Back at school
Sep. 21st, 2003 04:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rushthatspeaksI have returned. 'Twas a good weekend though I wish I'd gotten to see Signey. We kept it a nice quiet sort of at-home weekend, and I had been in need of one of those.
Why can I never remember how to do cut-text?
Anyway, below is what I thought of Neil Gaiman's new hardcover, Endless Nights. I am not being spoilery, I think, but if you care about that sort of thing and haven't gotten hold of it yet, leave now.
The Death story was pretty good, I thought, though deeply flawed. It was flawed by the fact that everything that took place in past time/alternate dimension or relating to that was interesting, and everything that had to do with the everyday world seemed kind of pointless. It was lovely to look at, of course, and what else does one expect from P. Craig Russell? His Death is one of the greats, instantly recognizable as herself and subtly beautiful in a distinctly Russell manner. Frankly, on some levels I could care less about the story on this one. I find the art interesting enough to be readable and probably rereadable, so that's sufficient.
The Desire one is my favorite of the book, and almost worth the twenty-five dollars all by itself, though since it wasn't my money I'm not sure I get to say that. (Ruth bought herself a copy, which means I don't have to, which is good, because it comes in shrinkwrap and I *hate* buying expensive stuff unread even if I love the author.) I haven't seen a more truly perfect blend of story and art since... since... there must be something... Kabuki, I think, or the Charles Vess issue of Books of Magic. The story is beautiful and resonant and perfectly told with interesting viewpoint play between the story and the art, and for once, Desire is not being a calculating, evil, aggravating being. Because, you know, sometimes it isn't. And for once an artist has managed to catch something about Desire of the Endless that very few artists do, namely that one ought, upon seeing it, even knowing everything about it and that it is only going to tear one's mind and soul to pieces, to simply want it anyway. A perfectly androgynous portrayal, too, in the rarest of ways, namely that for once, in the history of Sandman, Desire looks neither male, nor female, nor neither, but plausible as both. What is really unnerving about the art here is that the human characters are just as beautiful, but also perfectly human. The woman who narrates is lovely in a very lithe way, but the man she wants-- well. There was one panel of him that made me catch my breath and say Oh of course I see in the way one does when suddenly noticing the obvious. Here it was Oh of course you would be sensible to do anything for that. Whether or not it's actually sensible. And the art feels sun-drenched and bee-buzzed even when it isn't. I could go on and on about this story, because the art wouldn't be anything without the writing and vice versa. One of the great issues of Sandman in my opinion.
I hated the Despair story. It made me feel quite sick to my stomach. I think this was probably the point. Unfortunately it sort of colored the rest of the book in some ways, or maybe just clung to me as I read the rest of the book. Personally, I don't think Despair ought to be one of the Endless principles. Not when Delight isn't any more. I don't hold to that bleak a view of the universe, not these days. Despair has power, yes, and nearly infinite power when you grant it to her, but her power is in my opinion never actually Endless.
The Dream story is very sweet in some ways and fun and pretty and a nice read and I felt sorry for Dream. It is good to read about him again in the way it is good to see an acquaintance you hadn't run into in years. Unfortunately I suspect Gaiman is writing him in the same way, as more of a reminiscence than anything else, which is as it should be, but. The other characters in this one are better. I place it second to the Desire story, and just barely ahead of Death.
The Delirium story has no sense of humor. This is not a thing I can forgive in a Delirium story. Pain, yes, majesty, yes, crazed art, yes, they're all there. But humor should be and isn't. In the wrong places and in the right ones. Humor more than oddness. One of the reasons Del is painful is that she is funny, and one of the reasons she is funny is that she is in such pain. Interestingly, I think the problem here is more in the art, which is in unremitting gloomy dark tones, than in anything else. Jill Thompson could have pulled this off just fine with the same script. This read like the outtakes to McKean's Arkham Asylum. Not, in my opinion, a good thing.
The Destruction story wasn't about Destruction, I don't think, but about whatever it is that he's turning into, now that he's not being Destruction anymore. It would be a better story if anyone at all had any idea of what it is he's turning into. Delirium says it outright, actually, when she says that she doesn't know his name anymore, but when she's talking to him, he knows who she means. But he isn't telling, and the whole story sort of collapses around the fact that nobody (including Gaiman) has a clue. I hope Gaiman keeps writing him, because I think the character knows, and I sure as hell want to. It doesn't help that the art here is perfectly serviceable and perfectly undistinguished.
The Destiny one isn't a story. It's just there. This is exactly and precisely correct.
So one I loved passionately, one I hated passionately, four I liked to varying degrees of lukewarm and one that pissed me off. Not enough to cause me to buy this in hardcover, not when I'm sure everybody I know will have one. Maybe in paperback if it ever comes out.
