Scene of the Crime: back in print at last

The NS comics review

Scene of the Crime
Ed Brubaker (W), Michael Lark (P/I), Sean Phillips (I), James Sinclair (C)
Image, 112pp, £18.99

Scene of the Crime has been long out-of-print, an uncomfortably common state of affairs for comics. Sometimes, that happens for understandable reasons: Alan Moore's Miracleman is unlikely to ever see the light of day because no-body is quite sure who owns the rights, but everyone is happy to sue everyone else over attempts to reprint it; Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely's Flex Mentallo was off the shelves for years due to unpleasantries involving Charles Atlas, whom the main character is a parody of. But many more become unavailable simply because the various collected edition departments of the major publishers seem to be unable to keep track of their backlists. These aren't minor books, either; when a comic published just three years ago, in the process of being adapted into a major Hollywood movie, is unavailable and selling for ten times cover price on Amazon, something's wrong.

So, rejoice! that Image have secured a reprint of Ed Brubaker and Michael Lark's 1999 crime thriller, after more than a decade of unavailability. The book is one of three Brubaker – now returning to creator-owned comics off the back of an extraordinarily well-received eight-year run on Marvel's Captain America – credits with launching his career, and also represents his first collaboration with Sean Phillips, who inks Lark's artwork for the last three of the four issues.

The book tells the story of Jack Herriman, a Californian private eye, who takes a simple missing person case as a favour to an old family friend which, inevitably, turns out to not be so simple after all. Herriman finds himself embroiled in a family feud stretching back through the decades, and bumping heads with a hippy-throwback cult with a dark side.

The plot ticks along at a fair rate, and when the various threads floating around come together with a pleasing, if slightly over-foreshadowed, congruity, you'll find yourself just a few pages ahead of the protagonist.

The same isn't quite so true of Herriman's backstory, which betrays the book's roots. Brubaker drip-feeds information about him: we find out he lives with his uncle, a famous crime scene photographer, and aunt; we learn about his hero-cop-father's untimely end; we meet his ex-girlfriend, and they discuss his junkie past. But while these revelations fit thematically with the main plot, and bring Herriman closer to the family he's investigating, they are dripped out with little logic.

The reason seems to be the expectation, until relatively late in the creative process, that Scene of the Crime was to be an ongoing series; it even had a sequel-baiting subtitle, "A Little Piece of Goodnight". And as Brubaker reveals in the behind-the-scenes essay at the end (which upgrades the book from "hardcover" to "deluxe hardcover", apparently), even when it launched, the plan was that it would be a series of mini-series… "but that never happened".

The end result is a strange sort of character overdevelopment. It's not particularly problematic, but it weakens an otherwise strong stand-alone story.

Brubaker himself, looking back on his early work with the benefit of time, identifies one other glaring flaw, which is the sheer number of words on every page. It reads as though he didn't quite trust his artist to get across Herriman's turmoil – or that he was too caught up in writing hard-boiled P.I. inner monologues to remember that it's a comic, and things need to be played differently.

It's a shame, because Lark – who was frankly the senior member of the partnership at the time – pulls off his role with flourish. In collaborative comics it's always tricky to precisely apportion praise and blame, but some things – particularly an entire strand of plot revolving around mistaken identity, always tricky to do in a visual medium – were definitely his to make or break, and he succeeded every time.

Although Sean Phillips' name is on the cover with equal billing to Lark and Brubaker, his role was comparatively minor. Inking Lark – and not even for the entire book – was a job he was always perfectly capable of doing, and, judging by both the making-of pages in the backmatter and the lack of a noticeable difference from Lark inking himself, a job he carried out in a professional but workmanlike manner. It's pretty clear Image decided to big up his role to ride Scene of the Crime on the coat-tails of the later Brubaker-Phillips books.

Which is rather the elephant in the room. Since Scene of the Crime, Brubaker and Phillips have gone on to revolutionise crime comics with their creator-owned series Criminal (the second deluxe edition of which came out last April). Scene of the Crime is a perfectly good book, and contains moments of greatness, but there's little reason to read it now that its natural successor is available. By surpassing it so thoroughly, Brubaker and Phillips have consigned their (sort-of) first collaboration to the realm of "for completists only". That's a shame, because Scene of the Crime is a far better book than that label makes it sound; but given what it's naturally being compared to, it could never be anything but.

Photograph: Sean Phillips/Image Comics

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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In the name of the father: Patricia Lockwood on sex, centaurs and Catholicism

The author of the viral poem “Rape Joke” talks about growing up with her gun-toting Catholic “priestdaddy”.

