Lucifer

If you’ve read The Sandman you’ll be familiar with Neil Gaiman’s fictional depiction of Lucifer Morningstar. Apparently somebody over at DC’s Vertigo offices read the series and was so impressed by this fairly minor character that they decided they wanted him to star in his own eponymous series.

And that’s how we got Lucifer.

Getting someone other than Gaiman to write the sequel series was a smart move. Gaiman clearly had little to see about or with the character of Lucifer otherwise he’d have featured far more prominently in Sandman. Giving the book to someone whom Gaiman approved of ensured that a similar authorial tone would be used but by somebody who actually had something of worth to say.

And this is the point at which I mention Mike Carey’s name.

It’s not that Carey’s a bad writer. I bought the first dozen or so issues of his Uwritten series before deciding that it was the sort of thing I’d rather own as trades (I’m shallow) and enjoyed the single Felix Castor novel I read well enough. No matter how friendly he is with Gaiman he wouldn’t be brought in to pen the follow up to such a massively successful series as Sandman if he was a bad writer. In fact his work here is of a higher standard than the Neverwhere adaption he did, because he’s allowed to use his own and build on Gaiman’s work rather than simply turn something that already exists into a comic script.

It’s just that… well, he’s not exactly a big name is he? And I think that’s part of the problem. Carey is viewed as a safe pair of hands brought in to do a competent job. He’s someone who’ll produce something that won’t get critics fired up into apoplectic rages, someone who’ll keep the money rolling in.

I’m sure that image is part of the reason more people haven’t read Lucifer and part of the reason it isn’t more regularly cited as a must-read. It’s not because of poor quality because actually Carey turned out a pretty good series.

Lucifer gets off to a shaky start, much like Sandman did before it, but once it’s underway it becomes something far more than just a hastily churned out cash-in. With Sandman Gaiman explored the nature of storytelling, dreams and reality. Carey picks his own themes, destiny and free will, and explores them in a similar fashion. With a central character who was created to be the antithesis of God, by God, this was a clever (or perhaps overly ambitious) decision. Surprisingly Carey pulls it off.

Lucifer also looks at religion more than Sandman did. Gaiman seemed to use iconography more than the actual religions themselves (look at the gods he chooses to use from the Egyptian pantheon and what he does with them) but Carey actually delves into the religions as systems of belief more. Carey makes great use of the Jewish and Christian religions and adopts Ragnarok as a running theme. He also dips into various other religions and mythologies in minor arcs too. It’s a far better researched approach than Gaiman used, and you get the feeling things aren’t just being used because they’ll be cool or impactful.

One thing that Lucifer lacks is a single standout artist. Sandman was lucky enough to cycle through a number of very impressive artists during its seven years on the shelves. Lucifer never gets an artist that provides any iconic images or does some career best work. Perhaps that’s another reason it’s not often cited as a must read.

Lucifer was never going to have the impact its parent comic did. Sandman, the book about dreams and reality, had a far cooler concept. It also had Neil Gaiman, a man who proved very talented at marketing himself. That wasn’t and isn’t a skill Mike Carey has. But with Unwritten shaping up to be the best Vertigo series in quite some time it’s possible people may be encouraged to delve into Carey’s proverbial back catalogues to see what else he’s produced over the years. If that happens then Lucifer may finally be viewed as the hit it deserves to be.

Just don’t expect it to get out of Sandman’s shadow anytime soon.

Neverwhere

In 1995 the BBC announced they'd hired an up and coming young writer named Neil Gaiman to write a television series for them. Of course in 1995 Gaiman was not up and coming and was fast losing his claim to young. He'd been writing Sandman for Vertigo for six years at this point (it would conclude the following year when Neverwhere aired). He was a natural guy for the BBC to hire, but he was not a complete unknown.

Sadly several important people thought he was. That's what led to the decidedly slight budget Neverwhere received. And it was that slight budget that led to Neverwhere failing to live up to the hopes of its writer and his fans. The production just didn't have enough cash to make all of Gaiman's elaborate ideas into reality, which led to him keeping a notebook for all of the ideas he had that the show couldn't afford, jokingly telling the producer and director that he'd put an idea in the novel when he was informed of its omission.

Which is exactly what he did. If you've come across Neverwhere before it will almost certainly have been as a book. It's far more available, affordable, and well-known than the DVD of the series, aided I'm sure by Gaiman's status as a novelist who writes some TV as opposed to a TV writer who has dabbled in novels.

Both the TV series and the novel tell the story of Richard Mayhew, an Arthur Dent substitute who gets sucked into an unseen version of London (known as London Below) when he meets Door, a young girl who has the power to “open things”. The story mostly revolves around Gaiman taking the city's odd place names and reworking them, often into something more literal. This approach delivers an Earls Court that's an actual medieval court on a tube train; a street that heads straight down into the centre of the Earth and has an odd relationship with gravity; a bridge where it’s alays night; and an angel called Islington. It's the sort of thing Gaiman does quite often but because the novel was arguably the point at which he became a bankable name for publishers to associate with Neverwhere holds a special spot in his bibliography.