Why can I never remember how to do cut-text?
Anyway, below is what I thought of Neil Gaiman's new hardcover, Endless Nights. I am not being spoilery, I think, but if you care about that sort of thing and haven't gotten hold of it yet, leave now.
The Death story was pretty good, I thought, though deeply flawed. It was flawed by the fact that everything that took place in past time/alternate dimension or relating to that was interesting, and everything that had to do with the everyday world seemed kind of pointless. It was lovely to look at, of course, and what else does one expect from P. Craig Russell? His Death is one of the greats, instantly recognizable as herself and subtly beautiful in a distinctly Russell manner. Frankly, on some levels I could care less about the story on this one. I find the art interesting enough to be readable and probably rereadable, so that's sufficient.
The Desire one is my favorite of the book, and almost worth the twenty-five dollars all by itself, though since it wasn't my money I'm not sure I get to say that. (Ruth bought herself a copy, which means I don't have to, which is good, because it comes in shrinkwrap and I *hate* buying expensive stuff unread even if I love the author.) I haven't seen a more truly perfect blend of story and art since... since... there must be something... Kabuki, I think, or the Charles Vess issue of Books of Magic. The story is beautiful and resonant and perfectly told with interesting viewpoint play between the story and the art, and for once, Desire is not being a calculating, evil, aggravating being. Because, you know, sometimes it isn't. And for once an artist has managed to catch something about Desire of the Endless that very few artists do, namely that one ought, upon seeing it, even knowing everything about it and that it is only going to tear one's mind and soul to pieces, to simply want it anyway. A perfectly androgynous portrayal, too, in the rarest of ways, namely that for once, in the history of Sandman, Desire looks neither male, nor female, nor neither, but plausible as both. What is really unnerving about the art here is that the human characters are just as beautiful, but also perfectly human. The woman who narrates is lovely in a very lithe way, but the man she wants-- well. There was one panel of him that made me catch my breath and say Oh of course I see in the way one does when suddenly noticing the obvious. Here it was Oh of course you would be sensible to do anything for that. Whether or not it's actually sensible. And the art feels sun-drenched and bee-buzzed even when it isn't. I could go on and on about this story, because the art wouldn't be anything without the writing and vice versa. One of the great issues of Sandman in my opinion.
I hated the Despair story. It made me feel quite sick to my stomach. I think this was probably the point. Unfortunately it sort of colored the rest of the book in some ways, or maybe just clung to me as I read the rest of the book. Personally, I don't think Despair ought to be one of the Endless principles. Not when Delight isn't any more. I don't hold to that bleak a view of the universe, not these days. Despair has power, yes, and nearly infinite power when you grant it to her, but her power is in my opinion never actually Endless.
The Dream story is very sweet in some ways and fun and pretty and a nice read and I felt sorry for Dream. It is good to read about him again in the way it is good to see an acquaintance you hadn't run into in years. Unfortunately I suspect Gaiman is writing him in the same way, as more of a reminiscence than anything else, which is as it should be, but. The other characters in this one are better. I place it second to the Desire story, and just barely ahead of Death.
The Delirium story has no sense of humor. This is not a thing I can forgive in a Delirium story. Pain, yes, majesty, yes, crazed art, yes, they're all there. But humor should be and isn't. In the wrong places and in the right ones. Humor more than oddness. One of the reasons Del is painful is that she is funny, and one of the reasons she is funny is that she is in such pain. Interestingly, I think the problem here is more in the art, which is in unremitting gloomy dark tones, than in anything else. Jill Thompson could have pulled this off just fine with the same script. This read like the outtakes to McKean's Arkham Asylum. Not, in my opinion, a good thing.
The Destruction story wasn't about Destruction, I don't think, but about whatever it is that he's turning into, now that he's not being Destruction anymore. It would be a better story if anyone at all had any idea of what it is he's turning into. Delirium says it outright, actually, when she says that she doesn't know his name anymore, but when she's talking to him, he knows who she means. But he isn't telling, and the whole story sort of collapses around the fact that nobody (including Gaiman) has a clue. I hope Gaiman keeps writing him, because I think the character knows, and I sure as hell want to. It doesn't help that the art here is perfectly serviceable and perfectly undistinguished.
The Destiny one isn't a story. It's just there. This is exactly and precisely correct.
So one I loved passionately, one I hated passionately, four I liked to varying degrees of lukewarm and one that pissed me off. Not enough to cause me to buy this in hardcover, not when I'm sure everybody I know will have one. Maybe in paperback if it ever comes out.
