geographic.

And almost all of these splashes are in the first 30 or so pages.  The following 200 pages are filled with alleys and corridors - claustrophobic stuff.  So when at the end of an underground lab complex action scene we are treated to the two page splash of Akira’s chamber, it’s a moment to breath, a break in the action.

That’s why all of these splashes are long shots, a far cry from the medium and close ups in the Western Canon.  It serves to set the stage that these small actions have bigger ramifications.  The splashes mirror the overarching structure of Akira’s narrative, which begins as a conflict between people and grows into a battle of massive forces.

It’s not that Akira uses splashes right and everyone else does them wrong.  What Otomo does throughout his work is take familiar techniques and concepts and bends them in ways that suit his story.  He is always first a storyteller, as he transforms familiar comic idioms into original techniques.

That is why Akira is not only a landmark achievement in visual storytelling, but also a damn good read.

Cinematic storytelling in comics is a tough thing to pull off.  The list of artists who can truly nail it is a short one.  Cassaday, Hitch, and Quitely come to mind.  But maybe the best of all of them is Geoff Darrow.  When a new Shaolin Cowboy series was announced at the NYCC Dark Horse panel, I was both shocked and super excited.  After 7 sporadically published issues on the Wachowski’s Burlyman Entertainment, it disappeared, with intermittent rumors of an animated movie and little else to be heard for the past 4 years.  But all I wanted was more comics!  With its return apparently imminent, let’s take a look back on what made it so amazing.

Perhaps the most well-loved issue of the series was issue #6, where the titular character fights off possessed sharks in the belly of monster carrying a city on its back.  All the crazy ideas Darrow has thrown out really come to a head in this issue, and you can tell he loved drawing it.  While the fight scenes are epic, look also at the intense panels leading up to all the hyper violence.

We follow the action in an over the shoulder shot, as Darrow moves our eye back and forth across the page.  We know the attack is imminent, but he lets us wallow in the calm before the storm before we get the straight up action promised by the cover.  This is exactly how to use cinematic storytelling on a static page.  For my money, it works better as a comic than as a movie, because he uses our natural side-to-side reading movements to convey the back and forth movements of the shark.  Then, we simply wait in the fourth panel, soaking in the the artwork, which he produces at a scale much larger than the printed version to allow the insane level of detail.  Then when the action hits, it’s always big:

Yes, it’s a cowboy monk fighting a shark with a chainsaw on a stick.  That’s pretty tough to screw up.  But look at the storytelling for a minute.  While most comic book fight scenes are easy to blow by, the commitment to hyper-detail in every panel slows down the eye to digest and appreciate everything that’s going on.  And look at how expertly he leads the eye through the page.  In panel one, the Monk is leaping off screen, which continues in panel 2 with only his feet and chainsaw visible.  Panel three finds him coming back into view, and panel four finds him landing lightly on a floating suitcase.  How do you know he’s landing lightly?  The splash is contrasted nicely with the chaotic feeding frenzy going on in the background.  And when he lands, he doesn’t even scare off the mice feeding on the bloated carcass in the foreground.  The sense of nimbleness is easily conveyed, even though the the character is not exactly a lightweight.

Oh and by the way, they’re fighting in the belly of this:

Never let it be said that the man doesn’t know how to use splash pages for effect.

So if you’re in the mood for a kung-fu cowboy fighting crabs with grudges, possessed sharks, and the occasional baby, it’s officially okay to get excited now.

In comics, unlike in movies, a monster cannot jump out at you, violins can’t screech, the camera can’t violently cut in and out of a grisly scene.  With all that stacked against comics, you’d think they wouldn’t be able to do horror very well at all.  Fortunately for us readers, nothing could be further from the truth.

Panels are often used much differently in horror comics than in your typical superhero book.  Instead of being packed with action or information, they can set a mood, create a sense of foreboding, or just flat out depict a horrifying image to scare the pants off readers.  Let’s take a look at how a couple of modern horror comic masters use panels to achieve their goals.

Steve NIles, perhaps best known for the series 30 Days of Night, also wrote an underrated masterpiece called Aleister Arcane for IDW in 2004.  Along with Breehn Burns on art, Niles crafted the perfect issue #1.  He tells the story of a small town late-night TV horror host who is ruined by the local parentage.  Throughout the issue, we see him befriend a new generation of kids who start to bring joy back into his life.  But when he falls ill, we know something terrible is going to happen, starting with this page:

Each panel, without going into explicit detail, reveals a little bit more that something is about to go horribly wrong.  Even the final speech bubble creates its own tension, going darker and wavier that the other bubbles on the page.  Niles can’t use sound like a movie can, but you can practically hear the terror in her voice, as all hell is about to let loose in her small town.

The placement of that bubble is also different from the others on the page.  Instead of being placed at the top of the panel, where your eye would pick it up before the artwork, it’s at the bottom, signifying a long silence before she speaks, the words in the previous panel hanging ominously in the air.

That final panel also has a very dark and indistinct border compared to the 5 previous ones, as if the light in Aleister’s life goes out and the kids’ comfortable world is opening up to the horrors to come.

Nothing particularly terrifying is going on on this page, but the sense of buildup is palpable.  With such expert pacing, nothing needs to jump out at the audience to get the blood rushing.

Another master of the horror comic is Mike Mignola.  With his Hellboy stories, he’s written and drawn some of the downright spookiest scenes ever seen in a comic book.  Teaming up with Richard Corben in the Appalachian folktale, The Crooked Man, the two conjure up a terrifying image and place it right at the end of this two page sequence:

You see it as soon as you turn the page.  There’s no hiding it.  It does not sneak up on you.  In fact, it reveals itself and then waits for you to get there.  This is not a movie where you can shut your eyes or look away when you get to the horrifying part.  It lies in wait and draws your eye even as you read the panels leading up to it.

The other advantage this has over movies, is that the image does not disappear as soon as the shot is over.  It lingers there on the page for as long as you want to look at it.  And looking at it right now, it’s every bit as creepy as the first time I read this issue.

With Halloween right around the corner, I think we could all do with some recommendations!  What are some of your favorite horror comics or creators and what techniques do they use that stuck with you?  What do you think the advantages or disadvantages are of using the comic form to tell a scary story?