“Oh my fricking God. It’s a centaur.” The American poet Patricia Lockwood and I are in the lobby of a Whitehall hotel and she is finding the quantity of equine art distracting. I have already been skipped along a corridor to examine the bizarrely detailed rendering of a horse’s anus in a Napoleonic painting (“They made a point of doing him straight up the butt”) that turns out to be a copy of Théodore Géricault’s Charging Chasseur. Now a statue on the mantelpiece has caught her eye, prompting a reverie on what she saw at the British Museum a couple of days ago: “A wonderful statue of a man kneeing a centaur in the balls. It’s the most important thing to me there. It’s so beautiful.”

The confluence of violence, sex, orifices, animals and mythology runs throughout Lockwood’s work in wild and witty poems such as “The Whole World Gets Together and Gangbangs a Deer” (inspired by the realisation that “Bambi is a puberty movie”) and “Revealing Nature Photographs” (pastoral verse meets porn spam) – and it also colours her new book, Priestdaddy, a deeply idiosyncratic family memoir in which copulation is a go-to metaphor. Her dad’s frenzied, tuneless playing raises the prospect that he might be “having sex with the guitar”; during Lockwood’s teenage depression, she writes, the only thing she was having sex with “was the intolerable sadness of the human condition, which sucked so much in bed”.

Lockwood (pictured at her First Holy Communion) has dark, cropped hair and elfin features, pearly white nails and sleeping cats on her knees (an effect achieved with decorated tights – “Let this be for the stocking boys,” she says). Her voice is deadpan, frequently dipping into laughter without losing her poise. She is one day off her 35th birthday and has been married since she was 21. Her father, Greg, is a priest and, along with her four siblings in a succession of rectories across the Midwest, she was raised a Catholic – thus ensuring, she says, the permanent sexual warping of her mind.

“We Catholics become perverts because of the way sex is discussed in strictly negative terms. I saw pictures of aborted foetuses before I knew what basic anatomy was.”

As a devout teenager, she attended a youth group called God’s Gang and was given a virginity pledge in the form of a business card. The group leaders had a “very hip and young” approach: “We’re going to tell you every single thing you can do, in explicit terms, and just be like, ‘But don’t do it.’”

The ribald humour of her writing – Lockwood is renowned on Twitter for her surreal “sexts” – often contains a darkness. The poem that made her name, “Rape Joke”, takes her experience of being raped at 19 by a boyfriend and metes it out in discrete, increasingly devastating soundbites and images. It was posted online in 2013 and went viral, leading to a publishing deal for her collection Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals.

After the rape, Lockwood was “absolutely insane” for about five years, but it’s not as if she was entirely happy before: at 16, she had attempted suicide by taking a hundred Tylenol tablets. Her memoir recounts, too, being embedded in a church mired in scandal, a claustrophobic situation that hit home when a priest close to her was arrested for having sex with a 14-year-old boy. Such events led to Lockwood abandoning her faith and escaping with Jason, her future husband, whom she met on an online poetry messageboard.

When Patricia was 30, she and Jason ran out of money and moved back to the rectory, allowing her to observe her parents afresh. The resulting portraits in Priestdaddy are larger than life: her mother, Karen, is a hyperactive generator of mad puns and proverbs; her ex-navy father is a self-mythologising, right-wing whirlwind of talk radio, guns and Tom Clancy novels. Married Catholic priests are rare but Greg, previously a Lutheran minister, got the pope’s permission to convert. Usually to be found in his underwear, he wants for no new expensive gadget or guitar, though the family is expected to make sacrifices. In 2001, two weeks before Patricia – who learned to read at three and was writing poetry at seven – was supposed to leave for college, he told her that they couldn’t afford it. He later “changed the story in his mind so that I had said I don’t need to go”.

“Growing up in my household,” she says, “all of these far-right, retrograde ideas of gender roles and the man as patriarch existed from the very beginning. But I didn’t think of my house as a bellwether of what was going to happen.” It came as no surprise to her that Greg and many like him voted for Trump. When she reported on a Trump rally in February 2016, she “moved like a ghost through the crowd. They saw me as one of their own.”

Anger at her father’s selfishness “would be useless”, and Lockwood respects his sense of vocation, which she feels she has inherited. She has believed in her own genius ever since she was writing “mermaids-having-sex-with-Jesus poems” at the age of 19. Jason is her support staff, licking her envelopes and buying her clothes. His offering the previous day was a T-shirt emblazoned with Justin Bieber’s face: it revealed how much she resembles the singer – “a full 90 per cent overlap” – and is definitely not ironic.

“Do you think we only got irony after Christ was crucified?” she wonders, and then spots two black-clad priests in dog collars who have sat down across the room from us. “Ooh,” she exclaims, awed and delighted, and then, in a whisper, ever confident in her powers of creation: “I manifested them.”

“Priestdaddy: A Memoir” is published by Allen Lane. “Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals” is published by Penguin

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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