The comic version of Neverwhere is an adaption of the novel and not the TV series. This is because Gaiman feels happier with the novel as it contains all of his ideas. It is notably not penned by Gaiman himself. Instead his pal Mile Carey was roped in for the job, with Glenn fabry providing pencils, and Tanya and Richard Horie on colours.

This is a terribly faithful adaption, so much so that I was a little disappointed with it. Things are obviously cut from the plot in order to get the story into the nine issues (a peculiar number I thought) but for the most part the story remains intact.

It feels like a wasted chance. It's unlikely Neverwhere will ever get the comics treatment again (why would it, after being done once?) which means this was the one and only chance to build on Gaiman's creation with striking images and ideas that couldn't be afforded for the TV show or, crucially, were too outlandish to be described in prose. Gaiman writing this himself could have made it a must-read, his final iteration of a sprawling mass of concept and idea. That it is instead an adaption means that the focus is on converting ideas that already exist, rather than joyously throwing out new ones to add to an impressive creation.

The adaption has its moments though. Most are attributable to Fabry's art. He brings a sense of bustling wonder to the Floating Market, for example. The Earl, of Earl’s Court fame, looks satisfyingly ravaged by an excess of good living. Speaking of the Earl, there’s a lovely moment where a character leaps through a stain glass window in his court and comes crashing through a train window. It’s a minor moment, but one that could easily have gone wrong. The Abbey, Down Street, Islington, and the Beast and striking images too. His work is what makes the comic worthwhile in the first place. It feels like the art team are working together to emulate the work of Brian Bolland. If they weren't that's a good thing. If they weren't then it’s a happy accident.

Taken on its own terms Neverwhere is an enjoyable enough read. The artwork is excellent, so much so that it’s a wonder Fabry’s not had more work since. Ultimately, as good a comic as it is there’s little point to looking at it unless you’re a big fan of Gaiman or comics (or, I suppose, tie-in comics). It has things to offer, but don’t skip the book in favour of this. Do both.

Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader?

Deciding what’s real in DC’s fictional Universe is a tricky proposition at the best of times. No matter how many crises are created or line-wide reboots are initiated the past is always there with its numerous iterations of the company’s main characters co-existing, starring in stories that blissfully contradict each other yet at the same time have to be made to work in a seamless stream of continuity.

This problem is never more glaring than when discussing Batman. Is he a detective, a vigilante, a superhero, a psychopath or all of the above? Each writer focuses on these aspects of the character, and his supporting cast of cops and villains, differently. He’s all of these things, but sometimes he’s one more than the others.

This is the idea that Neil Gaiman explored with Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader? With Grant Morrison having killed off ‘The Dark Knight’ in what constituted his “real” monthly adventures Gaiman was drafted in to produce the quintessential final tale of Batman. Every interpretation, version, and variation of Batman. Death of the Batmen, if you like.

Gaiman was given free rein to construct whatever story he felt appropriate. Unsurprisingly he delved into the character’s weighty history. While this means that there’s plenty in the two issues that sails over the heads of all but the most knowledgeable fan it’s not a move that isolates. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of Batman will be able to follow the plot in its broadest terms. As this is supposed to be a celebration of the character it makes sense to revel in everything that’s gone before.

That said the first issue would be odd for anyone, even the character’s biggest fan, on a first reading. Stories are told of Batman’s death that contradict each other as well as the story told over in Morrison’s canonical run. Selina Kyle talks of how she fell in love with ‘The Caped Crusader’ before retiring to run a pet shop. Years passed before Batman approached her out of the blue, bleeding from a gunshot wound. She tied the unconscious hero to a couch and let him die.

Alfred Pennyworth relates the tale of Bruce Wayne coming out of his shell following the death of his parents only when he was fighting crime. The young Batman sought bigger and bigger highs, prompting Alfred, a former actor, to hire acquaintances to play the part of villains. His pal Eddie starts by becoming the Riddler, with Catwoman, Penguin and, presumably, others following suit.

Alfred eventually became the Joker, revealing that he would face off with Batman once or twice a month. The story culminates, once again, with Batman’s death. This time it comes at the hands of Eddie, who has gone mad and insists he is the Riddler.

Over all of this a conversation occurs between Batman and an originally unidentified character. Batman notes that the stories aren’t true and contradict each other, also pointing out that Alfred couldn’t have been Joker because the Joker is sat listening to the story. The idea of the first issue is that every story is true, no matter whether it makes sense or not. It all happens somewhere.

This is a nice enough way of addressing DC’s frenetic and schizophrenic approach to their own continuity issues but it doesn’t exactly feel like the send-off Batman deserves. The subdued pace and lack of action is not what the character has become known for. While focusing on the history of the character is the right thing to do in context it’s taken way too far by the author. It feels more like an exploration of continuity more than the celebration we were told it would be.

The second half switches tack slightly, with tales of death appearing across panels rather than pages. It allows Gaiman to continue establishing the idea of each Batman being real while the ghost Batman listens and works out what’s going on.

I’ve already given away a fair chunk of what happens in the story so I shan’t announce the final revelation. Not because it’s particularly creative (it’s not) but because it’s something that deserves to be read without foreknowledge. I liked it and thought it was a clever way of addressing the reality issues I mentioned above. It’s not just about the mantle of Batman being passed on to a successor, or the man behind the mask dying. How could it be? We all know that Bruce Wayne is Batman and he always will be.

In terms of artwork Andy Kubert does a lovely job of subtly depicting the different eras of Batman. I shan’t pretend I know enough about the character’s history to have noticed every detail he included, but I did enjoy the visual nods to Arkham Asylum, the better 90s films, and the Adam West TV show. As Gaiman’s writing made very clear, all are just as much the real Batman as the rest.

The Sandman

Neil Gaiman's Sandman is often held up as an example of how good DC's Vertigo line, and comic books in general, can be. It’s not without good reason. Although the title starts out a little bland and directionless it develops during the course of the run into a story about the nature of dreams, myths and stories themselves, introducing a memorable cast (Delirious, Jack Pumpkinhead, Lucien, Matthew the Raven, and Lucifer, amongst many others) and providing some excellent storytelling along the way.

The first story arc, collected as the trade paperback Preludes and Nocturnes, is far from special. It deals with Dream, the Sandman of the title, being imprisoned for decades and the journey he must make to regain his power upon being freed. The use and portrayal of Christianity, while important later, feels cumbersome and uninteresting during a first read. The very clear links to the DC Universe (most obviously the appearance of John Constatine and Arkham Asylum) limit the sense of scope. At this point it feels like “just another” comic book.

But wade through that first collection and things improve. The final issue of Preludes and Nocturnes features a drastic change of tone. Gone is the quest, the blood, gore and angst of the first seven issues, replaced by a conversation between Dream and his sister Death. It is the first indication that Gaiman has realised the opportunity writing the series represents. This relationship is revisited multiple times during the series and becomes one of its highlights.

The Doll’s House, the second collected volume, is where the series begins to hit its stride. We learn more about the nature of the book’s powerful and emotional protagonist and Gaiman seizes upon the potential the book presents. Things just get better and better as the story progresses.

What’s nice is that Gaiman will often present one-shot issues where his regular cast are in the background, sometimes not even appearing at all. It allows him to construct a larger world while at the same time conjuring an air of mystery for the central characters. Considering their nature (which I shan’t spoil here as discovering it is one of the joys of reading the series) it’s a smart move.

These collections of one-shots are often highlights of the series and never feel out of place. It’s perfectly natural that a series about dreams and stories should go off on tangents focusing on such things, placing importance on the tales over the characters. This isn’t to say that the regular issues are not good. The central tale is difficult to surmise but it is essentially a story about Dream coming to understand his responsibility and place within the universe. The various arcs of the series cover different periods in his life and decisions he makes, all contributing to the title’s closing issues.

A personal highlight is the use of mythology. He borrows liberally from Egyptian, Norse and Christian mythology as well as fairy tales, making the characters his own while never contradicting the spirit and feel of his source material. The idea that these gods and monsters all fall within the dominion of ‘The Dream King’ is an interesting one, and makes you consider the nature of religion and belief.

Gaiman also takes much inspiration from Shakespeare. The man himself appears a handful of times throughout the series and is given his own story arc. It’s surprisingly intricate considering Shakespeare is essentially a bit part character in the series. The concept of ‘The Bard’ being gifted his great writing ability by Dream may seem passé now but it was original and innovative when the title was first printed.

Gaiman also looks at the nature of names. Dream is revealed to be a collector of titles, epithets and designations. Dozens of names for our central character are revealed throughout the course of the series and Gaiman also looks into the origins of some of his mythological cast. It makes for an interesting side note (or perhaps sub-plot).

Of course, the author did not create The Sandman alone. While most of the famous titles from Vertigo feature a regular writer and artist combo from start to finish The Sandman features a revolving door on the visual side of things. The only artistic constant for the series are the issue covers of Dave McKean. These evoke a wondrous sense of unknowable magic and really help to create the right tone for each instalment.

The internal art is handled by somebody different on practically every arc. Naturally this means some issues receive better artwork than others, although views on that are naturally subjective. I personally love the style of Marc Hempel on The Kindly Ones but I know of several people who feel it’s some of the weakest work of the series. These changes in art reflect the changing nature of dreams, something which is never really emphasised within the series or by the author himself but fits nicely with one of the book’s chief themes.

On the subject of the artwork it should be mentioned that over the last two years DC have reissued the ten volume run with recoloured pages. Naturally some portions of the series benefit from this more than others. A Game of You feels almost like a new story for example, while the changes made to the already vibrant pallet of World’s End don’t strike me as such a big deal. Ultimately it’s a change for the better and a good move on the part of DC (even if they did only do it for the dosh).

While it may not get the credit of Watchmen for bringing large scale changes to the comic book industry I’d say that, over the course of time, The Sandman has proven to be the more influential series. Looked back on it is a truly epic series both in terms of scope and achievement. It’s one of the first comic series I ever read and it remains one of the best.

Critical information:

Writer: Neil Gaiman
Artist: Various, including Sam Kieth, Charles Vess, Malcolm Jones III and Marc Hempel (and covers by Dave McKean)